diff options
| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-22 10:37:19 -0800 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-22 10:37:19 -0800 |
| commit | 85c49ccc2e86120dc6e77eb313f7a26750b2a004 (patch) | |
| tree | 189baf3df5318bf76b452920562a07c24edab7b9 | |
| parent | 5b2e934a9a9248125810a1606e822b38df268888 (diff) | |
25 files changed, 17 insertions, 28730 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7f98398 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66840 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66840) diff --git a/old/66840-0.txt b/old/66840-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 1c544a8..0000000 --- a/old/66840-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14295 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Autobiography of Upton Sinclair, by -Upton Sinclair - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Autobiography of Upton Sinclair - -Author: Upton Sinclair - -Release Date: November 29, 2021 [eBook #66840] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif, Augustana University and the Online - Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This - book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust - Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF UPTON -SINCLAIR *** - - - - - _The Autobiography of Upton Sinclair_ - - - - - _The Autobiography - of_ - UPTON SINCLAIR - - - New York - HARCOURT, BRACE & WORLD, INC. - - Printed in the United States of America - - - - -_Preface_ - - -All through my seventy-one years of writing life--I started at -thirteen--I have had from my readers suggestions that I should tell my -own story. When I was halfway through those writing years I accepted the -suggestion and wrote a book called _American Outpost_. The major part of -that book, revised and brought up to date, is incorporated in this -volume. - -I put myself in the position of a veteran of many campaigns who gathers -the youngsters about his knee. He knows these youngsters cannot really -share the anguish and turmoil of his early years, for they belong to a -new generation which is looking to be entertained and amused. So the old -campaigner takes a casual and lighthearted tone. - -If any old-timer is offended by this--well, there are any number of -serious books, plays, and pamphlets of mine that he can read, plus an -anthology and a selection of letters written to me by the really great -writers of our time. If that is not enough he can travel to the -University of Indiana and there, in the Lilly Library, he can read the -250,000 letters that have been written to me over the years--and the -carbon copies of my replies. After he has read all this, I shall have -written more. - - - - -_Contents_ - - - _Preface_ v - - I _Childhood_ 3 - - II _Youth_ 28 - - III _Genius_ 53 - - IV _Marriage_ 75 - - V _Revolt_ 99 - - VI _Utopia_ 127 - - VII _Wandering_ 147 - - VIII _Exile_ 169 - - IX _New Beginning_ 191 - - X _West to California_ 212 - - XI _The Muckrake Man_ 222 - - XII _More Causes--and Effects_ 243 - - XIII _Some Eminent Visitors_ 254 - - XIV _EPIC_ 268 - - XV _Grist for My Mill_ 278 - - XVI _Lanny Budd_ 291 - - XVII _Harvest_ 303 - -XVIII _A Tragic Ordeal_ 310 - - XIX _End and Beginning_ 318 - - XX _Summing Up_ 327 - - _Books by Upton Sinclair_ 331 - - _Index_ 333 - - - - -_List of Illustrations_ - -(_The illustrations will be found between pages 166 and 167. All but the -last three were supplied by the Upton Sinclair Collection, Lilly -Library, Indiana University, Indiana._) - - -Priscilla Harden Sinclair - -Upton Beall Sinclair, Sr. - -Upton Sinclair at the age of eight - -Upton Sinclair at twenty-seven, when he was writing _The Jungle_ - -Winston Churchill reviews _The Jungle_ - -George Bernard Shaw at Ayot-St. Lawrence, about 1913 - -Mary Craig Sinclair and Upton Sinclair in Bermuda, 1913 - -George Sterling, his wife, Carrie, and Jack London - -Mrs. Kate Crane-Gartz - -Sergei Eisenstein, about 1933 - -Upton Sinclair during the EPIC campaign, 1934 - -Upton Sinclair and Harry Hopkins, 1934 - -_Flivver King_ in Detroit, 1937 - -Upton Sinclair, about 1960, with autographed picture of Albert -Einstein - -Upton Sinclair standing before his home in Monrovia, California - -May Hard Sinclair and Upton Sinclair, 1962 - -Upton Sinclair with seventy-nine of the books he has written - - - - - _The Autobiography of Upton Sinclair_ - - - - -_1_ - -_Childhood_ - - -I - -My first recollection of life is one that my mother insisted I could not -possibly have, because I was only eighteen months old at the time. Yet -there it is in my mind: a room where I have been left in the care of a -relative while my parents are taking a trip. I see a little old lady, -black-clad, in a curtained room; I know where the bed is located, and -the oilstove on which the cooking is done, and the thrills of exploring -a new place. Be sure that children know far more than we give them -credit for; I hear fond parents praising their precious darlings, and I -wince, noting how the darlings are drinking in every word. Always in my -childhood I would think: “How silly these grownups are! And how easy to -outwit!” - -I was a toddler when one day my mother told me not to throw a piece of -rag into a drain. “Paper dissolves, but rag doesn’t.” I treasured up -this wisdom and, visiting my Aunt Florence, remarked with great -impressiveness, “It is all right to throw paper into the drain, because -it dissolves, but you mustn’t throw rags in, because they don’t -dissolve.” Wonder, mingled with amusement, appeared on the face of my -sweet and gentle relative. My first taste of glory. - -Baltimore, Maryland, was the place, and I remember boardinghouse and -lodginghouse rooms. We never had but one room at a time, and I slept on -a sofa or crossways at the foot of my parents’ bed; a custom that caused -me no discomfort that I can recall. One adventure recurred; the -gaslight would be turned on in the middle of the night, and I would -start up, rubbing my eyes, and join in the exciting chase for bedbugs. -They came out in the dark and scurried into hiding when they saw the -light; so they must be mashed quickly. For thrills like this, wealthy -grown-up children travel to the heart of Africa on costly safaris. The -more bugs we killed, the fewer there were to bite us the rest of the -night, which I suppose is the argument of the lion hunters also. Next -morning, the landlady would come, and corpses in the washbasin or -impaled on pins would be exhibited to her; the bed would be taken to -pieces and “corrosive sublimate” rubbed into the cracks with a chicken -feather. - -My position in life was a singular one, and only in later years did I -understand it. When I went to call on my father’s mother, a black-clad, -frail little lady, there might be only cold bread and dried herring for -Sunday-night supper, but it would be served with exquisite courtesy and -overseen by a great oil painting of my grandfather in naval -uniform--with that same predatory beak that I have carried through life -and have handed on to my son. Grandfather Sinclair had been a captain in -the United States Navy and so had his father before him, and ancestors -far back had commanded in the British Navy. The family had lived in -Virginia, and there had been slaves and estates. But the slaves had been -set free, and the homestead burned, and the head of the family drowned -at sea in the last year of the Civil War. His descendants, four sons and -two daughters, lived in embarrassing poverty, but with the -consciousness, at every moment of their lives, that they were persons of -great consequence and dignity. - - -II - -Being interested in the future rather than the past, I always considered -ancestors a bore. All I knew about mine were a few anecdotes my mother -told me. Then my friend Albert Mordell, who was writing a paper for a -historical magazine, came upon my great-grandfather. He wrote me: “The -life of your ancestors is a history of the American navy.” It amused him -to discover that a notorious “red” had such respectable forefathers, and -he had a manuscript called _The Fighting Sinclairs_, which may someday -be published. Meanwhile, since every biography is required to have -ancestors, I quote a summary that Mr. Mordell kindly supplied. Those not -interested in ancestors are permitted to skip. - - * * * * * - -Commodore Arthur Sinclair, the great-grandfather of Upton, fought in the -first American naval battle after the Revolution, he being a midshipman -on the _Constellation_, when it fought the _Insurgente_, in 1798. He was -also in the latter part of the war with Tripoli. He was on the _Argus_ -in the first cruise of the War of 1812, and captured many prizes. He -fought in the leading battle of Lake Ontario under Commander Chauncey. -The battle was between the _Pike_, on which he was captain, and the -_Wolf_. He also a little later had command of the entire squadron on the -upper lakes. He commanded the _Congress_ in its cruise to South America -in 1818, carrying the commissioners to investigate conditions, and on -its cruise was born the Monroe Doctrine, for the commissioner’s report -led to the promulgation of the Doctrine. He also founded a naval school -at Norfolk. When he died in 1831, the flags of all the ships were -ordered at half-mast, and mourning was ordered worn by the officers for -thirty days. He was an intimate friend of practically all the naval -heroes in the War of 1812. - -He had three sons, Arthur, George T., and Dr. William B., all of whom -became officers in the old navy and resigned in 1861 to join the -Confederacy. Arthur, who is Upton’s grandfather, was with Perry in Japan -in the early fifties. He also commanded a ship in the late fifties--the -_Vandalia_--and was compelled to destroy a village of cannibals on an -island in the Pacific. - -His brother, George T., was in the famous voyage of the _Potomac_ around -the world in the early thirties, which went to attack a town in the -Malay Islands for some ravages upon an American ship. He also was with -Commander Elliott, the Lake Erie hero, on the _Constitution_ in the -Mediterranean. He was in the famous Wilkes exploring expedition around -1840, when they discovered the Antarctic continent; and, like the rest -of the officers, he had trouble with Wilkes, whom they had -court-martialed. He also served in the African Squadron hunting slavers -in the early fifties, and later in the home squadron in the _Wabash_ -under Commander Paulding. It was on this ship that the famous -filibuster, William Walker, who made himself dictator of Nicaragua, -surrendered to Paulding. - -The third brother, Dr. William B. Sinclair, was in the Mediterranean -Squadron with Commander Isaac Hull about 1840. He was also in the -African Squadron. All these three brothers were in the Mexican waters -during the war, but saw no active service there. At the opening of the -Civil War, they became officers in the Confederate Navy and saw various -services. - -Arthur was compelled to burn his ship the _Mississippi_ at the battle of -New Orleans to prevent its falling into the hands of his friend (now his -enemy) Farragut. He was drowned on a blockade runner when leaving -Liverpool toward the end of the war. George built a ship in England for -the Confederacy, but it was never taken over by them because the English -took hold of it. Dr. Sinclair served as physician in the Confederate -Navy. - -These three men also had four sons who became officers in the -Confederate Navy. Arthur had two sons in this navy--Arthur, Jr., and -Terry. Arthur, Jr., an uncle of Upton, was in the battle between the -_Monitor_ and the _Merrimac_, and wrote an account of it. He served two -years on the _Alabama_, and was in the famous fight with the -_Kearsarge_, and left a book about his experiences: _Two Years on the -Alabama_. - -His brother, Terry, also an uncle of Upton, was on the Confederate -Cruiser _Florida_, the most important ship next to the _Alabama_, for -two years. This was captured unlawfully, and Terry was made a prisoner -of war, but was soon released. He left a magazine article about his -experience. George T.’s son, William H., commanded a prize ship taken by -the _Alabama_. Dr. William B.’s son, William B., Jr., was drowned at the -age of eighteen from the _Florida_ because he gave his oar to a shipmate -who could not swim. - - -III - -My father was the youngest son of Captain Arthur Sinclair and was raised -in Norfolk. In the days before the war, and after it, all Southern -gentlemen “drank.” My father became a wholesale whisky salesman, which -made it easy and even necessary for him to follow the fashion. Later on -he became a “drummer” for straw-hat manufacturers, and then for -manufacturers of men’s clothing; but he could never get away from drink, -for the beginning of every deal was a “treat,” and the close of it was -another. Whisky in its multiple forms--mint juleps, toddies, hot -Scotches, egg-nogs, punch--was the most conspicuous single fact in my -boyhood. I saw it and smelled it and heard it everywhere I turned, but I -never tasted it. - -The reason was my mother, whose whole married life was poisoned by -alcohol, and who taught me a daily lesson in horror. It took my good and -gentle-souled father thirty or forty years to kill himself, and I -watched the process week by week and sometimes hour by hour. It made an -indelible impression upon my childish soul, and is the reason why I am a -prohibitionist, to the dismay of my “libertarian” friends. - -It was not that my father could not earn money, but that he could not -keep it. He would come home with some bank notes, and the salvation of -his wife and little son would depend upon the capture of this treasure. -My mother acquired the habit of going through his pockets at night; and -since he never knew how much he had brought home, there would be -arguments in the morning, an unending duel of wits. Father would hide -the money when he came in late, and then in the morning he would forget -where he had hidden it, and there would be searching under mattresses -and carpets and inside the lining of clothing--all sorts of unlikely -places. If my mother found it first, you may be sure that my father was -allowed to go on looking. - -When he was not under the influence of the Demon Rum, the little -“drummer” dearly loved his family; so the thirty years during which I -watched him were one long moral agony. He would make all sorts of -pledges, with tears in his eyes; he would invent all sorts of devices to -cheat his cruel master. He would not “touch a drop” until six o’clock in -the evening; he would drink lemonade or ginger ale when he was treating -the customers. But alas, he would change to beer, in order not to -“excite comment”; and then after a week or a month of beer, we would -smell whisky on his breath again, and the tears and wranglings and -naggings would be resumed. - -This same thing was going on in most of the homes in Maryland and -Virginia of which I had knowledge. My father’s older brother died an -inebriate in a soldiers’ home. My earliest memory of the home of my -maternal grandfather is of being awakened by a disturbance downstairs, -and looking over the banisters in alarm while my grandfather--a -Methodist deacon--was struggling with his grown son to keep him from -going out when he was drunk. Dear old Uncle Harry, burly and full of -laughter, a sportsman and favorite of all the world--at the age of forty -or so he put a bullet through his head in Central Park, New York. - - -IV - -Human beings are what life makes them, and there is no more fascinating -subject of study than the origin of mental and moral qualities. My -father’s drinking accounted for other eccentricities of mine besides my -belief in prohibition. It caused me to follow my mother in everything, -and so to have a great respect for women; thus it came about that I -walked in the first suffrage parade in New York, behind the snow-white -charger of Inez Milholland. My mother did not drink coffee, nor even -tea; and so, when I visited in England, I made all my hostesses unhappy. -No lady had ever been known to smoke in Baltimore--only old Negro women -with pipes; therefore I did not smoke--except once. When I was eight -years old, a big boy on the street gave me a cigarette, and I started -it; but another boy told me a policeman would arrest me, so I threw the -cigarette away, and ran and hid in an alley, and have never yet -recovered from this fear. It has saved me a great deal of money, and -some health also, I am sure. - -The sordid surroundings in which I was forced to live as a child made me -a dreamer. I took to literature, because that was the easiest refuge. I -knew practically nothing about music; my mother, with the upbringing of -a young lady, could play a few pieces on the piano, but we seldom had a -piano, and the music I heard was church hymns, and the plantation -melodies that my plump little father hummed while shaving himself with a -big razor. My mother had at one time painted pictures; I recall a snow -scene in oils, with a kind of tinsel to make sparkles in the snow. But I -never learned this wonderful art. - -My mother would read books to me, and everything I heard I remembered. I -taught myself to read at the age of five, before anyone realized what -was happening. I would ask what this letter was, and that, and go away -and learn it, and make the sounds, and very soon I was able to take care -of myself. I asked my numerous uncles and aunts and cousins to send me -only books for Christmas; and now, three quarters of a century later, -traces of their gifts are still in my head. Let someone with a taste for -research dig into the Christmas books of the early eighties, and find a -generous broad volume, with many illustrations, merry rhymes, and a -title containing the phrase “a peculiar family.” From this book I -learned to read, and I would ask my mother if she knew any such -“peculiar” persons; for example, the “little boy who was so dreadfully -polite, he would not even sneeze unless he asked you if he might.” He -sneezed by accident, and “scared all the company into the middle of next -week.” - -While arguments between my father and my mother were going on, I was -with Gulliver in Lilliput, or on the way to the Celestial City with -Christian, or in the shop with the little tailor who killed “seven at -one blow.” I had Grimm and Andersen and _The Story of the Bible_, and -Henty and Alger and Captain Mayne Reid. I would be missing at a party -and be discovered behind the sofa with a book. At the home of my Uncle -Bland there was an encyclopedia, and my kind uncle was greatly impressed -to find me absorbed in the article on gunpowder. Of course, I was -pleased to have my zeal for learning admired--but also I really did want -to know about gunpowder. - -Readers of my novels know that I have one favorite theme, the contrast -between the social classes; there are characters from both worlds, the -rich and the poor, and the plots are contrived to carry you from one to -the other. The explanation is that as far back as I can remember, my -life was a series of Cinderella transformations; one night I would be -sleeping on a vermin-ridden sofa in a lodginghouse, and the next night -under silken coverlets in a fashionable home. It all depended on whether -my father had the money for that week’s board. If he didn’t, my mother -paid a visit to her father, the railroad official in Baltimore. No -Cophetua or Aladdin in fairy lore ever stepped back and forth between -the hovel and the palace as frequently as I. - - -V - -When _The Metropolis_ was published in 1908, the New York critics said -it was a poor novel because the author didn’t know the thing called -“society.” As a matter of fact, the reason was exactly the opposite; the -author knew “society” too well to overcome his distaste for it. -Attempting to prove this will of course lay me open to the charge of -snobbery; it is not good form to establish your own social position. -But, on the other hand, neither is it good form to tell about your -drunken father, or the bedbugs in your childhood couch; so perhaps one -admission will offset the other. What I am doing is explaining a -temperament and a literary product, and this can be done only by making -real to you both sides of my double life--the bedbugs and liquor on the -one hand, the snobbery on the other. - -My maternal grandfather was John S. Harden, secretary-treasurer of the -Western Maryland Railroad. I remember going to his office and seeing -rows of canvas bags full of gold and silver coin that were to go into -pay envelopes. I remember also that the president of the road lived just -up the street from us and that I broke one of his basement windows with -a ball. I was sent to confess my crime and carry the money to pay for -it. - -Grandfather Harden was a pillar of the Methodist Church, which was not -fashionable; but even so, the leaders of Baltimore’s affairs came to his -terrapin suppers, and I vividly recall these creatures--I mean the -terrapin--crawling around in the backyard, and how a Negro man speared -them through the heads with a stout fork, and cut off their heads with a -butcher knife. Apparently it was not forbidden for a Methodist to serve -sherry wine in terrapin stew--or brandy, provided it had been soaked up -by fruitcake or plum pudding. - -I recall the long reddish beard of this good and kindly old man and the -large bald spot on the top of his head. It did not occur to me as -strange that his hair should grow the wrong way; but I recall that I was -fascinated by a mole placed exactly on the top, like a button, and once -I yielded to a dreadful temptation and gave it a slap. Then I fled in -terror to the top story of the house. I was brought down by my shocked -mother and aunts, and ordered to apologize. I recollect this grandfather -carving unending quantities of chickens, ducks, turkeys, and hams; but I -cannot to save me recall a single word that he spoke. I suppose the -reason the carving stands out in my mind is that I was the youngest of -the family of a dozen or so and therefore the last to get my plate at -mealtimes. - -I recall even better my maternal grandmother, a stout, jolly old lady, -who made delightful ginger cookies and played on the piano and sang -little tunes to which I danced as a child: - - Here we go, two by two, - Dressed in yellow, pink and blue. - -Mary Ayers was her maiden name, and someone who looked up her family -tree discovered that she could lay claim to several castles in Ireland. -The family got in touch with the Irish connections, and letters were -exchanged, with the result that one of the younger sons came -emigrating--a country “squire,” six feet or more, rosy-cheeked, and with -a broad brogue. He told us about his search for a job and of the -unloving reception he met when he went into a business place. “‘Git -oot,’ said the man, and so I thought I’d better git oot.” Not finding -anything in Baltimore, our Irish squire wound up on the New York police -force--a most dreadful humiliation to the family. My mother, of a -mischievous disposition, would wait until her fashionable niece and -nephew were entertaining company, and then inquire innocently: “By the -way, whatever became of that cousin of ours who’s a policeman up in New -York?” - -My mother’s older sister married John Randolph Bland, named for John -Randolph, the Virginia statesman. This Uncle Bland, as I called him, -became one of the richest men in Baltimore. Sometime before his death, I -saw him scolded in a country club of his home city because of his -dictatorial ways. The paper referred to him as “the great Bland”--which -I suppose establishes his position. He knew all the businessmen of the -city, and they trusted him. So he was able to sell them shares in a -bonding concern he organized. I remember walking downtown with him one -day when I was a child. We stopped at a big grocery store while he -persuaded the owner to take shares in the company he was founding. Its -name was the United States Fidelity and Guaranty Company, and of course -he became its president. You have probably heard of it because it has -branches all over America and in many of the world’s capitals. - -After I had taken up my residence in Pasadena, he made a tour of the -country to become acquainted with the agents of his company; he gave a -banquet to those in southern California. There must have been two -hundred of them, for they filled the biggest private dining room of our -biggest hotel. His muckraker-nephew was invited to partake of this feast -and listen to the oratory--but not to be heard, you may be sure! We all -sang “Annie Laurie” and “Nellie Gray” and other songs calculated to work -up a battle spirit and send us out to take away the other fellow’s -business. - -In my childhood, I lived for months at a time at Uncle Bland’s. He and -his family lived in one of those brick houses--four stories high, with -three or four white marble steps--which are so characteristic of -Baltimore and were apparently planned and built by the block. Uncle -Bland’s daughter married an heir of many millions, and through the years -of her young ladyhood I witnessed dances and parties, terrapin suppers, -punch, dresses, gossip--everything that is called “society.” Prior to -that came the debut and wedding of my mother’s younger sister, all of -which I remember, even to the time when she woke my mother in the middle -of the night, exclaiming, “Tell me, Priscie, shall I many him?” For the -benefit of the romantically minded, let me say that she did and that -they lived happily until his death. - -Let me picture for you the training of a novelist of social contrasts! -My relatives were intimate with the society editor of Baltimore’s -leading newspaper; a person of “good family,” no common newspaperman, be -it understood. His name was Doctor Taylor, so apparently he was a -physician as well as a writer. I see him, dapper, blond, and dainty, -with a boutonniere made of one white flower in a ring of purple flowers; -he was one of those strange, half-feminine men who are accepted as -sexless and admitted to the boudoirs of ladies in deshabille to help -drape their dresses and design their hats. All the while he kept up a -rapid-fire chatter about everybody who was anybody in the city. I sat in -a corner and heard the talk--whose grandfather was a grocer and whose -cousin eloped with a fiddler. I breathed that atmosphere of pride and -scorn, of values based upon material possessions preserved for two -generations or more, and the longer the better. I do not know why I came -to hate it, but I know that I did hate it from my earliest days. And -everything in my later life confirmed my resolve never to “sell out” to -that class. - - -VI - -Nor were the members of my father’s family content to remain upon a diet -of cold bread and dried herring. My father’s older sister had lovely -daughters, and one of them married a landed estate in Maryland. In 1906, -in the days of _The Jungle_, when I went to Washington to see Theodore -Roosevelt, I visited this cousin, who was now a charming widow and was -being unsuccessfully wooed by Senator Albert J. Beveridge of Indiana. -Later she became the wife of General George Barnett, who commanded the -United States Marine Corps in France. This marriage gave rise much later -to a comic sequence, which required no change to be fitted into one of -my novels. I will tell it here--even though it requires skipping thirty -years ahead of my story. - -It was at the height of the White Terror, after World War I, and one of -the cities of which the American Legion had assumed control was Santa -Barbara, California. I was so unwise as to accept an invitation to -address some kind of public-ownership convention in that city, and my -wife and I motored up with several friends, and learned upon our arrival -that the Legion chiefs had decreed that I was not to be heard in Santa -Barbara. - -In the effort to protect ourselves as far as possible, we registered at -the most fashionable hotel, the Arlington--shortly afterward destroyed -by an earthquake. Upon entering the lobby, the first spectacle that met -our anxious eyes was a military gentleman in full regalia: shiny leather -boots, Sam Browne belt, shoulder straps and decorations--I don’t know -the technical names for these things, but there was everything to -impress and terrify. “He is watching you!” whispered my wife, and so he -was; there could be no doubt of it, the stern military eye was riveted -upon my shrinking figure. There has always been a dispute in the family -as to whether I did actually try to hide behind one of the big pillars -of the hotel lobby. My wife said it was so, and I was never permitted to -spoil her marital stories. - -The military gentleman disappeared, and a few minutes later came a -bellboy. “Are you Mr. Sinclair?” I pleaded guilty, and was told: “There -is a lady who wishes to speak to you in the reception room.” “Is it an -ambush?” I thought. I had been warned not to go anywhere alone; there -were rumors that the Ku Klux Klan was after me, as well as the Legion. -(This proved not to be true; I was shortly afterward invited to join the -Klan!) - -In the reception room sat a lady, none other than my cousin Lelia, -somewhat plump, but as lovely as any lady can be with the help of both -nature and art. How glad we were to see each other! And how much gossip -we had to exchange after sixteen years! “You must meet my hubby,” she -said, and led me into the lobby--and who should “hubby” be but the -stern-eyed general! Whatever displeasure he may have felt at having a -revolutionary cousin-in-law he politely concealed, and we discussed the -weather of southern California in the most correct booster spirit. - -Presently the general reminded his wife that the military machine of the -United States Government was awaiting his arrival in San Francisco; they -had some three hundred and fifty miles to drive that night. But the -Southern beauty shook her proud head (you see I know the language of -chivalry) and said, “I haven’t seen my cousin for sixteen years.” So the -general paced the lobby in fierce impatience for two hours, while Lelia -chatted with my wife and my socialist bodyguard--a millionaire woman -friend of my wife, about whom I shall have much to tell later on. Did I -remember the time when I was romping with Kate, and put a pillow on -Kate’s head and sat on it, and when they pulled me off she was black in -the face? Yes, I remembered it Kate was married to a civil engineer, -Walter was ill--and so on. - -At last I saw my childhood playmate off in a high-powered military car, -with a chauffeur in khaki and a guard to ride at his side, both with -holsters at their belts; most imposing. It was fine local color for a -novelist--and incidentally it was a knockout for the American Legion -chiefs of Santa Barbara. Since I was cousin-in-law to the commander in -chief of this military district, it was impossible to prevent my -speaking in favor of the public ownership of water power in California! - - -VII - -To return to childhood days: my summers were spent at the country home -of the Bland family or with my mother at summer resorts in Virginia. My -father would be “on the road,” and I remember his letters, from which I -learned the names of all the towns in Texas and the merits of the -leading hotels. If my father was “drinking,” we stayed in some -low-priced boardinghouse--in the city in winter and in the country in -summer. On the other hand, if my father was keeping his pledges, we -stayed at one of the springs hotels. My earliest memory of these hotels -is of a fancy-dress ball, for which my mother fixed me up as a baker, -with a white coat and long trousers and a round cap. That was all right, -except that I was supposed to carry a wooden tray with rolls on it, -which interfered with my play. Another story was told to me by one of -the victims, whom I happened to meet. I had whooping cough, and the -other children were forbidden to play with me; this seemed to me -injustice, so I chased them and coughed into their faces, after which I -had companions in misery. I should add that this early venture in -“direct action” is not in accordance with my present philosophy. - -I remember one of the Virginia boardinghouses. I would ask for a second -helping of fried chicken, and the little Negro who waited table would -come back and report, “’Tisn’ any mo’.” No amount of hungry protest -could extract any words except, “’Tisn’ any mo’, Mista Upton, ’tisn’ any -mo’.” At another place the formula ran, “Will you have ham or an egg?” I -went fishing and had good luck, and brought home the fish, thinking I -would surely get enough to eat that day; but my fish was cooked and -served to the whole boardinghouse. I recall a terrible place known as -Jett’s, to which we rode all day in a bumpy stagecoach. The members of -that household were pale ghosts, and we discovered that they were users -of drugs. There was an idiot boy who worked in the yard, and gobbled his -food out of a tin plate, like a dog. - -My Aunt Lucy was with us that summer, and the young squires of the -country came calling on Sunday afternoons, vainly hoping that this -Baltimore charmer with the long golden hair might consent to remain in -rural Virginia. They hitched their prancing steeds to a rail in the -yard, and I, an adventurer of eight or ten years, would unhitch them one -by one and try them out. I rode a mare to the creek, her colt following, -and let them both drink; then I rode back, and can see at this hour the -expedition that met me--the owner of the mare, my mother and my aunt, -many visitors and guests, and farmhands armed with pitchforks and -ropes. There must have been a dozen persons, all looking for a -tragedy--the mare being reputed to be extremely dangerous. But I had no -fear, and neither had the mare. From this and other experiences I -believe that it is safer to go through life without fear. You may get -killed suddenly, but meantime it is easier on your nerves. - - -VIII - -When I was eight or nine, my father was employed by a New York firm, so -we moved north for the winter, and I joined the tribe of city nomads, a -product of the new age, whose formula runs: “Cheaper to move than to pay -rent.” I remember a dingy lodginghouse on Irving Place, a derelict hotel -on East Twelfth Street, housekeeping lodgings over on Second Avenue, a -small “flat” on West 65th Street, one on West 92nd Street, one on West -126th Street. Each place in turn was home, each neighborhood full of -wonder and excitement. Second Avenue was especially thrilling, because -the “gangs” came out from Avenue A and Avenue B like Sioux or Pawnees in -war paint, and well-dressed little boys had to fly for their lives. - -Our longest stay--several winters, broken by moves to Baltimore--was at -a “family hotel” called the Weisiger House, on West 19th Street. The -hotel had been made by connecting four brownstone dwellings. The parlor -of one was the office. The name sounds like Jerusalem; but it was really -Virginia, pronounced Wizziger. Colonel Weisiger was a Civil War veteran -and had half the broken-down aristocracy of the Old South as his guests; -he must have had a sore time collecting his weekly dues. - -I learned much about human nature at the Weisiger House, observing -comedies and tragedies, jealousies and greeds and spites. There was the -lean Colonel Paul of South Carolina, and the short Colonel Cardoza of -Virginia, and the stout Major Waterman of Kentucky. Generals I do not -remember, but we had Count Mickiewicz from Poland, a large, expansive -gentleman with red beard and booming voice. What has become of little -Ralph Mickiewicz, whom I chased up and down the four flights of stairs -of each of those four buildings--sixteen flights in all, quite a hunting -ground! We killed flies on the bald heads of the colonels and majors, -we wheedled teacakes in the kitchen, we pulled the pigtails of the -little girls playing dolls in the parlor. One of these little girls, -with whom I quarreled most of the time, was destined to grow up and -become my first wife; and our married life resembled our childhood. - -Colonel Weisiger was large and ample, with a red nose, like Santa Claus; -he was the judge and ultimate authority in all disputes. His son was six -feet two, quiet and reserved. Mrs. Weisiger was placid and kindly, and -had a sister, Miss Tee, who made the teacakes--this pun is of God’s -making, not of mine. Completing the family was Taylor Tibbs, a large -black man, who went to the saloon around the corner twice every day to -fetch the Colonel’s pail of beer. In New York parlance this was known as -“rushing the growler,” and you will find Taylor Tibbs and his activities -all duly recorded in my novel _The Wet Parade_. Later in life I would go -over to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer to see him in the “talkie” they were making -of the novel. - - -IX - -In those days at the Weisiger House I was one of Nature’s miracles, such -as she produces by the millions in tenement streets--romping, shouting, -and triumphant, entirely unaware that their lot is a miserable one. I -was a perpetual explosion of energy, and I cannot see how anybody in the -place tolerated me; yet they all liked me, all but one or two who were -“mean.” I have a photograph of myself, dressed in kilts; and my mother -tells me a story. Some young man, teasing me, said: “You wear dresses; -you are a girl.” Said I: “No, I am a boy.” “But how do you know you are -a boy?” “Because my mother says so.” - -My young mother would go to the theater, leaving me snugly tucked in -bed, in care of some old ladies. I would lie still until I heard a -whistle, and then forth I would bound. Clad in a pair of snow-white -canton-flannel nighties, I would slide down the banisters into the arms -of the young men of the house. What romps I would have, racing on bare -feet, or borne aloft on sturdy shoulders! We never got tired of pranks; -they would set me up in the office and tell me jokes and conundrums, -teach me songs--it was the year of McGinty, hero of hilarity: - - Down went McGinty to the bottom of the sea; - He must be very wet, - For they haven’t found him yet, - Dressed in his best suit of clothes. - -These young men would take me to see the circus parade, which went up -Broadway on the evening prior to the opening of Barnum and Bailey’s. -Young Mr. Lee would hold me on his shoulder a whole evening for the sake -of hearing my whoops of delight at the elephants and the gorgeous ladies -in spangles and tights. I remember a trick they played on one of these -parade evenings. Just after dinner they offered me a quarter if I would -keep still for five minutes by the watch, and they sat me on the big -table in the office for all the world to witness the test. A couple of -minutes passed, and I was still as any mouse; until one of the young men -came running in at the front door, crying, “The parade is passing!” I -leaped up with a wail of despair. - -As a foil to this, let me narrate the most humiliating experience of my -entire life. Grown-up people do not realize how intensely children feel, -and what enduring impressions are made upon their tender minds. The -story I am about to tell is as real to me as if it had happened last -night. - -My parents had a guest at dinner, and I was moved to another table, -being placed with old Major Waterman and two young ladies. The venerable -warrior started telling of an incident that had taken place that day. “I -was walking along the street and I met Jones. ‘Come in and have a -drink,’ said he, and I replied, ‘No, thank you’--” - -What was to be the end of that story I shall never know in this world. -“Oh, Major Waterman!” I burst out, and there followed an appalled -silence. Terror gripped my soul as the old gentleman turned his bleary -eyes upon me. “What do you mean, sir? Tell me what you mean.” - -Now, if this had been a world in which men and women spoke the truth to -one another, I could have told exactly what I meant. I would have said, -“I mean that your cheeks are inflamed and your nose has purple veins in -it, and it is difficult to believe that you ever declined anyone’s -invitation to drink.” But it was not a world in which one could say such -words; all I could do was to sit like a hypnotized rabbit, while the -old gentleman bored me through. “I wish to have an answer, sir! What did -you mean by that remark?” I still have, as one of my weaknesses, the -tendency to speak first and think afterwards; but the memory of Major -Waterman has helped me on the way to reform. - - -X - -The pageant of America gradually revealed itself to my awakening mind. I -saw political processions--I remember the year when Harrison defeated -Cleveland, and our torchlight paraders, who had been hoping to celebrate -a Democratic triumph, had to change their marching slogan at the last -minute. “Four, four, four years more!” they had expected to shout; but -they had to make it four months instead. The year was 1888, and my age -was ten. - -Another date that can be fixed: I remember the excitement when Corbett -defeated the people’s idol, John L. Sullivan. Corbett was known as -Gentleman Jim, and I told my mother about the new hero. “Of course,” -said the haughty Southern lady, “it means that he is a gentleman for a -prize-fighter.” But I assured her, “No, no, he is a real gentleman. The -papers all say so.” This was in 1892, and I was fourteen, and still -believed the papers. - -There was a Spanish dancer called Carmencita and a music hall, Koster -and Bial’s; I never went to such places, but I heard the talk. There was -a book by the name of _Trilby_, which the ladies blushed to hear spoken -of. I did not read it until later, but I knew it had something to do -with feet, because thereafter my father always called them “trilbies.” -There were clergymen denouncing vice in New York, and editors denouncing -the clergymen. I heard Tammany ardently defended by my father, whose -politics were summed up in a formula: “I’d rather vote for a nigger than -for a Republican.” - -I recall another of his sayings--I must have heard it a hundred -times--that Inspector Byrnes was the greatest detective chief in the -world. I now know that Inspector Byrnes ran the detective bureau of New -York upon this plan: local pickpockets and burglars and confidence men -were permitted to operate upon two conditions--that they would keep out -of the Wall Street and Fifth Avenue districts, and would report to -Byrnes all outside crooks who attempted to invade the city. Another of -my father’s opinions--this one based upon knowledge--was that you should -never argue with a New York policeman, because of the danger of getting -your skull cracked. - -What was the size and flavor of Blue Point oysters as compared with -Lynnhaven Bay’s? Why was it impossible to obtain properly cooked food -north of Baltimore? What was the wearing quality of patent-leather shoes -as compared with calfskin? Wherein lay the superiority of Robert E. Lee -over all other generals of history? Was there any fusel oil in whisky -that was aged in the wood? Were the straw hats of next season to have a -higher or a lower brim? Where had the Vanderbilts obtained the -fifty-thousand-dollar slab of stone that formed the pavement in front of -their Fifth Avenue palace? Questions such as these occupied the mind of -my little, fat, kindhearted father and his friends. He was a fastidious -dresser, as well as eater, and especially proud of his small hands and -feet--they were aristocratic; he would gaze down rapturously at his -tight little shoes, over his well-padded vest. He had many words to -describe the right kind of shoes and vests and hats and gloves; they -were “nobby,” they were “natty,” they were “neat”--such were the phrases -by which he sold them to buyers. - -I heard much of these last-named essential persons, but cannot recall -ever seeing one. They were Jews, or countrymen, and the social lines -were tightly drawn; never would my father, even in the midst of drink -and degradation, have dreamed of using his aristocratic Southern wife to -impress his customers. Nor would he use his little son, who was expected -to grow up to be a naval officer like his ancestors. “The social -position of a naval officer is the highest in the world,” pronounced my -father. “He can go anywhere, absolutely anywhere; he can meet crowned -heads as their equals.” And meantime the little son was reaching out -into a strange world of books; reading things of which the father had -never heard. “What are you reading?” he would ask, and the son would -reply, none too generously, “A book.” The father got used to this -answer. “Reading a book!” he would say, with pathetic futility. The -chasm between the two was widening, never to be closed in this world. - - -XI - -I was ten years old before I went to school. The reason was that some -doctor told my mother that my mind was outgrowing my body, and I should -not be taught anything. When finally I was taken to a public school, I -presented the teachers with a peculiar problem; I knew everything but -arithmetic. This branch of learning, so essential to a commercial -civilization, had shared the fate of alcohol and tobacco, tea and -coffee; my mother did not use it, so neither did I. - -The teachers put me in the first primary grade, to learn long division; -promising that as soon as I caught up in the subject, I would be moved -on. I was humiliated at being in a class with children younger than -myself, so I fell to work and got into the grammar school in less than a -month, and performed the unusual feat of going through the eight grammar -grades in less than two years. Thus at the age of twelve I was ready for -the City College--it was called a college, but I hasten to explain that -it was in reality only a high school. - -Unfortunately the college was not ready for me. No one was admitted -younger than fourteen; so there was nothing for me to do but to take the -last year of grammar school all over again. I did this at old Number 40, -on East 23rd Street; my classmates were the little “toughs” of the East -Side tenements. An alarming experience for a fastidious young -Southerner, destined for the highest social circles--but I count it a -blessing hardly to be exaggerated. That year among the “toughs” helped -to save me from the ridiculous snobbery that would otherwise have been -my destiny in life. Since then I have been able to meet all kinds of -humans and never see much difference; also, I have been able to keep my -own ideals and convictions, and “stand the gaff,” according to the New -York phrase. - -To these little East Side “toughs” I was, of course, fully as strange a -phenomenon as they were to me. I spoke a language that they associated -with Fifth Avenue “dudes” wearing silk hats and kid gloves. The Virginia -element in my brogue was entirely beyond their comprehension; the first -time I spoke of a “street-cyar,” the whole class broke into laughter. -They named me Chappie, and initiated me into the secrets of a dreadful -game called “hop, skip, and a lepp,” which you ended, not on your feet, -but on your buttocks; throwing your legs up in the air and coming down -with a terrific bang on the hard pavement. The surgeons must now be -performing operations for floating kidney upon many who played that game -in boyhood. - -The teacher of the class was a jolly old Irishman, Mr. Furey; he later -became principal of a school, and I would have voted for his promotion -without any reservation. He was a disciplinarian with a homemade method; -if he observed a boy whispering or idling during class, he would let fly -a piece of chalk at the offender’s head. The class would roar with -laughter; the offender would grin, pick up the chalk, and bring it to -the teacher, and get his knuckles smartly cracked as he delivered it, -and then go back to his seat and pay attention. From this procedure I -learned that pomposity is no part of either brains or achievement, and I -have never in my life tried to impress anyone by being anything but what -I am. - -One feature of our school was the assembly room, into which we marched -by classes to the music of a piano, thumped by a large dark lady with a -budding mustache. We sang patriotic songs and listened to recitations in -the East Side dialect, a fearful and wonderful thing. This dialect tried -to break into the White House in the year 1928, and the rest of America -heard it for the first time. Graduates of New York public schools who -had made millions out of paving and contracting jobs put up the money to -pay for radio “hookups,” and the voice of Fulton Fish Market came -speaking to the farmers of the corn belt and the fundamentalists of the -bible belt. “Ladies and genn’lmun, the foist thing I wanna say is that -the findin’s of this here kimittee proves that we have the woist of -kinditions in our kimmunity.” I sat in my California study and listened -to Al Smith speaking in St. Louis and Denver, and it took me straight -back to old Number 40, and the little desperados throwing their buttocks -into the air and coming down with a thump on the hard pavement. - -As I read the proofs of this book I have returned from a visit to New -York after thirty years. The old “El” roads are gone, and many of the -slum tenements have been replaced by sixty-story buildings. The “micks” -and the “dagos” have been replaced by Negroes and Puerto Ricans, who -have taken possession of Harlem. - - -XII - -Behold me now, a duly enrolled “subfreshman” of the College of the City -of New York; a part of the city’s free educational system, not very -good, but convenient for the son of a straw-hat salesman addicted to -periodical “sprees.” It was a combination of high school and college, -awarding a bachelor’s degree after a five-year course. I passed my -entrance examinations in the spring of 1892, and I was only thirteen, -but my public-school teacher and principal entered me as fourteen. The -college work did not begin until September 15, and five days later I -would be of the required age, so really it was but a wee little lie. - -The college was situated in an old brick building on the corner of -Lexington Avenue and 23rd Street. It was a firetrap, but I did not know -it, and fortunately never had to learn it. There were about a thousand -students in its four or five stories, and we trooped from one classroom -to another and learned by rote what our bored instructors laid out for -us. I began Latin, algebra, and solid geometry, physics, drawing, and a -course called English, which was the most dreadful ordeal I ever had to -endure. We had a list of sentences containing errors, which we were -supposed to correct. The course was necessary for most of the class -because they were immigrants or the sons of immigrants. For me it was -unnecessary, but the wretched teacher was affronted in his dignity, and -would set traps for me by calling on me when my mind had wandered. - -The professor of chemistry and physics was R. Ogden Doremus, a name well -known to the public because he testified as an expert in murder trials. -He had snowy white mustaches, one arm, and a peppery temper. His -assistant was his son, whom he persisted in referring to as Charlie, -which amused us, because Charlie was a big man with a flourishing black -beard. I managed early in the course to get on the elderly scientist’s -nerves by my tendency to take the physical phenomena of the universe -without due reverence. The old gentleman would explain to us that -scientific caution required us to accept nothing on his authority, but -to insist upon proving everything for ourselves. Soon afterward he -produced a little vial of white powder, remarking, “Now, gentlemen, -this vial contains arsenic, and a little pinch of it would be sufficient -to kill all the members of this class.” Said I, “_You_ try that, -Professor!” - -Really, he might have joined in the laugh. But what he did was to call -me an “insolent young puppy,” and to predict that I was going to “flunk” -his course, in which event he would see to it that I did not get -promoted to the next class. This roused my sporting spirit, and I -decided to “flunk” his course and get such high marks in all the other -courses that I could not be held back. This I did. - -The top floor of our building was a big auditorium, where we met every -morning for chapel. Our “prexy” read a passage from the Bible, and three -of us produced efforts in English composition, directed and staged by a -teacher of elocution, who had marked our manuscripts in the margin with -three mystic symbols: _rg_, _lg_, and _gbh_. The first meant a gesture -with the right hand, the second a gesture with the left hand, and the -third a gesture with both hands--imploring the audience, or in extreme -emergencies lifted into the air, imploring the deity. In a row, upstage, -facing the assembled students, sat our honorable faculty, elderly -gentlemen with whiskers, doing their best not to show signs of boredom. -Our “prexy” was a white-bearded Civil War veteran, General Webb; and -when it was my turn to prepare a composition, I made my debut as a -revolutionary agitator with an encomium of my fathers favorite hero, -Robert E. Lee. My bombshell proved a dud, because General Webb, who had -commanded a brigade at Gettysburg, remarked mildly that it was a good -paper, and Lee had been a great man. Soldiers, I learned, take a -professional attitude to their jobs, and confine their fighting to the -field of battle. - - -XIII - -The year I started at this college, we lived in a three-or four-room -flat on West 65th Street. Mother did the cooking, and father would put -an apron over his little round paunch and wash the dishes; there was -much family laughter when father kissed the cook. When the weather was -fair, I rode to college on a bicycle; when the weather was stormy, I -rode on the Sixth Avenue Elevated and walked across town. I took my -lunch in a little tin box with a strap: a couple of sandwiches, a piece -of cake, and an apple or banana. The honorific circumstances of college -life were missing. In fact, so little did I know about these higher -matters that when I was sounded out for a “frat,” I actually didn’t know -what it was, and could make nothing of the high-sounding attempts at -explanation. If the haughty upperclassman with the correct clothes and -the Anglo-Saxon features had said to me in plain words, “We want to keep -ourselves apart from the kikes and wops who make up the greater part of -our student body,” I would have told him that some of the kikes and wops -interested me, whereas he did not. - -About two thirds of the members of my class were Jews. I had never known -any Jews before, but here were so many that one took them as a matter of -course. I am not sure if I realized they were Jews; I seldom realize it -now about the people I meet. The Jews have lived in Central Europe for -so long, and have been so mixed with the population, that the border -line is hard to draw. Since I became a socialist writer, half my friends -and half my readers have been Jews. I sum up my impression of them in -the verse about the little girl who had a little curl right in the -middle of her forehead, and when she was good she was very, very good, -and when she was bad she was horrid. - -About this time, I threw away another chance for advancement. My uncle, -Terry Sinclair, who was an “old beau” in New York and therefore met the -rich and had some influence, brought to his bright young nephew the -offer of an appointment to the Annapolis Naval Academy. This was -regarded as my birthright, but I declined it. I had made up my mind that -I wanted to be a lawyer, having come to the naïve conclusion that the -law offered a way to combine an honorable living with devotion to books. -This idea I carried through college and until I went up to Columbia -University, where I had an opportunity to observe the law-school -students. - - -XIV - -My Saturdays and holidays I spent racing about the streets and in my -playground, Central Park. In the course of these years I came to know -this park so well that afterward, when I walked in it, every slope and -turn of the winding paths had a story for me. I learned to play tennis -on its grass courts; I roller-skated on its walks and ice-skated on its -lakes--when the flag with the red ball went up on top of the “castle,” -thrilling the souls of young folks for miles around. I played hare and -hounds, marking up the asphalt walks with chalk; we thought nothing of -running all the way around the park, a distance of seven miles. - -The Upper West Side was mostly empty lots, with shanties of “squatters” -and goats browsing on tin cans--if one could believe the comic papers. -Blasting and building were going on, and the Italian laborers who did -this hard and dangerous work were the natural prey of us young -aborigines. We snowballed them from the roofs of the apartment houses, -and when there was no snow, we used clothespins. When they cursed us we -yelled with glee. I can still remember the phrases--or at any rate what -we imagined the phrases to be. “Aberragotz!” and “Chingasol!”--do those -sounds mean anything to an Italian? If they do, it may be something -shocking, perhaps not fit to print. When these “dagos” chased us, we -fled in terror most delightful. - -Sometimes we would raid grocery stores on the avenue and grab a couple -of potatoes, and roast them in bonfires on the vacant lots. I was a -little shocked at this idea, but the other boys explained to me that it -was not stealing, it was only “swiping,” and the grocers took it for -granted. So it has been easy for me to understand how young criminals -are made in our great cities. We manufacture crime wholesale, just as -certainly and as definitely as we manufacture alcohol in a mash of -grain. And just as we can stop getting alcohol by not mixing a mash, so -we can stop crime by not permitting exploitation and economic -inequality. - -But that is propaganda, and I have sworn to leave it out of this book. -So instead, let me tell a story that illustrates the police attitude -toward these budding criminals. In my mature days when I was collecting -material about New York, I was strolling on the East Side with an -elderly police captain. It was during a reform administration, and the -movement for uplift had taken the form of a public playground, with -swings and parallel bars. The young men of the tenements were developing -their muscles after a day’s work loading trucks, and I said to the -captain, what a fine thing they should have this recreation. The -elderly cynic snorted wrathfully: “Porch climbers! Second-story work!” - -The Nietzscheans advise us to live dangerously, and this advice I took -without having heard it. The motorcar had not yet come in, but there -were electric cars and big two-horse trucks, and my memory is full of -dreadful moments. Riding down Broadway to college, the wheel of my -bicycle slipped into the wet trolley slot, and I was thrown directly in -front of an oncoming car. Quick as a cat, I rolled out of the way, but -the car ran over my hat, and a woman bystander fainted. Again, skating -on an asphalt street, I fell in the space between the front and rear -wheels of a fast-moving express wagon, and had to whisk my legs out -before the rear wheels caught them. When I was seventeen, I came to the -conclusion that Providence must have some special purpose in keeping me -in the world, for I was able to reckon up fourteen times that I had -missed death by a hairbreadth. I had fallen off a pier during a storm; I -had been swept out to sea by a rip tide; I had been carried down from -the third story of the Weisiger House by a fireman with a scaling -ladder. - -I do not know so much about the purposes of Providence now as I did at -the age of seventeen, and the best I can make of the matter is this: -that several hundred thousand little brats are bred in the great -metropolis every year and turned out into the streets to develop their -bodies and their wits, and in a rough, general way, those who get caught -by streetcars and motorcars and trucks are those who are not quite so -quick in their reactions. But when it comes to genius, to beauty, -dignity, and true power of mind, I cannot see that there is any chance -for them to survive in the insane hurly-burly of metropolitan life. If I -wanted qualities such as these in human beings, I would surely transfer -them to a different environment. And maybe that is what Providence was -planning for me to understand and to do in the world. At any rate, it is -what I am trying to do, and is my final reaction to the great metropolis -of Mammon. - - - - -_2_ - -_Youth_ - - -I - -Childhood lasted long, and youth came late in my life. I was taught to -avoid the subject of sex in every possible way; the teaching being done, -for the most part, in Victorian fashion, by deft avoidance and anxious -evasion. Apparently my mother taught me even too well; for once when I -was being bathed, I persisted in holding a towel in front of myself. -Said my mother: “If you don’t keep that towel out of the way, I’ll give -you a spank.” Said I: “Mamma, would you rather have me disobedient, or -immodest?” - -The first time I ever heard of the subject of sex, I was four or five -years old, playing on the street with a little white boy and a Negro -girl, the child of a janitor. They were whispering about something -mysterious and exciting; there were two people living across the street -who had just been married, and something they did was a subject of -snickers. I, who wanted to know about everything, tried to find out -about this; but I am not sure my companions knew what they were -whispering about; at any rate, they did not tell me. But I got the -powerful impression of something strange. - -It was several years later that I found out the essential facts. I spent -a summer in the country with a boy cousin a year or two younger than I, -and we watched the animals and questioned the farmhands. But never did I -get one word of information or advice from either father or mother on -this subject; only the motion of shrinking away from something -dreadful. I recollect how the signs of puberty began to show themselves -in me, to my great bewilderment; my mother and grandmother stood -helplessly by, like the hens that hatch ducklings and see them go into -the water. - -Incredible as it may seem, I had been at least two years in college -before I understood about prostitution. So different from my friend Sam -De Witt, socialist poet, who told me that he was raised in a tenement -containing a house of prostitution, and that at the age of five he and -other little boys and girls played brothel as other children play dolls, -and quarrelled as to whose turn it was to be the “madam”! I can remember -speculating at the age of sixteen whether it could be true that women -did actually sell their bodies. I decided in the negative and held to -that idea until I summoned the courage to question one of my classmates -in college. - -The truth, finally made clear, shocked me deeply, and played a great -part in the making of my political revolt. Between the ages of sixteen -and twenty I explored the situation in New York City, and made -discoveries that for me were epoch-making. The saloonkeeper, who had -been the villain of my childhood melodrama, was merely a tool and victim -of the big liquor interests and politicians and police. The twin bases -of the political power of Tammany Hall were saloon graft and the sale of -women. So it was that, in my young soul, love for my father and love for -my mother were transmuted into political rage, and I sallied forth at -the age of twenty, a young reformer armed for battle. It would be a -longer battle than I realized, alas! - - -II - -Another factor in my life that requires mentioning is the Protestant -Episcopal Church of America. The Sinclairs had always belonged to that -church; my father was named after an Episcopal clergyman, the Reverend -Upton Beall. My mother’s father was a Methodist and took the _Christian -Herald_, and as a little fellow I read all the stories and studied all -the pictures of the conflicts with the evil one; but my mother and aunts -had apparently decided that the Episcopal Church was more suited to -their social standing, and therefore my spiritual life had always been -one of elegance. Not long ago, seeking local color, I attended a -service in Trinity Church; it was my first service in more than thirty -years, yet I could recite every prayer and sing every hymn and could -even have preached the sermon. - -In New York, no matter how poor and wretched the rooms in which we -lived, we never failed to go to the most fashionable church; it was our -way of clinging to social status. When we lived at the Weisiger House, -we walked to St. Thomas’ on Fifth Avenue. When we lived on Second -Avenue, we went to St. George’s. When we moved uptown, we went to St. -Agnes’. Now and then we would make a special trip to the Church of St. -Mary the Virgin, which was “high” and had masses and many candles and -jeweled robes and processions and genuflections and gyrations. Always I -wore tight new shoes and tight gloves and a neatly brushed little derby -hat--supreme discomfort to the glory of God. I became devout, and my -mother, determined upon making something special of me, decided that I -was to become a bishop. I myself talked of driving a hook-and-ladder -truck. - -We moved back to the Weisiger House, and I was confirmed at the Church -of the Holy Communion, just around the corner; the rector, Doctor -Mottet, lived to a great age. His assistant was the Reverend William -Wilmerding Moir, son of a wealthy old Scotch merchant; the young -clergyman had, I think, more influence upon me than any other man. My -irreverent memory brings up the first time I was invited to his home and -met his mother, who looked and dressed exactly like Queen Victoria, and -his testy old father, who had a large purple nose, filled, I fear, with -Scotch whisky. The son took me aside. “Upton,” he said, “we are going to -have chicken for dinner, and Father carves, and when he asks you if you -prefer white meat or dark, please express a preference, because if you -say that it doesn’t matter, he will answer that you can wait till you -make up your mind.” - -Will Moir was a young man of fashion, but he had gone into the church -because of genuine devoutness and love of his fellowmen. Spirituality is -out of fashion at the moment and open to dangerous suspicion, so I -hasten to say that he was a thoroughly wholesome person; not brilliant -intellectually, but warm-hearted, loyal, and devoted. He became a foster -father to me, and despite all my teasing of the Episcopal Church in _The -Profits of Religion_ and elsewhere, I have never forgotten this loving -soul and what he meant at the critical time of my life. My quarrel with -the churches is a lover’s quarrel; I do not want to destroy them, but to -put them on a rational basis, and especially to drive out the money -changers from the front pews. - -Moir specialized in training young boys in the Episcopal virtues, with -special emphasis upon chastity. He had fifty or so under his wing all -the time. We met at his home once a month and discussed moral problems; -we were pledged to write him a letter once a month and tell him all our -troubles. If we were poor, he helped us to find a job; if we were -tempted sexually, we would go to see him and talk it over. The advice we -got was always straightforward and sound. The procedure is out of -harmony with this modern age, and my sophisticated friends smile when -they hear about it. The problem of self-discipline versus -self-development is a complicated one, and I can see virtues in both -courses and perils in either extreme. I am glad that I did not waste my -time and vision “chasing chippies,” as the sport was called; but I am -sorry that I did not get advice and aid in the task of finding a girl -with whom I might have lived wisely and joyfully. - - -III - -I became a devout little Episcopalian, and at the age of fourteen went -to church every day during Lent. I taught a Sunday-school class for a -year. But I lost interest because I could not discover how these little -ragamuffins from the tenements were being made better by learning about -Jonah and the whale and Joshua blowing down the walls of Jericho. I was -beginning to use my brains on the Episcopalian map of the universe, and -a chill was creeping over my fervor. Could it possibly be that the -things I had been taught were merely the Hebrew mythology instead of the -Greek or the German? Could it be that I would be damned for asking such -a question? And would I have the courage to go ahead and believe the -truth, even though I were damned for it? - -I took these agonies to my friend Mr. Moir, who was not too much -troubled; it appeared that clergymen were used to such crises in the -young. He told me that the fairy tales did not really matter, he was not -sure that he believed them himself; the only thing of importance was -the resurrection of Jesus Christ and the redemption by his blood. So I -was all right for a time--until I began to find myself doubting the -resurrection of Jesus Christ. After all, what did we know about it? Were -there not a score of other martyred redeemers in the mythologies? And -how could Jesus have been both man and God at the same time? As a -psychological proposition, it meant knowing everything and not knowing -everything, and was not that plain nonsense? - -I took this also to Mr. Moir, and he loaded me up with tomes of -Episcopalian apologetics. I remember the Bampton Lectures, an annual -volume of foundation lectures delivered at Oxford. I read several -volumes, and it was the worst thing that ever happened to me; these -devout lectures, stating the position of the opposition, suggested so -many new doubts that I was completely bowled over. Literally, I was -turned into an agnostic by reading the official defenses of -Christianity. I remind myself of this when I have a tendency to worry -over the barrage of attacks on socialism in the capitalist press. Truth -is as mighty now as it was then. - -I told my friend Mr. Moir what had happened, but still he refused to -worry; it was a common experience, and I would come back. I felt certain -that I never would, but I was willing for him to keep himself happy. I -no longer taught Sunday school, but I remained under my friend’s -sheltering wing, and told him my troubles--up to the time when I was -married. Marriage was apparently regarded as a kind of graduation from -the school of chastity. My friend did not live to see me as a socialist -agitator; he succumbed to an attack of appendicitis--due, no doubt, to -his habit of talking Christianity all through dinner and, just before -the butler came to remove his plate, bolting his food in a minute or -two. - -For a time my interest was transferred to the Unitarian Church. I met -Minot J. Savage of the Church of the Messiah, now the Community Church; -his arguments seemed to me to possess that reasonableness that I had -missed in the Bampton Lectures. I never joined his church, and have -never again felt the need of formal worship; from the age of sixteen it -has been true with me that “to labor is to pray.” I have prayed hard in -this fashion and have found it the great secret of happiness. - -An interesting detail about Dr. Savage: he was the first intellectual -man I ever met who claimed to have seen a ghost. Not merely had he seen -one, he had sat up and chatted with it. I found this an interesting -idea, and find it so still. I am the despair of my orthodox -materialistic friends because I insist upon believing in the possibility -of so many strange things. My materialistic friends know that these -things are _a priori_ impossible; whereas I assert that nothing is _a -priori_ impossible. It is a question of evidence, and I am willing to -hear the evidence about anything whatever. - -The story as I recall it is this. Savage had a friend who set out for -Ireland in the days before the cable; at midnight Savage awakened and -saw his friend standing by his bedside. The friend stated that he was -dead, but Savage was not to think that he had known the pangs of -drowning; the steamer had been wrecked on the coast of Ireland, and the -friend had been killed when a beam struck him on the left side of his -head as he was trying to get off the ship. Savage wrote this out and had -it signed by witnesses, and two or three weeks later came the news that -the ship had been wrecked and the friend’s body found with the left side -of his head crushed. - -If such a case stood alone, it would of course be nothing. But in Edmund -Gurney’s two volumes, _Phantasms of the Living_, are a thousand or so -cases, carefully documented. There is another set of cases, collected by -Dr. Walker Franklin Prince, of the Boston Society for Psychical Research -in Bulletin XIV of that society. I no longer find these phenomena so -difficult of belief, because my second wife and I demonstrated -long-range telepathy in our personal lives. Later on, I shall be telling -about our book, _Mental Radio_. - - -IV - -In my class in college there was a Jewish boy by the name of Simon -Stern, whom I came to know well because we lived in the same -neighborhood and often went home together. Simon wrote a short story, -and one day came to class in triumph, announcing that this story had -been accepted by a monthly magazine published by a Hebrew orphans’ home. -Straightway I was stirred to emulation. If Simon could write a story, -why could not I? Such was the little acorn that grew into an oak, with -so many branches that it threatens to become top-heavy. - -I wrote a story about a pet bird. For years it had been my custom every -summer to take young birds from the nest and raise them. They would know -me as their only parent, and were charming pets. Now I put one of these -birds into an adventure, making it serve to prove the innocence of a -colored boy accused of arson. I mailed the story to the _Argosy_, one of -the two Munsey publications in those early days, and the story was -accepted, price twenty-five dollars. You can imagine that I was an -insufferable youngster on the day that letter arrived; especially to my -friend Simon Stern, who had not been paid for his story. - -Our family fortunes happened to be at a low ebb just then, so I fell to -digging in this new gold mine. I found several papers that bought -children s stories at low prices; also, before long, I discovered -another gold mine--writing jokes for the comic papers. At seventeen, -jokes were my entire means of support. My mother and I spent that winter -on West 23rd Street, near the river. My weekly budget was this: for a -top-story hallroom in a lodginghouse, one dollar twenty-five; for two -meals a day at an eating house, three dollars; and for a clean collar -and other luxuries, twenty-five cents. It seems a slender allowance, but -you must remember that I had infinite riches in the little room of the -college library. - -The quantity production of jokes is an odd industry, and for the aid of -young aspirants I will tell how it is done. Jokes are made up hind end -forward, so to speak; you don’t think of the joke, but of what it is to -be about. There are tramp jokes, mother-in-law jokes, plumber jokes, -Irishman jokes, and so on. You decide to write tramp jokes this morning; -well, there are many things about tramps that are jokable; they do not -like to work, they do not like to bathe, they do not like bulldogs, and -so on. You decide to write about tramps not liking to bathe; very well, -you think of all the words and phrases having to do with water, soaps, -tubs, streams, rain, etc., and of puns or quirks by which these words -can be applied to tramps. - -I have a scrapbook in which my mother treasured many of the jokes for -which I was paid one dollar apiece, and from this book, my biographer, -Floyd Dell, selected one, in which a tramp calls attention to a sign, -“Cleaning and Dyeing,” and says he always knew those two things went -together. Out of this grew a joke more amusing than the one for which I -was paid. My enterprising German publishers prepared a pamphlet about my -books, to be sent to critics and reviewers in Germany, and they quoted -this joke as a sample of my early humor. The Germans didn’t think it was -very good. And no wonder. The phrase in translation appeared as -“_Waescherei und Faeberei_,” which, alas, entirely destroys the double -meaning of “Dyeing.” It makes me think of the Irishman on a railroad -handcar who said that he had just been taking the superintendent for a -ride, and had heard a fine conundrum. “What is the difference between a -railroad spike and a thief in the baggage room? One grips the steel and -the other steals the satchels.” - -My jokes became an obsession. While other youths were thinking about -“dates,” I was pondering jokes about Scotchmen, Irishmen, Negroes, Jews. -I would take my mother to church, and make up jokes on the phrases in -the prayer book and hymnbook. I kept my little notebook before me at -meals, while walking, while dressing, and in classes if the professor -was a bore. I wrote out my jokes on slips of paper, with a number in the -corner, and sent them in batches of ten to the different editors; when -the pack came back with one missing, I had earned a dollar. I had a -bookkeeping system, showing where each batch had been sent; jokes number -321 to 330 had been sent to _Life_, _Judge_, and _Puck_, and were now at -the _Evening Journal_. - -I began taking jokes to artists who did illustrating. They would pay for -ideas--if you could catch them right after they had collected the money. -It was a New York bohemia entirely unknown to fame. Dissolute and -harum-scarum but good-natured young fellows, they were, inhabiting -crudely furnished “studios” in the neighborhood of East 14th Street. I -will give one glimpse of this artist utopia: I entered a room with a -platform in the center and saw a tall lanky Irishman standing on it, -bare-armed and bare-legged, a sheet wrapped around him, and an umbrella -in his hand, the ferule held to his mouth. “What is this?” I asked, and -the young artist replied, “I am doing a set of illustrations of the -Bible. This is Joshua with the trumpet blowing down the walls of -Jericho.” - - -V - -The editor of _Argosy_ who accepted my first story was Matthew White, -Jr., a genial little gentleman, who had been the great Munsey’s -associate from the earliest days, when that future master of magazine -merchandising and chain grocery stores had sat in a one-room office in -his shirt sleeves and kept his own accounts. White invited me to call on -him, and I went, and we had a delightful chat; at any rate, I found it -so. Finally the editor asked me if I would not like to see the “plant,” -whereupon he led me through two or three rooms full of bookkeepers and -office girls stamping envelopes, and then paused casually at the -elevator and rang the bell. So I learned that an author is not so great -a novelty to an editor as an editor is to an author. The device of -“showing the plant” is one which I have employed many times with callers -who fail to realize that I am more of a novelty to them than they are to -me. - -I wrote other stories for the _Argosy_, and also odds and ends for -_Munsey’s_. They had a department called “Fads,” and I racked my -imagination for new ones that could be humorously written up; each one -would be a meal ticket for a week. In the summer--1895, I think it -was--my mother and I went to a hotel up in a village called Pawlet, -Vermont, and Matthew White, a bachelor, came to join us for his -vacation. My experience at that hotel requires considerable courage to -tell. - -My father was drinking, and we were stranded. Rather than be dependent -upon our relatives, I had answered an advertisement for a hotel clerk, -and there I was, the newly arrived employee of this moderately decent -country establishment. I was supposed to do part-time work to earn the -board of my mother and myself, and the very first night of my arrival, I -discovered that one of the duties of the so-called clerk was to carry up -pitchers of ice water to the guests. I refused the duty, and the outcome -of the clash of wills was that the proprietor did it instead. I can see -in my mind’s eye this stoop-shouldered, elderly man, with a long brown -beard turning gray; he was kindhearted, and doubtless saw the kind of -decayed gentlefolk he had got on his hands. He was sorry for my mother, -and did not turn us away. - -I performed such duties as were consistent with my notion of my own -dignity, but they were not many. Among them was copying out the dinner -menus every day; that brought me into clash with the cooks of the -establishment--they were husband and wife, and had a notion of their -importance fully equal to my own. I would sometimes fail to copy all the -fancy French phrases whereby they sought to glorify their performances. -Ever since then, I lose my appetite when I hear of “prime ribs of beef -au jus.” - -I remember that among the guests was the painter, J. G. Brown, famous -for depicting newsboys and village types. I took long walks with him and -learned his notion of art, which was that one must paint only beautiful -and cheerful things, never anything ugly or depressing. His children -were not so democratic as their father and refused to overlook my status -as an employee. His oldest daughter was named Mabel, and all the young -people called her that. I, quite innocently, did the same--until she -turned upon me in a fury and informed me that she was “Miss Brown.” - -Yet my status as a college student apparently kept me in the amateur -class, for I was on the tennis team that played matches with other -hotels in the neighborhood. I remember a trip we made, in which I -received a lesson in table manners as practiced in this remote land of -the Yankees. It was the custom to serve vegetables in little bird -bathtubs, which were ranged in a semicircle about each plate, five or -six of them. The guests finished eating, and I also finished; all the -other plates were cleared away, but mine remained untouched, and I did -not know why. The waitress was standing behind me, and I remarked -gently, “I am through”--the very precise language that my mother had -taught me to use; never “I am done,” but always, “I am through.” But -this waitress taught me something new. Said she, in a voice of icy -scorn: “_Stack your dishes!_” - - -VI - -The venerable faculty of the College of the City of New York, who had -charge of my intellectual life for five years, were nearly all of them -Tammany appointees, and therefore Catholics. It was the first time I had -ever met Catholics, and I found them kindly, but set in dogma, and as -much given to propaganda as I myself was destined to become. - -For example, there was “Herby.” Several hours a week for several years I -had “Herby,” the eminent Professor Charles George Herbermann, editor of -the _Catholic Encyclopedia_ and leading light of the Jesuits. He was a -stout, irascible old gentleman with a bushy reddish beard. “Mr. -Sinclair,” he would roar, “it is so because I _say_ it is so!” But that -did not go with me at all; I would say, “But, Professor, how _can_ it be -so?” We would have a wrangle, pleasing to other members of the class, -who had not prepared their lessons and were afraid of being called upon. -(We learned quickly to know each professor’s hobbies, and whenever we -were not prepared to recite, we would start a discussion.) - -“Herby” taught me Latin, “Tizzy” taught me Greek, and Professor George -Hardy taught me English. He was a little round man of the Catholic -faith, and his way of promoting the faith was to set a class that was -sixty per cent Jewish to learning Catholic sentimentality disguised as -poetry. I remember we had to recite Dobson’s “The Missal,” and avenged -ourselves by learning it to the tune of a popular music-hall ditty of -the hour, “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay.” Hardy was a good teacher, except when -the Pope came in. He told us that Milton was a dangerous disturber of -the peace of Europe, and that it was a libel to say that Chaucer was a -Wycliffite. What a Wycliffite was nobody ever mentioned. - -Our professor of history had no dogma, so I was permitted to learn -English and European history according to the facts. I was interested, -but could not see why it was necessary for me to learn the names of so -many kings and dukes and generals, and the dates when they had -slaughtered so many human beings. In the effort to keep them in my mind -until examination day, I evolved a memory system, and once it tripped me -in a comical way. “Who was Lord Cobden?” inquired the professor; and my -memory system replied: “He passed the corncob laws.” - -But the prize laugh of my history class had to do with a lively witted -youngster by the name of Fred Schwed, who afterward became a curb -broker. Fred never prepared anything and never paid attention, but -trusted to his gift of the gab. He was suddenly called upon to explain -the origin of the title, Prince of Wales. Said the grave Professor -Johnston: “Mr. Schwed, how did it happen that an English prince, the -son of an English king, was born on Welsh soil?” Fred, called suddenly -out of a daydream or perhaps a game of crap shooting, gazed with a wild -look and stammered: “Why--er--why, you see, Professor--his mother was -there.” - - -VII - -Also, I remember vividly Professor Hunt, who taught us freehand drawing, -mechanical drawing, and perspective. A lean gentleman with a black -mustache and a fierce tongue, he suffered agonies from bores. You may -believe that in our class we had many; and foreigners struggling with -English were also a trial to him. I recall a dumb Russian by the name of -Vilkomirsson; he would gaze long and yearningly, and at last blurt out -some question that would cause the class to titter. In perspective it is -customary to indicate certain points by their initials; the only one I -recall now is “V.P.,” which means “vanishing point.” The poor foreigner -could never get these abbreviations straight, and he would take a seat -right in front of the professor in the hope of being able to ask help -without disturbing the rest of the class. “Professor, I don’t understand -what you mean when you say that the V.P. is six inches away.” “Mr. -Vilkomirsson,” demanded the exasperated teacher, “if I were to tell you -that the D.F. is six feet away, what would you understand me to mean?” - -Our freehand drawing was done in a large studio with plaster casts all -around the room. We took a drawing board and fastened a sheet of paper -to it, and with a piece of charcoal proceeded to make the best possible -representation of one of the casts; Professor Hunt in the meantime -roamed about the room like a tiger at large, taking a swipe with his -sharp claws at this or that helpless victim. That our efforts at “free” -art were not uniformly successful you may judge from verses that I -contributed to our college paper portraying the agony of mind of a -subfreshman who, forgetting what he was drawing, took his partly -completed work from the rack and wandered up and down in front of a row -of plaster casts, exclaiming: “Good gracious, is it Juno, or King Henry -of Navarre?” - -I contributed a number of verses and jokes to this college paper and to -a class annual that we got up. I have some of them still in my head, and -will set down the sad story of “an imaginative poet” who - - Came to C.C.N.Y. - Dreaming of nature’s beauty - And the glories of the sky. - He learned that stars are hydrogen, - The comets made of gas; - That Jupiter and Venus - In elliptic orbits pass. - He learned that the painted rainbow, - God’s promise, as poets feign, - Is transverse oscillations - Turning somersaults in rain. - -And so on to the sorrowful climax: - - His poetry now is ruined, - His metaphors, of course; - He’s trying to square the circle - And to find the five-toed horse. - -I will relate one other incident of these early days, in which you may -see how the child is father to the man. The crowding in our ramshackle -old school building had become a scandal, and an effort was under way to -persuade the legislature to vote funds for new buildings uptown. No easy -matter to persuade politicians to take an interest in anything so remote -as higher education! We students were asked to circulate petitions, to -be signed by voters; and I, in an excess of loyalty to my alma mater, -gave my afternoons and Saturdays to the task for a month or two, and -went the rounds of department stores and business houses. Not many of -the persons invited to sign had ever heard of the matter, but it cost -them nothing, and they were willing to take the word of a nice jolly lad -that a free college was a good thing. I brought in some six or eight -hundred signatures, and got my name in the college paper for my zeal. -You see here the future socialist, distributing leaflets and making -soapbox speeches--to the same ill-informed and indifferent crowd. - - -VIII - -Simon Stern and I went into partnership and wrote a novel of many -adventures about which I don’t remember a thing. Together we visited the -office of Street and Smith, publishers of “thrillers” for boys, and met -one of the editors, who was amused to hear two boys in short trousers -announce themselves as joint authors of a novel. He read it, and did not -accept it, but held out hopes and suggested that we write another novel, -according to his needs. We agreed to do so and went away, and to the -consternation of the editor came back in a week with the novel complete. -I have since learned that you must never do that. Make the editor think -you are taking a lot of time because that is one of his tests of -excellence--despite the examples of Dumas and Balzac and Dickens and -Dostoevski and other masters. - -I am not sure what became of that story. All I remember is that during -the ensuing summer I was working at a full-length novel of adventure, -which I am ashamed to realize bore a striking resemblance to _Treasure -Island_. The difference was that it happened on land, having to do with -an effort to find buried gold hidden by some returning forty-niners -before they were killed by Indians. _The Prairie Pirates_ was the title, -and I don’t know if the manuscript survives; but I recall having read it -at some later date and being impressed by my idea of “sex appeal” at the -age of seventeen. The hero had accompanied the beautiful heroine all the -way from California and rescued her many times from Indian marauders and -treacherous half-breeds. At the end he told her blushingly that he loved -her, and then, having obtained permission, “he placed upon her forehead -a holy kiss.” - -I was working on that novel in some country boardinghouse in New Jersey, -and I mounted my bicycle with a bundle of manuscript strapped upon it, -and rode to New York and up the Hudson into the Adirondack mountains, to -a farmhouse on Brant Lake. At this retreat I enjoyed the companionship -of a girl who was later to be my wife; her mother and my mother had -become intimate friends, and we summered together several times for that -reason. She was a year and a half younger than I, and we gazed at each -other across a chasm of misunderstanding. She was a quiet, undeveloped, -and unhappy girl, while I was a self-confident and aggressive youth, -completely wrapped up in my own affairs. To neither of us did fate give -the slightest hint of the trick it meant to play upon us four years -later. - -That fall I was invited to visit my clergyman friend, William Moir, in -his brother’s camp at Saranac Lake. I got on my bicycle at four o’clock -one morning and set out upon a mighty feat--something that was the goal -in life of all cycling enthusiasts in those far off eighteen-nineties. -“Have you done a century?” we would ask one another, and it was like -flying across the Atlantic later on. All day I pedaled, through sand and -dust and heat. I remember ten miles or so up the Schroon River--no doubt -it is a paved boulevard now, but in 1896 it was a ribbon of deep sand, -and I had to plod for two or three hours. I remember coming down through -a pass into Keene Valley--on a “corduroy road” made of logs, over which -I bumped madly. In those days you used your foot on the front tire for a -brake, and the sole of my shoe became so hot that I had to dip it into -the mountain stream. I remember the climb out of Keene Valley, eight -miles or so, pushing the wheel uphill; there was Cascade Lake at sunset, -a beautiful spot, and I heard Tennyson’s bugles blowing-- - - The long light shakes across the lakes - And the wild cataract leaps in glory. - -I came into the home of my friend at half past ten at night, and was -disappointed of my hopes because the total had been only ninety-six -miles. I had not yet “done a century.” I took the same ride back a -couple of weeks later, and was so bent upon achievement that it was all -my mother could do to dissuade me from taking an extra night ride from -the farmhouse to the village and back so as to complete the hundred -miles. From this you may see that I was soundly built at that age and -looking for something to cut my teeth upon. If it should ever happen -that a “researcher” wants something to practice on, he may consult the -files of the New York _Evening Post_ for the autumn of 1896 and find a -column article describing the ride. I am not sure it was signed, but I -remember that Mr. Moir, job-maker extraordinary, had given me a letter -to the city editor of the _Evening Post_, and I had become a reporter -for a week. I gave it up because the staff was too crowded, and all -there was for this bright kid just out of knickerbockers was a few -obituary notices, an inch or two each. - -It was the _Post_ I read in the afternoon, and the _Sun_ in the morning, -and in my social ideas I was the haughtiest little snob that ever looked -down upon mankind from the lofty turrets of an imitation-Gothic college. -I can recollect as if it were yesterday my poor father--he was showing -some signs of evolving into a radical, having been reading editorials by -Brisbane in the _Evening Journal_, a sort of steam calliope with which -Willie Hearst had just broken loose on Park Row. Oh, the lofty scorn -with which I spurned my father! I would literally put my fingers into my -ears in order that my soul might not be sullied by the offensive sounds -of the Hearst calliope. I do not think my father ever succeeded in -making me hear a word of Brisbane’s assaults upon the great and -noble-minded McKinley, then engaged in having the presidency purchased -for him by Mark Hanna. - - -IX - -My poor father was no longer in position to qualify as an educator of -youth. Every year he was gripped more tightly in the claws of his demon. -He would disappear for days, and it would be my task to go and seek him -in the barrooms that he frequented. I would find him, and there would be -a moral battle. I would argue and plead and threaten; he would weep, or -try to assert his authority--though I cannot recall that he ever even -pretended to be angry with me. I would lead him up the street, and every -corner saloon would be a new contest. “I must have just one more drink, -son. I can’t go home without one more. If you only knew what I am -suffering!” I would get him to bed and hide his trousers so that he -could not escape, and mother would make cups of strong black coffee, or -perhaps a drink of warm water and mustard. - -Later on, things grew worse yet. My father was no longer to be found in -his old haunts; he was ashamed to have his friends see him and would -wander away. Then I had to seek him in the dives on the Bowery--the -Highway of Lost Men, as I called it in _Love’s Pilgrimage_. I would walk -for hours, peering into scores of places, and at last I would find him, -sunk into a chair or sleeping with his arms on a beer-soaked table. -Once I found him literally in the gutter--no uncommon sight in those -days. - -I would get a cab and take him--no longer home, for we could not handle -him; he would be delirious, and there would be need of strong-armed -attendants and leather straps and iron bars. I would take him to St. -Vincent’s Hospital, and there, with crucified saviors looking down on -us, I would pay twenty-five dollars to a silent, black-clad nun, and my -father would be entered in the books and led away, quaking with terror, -by a young Irish husky in white ducks. A week or two later he would -emerge, weak and unsteady, pasty of complexion but full of moral fervor. -He would join the church, sign pledges, vote for Sunday closing, weep on -my shoulder and tell me how he loved me. For a week or a month or -possibly several months he would struggle to build up his lost business -and pay his debts. - - -X - -My liberal friends who read _The Wet Parade_ found it sentimental and -out of the spirit of the time. To them I made answer that the -experiences of my childhood were “reality,” quite as much so as the -blood and guts of the Chicago stockyards or the birth scene in _Love’s -Pilgrimage_. It is a fact that I have been all my life gathering -material on the subject of the liquor problem. I know it with greater -intimacy than any other theme I have ever handled. The list of drunkards -I have wrestled with is longer than the list of coal miners, oil -magnates, politicians, or any other group I have known and portrayed in -my books. - -My experiences with my father lasted thirty years; during this period -several uncles and cousins, and numerous friends of the family, Southern -gentlemen, Northern businessmen, and even one or two of their wives were -stumbling down the same road of misery. Later on, I ran into the same -problem in the literary and socialist worlds: George Sterling, Jack -London, Ambrose Bierce, W. M. Reedy, O. Henry, Eugene Debs--a long list. -I have a photograph of Jack and George and the latter’s wife, Carrie, -taken on Jack’s sailboat on San Francisco Bay; three beautiful people, -young, happy, brilliant--and all three took poison to escape the claws -of John Barleycorn. And then came a new generation, many of whom I knew -well: Sinclair Lewis, Edna Millay, Eugene O’Neill, Dylan Thomas, Scott -Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Theodore Dreiser, William Faulkner. - -The experience with my father of course made me prematurely serious. I -began questioning the world, trying to make out how such evils came to -be. I soon traced the saloon to Tammany and blamed my troubles on the -high chieftains of this organization. I remember writing of Richard -Croker that “I would be willing with my own hands to spear him on a -pitchfork and thrust him into the fires of hell.” A sound evangelical -sentiment! I had not yet found out “big business”--and of course I would -not, until I had outgrown E. L. Godkin of the _Evening Post_ and Charles -A. Dana of the _Sun_. - -It was my idea at this time that the human race was to be saved by -poetry. Men and women were going to be taught noble thoughts, and then -they would abandon their base ways of living. I had made the -acquaintance of Shelley and conceived a passionate friendship for him. -Then I became intimate with Hamlet, Prince of Denmark; he came to the -library of my Uncle Bland, in Baltimore, where I spent the Christmas -holidays, and we had much precious converse. I too was a prince, in -conflict with a sordid and malignant world; at least, so I saw myself, -and lived entirely in that fantasy, very snobbish, scornful, and -superior. Any psychiatrist would have diagnosed me as an advanced case -of delusion of grandeur, messianic complex, paranoia, narcissism, and so -to the end of his list. - - -XI - -Along with extreme idealism, and perhaps complementary to it, went a -tormenting struggle with sexual desire. I never had relations with any -woman until my marriage at the age of twenty-two; but I came close to -it, and the effort to refrain was more than I would have been equal to -without the help of my clergyman friend. For a period of five years or -more I was subject to storms of craving; I would become restless and -miserable and wandering out on the street, look at every woman and girl -I passed and dream an adventure that might be a little less than sordid. -Many of the daughters of the poor, and more than once a daughter of the -rich, indicated a “coming-on disposition”; there would begin a -flirtation, with caresses and approaches to intimacy. But then would -come another storm--of shame and fear; the memory of the pledge I had -given; the dream of a noble and beautiful love, which I cherished; also, -of course, the idea of venereal disease, of which my friend Moir kept me -informed. I would shrink back and turn cold; two or three times, with my -reformer’s impulse, I told the girl about it, and the petting party -turned into a moral discourse. I have pictured such a scene in _Love’s -Pilgrimage_, and it affords amusement to my “emancipated” radical -friends. - -What do I think about these experiences after sixty-five years of -reflection? The first fact--an interesting one--is that I am still -embarrassed to talk about them. My ego craves to be dignified and -impressive and is humiliated to see itself behaving like a young puppy. -I have to take the grown-up puppy by the back of the neck and make him -face the facts--there being so many young ones in the world who have the -same troubles. Frankness about sex must not be left to the cynical and -morally irresponsible. - -There are dangers in puritanism, and there are compensations. My -chastity was preserved at the cost of much emotional effort, plus the -limitation of my interests in certain fields. For example, I could not -prosecute the study of art. In the splendid library of Columbia -University were treasures of beauty, costly volumes of engravings; and -in my usual greedy fashion I went at these, intending to learn all there -was to know about Renaissance art in a week or two. But I found myself -overwhelmed by this mass of nakedness; my senses reeled, and I had to -quit. I might have gone back when I was mature; but alas, I was by then -too busy trying to save the world from poverty and war. This confession -resembles Darwin’s--that his concentration upon the details of natural -science had the effect of atrophying his interest in music and other -arts. - -What did I get in return for this? I got intensity and power of -concentration; these elements in my make-up were the product of my -efforts to resist the tempter. I learned to work fourteen hours a day at -study and creative effort because it was only by being thus occupied -that the craving for woman could be kept out of my soul. I told myself -the legend of Hercules and recited the wisdom attributed to Solomon: “He -that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.” - -For years now we have heard a great deal about mental troubles caused by -sex repression; we have heard little about the complexes that may be -caused by sex indulgence. But my observation has been that those who -permit themselves to follow every sexual impulse are quite as miserable -as those who repress them. I remember saying to a classmate in college, -“Did it ever occur to you to stop and look at your own mind? Everything -that comes to you is turned into sex.” He looked surprised, and I saw -that it was a new idea to him; he thought it over and said, “I guess you -are right.” - -This problem of the happy mean in sex matters would require a volume for -a proper discussion. As it happens, I have written such a volume, _The -Book of Life_, and it is available to those who are interested. So I -pass on. - - -XII - -I was becoming less and less satisfied with college. It had become an -agony for me to sit and listen to the slow recitation of matters that I -either knew already or did not care to know. I was enraged by professors -whose idea of teaching was to catch me being inattentive to their -dullness. At the same time, I had to have my degree because I was still -planning to study law. I fretted and finally evolved a scheme; I made -application to the faculty for two months’ leave of absence, on the -ground that I had to earn some money--which was true. They gave me the -leave, and I earned the money writing stories, and spent the rest of my -time in a hall bedroom reading Shelley, Carlyle, and Emerson. I forced -myself to read until one or two in the morning, and many a time I would -wake at daybreak and find that I had sunk back on my pillow and slept -with my book still open and the gaslight burning--not a very hygienic -procedure. - -It was the lodginghouse on West 23rd Street, kept by a Mrs. Carmichael, -whose son also was a would-be genius--only he was a religious mystic and -found his thrills in church music. We used to compare notes, each -patronizing the other, of course--two young stags in the forest, trying -out their horns. I remember that Bert went up to display his musical -skill to a great composer, Edward MacDowell, of whom I thus heard for -the first time. The youth came back in excitement to report that the -composer had praised him highly and offered him free instruction. But -after the first lesson, Bert was less elated, for his idol had spoken as -follows: “Mr. Carmichael, before you come again, please have your hair -cut and wash your neck. The day of long-haired and greasy musicians is -past.” - -I went back to college, made up my missing studies in a week or two, and -was graduated without distinction, exactly in the middle of my class. I -remember the name of the man who carried off all the honors, and I look -for that name in _Who’s Who_, but do not find it. I won some sort of -prize in differential calculus, but that was all; nothing in literature, -nothing in oratory, philosophy, history. Such talents as I had were not -valued by my alma mater, nor would they have been by any other alma -mater then existing in America so far as I could learn. I was so little -interested in the college regime that I did not wait for commencement, -but went off to the country and received my diploma by mail. - -I had sold some jokes and stories, and I now spent a summer writing -more, while drifting about in a skiff among the Thousand Islands in the -upper St. Lawrence River. I caught many black bass and ate them; read -the poems of Walter Scott and the novels of Thackeray and George Eliot, -made available in the Seaside Library, which I purchased wholesale for -eight cents a copy. The life I got from those classics is one reason why -I believe in cheap books and have spent tens of thousands of dollars -trying to keep my own books available to students. - - -XIII - -I still meant to be a lawyer, but first I wanted a year of literature -and philosophy at Columbia University. “If you do that, you’ll never be -a lawyer,” said some shrewd person to me--and he was right. But to -Columbia I would go, and how was I to live meantime? I went back to New -York to solve this problem and called upon the Street and Smith editor -who had once suggested a serial story to Simon Stern and myself. Now I -reaped the reward of persistence, obtaining a meal ticket for the next -three years of my life. - -The name of this editor was Henry Harrison Lewis, and he later became -editor of one of the fighting organs of the openshop movement. I -remember expounding to him my views of life and my destiny therein, and -how he protested that it was not normal for a youth to be so apocalyptic -and messianic. My evil career was assuredly not Mr. Lewis’ fault. - -He showed me proofs of the _Army and Navy Weekly_, a five-cent -publication with bright red and blue and green and yellow covers, which -the firm was just starting. The editor himself was to write every other -week a story of life at the Annapolis Naval Academy and wanted someone -to write in alternate weeks, a companion story of life at the West Point -Military Academy. Would I like to try that job? My heart leaped with -excitement. - -My first experience in the gathering of local color! I got from Mr. Moir -a letter of introduction to an army officer at West Point, and went up -and stayed at a cheap hotel in the village. I roamed about the grounds -and watched the cadets, and made copious notes as to every detail of -their regimen. I recollect being introduced to a stern and noble-looking -upperclassman. I revealed to him what I was there for, and said that I -needed a hero. “Well, why not use me?” inquired this cadet. “I am -president of the senior class, I am captain of the football team, and I -have made the highest records in this and that,” and so on. I looked -into the man’s face for any trace of a smile, but there was none. He -stays in my memory as a type of the military mind. Doubtless he is a -great general by now. - -I went back to New York, and under the pen name of Lieutenant Frederick -Garrison, USA, produced a manuscript of some twenty-five or thirty -thousand words, a rollicking tale of a group of “candidates” who made -their appearance at the academy to start their military career. The Mark -Mallory stories they were called, and they were successful, so I was -definitely launched upon a literary career. I was paid, I believe, forty -dollars per story; it was a fortune, enough to take care of both my -mother and myself. The local color was found satisfactory. Lewis told me -that Smith, head of the firm, asked if that new writer had been through -West Point. “Yes,” replied Lewis, “he went through in three days.” - - -XIV - -This episode of my hack writing I find always interests people, so I may -as well finish it here, even though it involves running ahead of my -story. After I had been doing the work for a while, the firm needed Mr. -Lewis’ services for more editing, and he asked me if I could do his -stint as well as my own. I always thought I could do everything, so I -paid a visit to Annapolis, haunted by the ghosts of my grandfathers. I -went through this place also in three days. Thereafter I was Ensign -Clarke Fitch, USN, as well as Lieutenant Frederick Garrison, USA. I now -wrote a novelette of close to thirty thousand words every week, and -received forty dollars a week. - -Shortly after that, Willie Hearst with his New York _Evening Journal_ -succeeded in carrying the United States into a war with Spain. (“You -make the pictures, and I’ll make the war,” cabled Willie to Frederick -Remington in Cuba.) So my editor sent for me and explained that the -newsboys and messenger boys who followed the adventures of Mark Mallory -and Clif Faraday would take it ill if these cadets idled away their time -in West Point and Annapolis while their country was bleeding; I must -hurry up and graduate them, and send them to the battlefield. - -No sooner said than done. I read a book of Cuban local color and looked -up several expletives for Spanish villains to exclaim. I remember one of -them, “Carramba!” I have never learned what it means, but hope it is not -too serious, for I taught it to all the newsboys and messenger boys of -the eastern United States. When I hear people lamenting the foolishness -of the movies, I remember the stuff I ground out every week, which was -printed in large editions. - -From that time on my occupation was killing Spaniards. “What are you -going to do today?” my mother would ask, and the answer would be, “I -have to kill Spaniards.” I thought nothing of sinking a whole fleet of -Spanish torpedo boats to make a denouement, and the vessels I sank -during that small war would have replaced all the navies of the world. -I remember that I had my hero explode a bomb on a Spanish vessel and go -to the bottom with her; in the next story I blandly explained how he had -opened a porthole and swum up again. Once or twice I killed a Spanish -villain, and then forgot and brought him to life again. When that -occurred, I behaved like President Coolidge and Governor Fuller and -President Lowell, and the other great ones of Massachusetts--I treated -my critics with silent contempt. - -I was never told how my product was selling; that was the affair of my -masters. But they must have been satisfied, for presently came another -proposition. There was a boom in war literature, and they were going to -start another publication--I think the title was the _Columbia -Library_--to be issued monthly and contain fifty-six thousand words. -Could I add this to my other tasks? I was a young shark, ready to devour -everything in sight. So for some months I performed the feat of turning -out eight thousand words every day, Sunday included. I tell this to -literary men, and they say it could not be done; but I actually did it, -at least until the end of the Spanish-American War. I kept two -stenographers working all the time, taking dictation one day and -transcribing the next. In the afternoon I would dictate for about three -hours, as fast as I could talk; in the evening I would revise the copy -that had been brought in from the previous day, and then take a long -walk and think up the incidents of my next day’s stunt. That left me -mornings to attend lectures at Columbia University and to practice the -violin. I figured out that by the time I finished this potboiling I had -published an output equal in volume to the works of Walter Scott. - -What was the effect of all this upon me as a writer? It both helped and -hurt. It taught me to shape a story and to hold in mind what I had -thought up; so it fostered facility. On the other hand, it taught me to -use exaggerated phrases and clichés, and this is something I have fought -against, not always successfully. Strange as it may seem, I actually -enjoyed the work while I was doing it. Not merely was I earning a living -and putting away a little money; I had a sense of fun, and these -adventures were a romp. It is significant that the stories pleased their -public only so long as they pleased their author. When, at the age of -twenty-one, I became obsessed with the desire to write a serious novel, -I came to loathe this hackwork, and from that time on I was never able -to do it with success, even though, driven by desperate need, I several -times made the effort. It was the end of my youth. - - - - -_3_ - -_Genius_ - - -I - -Was it really genius? That I cannot say. I only know it seemed like it, -and I took it at its face value. I tell the story here as objectively as -possible, and if the hero seems a young egotist, do not blame me, -because that youth is long since dead. - -The thing I believed was genius came to me first during one of those -Christmas holidays I spent in Baltimore, at the home of my Uncle Bland. -I had always enjoyed these holidays, having a normal boy’s fondness for -turkey and plum pudding and other Christmas delights. I used to say that -anybody might wake me at three o’clock in the morning to eat ice cream; -my Aunt Lelia Montague, mother of the general’s wife, declared that the -way to my heart was through a bag of gingersnaps. - -But on this particular Christmas my uncle’s home meant to me a shelf of -books. I read Shakespeare straight through during that holiday and, -though it sounds preposterous, I read all of Milton’s poetry in those -same two weeks. Literature had become a frenzy. I read while I was -eating, lying down, sitting, standing, and walking; I read everywhere I -went--and I went nowhere except to the park to read on sunshiny days. I -averaged fourteen hours a day, and it was a routine matter to read all -of Shakespeare’s comedies in two or three days, and all his tragedies in -the next two or three, and the historical plays over the weekend. In my -uncle’s library reposed beautiful volumes, untouched except by the hand -of the parlormaid; now I drew them forth, with love and rapture, and -gave them a reason for being. Some poet said to a rich man, “You own the -land and I own the landscape.” To my kind uncle I said, “You own the -books and I own the literature.” - -My mind on fire with high poetry, I went out for a walk one night. A -winter night, with hard crunching snow on the ground and great bright -lights in the sky; the tree branches black and naked, crackling now and -then in the breeze, but between times silence, quite magical -silence--and I walking in Druid Hill Park, mile on mile, lost to the -world, drinking in beauty, marveling at the mystery of life. Suddenly -this thing came to me, startling and wonderful beyond any power of words -to tell; the opening of gates in the soul, the pouring in of music, of -light, of joy that was unlike anything else and therefore not to be -conveyed in metaphors. I stood riveted to one spot, and a trembling -seized me, a dizziness, a happiness so intense that the distinction -between pleasure and pain was lost. - -If I had been a religious person at this time, no doubt I would have had -visions of saints and holy martyrs, and perhaps developed stigmata on -hands and feet. But I had no sort of superstition, so the vision took a -literary form. There was a campfire by a mountain road, to which came -travelers who hailed one another and made high revelry there without -alcohol. Yes, even Falstaff and Prince Hal were purified and refined, -according to my teetotal sentiments! There came the melancholy Prince of -Denmark, and Don Quixote--I must have been reading him at this time. -Also Shelley--real persons mixed with imaginary ones, but all equal in -this realm of fantasy. They held conversation, each in his own -character, yet glorified, more so than in the books. I was laughing, -singing with the delight of their company; in short, a perfect picture -of a madman, talking to myself, making incoherent exclamations. Yet I -knew what I was doing, I knew what was happening, I knew that this was -literature, and that if I could remember the tenth part of it and set it -down on paper, it would be read. - -The strangest part about this ecstasy is the multifarious forms it -assumes, the manifold states of consciousness it involves, all at one -time. It is possible to be bowed with grief and transported with -delight; it is possible to love and to hate, to be naïve and -calculating, to be hot and cold, timid and daring--all contradictions -reconciled. But the most striking thing is the conviction that you are -in the hands of a force outside yourself. Without trace of a -preconception, and regarding the thing as objectively as you know how, -the feeling is that something is taking hold of you, pushing you along, -sweeping you away. To walk in a windstorm and feel it beating upon you -is a sensation of the body no more definite and unmistakable than this -windstorm of the spirit, which has come to me perhaps a hundred times in -my life. I search for a metaphor and picture a child running, with an -older and swifter person by his side taking his hand and lifting him off -the ground, so that his little leaps become great leaps, almost like -flying. - -You may call this force your own subconscious mind, or God, or cosmic -consciousness--I care not what fancy name you give; the point is that it -is there, and always there. If you ask whether it is intelligent, I can -only say that you appear to be the intelligence, and “it” appears to be -the cause of intelligence in you. How anything unintelligent can be the -cause of intelligence is a riddle I pass by. Life is built upon such -antinomies. - - -II - -This experience occurred in unexpected places and at unpredictable -times. It was associated with music and poetry, but still more -frequently with natural beauty. I remember winter nights in Central -Park, New York, and tree branches white with snow, magical in the -moonlight; I remember springtime mornings in several places; a summer -night in the Adirondacks, with moonlight strewn upon a lake; a summer -twilight in the far wilds of Ontario, when I came over a ridge and into -a valley full of clover, incredibly sweet of scent--one has to go into -the North in summer to appreciate how deep and thick a field of red -clover can grow and what overpowering perfume it throws upon the air at -twilight. - -This experience, repeated, made me more of a solitary than ever. I -wanted to be free to behave like a lunatic, and yet not have anybody -think me one. I remember a highly embarrassing moment when I was walking -down a lane bordered with wild roses in June, and two little girls -seated on a fence, unnoticed by me, suddenly broke into giggles at the -strange sight of a man laughing and talking to himself. I became a -haunter of mountaintops and of deep forests, the only safe places. -I had something that other people did not have and could not -understand--otherwise, how could they behave as they were doing? Imagine -anyone wanting a lot of money, or houses and servants, or fine raiment -and jewels, if he knew how to be happy as I did! Imagine anyone becoming -drunk on whisky when he might become drunk on poetry and music, sunsets, -and valleys full of clover! - -For a time it seemed to me that music was the only medium in which my -emotions could be expressed. I longed to play some instrument, and began -very humbly with a mandolin. But that was not enough, and presently I -took the plunge and paid seventy-five of my hard-earned dollars for a -violin. In my class at college had been Martin Birnbaum, a Bohemian lad, -pupil of a really great teacher, Leopold Lichtenberg. Martin played the -violin with an ease and grace that were then, and have remained ever -since, my life’s great envy. Each of us wants to do what he cannot. - -With all my potboiling and my work at Columbia University, I could find -only limited time for practice in the winter. But in the summer I was -free--except for three or four days in each fortnight, when I wrote my -stories and earned my living. I took myself away to a summer hotel, near -Keeseville, New York, on the east edge of the Adirondacks, and I must -have seemed one of the oddest freaks ever seen outside of an asylum. -Every morning I got up at five o’clock and went out upon a hillside to -see the sunrise; then I came back for breakfast, and immediately -thereafter got my violin and a book of music and a stand and went out -into the forest and set up my stand and fiddled until noontime; I came -back to dinner, and then sallied out again and practiced another four -hours; then I came in and had supper, and went out on the hillside to -sit and watch the sunset; finally I went upstairs and shut myself in a -little room and practiced the violin by the light of an oil lamp; or, if -it was too hot in the room, I went down to the lake to watch the moon -rise behind the mountains. - -The wild things of the forest got used to this odd invasion. The -squirrels would sit on the pine-tree branches and cock their heads and -chatter furiously when I made a false note. The partridges would feed on -huckleberries all about me, apparently understanding clearly the -difference between a fiddlebow and a gun. Foxes took an interest, and -raccoons and porcupines--and even humans. - -The guests from the cities arrived on an early morning train and were -driven to the hotel in a big four-horse stage. One morning, one of these -guests arrived, and at breakfast narrated a curious experience. The -stage had been toiling up a long hill, the horses walking, and alongside -was an old Italian woman with a couple of pails, on her way to a day of -berry picking. She was whistling cheerily, and the tune was the -_Tannhäuser_ march. The new arrival, impressed by this evidence of -culture in the vicinity, inquired through the open window, “Where did -you learn that music?” The reply was, “Dey ees a crazy feller in de -woods, he play it all day long for t’ree weeks!” - - -III - -I have got ahead of my story and must go back to the fall of 1897, when -I registered at Columbia University as a special student. This meant -that I was free to take any courses I preferred. As at the City College, -I speedily found that some of the teachers were tiresome, and that the -rules allowed me to drop their courses and begin others without extra -charge. Upon my declaring my intention to take a master’s degree, all -the tuition fees I paid were lumped together until they totaled a -hundred and fifty dollars, after which I had to pay no more. Until I had -completed one major and two minors, I was at liberty to go on taking -courses and dropping them with no extra expense. - -The completing of a course consisted of taking an examination, and as -that was the last thing in the world I ever wanted to do, I never did -it; instead, I would flee to the country, and come back the next fall -and start a new set of courses. Then I would get the professors’ points -of view and the list of books to be read--and that was all there was to -the course. Four years in succession I did this, and figured that I had -sampled more than forty courses; but no one ever objected to my singular -procedure. The great university was run on the assumption that the -countless thousands of young men and women came there to get degrees. -That anyone might come merely to get knowledge had apparently not -occurred to the governing authorities. - -In the first year I remember Professor George Rice Carpenter setting out -to teach me to write English. It was the customary process of writing -“themes” upon trivial subjects; and the dominating fact in my life has -been that I have to be emotionally interested before I can write at all. -When I went to the professor to tell him that I didn’t think I was -getting anything out of the course, his feelings were hurt, and he said, -“I can assure you that you don’t know anything about writing English.” I -answered that this was no doubt true, but the question was, could I -learn by his method. Four or five years later, as a reader for -Macmillan, Professor Carpenter got hold of some of my manuscripts; I -paid several visits to his home, and he was so gracious as to ask how I -thought the writing of English might be taught in colleges. My formula -was simple--find something the student is interested in. But Carpenter -said that was no solution--it would limit the themes to football and -fraternities. - -Professor W. P. Trent, a famous scholar, undertook to teach me about -poetry, and this effort ended in an odd way. Something came up in the -class about grammatical errors in literature, and the professor referred -to Byron’s famous line, “There let him lay.” Said the professor: “I have -the impression that there is a similar error in Shelley, and some day I -am going to run through his poetry and find it.” To my fastidious young -soul that seemed _lèse-majesté_; I pictured a man reading Shelley in -such a mood, and I dropped the course. - - -IV - -Since we are dealing with the phenomena of genius, I will tell about the -one authentic man of genius I met at Columbia. Edward MacDowell was the -head of the department of music, and he was struggling valiantly to -create a vital music center in America; he was against heavy odds of -philistinism, embodied in the banker trustees of the great university. -MacDowell gave two courses in general musical culture. These I took in -successive years, and they were not among the courses I dropped. The -composer was a man of wide culture and full of a salty humor, a -delightful teacher. There were fewer than a dozen students taking the -course--such was the amount of interest in genius at Columbia. - -Early in the course I noted that MacDowell suffered in his efforts to -say in words something that could only be said in music, and I suggested -to him that instead of trying to describe musical ideas, he should play -them for us. This suggestion he at once accepted, and thereafter the -course consisted in a piano rendition of the great music of the world, -with incidental running comments. MacDowell was a first-rate concert -pianist, and truly noble were the sounds that rumbled from that large -piano in the small classroom. - -Since I was going in for the genius business myself, I was interested in -every smallest detail of this great man’s behavior and appearance. Here -was one who shared my secret of ecstasy; and this set him apart from all -the other teachers, the dull plodding ones who dealt with the bones and -dust of inspirations. Almost thirty years afterward I wrote about him in -an article published in the _American Mercury_ (January 1928), and so -vivid were my recollections I was able to quote what I felt certain were -the exact words of MacDowell’s comments on this and that item of music -and literature. Shortly afterward I met the composer’s widow, who told -me that she recognized many of the phrases, and that all of them sounded -authentic to her. - -Here was a man who had the true fire and glory, yet at the same time was -perfectly controlled; it was only now and then, when some bit of -philistinism roused his anger, that I saw the sparks fly. He found it -possible to display a gracious courtesy; in fact, he might have been -that little boy in my nursery poem, “who would not even sneeze unless he -asked you if he might.” I remember that he apologized to the young -ladies of the class for telling a story that involved the mention of a -monkey; this surprised me, for I thought my very proper mother had -warned me against all possible social improprieties. Some of his pupils -had sent the composer flowers on his birthday and put in a card with the -inscription from _Das Rheingold_: “_O, singe fort, so suess und fein_”; -a very charming thing to say to a musician. MacDowell’s story was that -on opening the box he had started to read the inscription as French -instead of as German, and had found himself hailed: “O, powerful -monkey!” - - -V - -Shortly after I left Columbia, MacDowell left on account of -disagreements with Nicholas Murray Butler, the newly elected president -of the great university. I had taken a course in Kantian philosophy with -Butler and had come to know him well; an aggressive and capable mind, a -cold and self-centered heart. In his class I had expressed my surprise -that Kant, after demonstrating the impossibility of metaphysical -knowledge, should have turned around and swallowed the system of -Prussian church orthodoxy at one gulp. I asked the professor whether -this might be accounted for by the fact that the founder of modern -critical philosophy had had a job at a Prussian state university. I do -not remember Butler’s reply to this, but you may be sure I thought of it -when Butler declared himself a member of the Episcopal Church--this -being a required preliminary to becoming president of Columbia. I am -prepared to testify before the Throne of Grace--if the fact has not -already been noted by the recording angel--that Butler in his course on -Kant made perfectly plain that he believed no shred of Christian dogma. - -I divided my Columbia courses into two kinds, those that were worth -while and I completed, and those that were not worth while and I -dropped. In the years that followed I made note of a singular -phenomenon--all of the teachers of the second group of courses prospered -at Columbia, while all teachers of the first group were forced out, or -resigned in disgust. It seemed as if I had been used as a litmus paper, -and everybody who had committed the offense of interesting me was _ipso -facto_ condemned. This fate befell MacDowell and George Edward -Woodberry, who gave me two never-to-be-forgotten courses in comparative -literature; and Harry Thurston Peck, who gave a vivid course on Roman -civilization--poor devil, I shall have a story to tell about him; and -James Harvey Robinson--I took a course with him on the culture of the -Renaissance and Reformation that was a revelation of what history -teaching might be. Also poor James Hyslop, kindly but eccentric, who -taught me applied ethics; later on he took to spooks and learned that no -form of eccentricity would be tolerated at the “University of Morgan.” - -On the other hand, Butler himself throve, and Brander Matthews -throve--he had made me acquainted with a new type, the academic “man of -the world” I did not want to be. W. P. Trent throve--perhaps to find -that grammatical error in Shelley’s poetry. George Rice Carpenter throve -while he lived, and so did the professors of German and Italian and the -instructor of French. I have forgotten their names, but I later met the -French gentleman, and he remembered me, and we had a laugh over our -failure to get together. The reason was plain enough--I wanted to learn -to read French in six weeks, while the Columbia machine was geared to -lower speeds. - - -VI - -My experience with the college teaching of foreign languages became the -subject of two magazine articles in the _Independent_, which attracted -some attention. Professor William Lyon Phelps once recalled them in his -department in _Scribner’s Magazine_, acknowledging this as one service I -had performed for him. I can perhaps repeat the service here for a new -generation. - -For five years at the City College I had patiently studied Latin, Greek, -and German the way my teachers taught me. I looked up the words in the -dictionary and made a translation of some passage. The next day I made a -translation of another passage, looking up the words for that; and if -some of the words were the same ones I had looked up the day before, -that made no difference, I looked them up again--and never in the entire -five years did anyone point out to me that by learning the meaning of -the word once and for all, I might save the trouble of looking it up -hundreds of times in the course of my college career. - -Of course it did happen that, involuntarily, my mind retained the -meanings of many words. At the end of five years I could read very -simple Latin prose at sight; but I could not read the simplest Greek or -German prose without a dictionary, and it was the literal truth that I -had spent thousands of hours looking up words in the dictionary. -Thousands of words were as familiar to sight and sound as English -words--and yet I did not know what they meant! - -At Columbia I really wanted to read German, for the sake of the -literature it opened up; so I hit upon the revolutionary idea of -learning the meaning of a word the first time I looked it up. Instead of -writing it into a translation, I wrote it into a notebook; and each day -I made it my task to fix that day’s list of words in my mind. I carried -my notebook about with me and studied it while I was eating, while I was -dressing and shaving, while I was on my way to college. I took long -walks, during which I reviewed my lists, making sure I knew the meanings -of all the words I had looked up in the course of recent readings. By -this means I eliminated the drudgery of dictionary hunting, and in two -or three weeks was beginning to read German with pleasure. - -In my usual one-track fashion, I concentrated on German literature and -for a year or so read nothing else. I went through Goethe as I had once -gone through Shakespeare, in a glow of delight. I read everything of -Schiller and Heine, Lessing and Herder, Wagner’s operas and prose -writings. I read the Golden Treasury collection of German poetry so many -times that I knew it nearly by heart--as I do the English one to this -day. I read the novelists down to Freitag and even tried my teeth on -Kant, reading the _Critique of Pure Reason_ more than once in the -original. - - -VII - -Next I wanted French and Italian. I am not sure which I took first, but -I remember a little round Italian professor and a grammar called -_Grandgent’s_, and I remember reading Gerolamo Rovetta’s novel, _Mater -Dolorosa_, and getting the author’s permission to translate it into -English, but I could not interest a publisher in the project. I read _I -Promessi Sposi_, a long novel, and also, oddly enough, an Italian -translation of Sienkiewicz’s _Quo Vadis_. But a few years later I ruined -my Italian by studying Esperanto; the two are so much alike that -thereafter I never knew which one I was trying to speak, and when I -stepped off a steamer in Naples, in the year 1912, and tried to -communicate my wants to the natives, they gazed at me as if I were the -man from Mars. - -With French I began an elementary course, along with a class of Columbia -freshmen or sophomores, and stayed with it just long enough to get the -pronunciation and the elements of grammar; after which I went my own -way, with a text of the novel _L’Abbé Constantin_ and a little notebook -to be filled with all the words in that pretty, sentimental story. In -six weeks I was reading French with reasonable fluency; and then, -according to my custom, I moved to Paris in spirit. I read all the -classics that are known to Americans by reputation; all of Corneille, -Racine, and Molière; some of Rousseau and Voltaire; a sampling of -Bossuet and Chateaubriand; the whole of Musset and Daudet, Hugo and -Flaubert; about half of Balzac and Zola; and enough of Maupassant and -Gautier to be thankful that I had not come upon this kind of literature -until I was to some extent mature, with a good hard shell of puritanism -to protect me against the black magic of the modern Babylon. - -Since then, such depraved literature has been poured in a flood over -America, and our bright young intellectuals are thoroughly initiated; -they have no shells of puritanism, but try fancy liquors and drugs, and -play with the esoteric forms of heterosexuality and homosexuality, and -commit suicide in the most elegant continental style. Those who prefer -to remain alive are set down as old fogies. I must be one of the oldest. - - -VIII - -My Uncle Bland was in the habit of coming to New York every now and -then, and I always went to the old Holland House or the Waldorf-Astoria -to have lunch or dinner with him and my aunt. One of these visits is -fixed in my mind, because I was proud of my achievement in learning to -read French in six weeks and told my uncle about it. It was then that he -made me a business offer; he was going soon to have a Paris branch of -his company, and if I would come to Baltimore and learn the business, he -would put me in charge of his Paris branch, starting at six thousand a -year. I thanked my good uncle, but I never considered the offer, for I -felt sure of one thing, that I would never engage in any form of -business. Little did I dream that fate had in store for me the job of -buying book paper by the carload, and making and selling several million -books; to say nothing of a magazine, and a socialist colony, and a -moving picture by Eisenstein! - -At this time, or a little later, my uncle was occupied in establishing -the New York office of his bonding company; this played an important -part in my education. To his favorite nephew the president of the great -concern talked freely, and he gave me my first real knowledge of the -relationship between government and big business in America. This -Baltimore company, desiring to break into the lucrative New York field, -proceeded as follows: one of the leaders of Tammany Hall, a man by the -name of O’Sullivan, became manager of the New York office; Richard -Croker, the “big chief,” received a considerable block of stock, and -other prominent Tammany men also received stock. My uncle explained -that, as a result of this procedure, word would go forth that his -company was to receive the bonding business of the city and all its -employees. - -It was the system that came to be known as “honest graft.” You can see -that it was no crime for a Tammany leader to become manager of a bonding -company; and yet his profits would be many times as great as if he were -to steal money from the city treasury. Some time afterward my uncle told -me that he planned to open an office in Albany, and was going to get the -business of the state machine also; he had just named the man who was to -be elected state treasurer on the Democratic ticket--and when I asked -him what this meant, he smiled over the luncheon table and said, “We -businessmen have our little ways of getting what we want.” - -So there I was on the inside of America, watching our invisible -government at work. The pattern that my uncle revealed to me in youth -served for the arranging of all the facts I later amassed. I have never -found anything different, in any part of America; it is thus that big -business deals with government at every point where the two come into -contact. Every government official in America knows it, likewise every -big businessman knows it; talking in private, they joke about it; in -public they deny it with great indignation. - -The fact that the man from whom I learned this secret was one of the -kindest and most generous persons I have ever known ought to have made -me merciful in my judgments. With the wisdom of later years, I know that -the businessmen who finance political parties and pull the strings of -government cannot help what they do; they either have to run their -business that way or give place to somebody who will run it no -differently. The blame lies with the system, in which government for -public service is competing day by day with business for private profit. -But in those early days I did not understand any of this; I thought that -graft was due to grafters, and I hated them with all my puritanical -fervor. - -Also, I thought that the tired businessman ought to be an idealist like -myself, reading Shakespeare and Goethe all day. When my uncle, thinking -to do me a kindness, would buy expensive theater tickets and take my -mother and myself to a musical comedy, I would listen to the silly -thumping and strumming and the vulgar jests of the comedians, and my -heart would almost burst with rage. This was where the world’s money was -going--while I had to live in a hall bedroom and slave at potboilers to -earn my bread! - -It happened that at this time I was taking a course in “Practical -Ethics” under Professor James Hyslop at Columbia. The second half of -this course consisted of an elaborate system that the professor had -worked out, a set of laws and constitutional changes that would enable -the voters to outwit the politicians and the big businessmen. From the -very first hour it was apparent to me that the good professor’s -elaborate system was a joke. Before any law or constitutional change -could be made, it would have to be explained to the public, which -included the politicians and their paymasters. These men were quite as -shrewd as any college professor and would have their plans worked out to -circumvent the new laws a long time before those laws came into -operation. - - -IX - -At this time the graft of Tammany Hall was only in process of becoming -“honest”; the main sources of revenue of Richard Croker and his -henchmen were still the saloonkeeper and the “madam.” There came forth a -knight-at-arms to wage war upon this infamy, a lawyer by the name of -William Travers Jerome. He made speeches, telling what he had seen and -learned about prostitution in New York; and I went to some of these -meetings and listened with horrified soul. No longer could I doubt that -women did actually sell their bodies; I heard Jerome tell about the -brass check that you purchased at the counter downstairs and paid to the -victim of your lust. I heard about a roomful of naked women exhibited -for sale. - -Like many others in the audience, I took fire, and turned out to help -elect Jerome. I went about among everybody I knew and raised a sum of -money and took it to the candidate at the dinner hour at his club. He -thanked me cordially and took the money; but my feelings were a trifle -hurt because he did not stay to chat with me while his dinner got cold. -Having since run for office myself, and had admirers swarm about to -shake my hand, I can appreciate the desire of a public man to have his -dinner hour free. - -At this election I was one of a group of Columbia students who -volunteered as watchers in the interests of the reform ticket. I was -assigned to a polling place over on the East Side, a strong Tammany -district; all day I watched to prevent the stuffing of the ballot box, -and after the closing hour I saw to an honest count of the votes that -had been cast. I had against me a whole set of Tammany officials, one or -two Tammany policemen, and several volunteers who joined in as the -quarrel grew hot. I remember especially a red-faced old police -magistrate, apparently summoned for the purpose of overawing this -presumptuous kid who was delaying the count. But the great man failed of -his effort, because I knew the law and he didn’t; my headquarters had -provided me with a little book of instructions, and I would read out the -text of the law and insist upon my right to forbid the counting of -improperly marked ballots. - -I was probably never in greater danger in my life, for it was a common -enough thing for an election watcher to be knocked over the head and -dumped into the gutter. What saved me was the fact that the returns -coming in from the rest of the city convinced the Tammany heelers that -they had lost the fight anyhow, so a few extra votes did not matter. The -ballots to which I objected were held for the decision of an election -board, as the law required, and everybody went home. The Tammany police -magistrate, to my great surprise, shook hands with me and offered me a -cigar, telling me I would be all right when I had learned about -practical politics. - -I learned very quickly, for my hero-knight, Jerome, was elected -triumphantly and did absolutely nothing, and all forms of graft in New -York City went on just as they always had. They still went on when the -speakeasy was substituted for the saloon, and the night club for the -brothel. The naked women are now on the stage instead of in private -rooms; and the drinking is out in the open. - -There is one story connected with this campaign that I ought to tell, as -it came home to me in a peculiar way. It was known during the campaign -as “Jerome’s lemon story.” Said the candidate on the stump to his -cheering audience: “Now, just to show you what chances there are for -graft in a city like New York, let us suppose that there is a shortage -of lemons in the city, and two ships loaded with lemons come into port. -Whichever ship can get its cargo first to the market can make a fortune. -Under the law, the city fruit inspectors are required to examine every -box of lemons. But suppose that one of them accepts a bribe, and lets -one cargo be landed ahead of the other--you can see what graft there -would be for somebody.” Such was the example, made up out of his head, -so Jerome declared; the story appeared in the morning papers, and during -the day Jerome chanced to meet a city inspector of fruit whom he knew -intimately. “Say, Bill,” demanded this official, “how the hell did you -find out about those lemons?” - -The story impressed me especially for the reason that I happened to know -this particular inspector of fruit; he was the brother of an intimate -friend of my mother’s. We knew all the family gossip about “Jonesy,” as -we called him; we heard not merely the lemon story but many others, and -knew that Jonesy was keeping a wife in one expensive apartment and a -mistress in another--all on a salary of two thousand dollars a year. -Bear this gentleman in mind, for when we come to the days of _The -Jungle_, I shall tell a still funnier story. In a serious emergency I -had to get Jonesy on the telephone late at night, before the morning -papers went to press; the only way this could be managed was to call up -his wife and ask her for the telephone number of his mistress. Let no -one say that romance is dead in the modern world! - - -X - -It was at this time that I was writing the half-dime novels, or killing -Spaniards. I spent the summer in the home of an old sea captain, in the -little town of Gananoque, Ontario, on the St. Lawrence River. The old -captain was ill of tuberculosis, and his wife fed me doughnuts for -breakfast and ice cream left over from the night before, and whenever I -caught a big pike, we had cold baked fish for three days. - -I did my writing late at night, when everything was quiet; and one night -I was writing a vivid description of a fire, in which the hero was to -rescue the heroine. I went into detail about the starting of the fire, -portraying a mouse chewing on a box of matches. Just why a mouse should -chew matches I do not know; I had heard of it somehow, and no guarantee -went with my stories in those days. I described the tongues of flame -starting in the box and spreading to some papers, and then licking their -way up a stairway. I described the flames bursting from a window; then I -laid down my pencil--and suddenly the silence of the night outside was -broken by a yell of “Fire!” - -For a moment I wasn’t sure whether I was still in my story or outside -it. I looked out of the window and sure enough, there was a cottage in -flames. I helped to rouse the people in it, and watched, with the amused -superiority of a New Yorker, the efforts of village firemen to put out -the blaze. I remember how they squirted the hose in at one window, and -the jet came out at the opposite window. I will leave it for specialists -in the occult to explain whether the fire was caused by the excessive -vividness of my writing, or whether it was a case of clairvoyance, or -possibly telepathy from the mind of a mouse. (Perhaps I ought to explain -that the above is meant as humor, lest someone cite it as one more -example of my credulity.) - -Early that spring I had taken a fishing trip to the far north of -Ontario, traveling on several railroads and then on a bicycle, and -staying in a pioneer cabin near a tiny jewel of a lake. I did not get -many fish, for the reason that I absent-mindedly left my tackle behind -in a railroad station along the way, and it did not arrive until the day -I departed; but I saw wild geese and a bear, which was a grand thrill; -also I saw mosquitoes in clouds that darkened the sky and made me run -through the swamps for my very life. On my way back to the railroad I -came upon that field of deep clover in the twilight, and experienced the -ecstasy I have described. - -It was a good thing for a youth to see how our pioneer ancestors lived -on this continent. The family with which I stayed lived on flour and -bacon; they didn’t even have a cow. Once or twice a year, when they -traveled to a store, they traded skins for salt and cartridges. Later -that summer, on a canoe trip, I stayed with some old people who had a -cow, and lived on skimmed milk and potatoes, trading butter at the store -for tea and sugar. On another trip I met a French-Canadian settler, with -a swarm of half-nourished babies, who did not even have a rifle to keep -the bears out of his pigsty. - - -XI - -Having arranged to meet my mother and some friends at Charleston Lake, -which lies at the head of the little Gananoque River, I bought a canoe, -bundled my stuff into the bow, and set off--so eager for the adventure -that I couldn’t wait until morning. I paddled most of the night up the -misty river, with bullfrogs and muskrats for company, and now and then a -deer--all delightfully mysterious and thrilling to a city youth. I got -lost in the marshes--but the mosquitoes found me, rest assured. After -midnight I came to a dam, roused the miller, and went to sleep in his -garret--until the miller’s bedbugs found me! Then I got out, watched the -sunrise up the river gorge, and stood on the dam and threw flies for -black bass that jumped half a dozen at a time. - -I paddled all that day, and stayed a while at a lonely farmhouse, and -asked a hundred questions about how pioneer farmers lived. I remember -coming out onto Charleston Lake, very tired from paddling and from -carrying my canoe over the dams; the wind was blowing up the lake, so -after getting the canoe started, I lay down and fell asleep. When I -woke, my frail craft was grating on the rocks at the far end of the -long lake. I paddled to the hotel; there was a dock, and summer guests -watching the new arrival. I had made the whole journey without mishap; -but now I put out my hand to touch the dock, a sudden gust of wind -carried me out of reach--and over I went into the water with everything -I owned! - -This lake was a famous fishing resort, and there were rich men from the -cities amusing themselves with deep-water trolling for large lake trout. -They had expensive tackle, and reclined at ease while guides at four -dollars a day rowed them about. I paddled my own canoe, so I did not -catch so many trout, but I got the muscular development, which was more -important. Doubtless it was my Christian duty to love all the rich -persons I watched at this and other pleasure resorts; but here is one -incident that speaks for itself. The son of a wealthy merchant from -Syracuse, New York, borrowed a shotgun from me, stuck the muzzle into -the sand, and then fired the gun and blew off the end of the barrel. I -had rented this gun in the village and now had to pay for the damage out -of my slender earnings; the wealthy father refused to reimburse me, -saying that his son had had no authority to borrow the gun. - -You may notice that here again I was meeting rich and poor; going back -and forth between French-Canadian settlers and city sportsmen. - - -XII - -By the beginning of the year 1900, the burden of my spirit had become -greater than I could carry. The vision of life that had come to me must -be made known to the rest of the world, in order that men and women -might be won from their stupid and wasteful ways of life. It is easy to -smile over the “messianic delusion”; but in spite of all smiles, I still -have it. Long ago my friend Mike Gold wrote me a letter, scolding me -severely for what he called my “Jesus complex”; I answered, as humbly as -I could, that the world needs a Jesus more than it needs anything else, -and volunteers should be called for daily. - -I was no longer any good at potboiling and could not endure the work. I -had a couple of hundred dollars saved, and it was my purpose to write -the much talked-of “great American novel.” I counted the days until -spring would be far enough advanced so that I could go to the country. I -had in mind Lake Massawippi in Quebec, just over the New York border; I -was so impatient that I set out in the middle of April, and when I -emerged upon the platform of the sleeping car and looked at the lake, I -found it covered with ice and snow; the train was creeping along at -three or four miles an hour, over tracks a foot under water. - -My one desire was to be alone; far away, somewhere in a forest, where -the winds of ecstasy might sweep through my spirit. I made inquiries of -real-estate agents, who had no poetry in their souls and showed me -ordinary cottages. At last I set out in a snowstorm, and walked many -miles down the lake shore, and discovered a little slab-sided cabin--a -dream cottage all alone in a place called Fairy Glen. It belonged to a -woman in Baltimore and could be rented for May, June, and July for -twenty-five dollars. With the snow still falling, I moved in my -belongings. The place had one large room, a tiny bedroom, and a kitchen, -everything a would-be poet could desire. - -I built a fire in the open fireplace, and warmed my face while my back -stayed cold; that first night I fiddled vigorously to keep my courage -up, while creatures unknown made noises in the forest outside and -smelled at my bacon hanging on the back porch. Next day I walked to town -to do some purchasing. Snow was still falling. I met a farmer driving a -load of straw or something to town, and he pulled up his horses and -stared at the unexpected stranger. “Hello! Be you a summer boarder?” -“Yes,” I confessed. “Well”--and the old fellow looked about at the -snowflakes in the air--“which summer?” - -I had fires of the heart to warm me, and I began to write my wonderful -novel--the story of a woman’s soul redeemed by high and noble love. -_Springtime and Harvest_ I called it, and it was made out of the life -story of a woman I had known, a girl of great beauty who had married a -crippled man for his money, and had come to understand his really fine -mind. At least that is what I imagined had happened; I didn’t really -know either the woman or the man--I didn’t know anything in those days -except music and books and my own emotions. - -I would, I fear, be embarrassed to read _Springtime and Harvest_ now; -not even loyalty to this present task has caused me to open its pages. -But at that time I was sure it was the most wonderful novel ever -written. I always do think that about every book I write; the blurb the -publisher puts on the jacket--“This is Upton Sinclair’s best work”--is -perfectly sincere so far as the author is concerned. I write in a fine -glow, expecting to convert my last hostile critic; and when I fail, the -shock of disappointment is always as severe as ever. - - -XIII - -Springtime came at last, and the Fairy Glen was carpeted with flowers. -The little brook in front of the door sang songs to me, and I to it: - - I ask you where in your journey - You see so fair a sight, - That you have joy and singing - All through the winter night. - -The sunrise over the lake was a daily miracle, and the great winds that -lashed the forest trees were brothers to my soul. Again and again that -ecstasy came to me--no one to interfere with it now--and I labored days -and nights on end to catch it and imprison it in words. - -There were comical incidents in my hermithood, of course. Wild things -came to steal the butter that I kept in the spring; I set a trap, and -behold, it was nothing more romantic than a skunk. The little devil -ruined a pair of trousers for me--I not knowing his ways. I left the -trousers to soak in the stream for a week, but all in vain. Worse yet, -my drinking place was ruined for the entire summer. - -Also, I must mention the French-Canadian family that lived up on the -mountain side and sent me fresh milk and eggs and butter by a little -ragged boy. I tried out my homemade French on them, and the _mère_ of -the household paid me a high compliment. “Oh, you speak _French_ -French!” Now and then she would write me notes, in homemade spelling, -and one of these deserves a wider audience. She explained that she would -not be able to send milk on the morrow because she was going to the -town--“_il me faut faire arracher dedans_.” The vision of the poor -woman having herself “pulled out inside” disturbed me greatly, until I -realized that she meant _some teeth_ (_des dents_). - -Summer came, and the city boarders. Halfway to town was a golf links--a -new game, then coming in. I saw able-bodied men driving a little white -ball about a field all day, and it seemed to me more than ever necessary -that they should have a new ideal. I was impatient of every form of -human vanity and stupidity, and if I have become less so with the -passage of the years, it has been merely to spare my digestion. - -The summer brought my mother and some friends, including the girl with -whom I was to fall in love. But that is a story I’ll save for the next -chapter; here, I am dealing with the book. I labored over it, sometimes -five or six hours without moving from my seat, and for days at a time -without seeing a soul or thinking about anything else. The human -organism is not made to stand such strain, and I began to notice stomach -trouble. It grew worse and plagued me for years--until I humbled my -stubborn pride and learned mother nature’s lesson--to limit the number -of hours of brainwork, and get some exercise and recreation every day. -Many years later I came upon a saying of old John Burroughs, which came -home to me as truth immortal and ultimate. “This writing is an unnatural -business; it makes your head hot and your feet cold, and it stops the -digestion of your food.” - -On the first of August the owner of my fairy cabin took it for her own -use, and I moved up to a lonely farmhouse on the mountainside, where I -became the sole and solitary boarder. I would go out into the -woods--sugar-maple trees they were, and for breakfast I had their juice -in a thick dark syrup, freshly melted. I always have to have a place to -walk up and down while I am working out my stories, and in that -sugar-maple forest I wore a path six inches deep--back and forth, back -and forth, for hours on end every day. - -There were mosquitoes, almost as annoying to me as human beings, and -when they found me, I would go out and sit in the middle of a field of -clover hay and do my writing. The crickets hopped over my manuscript, -and the fieldmice nibbled at my shoes; and then came the mowers to -destroy my hiding place. I remember one little French-Canadian whom I -engaged in conversation, and how he rolled up his sleeves and boasted -of the power of his stringy muscles. “You want to mow avec me, il you -faut très strong bras!” I remember also walking miles down the road in -the morning to meet the mail carrier; I had sent the first part of my -great novel to a publisher and was hoping for a reply, but none came. It -was the beginning of an agony that lasted many weary years. My curses -upon those publishers who let manuscripts pile up on their desks unread! - -September came, and an invitation from my clergyman friend, Mr. Moir, -who now had a camp at Lake Placid. He asked me to visit him for a couple -of weeks. I was so near the end of my story, I ventured out of hiding; -but I found it was a mistake, because I could do no work at all when I -had to fit myself to the meal hours and other habits of the world. I -tried in vain for a week or two; I remember that I read the letters of -Robert Louis Stevenson in this interval--and very thin and poor they -seemed in comparison with what filled my soul. - -At last, in desperation, because cold weather was coming fast, I went -out on one of the islands of Lake Placid and found a little “cook -house”--a tiny cabin with no windows and no furniture but a stove. I -rented it for the sum of five dollars, and spread a couple of blankets; -and with the brown leaves falling in showers about me, and the cries of -blue jays and the drumming of partridges in the air, I wrote the closing -scenes of my tragedy. I later used that little cook house in _The -Journal of Arthur Stirling_. Also I used the siege of the publishers -that was still to come. But of that I had no vision as I bundled up my -belongings and returned to New York, a conquering hero in my own -fantasy. I was carrying in my suitcase the great American novel for -which all the critics of those days were waiting on tiptoe! - - - - -_4_ - -_Marriage_ - - -I - -I believe that marriage can be studied as a science, and practiced as an -art; that like every other natural phenomenon, it has its laws, -psychological, moral, and economic. At present it would seem that many -others hold this belief. We have seen the rise of marriage counselors, -and I have heard that marriage is even the subject of courses in -college. But when I was young, it was generally taken for granted that -marriages had to be ill-assorted and that married couples had to quarrel -and deceive each other. Here is a case record, an example of what -happens when marriage is entered into in utter ignorance of all its -practical problems. - -The story was told in _Love’s Pilgrimage_, with the variation of a few -details. In ancient Greek pastorals, Corydon and Thyrsis were two -shepherds; but the lines in Milton’s “L’Allegro” caught my fancy: - - Where Corydon and Thyrsis met - Are at their savory supper set, - Of herbs and other country messes. - -And so I said, “For purposes of this tale let Corydon be a girl.” - -In writing the book, I told the story as the girl wanted it told. If it -seemed to her that the manuscript failed to give a sufficiently vivid -account of the hardheadedness and unreasonableness of Thyrsis, I would -say, “You write it the way it ought to be.” So Corydon would write a -paragraph, or maybe a page or a scene, and in it would go. I was so -sorry for the fate of women that I found it hard to contend with them. - -The marriage of Corydon and Thyrsis was dominated by the most pitiful -ignorance. Both parties had been taught very little, and most of that -was wrong. Corydon had lived the solitary life of a child of the city -nomads; her father had been a newspaper reporter, then deputy clerk of a -court, and she had been moved about from boardinghouses to apartments; -and in the course of twenty years of life she had picked up one intimate -girl friend, a poor stenographer dying of tuberculosis, and no men -friends whatever. As for Thyrsis, he had, besides Corydon, one girl -friend. - -Let not Laura Stedman fail of her due place in this story: little Laura, -golden-haired and pretty, prim and precise. She was the granddaughter of -Edmund Clarence Stedman, the poet, and happened to live in the apartment -house next to me for two or three years. We had our childish “scrap,” -and I vaguely remember pulling her pigtail, or something brutal like -that. Later, at the age of fifteen or so, I would go to call upon her, -and experience tumultuous thrills; I recall one occasion when I -purchased a new hat, of a seductive pearl gray, and went walking with -Laura in this regalia, so excited that my knees would hardly hold me up. - -We discoursed learnedly about the books we were reading, among these -_Romola_, a “classic.” First there is a Greek seducer named Tito Melema, -and I remarked sapiently that I considered him “magnificent.” Laura -flushed and exclaimed, “I think he is a perfect beast!” I had to explain -that I was speaking from the technical point of view; the character was -well drawn. So then the little lady from New England consented to -forgive me. - - -II - -Between Corydon and Thyrsis the determining factor, as in nine tenths of -marriages, was propinquity. Corydon came to the place where Thyrsis was -writing his great novel; she visited the romantic cabin in the Fairy -Glen; and since someone had to read the manuscript, she carried it off, -and came back flushed with the discovery that this hateful, egotistical, -self-centered youth whom she had known and disliked for ten years or -more was a hothearted dreamer, engaged in pouring out a highly romantic -love story destined soon to be recognized as the great American novel. -“Oh, it is wonderful!” she exclaimed; and the rest of the scene tells -itself. Literary feelings turned quickly into personal ones, and the -solitary poet had a companion and supporter. - -But, oh, the grief of the parents on both sides of this ill-assorted -match! Quite literally, if a bomb had exploded in the midst of their -summer vacation, it could not have discommoded them more. A clamor of -horrified protests broke out. “But you are crazy! You are nothing but -children! And you have no money! How can people get married without a -cent in the world!” The two mothers fell to disagreeing as to which of -their offspring was the more to blame, and so an old-time friendship -passed into temporary eclipse. Corydon was hastily spirited away to -another summer resort; but not until she had taken a solemn vow--to -learn the German language more rapidly than Thyrsis had learned it! - -At the end of October the poet returned to New York with an invisible -crown on his brow and inaudible trumpets pealing in his ears. He and -Corydon proceeded to spend all day and half the night reading Goethe’s -_Iphigenia in Tauris_ and practicing Mozart’s sonatas for violin and -piano. But there developed grave obstacles to this program. Corydon’s -family was inconvenienced if Thyrsis arrived at the apartment before -breakfast; also, the mother of Thyrsis adhered stubbornly to the idea -that Corydon ought not to play the piano later than eleven in the -evening, and should be taken home before her family went to bed. There -was only one way in the world to escape such fetters--by means of a -marriage license. - -Thyrsis had only ten or fifteen dollars, but was wealthy in the certain -future of his masterpiece. So the young couple went to the study of the -Reverend Minot J. Savage at the Church of the Messiah and were -pronounced man and wife. By this step, as Thyrsis quickly discovered, he -had deprived himself of the last chance of getting help in his literary -career. With one accord, all relatives and friends now agreed that he -must “go to work.” And by this phrase they did not mean eight hours a -day of Goethe plus six of Mozart; they did not mean even the writing of -great American novels; they meant getting a job with a newspaper, or -perhaps with a bonding company. - - -III - -Something happened that the author of _Springtime and Harvest_ had not -dreamed of in his most pessimistic moment; a publisher rejected the -novel. Several publishers rejected it, one after another! The Macmillans -were first, and Scribner’s second; Brander Matthews kindly read the -manuscript and passed it on to W. C. Brownell, literary adviser of -Scribner’s, and I went to see this soft-spoken, gray-bearded critic, who -explained his opinion that the book was not one that would sell. What -that had to do with the matter was not clear to me. Again and again -those in authority had to explain that they were representing -businessmen who had capital invested in the publishing of books and who -desired to receive dividends on that capital. I could understand such a -business fact; what I couldn’t understand was how men employed for such -a purpose could consider themselves critics, and be solemnly discussed -as critics by other critics like themselves. - -Professor Matthews saw me at his home--very fashionable, on West End -Avenue, the walls of the study lined with rare editions and autographed -pictures and such literary trophies. He was sorry, he said, but he had -no further suggestions to offer. When I asked about the possibility of -publishing the book myself, he advised strongly against it; there would -be no way to market the book. When I suggested that I might market it to -everybody I knew, a chill settled over the conversational atmosphere. -“Of course, if you are willing to do anything like _that_--” When I -persisted in talking about it, I completely lost caste with my “man of -the world” professor, and never regained it. - -I wrote a potboiler, and earned a couple of hundred dollars, and -borrowed another two hundred from my uncle, and went downtown and -shopped among printers until I found one who would make a thousand -copies of a cheap and unattractive-looking little red volume, such as my -ascetic notions required. The book contained a preface, telling how it -had been written and what a wonderful book it was. This preface was made -into a pamphlet and sent to everybody I knew--not so very many, but by -dint of including my father’s friends and my mother’s, there were -several hundred names. The price of the book was one dollar; about two -hundred copies were sold, just enough to pay back the debt to my uncle. - -The pitiful little book with its pitiful little preface was sent to all -the New York newspapers; two of them, the _Times_ and the _American_, -sent a reporter to see the author. Hopes mounted high, but next morning -they dropped with a thud. All the picturesque details about the young -poet and his wife were there, but not one word of the wonderful message -he hoped to deliver to mankind. Incidentally, the author learned the -value of personal publicity in the marketing of literature. As a result -of a column apiece in the two largest morning papers of New York, he -sold two copies of _Springtime and Harvest_. He knew--because they were -the only two copies sold to strangers. - -Corydon and Thyrsis were now fast in the “trap” of marriage; living in -one crowded room, opening on an airshaft, in a flat belonging to the -mother and father of Thyrsis. The would-be creative artist was writing -potboilers in order to pay the board of his wife and himself; -incidentally, he was learning the grim reality behind those -mother-in-law jokes he had written so blithely a few years back! The -mother of Thyrsis did not like Corydon; she would not have liked a -female angel who had come down to earth and taken away her darling son, -until recently destined to become an admiral, or else a bishop, or else -a Supreme Court judge. Neither did the mother of Corydon like Thyrsis; -she would not have liked a male angel who had taken a daughter without -having money to take proper care of her. - -The idea of a marriage that involved no more than the reading of German -and the playing of violin and piano duets had been broken up by an old -family doctor, who insisted that it was not in accordance with the laws -of physiology. He made Thyrsis acquainted with the practice of birth -control; but alas, it turned out that his knowledge had not been -adequate; and now suddenly the terrified poet discovered the purpose of -the trap into which mother nature had lured him. Corydon was going to -have a baby; and so the reading of German and the playing of violin and -piano duets gave place to visiting other doctors, who professed to know -how to thwart the ways of nature; then rambling about in the park on -chilly spring days, debating the problem of “to be or not to be” for -that incipient baby. - -These experiences were harrowing and made indelible scars upon two young -and oversensitive souls. Aspects of life that should have been full of -beauty and dignity became freighted with a burden of terror and death. -Under the law, what the young couple contemplated was a state-prison -offense, and the fact that it is committed by a million American women -every year does not make it any the less ghastly. Thyrsis saw himself -prisoned in a cage, the bars being made not of steel but of human -beings; everybody he knew was a bar, and he hurled himself against one -after another, and found them harder than steel. - - -IV - -_Springtime and Harvest_ had been sent to the leading book reviews, and -now came a letter from Edward J. Wheeler, editor of the _Literary -Digest_. His attention had been caught by the preface; he had read the -novel, and, strange to say, agreed with the author’s high opinion of it. -Would the author come to see him? The outcome was a proposition from -Funk and Wagnalls to take over the book, put it into type again, and -issue it under a new title, with illustrations and advertisements and -blurbs and other appurtenances of the great American novel. - -So once more Thyrsis was swept up to the skies, and it became possible -for a baby to be born into the world. All the editors and readers and -salesmen and officeboys of a great publishing firm were sure that _King -Midas_ would be a best seller; and anyhow it did not matter, since a new -novel, still more brilliant, was gestating in the writer’s brain. It was -springtime again, and the apron of mother nature was spilling flowers. -Corydon and Thyrsis boarded a train for the Thousand Islands, and on one -of the loveliest and most remote of these they built a wooden platform, -and set up a small tent, and began the back-to-nature life. - -This canvas home contained two tables and two sets of shelves built of -boards by an amateur carpenter, who could saw straight if he kept his -mind upon it, but seldom did. It contained two canvas cots, a bundle of -bedding, a little round drum of a stove, a frying pan, a couple of -saucepans, and a half a dozen dishes. Outside there swung two hammocks, -one close to the tent for the young expectant novelist. The tent stood -on an exposed point, for the sake of the scenery and the avoidance of -mosquitoes; it commanded an uninterrupted sweep of Lake Erie, and the -gales would seize the little structure and shake it as with a giant’s -hand, a raging and tireless fury that lasted for days at a time. - -The regime of this literary household was of primordial simplicity. -Drinking water was dipped from the mighty St. Lawrence. Waste was thrown -into the stream a little farther down. Soiled dishes were not washed in -hot water but taken to the shore and filled with sand and scrubbed round -and round. Black bass and yellow perch could be caught from the rocky -point, and now and then, when strange cravings of pregnancy manifested -themselves, a pine squirrel or a yellowhammer could be shot in the -interior of the island. There may have been game laws, but Thyrsis did -not ask about them; this Leek Island was on the Canadian side, the -nearest town many miles away, and the long arm of Queen Victoria did not -reach these campers. - -The post office was on Grindstone Island, on the American side, and -thither the young author sailed in a leaky little skiff, purchased for -fifteen dollars. He bought groceries, and from a nearby farmhouse, milk -and butter. The farmer’s wife quickly made note of Corydon’s condition -and was full of sympathy and anecdotes. An odd freak this gypsy camper -must have seemed, wearing a big straw hat, such as are made for -haymakers, with a bit of mosquito netting wound about it for decoration. - -It was a place of sudden and terrific thunderstorms, and the sight of -scores of lightning flashes playing about the wide bay and the pine-tree -covered islands was inspiring or terrifying according to one’s -temperament. Thyrsis was standing by the opening of the tent watching -the spectacle, his arm upraised, holding onto the tentpole, when there -came a sudden flash, an all-enveloping mass of light, and an -all-enveloping crash of sound; the upraised hand was shaken as by some -huge vibrating machine and fell numb to the side. Lightning had struck -one of the pine trees to which the tent was anchored, and the tree -crashed to the ground. - -After the storm there was found in the tree a nest of the red-eyed -vireo, a silent little forest bird that you see bending under twigs and -picking tiny green worms from the undersides. Two of the young birds -were alive, and the campers took them in and raised them by hand--most -charming pets. They would gulp down big horny grasshoppers and then -regurgitate the hard shells in solid lumps; on this rather harsh diet -they throve, and it was amusing to see them refuse to heed their own -proper parents and fly to their fosterparents instead. At sundown they -would be taken into the tent, and flying swiftly about, they would clean -from the walls every fly, mosquito, spider, and daddy longlegs. They -would sit on the boom of the skiff during the crossing of the channel, -and on the heads of their fosterparents during the trip to the post -office--something that greatly interested the village loungers, also the -village cats. Now and then fishing parties would land on the island, and -be surprised to have two full-grown birds of the forest fly down and -alight on their hats. - - -V - -The product of that summer’s activities was the novel _Prince Hagen_, -story of a Nibelung, grandson of the dwarf Alberich, who brings his -golden treasures up to Wall Street and Fifth Avenue, and proves the -identity between our Christian civilization and his own dark realm. The -tale was born of the playing of the score of _Das Rheingold_ to so many -squirrels and partridges in the forests of the Adirondacks and in the -Fairy Glen on the Quebec lake. The opening chapter was sent to Bliss -Perry, editor of the _Atlantic Monthly_, who wrote that he was delighted -with it and wished to consider the completed work as a serial. The hopes -of the little family rose again; but alas, when the completed work was -read, it was adjudged too bitter and extreme. “We have a very -conservative, fastidious, and sophisticated constituency,” wrote the -great editor, and the disappointed young author remarked sarcastically -that one could have that kind of thing in Boston. The truth was that the -story was not good enough; the writer was strong on emotions but weak on -facts. - -_King Midas_ had failed wholly to produce the hoped-for effect; it had -sold about two thousand copies and brought its author two or three -hundred dollars. So now the publishers were not interested in _Prince -Hagen_, and no other publishers were interested; they would take the -manuscript and promise to read it, and then manifest annoyance when a -hungry young writer came back after two or three weeks to ask for a -decision. - -Thus occurred the painful incident of Professor Harry Thurston Peck, -told with much detail in _The Journal of Arthur Stirling_. Besides being -professor of Latin at Columbia, Peck was editor of the _Bookman_ and -literary adviser to Dodd, Mead and Company. He read _Prince Hagen_ for -his former pupil and called it a brilliant and original work, which he -would recommend to the firm. Then began a long siege--six weeks or -more--the culmination of which was the discovery that the firm had never -seen the manuscript they were supposed to be reading. - -The cries of rage and despair of the young author will not be repeated -here. Poor Harry Peck has long been in a suicide’s grave; President -Butler kicked him out of Columbia after some widow had sued him for -breach of promise and given his sweetish love letters to the press. -Perhaps the reason he neglected the young author’s manuscript was that -he was busy with that widow, or with some other one. Harry was a devotee -of decadent literature, and he broke the one law that is sacred--he got -caught. - - -VI - -That dreadful winter Corydon went back to her parents, while Thyrsis -lived in a garret room, and haunted publishers and editors, and wrote -potboilers that he could not sell. He did sell a few jokes and a few -sketches, book reviews for the _Literary Digest_, and articles for the -_Independent_. He wrote a blank-verse narrative called _Caradrion_, -portions of which are in _Love’s Pilgrimage_; also a novelette, _The -Overman_, an attempt to portray ecstasy and speculate as to its source. -Many critics have quarreled with Thyrsis because of so much “propaganda” -in his books; but here was a work with no trace of this evil, and the -critics never heard of it, and it existed only in the Haldeman-Julius -five-cent books. - -The literary editor of the _Independent_, who had the saying of thumbs -up or thumbs down on book reviews, was Paul Elmer More, of whom Thyrsis -saw a great deal before the days of More’s repute. A man of very -definite viewpoint--as oddly different from his young contributor as the -fates could have contrived. Thyrsis, always eager to understand the -other side, was moved to a deep respect for his cold, calm intelligence, -akin to godhead, subsequently revealed to the world in the series of -_Shelburne Essays_. More never made propaganda, nor carried on -controversy; he spoke once, and it was the voice of authority. The -hothearted young novelist would go off and ponder and wish he could be -like that; but there were too many interesting things in the world, and -too many vested evils. - -There are two factors in the process of growth that we call life; the -expanding impulse and the consolidating and organizing impulse. In the -literary world these impulses have come to be known, somewhat absurdly, -as romanticism and classicism. Both impulses are necessary, both must be -present in every artist, and either without the other is futile. Paul -Elmer More spoke for the classical tradition and carried it to the -extreme of condemning everything in his own time that had real vitality. -Many times I pointed out to him that his favorite classical authors had -all been rebels and romantics in their own day; but that meant nothing -to him. He had understood and mastered these writers, so to him they -meant order and established tradition; whereas the new things were -uncomprehended and therefore disturbing. It was amusing to see More -publish essays in appreciation of writers like Thoreau and Whitman, the -revolutionists of their time. What would he say about the same sort of -writers of our own day? The answer was, he never mentioned them, he -never read them, or even heard of them. - -The young wife had her baby, and the young husband sat by and held her -hand during the fourteen-hour ordeal. Soon afterward he converted the -experience into seven thousand words of horrifying prose. He took these -to Paul Elmer More, and the cold Olympian intelligence spoke briefly. -“It is well done, supposing one wants to do that kind of thing. But it -seems to me one shouldn’t. Anyhow, it is unpublishable, so there is no -use saying any more.” Said the young writer: “It will be published, if I -have to do it myself.” Eight or nine years later this material appeared -as the birth scene in _Love’s Pilgrimage_, and for some reason the -censors did not find out about it. Now, being half a century old, it is -presumably a “classic,” and safe. - -More gave the _congé_ to his tempestuous young contributor; after that I -saw him only once, an accidental encounter in the subway at the height -of the excitement over _The Jungle_. I asked, “May I send you a copy?” -The reply was, “Some time ago I made up my mind I was through with the -realists.” So there was no more to say. Later, the stern critic was -forced to return to the realists; in his book, _The Demon of the -Absolute_, I found him condemning Sinclair Lewis and Theodore Dreiser. -Myself he did not condescend to mention. - -The _Independent_ published my paper on “Teaching of Languages” -(February 27, 1902) and a follow-up article, “Language Study: Some -Facts” (June 19, 1902). I sent a questionnaire to a thousand college -graduates, and discovered that among those who had been out ten years, -practically none could read the languages they had studied in college. -Another article was called “A Review of Reviewers” (February 6, 1902), -occasioned by the odd contrast between the reviews of _Springtime and -Harvest_, a pitiful, unattractive little volume published by the author, -and the reviews of the same novel when it was issued under the name of -_King Midas_, in conventional costume by an established publishing -house. It was, quite unintentionally, a test of book reviewers and their -independence of judgment. _Springtime and Harvest_ had a preface, which -had crudity and inexperience written all over it; accordingly, the -thirteen reviewers of the United States who found the little book worth -mentioning employed such phrases as: “proofs of immaturity” ... “this -tumult of young blood” ... “a crude one, showing the youth, the -inexperience of the writer” ... “betrays the fact that he is a novice in -literature” ... “considering his youth,” etc. - -But then came _King Midas_, a stately volume illustrated by a popular -artist and bearing the imprint of Funk and Wagnalls. It carried the -endorsement of Edwin Markham, Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Barrett -Wendell, and George Santayana; also a rousing publisher’s blurb: “Full -of power and beauty; an American story of today by a brilliant writer; -no novel we have ever published equals this in the wonderful reception -accorded to it, in advance of publication, in commendations from the -critics and in advance orders from the trade.” - -In the face of this barrage, what became of the crudity and -inexperience? In the first eight weeks after publication, fifty reviews -appeared; and setting aside half a dozen that connected the book with -_Springtime and Harvest_, only one critic noted crudity and -inexperience! The “novice in literature” had come to display “the mind -of a master”; the “tumult of young blood” had become “musical and poetic -fervor, at times bordering on the inspired”; the “crude work” had become -“a novel of tremendous power”; “the youth, the inexperience of the -writer” had developed, according to the _Outlook_, into “workmanship -that may be called brilliant ... sincerity as well as knowledge are -apparent on every page”--and so on through a long string of encomiums. -The article made amusing reading for the public but cannot have been -very pleasing to the critics upon whom a young writer’s future depended. - - -VII - -Corydon went to spend the summer with her parents in the Catskills, and -Thyrsis went back alone to Leek Island, which seemed home to him because -it was full of memories of the previous summer. He put up the tent on -the same spot, and sailed the same little skiff, older and still -leakier, across the stormy channel. He had gone too early, because of a -new book that was clamoring to be written, and the icy gales blowing -through the tent almost froze him in his chair. He built the fire too -hot in the little round drum of a stove, and set fire to his tent, and -had to put it out with the contents of his water pail. For several days -the channel could not be crossed at all, and the author lived on dried -apples and saltine crackers. The fish would not bite, and the author -went hunting, but all he could get was a crow, which proved to have a -flesh of deep purple, as strong in texture as in flavor. - -From the library of Columbia University, the author had taken a strange -German book called _Also Sprach Zarathustra_. While waiting for the muse -to thaw out, the author lay wrapped in blankets reading this volume. He -put an account of it into his new work, _The Journal of Arthur -Stirling_, which helped to launch the Nietzsche cult in America. The -vision revealed in Zarathustra is close to the central doctrine of all -the seers, and in a chapter on Nietzsche in _Mammonart_ I pointed out -its curious resemblance to the beatitudes. My friend Mencken, reviewing -the book, declared that nothing could be more absurd than to compare -Jesus and Nietzsche. My friend Emanuel Haldeman-Julius took up the -cudgels, declaring that Mencken was an authority on Nietzsche to whom I -should bow--overlooking the fact that _Arthur Stirling_ was published in -1903, and Mencken’s book on Nietzsche in 1908. I could not induce either -Mencken or his champion to publish the words from _Zarathustra_ that are -so curiously close to the beatitudes. - -_Arthur Stirling_ was written in six weeks of intense and concentrated -labor; that harrowing, fourteen-hour-a-day labor that is destroying to -both mind and body. Of course, my stomach went on strike; and I went to -consult a country doctor, who explained a new scientific discovery -whereby I could have my food digested for me by the contents of the -stomach of a pig. This appealed to me as an advanced idea, and for -several weeks I took after each meal a spoonful of pink liquid -containing pig pepsin. But gradually its magic wore off, and I was back -where I was before. So began a long siege, at the end of which I found -it necessary to become my own doctor and another kind of “crank.” - -_Arthur Stirling_ was sent to a publisher, and I went into the -Adirondacks, on the Raquette River, and spent several weeks in the -company of hunters and lumbermen. I was a reasonably good hunter for the -first ten minutes of any hunt; after that, I would forget what I was -doing and be a thousand miles away in thought; a deer would spring up in -front of me, and I would see a flash of white tail over the top of the -bushes. The reader, having been promised laughter, is invited to -contemplate the spectacle of a young author lying on the edge of a -mountain meadow in November, watching for deer at sunset, wrapped in a -heavy blanket against the cutting frost--and reading a book until the -deer should arrive! The deer must have come up and smelled the back of -my neck; anyhow, there was a crash five or ten feet behind me, and a -deer going twenty feet at a leap, and me pulling the trigger of an -uncocked gun! - - -VIII - -For months I had been living in fancy with Arthur Stirling, and this -poet had become as real to me as myself. Why not let this poet’s diary -pass as a true story--as in the spiritual sense it was? In New York was -a stenographer who had worked for me for several years, and he inserted -in the New York papers a notice of the death by suicide of the poet -Arthur Stirling. The reporters took it up, and published many -biographical details about the unfortunate young man. - -So now the firm of D. Appleton and Company was interested in the diary -of this suicide. Their literary adviser was Ripley Hitchcock. He -happened to be in the Adirondacks and we had a meeting. I told him the -facts, and he made no objection to the hoax. It has always seemed to me -a harmless one; but a few solemn persons, such as my old teacher, -Brander Matthews, and my old employer, the New York _Evening Post_, held -it a high crime against literature. The book appeared in February of -1903 and created a tremendous furor. Practically everybody accepted it -as true--which did not surprise me at all, because, as I have said, it -was true in the inner sense. - -The papers had long articles about the book, and some of them were -deeply felt. The best was written by Richard LeGallienne. Having nobody -to advise me about the customs of the world, I debated anxiously whether -it would be proper for me to write a letter of thanks to a man who had -praised my book. I decided that it would seem egotistical, tending to -make personal something that was purely a matter of art. - -The hoax did not last very long. A shrewd critic pointed out the -resemblances in style between _King Midas_ and _Arthur Stirling_, and -that was the end of it. I wrote a manifesto on the subject of starving -poets and their wrongs, and how I was going to make it my life task to -save them from ignominy in the future. “I, Upton Sinclair, would-be -singer and penniless rat”--so began this war whoop published in the -_Independent_, May 14, 1903. I looked this up, intending to quote some -of it, but I found that I could not even read it without pain. - -My friend and biographer, Floyd Dell, read the manuscript of _Arthur -Stirling_ in 1927, and complained that “it fails to do justice to a very -interesting person.” He explained his feeling: “It is too unsympathetic -to its hero--strange as that may seem! It is only in spots that you lend -complete imaginative sympathy to the younger Upton Sinclair.” Later in -his letter, he remarked: “I suspect that I am more interested in Upton -Sinclair as a human being than you are.” So here I give my friend a -chance to discuss this unusual essay and what it meant to him. He says: - - Reading your MS., I came upon a few words from one of your youthful - manifestoes--“I, Upton Sinclair, would-be singer and penniless - rat”--and it made me remember what that article meant to me when I - was sixteen. I too was a would-be singer and penniless rat--and - your manifesto stirred me like a trumpet call. It sang itself into - my heart. I really think it is one of America’s great poems. I - think that in that prose poem you achieved the greatness as a poet - which you missed in your rhymes. I think it is a pity that it is - not in all the anthologies. I do not know how many other youths it - affected as it did me. Perhaps many of them have forgotten, as I - did till I re-read it just now. But that prose poem gave me the - courage to face an ugly and evil world; it gave me courage in my - loneliness; it made me spiritually equal to the burden of being a - dreamer in an alien world. It is no small thing to give strength to - youth. Perhaps it is the greatest thing that literature can do. - - I think it was in the following year that I found you again, in the - _Appeal to Reason_; in the meantime, like you, I had found it - impossible to wage war on the world alone, and I had identified my - cause with that of the workers of the world. It is true that there - are not in America at present many young people who can as readily - identify their own hurts and aims with yours as I could; but there - are many all through the world, and there will be more. And to all - these you will be a person of great importance for that deeply - personal reason. If you will not think I am mocking you, I will say - that you will be in a true sense their saint. A saint, you know, in - the true sense, is one who has suffered as we have suffered, and - triumphed as we hope to triumph. One man’s saint is often no use to - the next man; each of us must have a saint of his own. And the real - difficulty with a good deal of your fiction is that your heroes do - not suffer enough nor sin at all. That is why your life is more - edifying in some respects than your novels. - - But you are not yet in the frame of mind to confess your sins--you - are still self-defensively persuaded that some of the worst of them - were virtues. That is why many people don’t like you--who, indeed, - could possibly like anybody who was half as good as you have always - been persuaded that you were? But in _The Journal of Arthur - Stirling_ and _Love’s Pilgrimage_, you gave yourself away. It is no - wooden doll who walks through those pages--it is a living, - suffering bundle of conceit, cruelty, selfishness and folly, such - as we know ourselves to be. And you make us feel the nobility and - generosity that lies behind all that conceit, cruelty, selfishness - and folly--you make us feel that we, too, may, with all our faults, - achieve something for mankind. I do not value greatly your present - wisdom, which suits you better than it would me--I have a wisdom - that I shouldn’t trade for yours if you threw that of the Seven - Wise Men of Greece in with it. I do value your power as an - imaginative artist, as you know, greatly. But just as Keats’ life - has for us a value in addition to his poetry, so has yours. - - To put it in the simplest terms, all over the world there are young - people who wish sincerely to devote their lives to revolutionary - betterment of the world; and those same young people will probably - fall in love with the wrong people, and suffer like hell, and - believe this and that mistaken idea about themselves and the other - sex and love; and while Upton Sinclair cannot prevent that, nor - tell them what to do about it when it happens (or be believed when - he tells them), he can do them good by letting them know that he - went through some of the same things. Among these “same things” I - include asceticism--a commoner youthful sin than you seem to think. - Many grown people are horribly ashamed of their youthful - asceticism. It would do them good to have you confess yours, - admitting all you lost by it (and knowing really just what you - lost), but explaining the apparently frightful terms upon which - “freedom” was offered to youth, and the impossibility of accepting - it upon such terms; and explaining the way in which the ascetic - life came to be associated with everything that was good--and again - with a full recognition of the deceitfulness of the combination, - and the years of pain and struggle ahead before the tangle of - falsehood could be unraveled. - - -IX - -The manifesto in the _Independent_ had proclaimed my personal -independence--“I having consummated a victory,” and so on. I really -thought it meant something that the literary world had hailed my book -with such fervor. But in the course of time the publishers reported less -than two thousand copies sold, and called my attention to a tricky -clause in the contract whereby they did not have to pay any royalties -until the book had earned its expenses--which, of course, it never did. -This was before the authors of America had formed a league, and learned -how contracts should be drawn. - -So there were Corydon and Thyrsis, more fast in the trap than ever. -Corydon and her baby were staying with her parents; while Thyrsis lived -in a lodginghouse, this time up in Harlem. He was not permitted to see -his wife whom he could not support. He had not seen his son for six -months, and was naturally, anxious to know what that son looked like. It -was arranged between the young parents that the Negro maid who took care -of the child should wheel the baby carriage to a certain spot in Central -Park at a certain hour of the afternoon, and Thyrsis would be there and -watch the little one go by. The father kept the appointed tryst, and -there came a Negro nursemaid, wheeling a baby carriage, and the father -gazed therein and beheld a horrifying spectacle--a red-headed infant -with a flat nose and a pimply skin. The father went away, sick at -soul--until he had the inspiration to send a telegram, and received an -answer informing him that the nursemaid had been prevented from coming. - -The lodginghouse where Thyrsis had a room was kept by an elderly widow -who had invested her little property in United States Steel common and -had seen it go down to six dollars. As fellow lodgers, there was the -father of Thyrsis, who was drinking more and more; and that Uncle Harry -who had almost reached the stage where he put a bullet through his -brain. Meanwhile, the uncle considered it his duty to give worldly-wise -advice to a haggard young author who refused to “go to work.” The mother -of Thyrsis, distracted, kept repeating the same formula; half a dozen -other occupants of the lodginghouse, broker’s clerks, and other -commercial persons, took an interest in the problem and said their say. - -Such was the life of a would-be prophet in a business world! So that -winter I wrote the most ferocious of my stories, _A Captain of -Industry_, which became a popular item in the list of the State -Publishing House of Soviet Russia. The manuscript was submitted to the -Macmillans, and the president of that concern was kind enough to let me -see the opinion of one of his readers. “What is the matter with this -young author?” was the opening sentence. The answer of course was that -the young author was unable to get enough to eat. - -Critics of _Arthur Stirling_ and of _Love’s Pilgrimage_ complain of the -too-idealistic characters portrayed, the lack of redeeming weaknesses in -the hero. Let the deficiency be supplied by one detail--that during that -dreadful winter I discovered my vice. Living in these sordid -surroundings, desperate, and utterly without companionship, I was now -and then invited to play cards with some of my fellow lodgers. I had -played cards as a boy, but never for money; now I would “sit in” at a -poker game with the young broker’s clerks and other commercial persons -with whom fate had thrown me. - -So I discovered a devastating emotion; I was gripped by a dull, blind -frenzy of greed and anxiety, and was powerless to break its hold. The -game was what is called penny ante, and the stakes were pitifully small, -yet they represented food for that week. I cannot recall that I ever -won, but I lost a dollar or two on several occasions. I remember that on -Christmas Eve I started playing after dinner, and sat at a table in a -half-warmed room gray with tobacco smoke until two or three in the -morning; the following afternoon I began playing again and played all -night. So it appeared that I was an orthodox Southern gentleman, born to -be a gambler! After that Christmas experience I took a vow, and have -never played cards for money since that time. - - -X - -Not all the humiliation, rage, and despair could keep new literary plans -from forming themselves, colossal and compelling. Now it was to be a -trilogy of novels, nothing less. Ecstasy was taking the form of battles, -marches, and sieges, titanic efforts of the collective soul of America. -_Manassas_, _Gettysburg_, and _Appomattox_ were to be the titles of -these mighty works, and by contemplation of the heroism and glory of the -past, America was to be redeemed from the sordidness and shame of the -present. The problem was to find some one capable of appreciating such a -literary service, and willing to make it possible. - -I went up to Boston, headquarters of the culture that I meant to -glorify. I stayed with my cousin, Howard Bland, then a student at -Harvard, and devoted myself to the double task of getting local color -and an endowment. I succeeded in the first part only. Thomas Wentworth -Higginson had read _Springtime and Harvest_, and he introduced me to -what was left of the old guard of the abolitionists; I remember several -visits to Frank B. Sanborn and one to Julia Ward Howe. I went to a -reunion of a Grand Army post and heard stories from the veterans--though -not much of this was needed, as the Civil War has been so completely -recorded in books, magazines, and newspapers. I inspected reverently the -Old Boston landmarks and shrines; for I had exchanged my Virginia ideals -for those of Massachusetts and was intending to portray the Civil War -from the Yankee point of view. - -I thought Boston ought to be interested and warm-hearted. Why was Boston -so cold? Perfectly polite, of course, and willing to invite a young -novelist to tea and listen to his account of the great work he was -planning; but when the question was broached, would anyone advance five -hundred dollars to make possible the first volume of such a trilogy, -they all with one accord began to make excuses. Among those interviewed -I remember Edwin D. Mead, the pacifist, and Edwin Ginn, the schoolbook -publisher, a famous philanthropist. Mr. Ginn explained that he had -ruined the character of a nephew by giving him money, and had decided -that it was the worst thing one could do for the young. In vain I sought -to persuade him that there might be differences among the young. - -It was in New York that a man was found, able to realize that a writer -has to eat while writing. George D. Herron was his name, and he happened -to be a socialist, a detail of great significance in the young writer’s -life. But that belongs to the next chapter; this one has to do with the -fate of Corydon and Thyrsis, and what poverty and failure did to their -love. Suffice it for the moment to say that the new friend advanced a -couple of hundred dollars and promised thirty dollars a month, this -being Thyrsis’ estimate of what he would need to keep himself and wife -and baby in back-to-nature fashion during the year it would take to -write _Manassas_. The place selected was Princeton, New Jersey, because -that university possessed the second-largest Civil War collection in the -country--the largest being in the Library of Congress. So in May 1903 -the migration took place, and for three years and a half Princeton was -home. - - -XI - -On the far side of a ridge three miles north of the town, a patch of -woods was found whose owner was willing to rent it as a literary -encampment. The tent had been shipped from Canada, and a platform was -built, and an outfit of wooden shelves and tables. Also there was a -smaller tent, eight feet square, for the secret sessions with Clio, muse -of history. Both canvas structures were provided with screen doors, -against the inroads of the far-famed Jersey mosquito. Water was brought -in pails from a farmer’s well, and once a week a horse and buggy were -hired for a drive to town--to purchase supplies, and exchange one load -of books about the Civil War for another load. - -_Manassas: A Novel of the War_--so ran the title; the dedication said: -“That the men of this land may know the heritage that is come down to -them.” The young historian found himself a stamping ground in the woods, -a place where he could pace back and forth for hours undisturbed, and -there the scenes of the dreadful “new birth of freedom” lived themselves -over in his mind. The men of that time came to him and spoke in their -own persons, and with trembling and awe he wrote down their actions and -words. - -His method of working had evolved itself into this: he would go through -a scene in his imagination, over and over again, until he knew it by -heart, before setting down a word of it on paper. An episode like the -battle scene of _Manassas_, some ten thousand words in length, took -three weeks in gestation; the characters and incidents were hardly out -of the writer’s mind for a waking moment during that time, nor did the -emotional tension of their presence relax. And in between these bouts of -writing there was reading and research in the literature of sixty years -past: newspapers, magazines, pamphlets, works of biography and -reminiscence. The writing of _Manassas_ must have entailed the reading -of five hundred volumes, and the consulting of as many more. - -In the meantime Corydon took care of the baby, a youngster of a year -and a half, who seemed to know exactly what he wanted and would yell -himself purple in the face to get it; the inexperienced young parents -sometimes wondered whether he would kill himself by such efforts. During -his incarceration in the city the child had suffered from rickets, and -now a “child specialist” had outlined an extremely elaborate diet, which -took hours of the young mother’s time to prepare. Under it the infant -throve and became yet more aggressive. - -Corydon and Thyrsis had wanted nothing but to be together; and now they -had what they wanted--almost too much of it. Now and then they met the -farmer and his wife, a gentle old couple; when they drove to Princeton, -they met the clerks in the stores and in the college library; they met -no one else. Possibly some women could have stood this long ordeal, but -Corydon was not of that tough fiber. While her husband went apart to -wrestle with his angel, she stayed in the tent to wrestle with demons. -She suffered from depression and melancholy, and it was impossible to -know whether the trouble was of the mind or of the body. - -Nowadays, every disciple of Freud in Greenwich Village would know what -to tell her. But this was in the days before the invention of the -Freudian demonology. Birth control, as explained by a family doctor, had -failed, and could not be trusted; since another pregnancy would have -meant the death of the young writer’s hopes, there was no safety but in -returning to the original idea of brother and sister. Since caressing -led to sexual impulse, and therefore to discontent, it was necessary -that caressing should be omitted from the daily program, and love-making -be confined to noble words and the reading aloud of Civil War -literature. Thyrsis could do that, being completely absorbed in his -vision. Whether Corydon could do it or not was a superfluous -question--since Corydon _had_ to do it. This was, of course, a cruelty, -and prepared the way for a tragedy. - - -XII - -_Prince Hagen_, after having been declined by seventeen magazines and -twenty-two publishing houses, had been brought out by a firm in Boston -and, as usual, disappointed its author’s hopes. But there came one or -two hundred dollars in royalties, almost enough to pay for the building -of a house. An old carpenter and his son drove from the village, and -Thyrsis worked with them and learned a trade. In two or three weeks they -built a cabin on the edge of the woods, sixteen feet by eighteen, with a -living room across the front and a tiny bedroom and kitchen in the back. -It was roofed with tar paper, and the total cost was two hundred and -fifty-six dollars. Ten per cent of this price was earned by the device -of writing an article about the homemade dwelling and selling it to the -_World’s Work_, for the benefit of other young authors contemplating -escape from civilization. The baby, now two years old, watched the -mighty men at work, and thereafter the problem of his upbringing was -solved; all that was necessary was to put him out of doors with a block -of wood, a hammer, and a supply of nails, and he would bang nails into -the wood with perfect contentment for hours. - -But the problem of the young mother was less easy of solution. Winter -came howling from the north and smote the little cabin on the exposed -ridge. Snow blocked the roads, and walking became impossible for a woman -tired by housework. She could get to town in a sleigh, but there was no -place to stay in town with a baby; and what became of the woman’s -diversion of shopping, when the family had only thirty dollars a month -to live on? There occurred the episode of the turkey-red table cover. It -was discovered as a bargain in a notion store, price thirty cents, and -Corydon craved it as one pitiful trace of decoration in their home of -bare lumber. She bought it, but Thyrsis was grim and implacable, -insisting that it be folded up and taken back. Thirty cents was a day’s -food for a family, and if they ran up bills at the stores, how would the -soul of America be saved? - -Sickness came, of course. Whether you were rich or poor in America in -those days, you were subject to colds and sore throats, because you knew -nothing about diet, and ate denatured foods out of packages and cans. -Corydon had obscure pains, and doctors gave obscure opinions about “womb -trouble.” She paid a dollar a bottle for Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable -Compound, which was supposed to remedy “female complaints,” and did -so--by the method of dulling the victim’s sensations with opium. The -time came when Thyrsis awakened one winter night and heard his wife -sobbing, and found her sitting up in bed in the moonlight, with a -revolver in her hand, something she kept for protection while her -husband was working in the college library. She had been trying for -hours to get up courage to put a bullet into her head, but did not have -that courage. - - -XIII - -The grip of dreadful winter was broken, and it was possible to walk once -more. Flowers blossomed in the woods, and also in the two tormented -souls. For the great novel had been completed, and this time it was -promptly accepted. The great firm of Macmillan called it a distinguished -piece of fiction, paid five hundred dollars advance upon it, and agreed -to publish it in the autumn. So it was possible for the little family to -buy a turkey-red table cover, and also a vase to fill with woodland -flowers, and to get the horse and buggy more frequently--one dollar per -afternoon--and drive to town and ramble about the campus and listen to -the students singing their songs at twilight. - -A town full of handsome young college men was a not disagreeable place -of residence for the girl-wife of a solitary genius, condemned by grim -fate to celibacy. It was not long before Corydon had met a young -instructor of science who lived only a mile or two away on the ridge. He -came to call; having horse and buggy, he took Corydon driving, and she -would come back from these drives refreshed and enlivened. Life became -still more promising. - -Presently the time came when she told her preoccupied husband a quaint -and naïve story of what had happened. The young instructor had admitted, -shyly and humbly, that he was falling somewhat in love with her. It was -innocent and idyllic, quite touching; and Thyrsis was moved--he could -understand easily how anyone might fall in love with Corydon, for he had -done so himself. He was glad it was so noble and high-minded; but he -suggested, very gently, that it would be the part of wisdom not to go -driving with the young man any more. Corydon was surprised and pained by -this; but after a few more drives she admitted that it might indeed be -wiser. - -So again she was lonely for a while; until it happened that in the -course of her search for health, she encountered a high-minded and -handsome young surgeon, a Scotchman. Strangely enough, the same thing -happened again; the surgeon admitted, shyly and humbly, that he was -falling somewhat in love with his patient; this time he himself -suggested that it would be wiser if he did not see her any more. Corydon -told Thyrsis all about it, and it was excellent material for a would-be -novelist who lived a retired life and had few experiences of romantic -emotions. But in the end, the novelty wore off--it happened too many -times. - - - - -_5_ - -_Revolt_ - - -I - -Floyd Dell, contemplating his biography of myself, which was published -in 1927, asked me to explain the appearance of a social rebel in a -conventional Southern family. I thought the problem over and reported my -psychology as that of a “poor relation.” It had been my fate from -earliest childhood to live in the presence of wealth that belonged to -others. - -Let me say at once that I have no idea of blaming my relatives. They -were always kind to me; their homes were open to me, and when I came, I -was a member of the family. Nor do I mean that I was troubled by -jealousy. I mean merely that all my life I was faced by the contrast -between riches and poverty, and thereby impelled to think and to ask -questions. “Mamma, why are some children poor and others rich? How can -that be fair?” I plagued my mother’s mind with the problem, and never -got any answer. Since then I have plagued the ruling-class apologists of -the world with it, and still have no answer. - -The other factor in my revolt--odd as it may seem--was the Protestant -Episcopal Church. I really took the words of Jesus seriously, and when I -carried the train of Bishop Potter in a confirmation ceremony in the -Church of the Holy Communion, I thought I was helping to glorify the -rebel carpenter, the friend of the poor and lowly, the symbol of human -brotherhood. Later, I read in the papers that the bishop’s wife had had -fifty thousand dollars’ worth of jewels stolen, and had set the police -to hunting for the thief. I couldn’t understand how a bishop’s wife -could own fifty thousand dollars’ worth of jewels, and the fact stuck in -my mind, and had a good deal to do with the fading away of my churchly -ardor. - -From the age of perhaps seventeen to twenty-two, I faced our -civilization of class privilege absolutely alone in my own mind; that is -to say, whatever I found wrong with this civilization, I thought that I -alone knew it, and the burden of changing it rested upon my spirit. Such -was the miracle that capitalist education had been able to perform upon -my young mind during the eleven or twelve years that it had charge of -me. It could not keep me from realizing that the rule of society by -organized greed was an evil thing; but it managed to keep me from -knowing that there was anybody else in the world who thought as I did; -it managed to make me regard the current movements, Bryanism and -Populism, which sought to remedy this evil, as vulgar, noisy, and -beneath my cultured contempt. - -I knew, of course, that there had been a socialist movement in Europe; I -had heard vaguely about Bismarck persecuting these malcontents. Also, I -knew there had been dreamers and cranks who had gone off and lived in -colonies, and that they “busted up” when they faced the practical -problems of life. While emotionally in revolt against Mammon worship, I -was intellectually a perfect little snob and tory. I despised modern -books without having read them, and I expected social evils to be -remedied by cultured and well-mannered gentlemen who had been to college -and acquired noble ideals. That is as near as I can come to describing -the jumble of notions I had acquired by combining John Ruskin with -Godkin of the New York _Evening Post_, and Shelley with Dana of the New -York _Sun_. - -It happened that I knew about anarchists because of the execution of the -Haymarket martyrs when I was ten years old. In the “chamber of horrors” -of the Eden Musée, a place of waxworks, I saw a group representing these -desperados sitting round a table making bombs. I swallowed these bombs -whole, and shuddered at the thought of depraved persons who inhabited -the back rooms of saloons, jeered at God, practiced free love, and -conspired to blow up the government. In short, I believed in 1889 what -ninety-five per cent of America believes in 1962. - - -II - -Upon my return to New York in the autumn of 1902, after the writing of -_Arthur Stirling_, I met in the office of the _Literary Digest_ a tall, -soft-voiced, and gentle-souled youth by the name of Leonard D. Abbott; -he was a socialist, so he told me, and he thought I might be interested -to know something about that movement. He gave me a couple of pamphlets -and a copy of _Wilshire’s Magazine_. - -It was like the falling down of prison walls about my mind; the amazing -discovery, after all those years, that I did not have to carry the whole -burden of humanity’s future upon my two frail shoulders! There were -actually others who understood; who saw what had gradually become dear -to me, that the heart and center of the evil lay in leaving the social -treasure, which nature had created and which every man has to have in -order to live, to become the object of a scramble in the market place, a -delirium of speculation. The principal fact the socialists had to teach -me was that they themselves existed. - -One of the pamphlets I read was by George D. Herron; it moved me to deep -admiration, and when I took it to my editor and critic, Paul Elmer More, -it moved him to the warmest abhorrence. I wrote to Herron, telling him -about myself, and the result was an invitation to dinner and a very -curious and amusing experience. - -I was in no condition to dine out, for my shoes were down at the heel, -and my only pair of detachable cuffs were badly frayed; but I supposed -that a socialist dinner would be different, so I went to the address -given, a hotel on West Forty-fourth Street. I found myself in an -apartment of extreme elegance, with marble statuary and fine paintings; -I was received by a black-bearded gentleman in evening dress and Windsor -tie--a combination I had never heard of before--and by an elegant lady -in a green velvet Empire gown with a train. One other guest appeared, a -small man with a black beard and mustache trimmed to sharp points, and -twinkling mischievous eyes--for all the world the incarnation of -Mephistopheles, but without the tail I had seen him wearing at the -Metropolitan Opera House. “Comrade Wilshire,” said my host, and I -realized that this was the editor of the magazine I had been reading. - -We four went down into the dining room of the hotel, and I noted that -everybody in the room turned to stare at us, and did not desist even -after we were seated. Dinner was ordered, and presently occurred a -little domestic comedy that I, the son of an extremely proper mother, -was able to comprehend. The waiter served our meat, set the vegetables -on the table, and went away to fetch something else. I saw my host look -longingly at a platter of peas that lay before him; I saw his hand start -to move, and then he glanced at his wife, and the wife frowned; so the -hand drew back, and we waited until the waiter came and served us our -peas in proper fashion. - -Before long I learned the tragic story of my new friend. A -Congregational clergyman of Grinnell, Iowa, he had converted a rich -woman to socialism, and she had endowed a chair in Grinnell College for -him. Being an unhappily married man, he had fallen in love with the rich -woman’s daughter, and had refused to behave as clergymen were supposed -to behave in such a crisis. Instead, he had behaved like a resident of -Fifth Avenue and Newport; that is to say, he had proposed to his wife -that she divorce him and let him marry the woman he loved. There ensued -a frightful scandal, fanned red hot by the gutter press, and Herron had -to give up his professorship. Here he was in New York, with his new wife -and her mother, preaching to the labor movement instead of to the -churches and the colleges. - -An abnormally sensitive man, he had been all but killed by the fury of -the assault upon him, and before long I persuaded him to go abroad and -live and do his writing. He went, but not much writing materialized. -During World War I he swallowed the British propaganda as I did, and -became a confidential agent of Woodrow Wilson in Switzerland, and made -promises to the Germans that Wilson did not keep; so poor Herron died -another death. His book, _The Defeat in the Victory_, told the story of -his despair for mankind. - -He was a strange combination of moral sublimity and human frailty. I -won’t stop for details here, but will merely pay the personal tribute -that is due. I owe to George D. Herron my survival as a writer. At the -moment when I was completely exhausted and blocked in every direction, -I appealed to him; I gave him _Arthur Stirling_ and the manuscript of -_Prince Hagen_, and told him about _Manassas_, which I wanted to write. -I had tried the public and got no response; I had tried the leading -colleges and universities, to see if they would give a fellowship to a -creative writer; I had tried eminent philanthropists--all in vain. Now I -tried a socialist, and for the first time found a comrade. Herron -promised me money and kept the promise--altogether about eight hundred -dollars. How I could have lived and written _Manassas_ without that -money I am entirely unable to imagine. - - -III - -The other guest at the dinner was likewise a person worth hearing about. -Gaylord Wilshire had made a fortune in billboard advertising in Los -Angeles (Wilshire Boulevard is named after him). Then out of a clear sky -he announced his conversion to socialism, made a speech in one of the -city parks, and was sent to jail for it. He started a weekly; he then -brought it to New York and turned it into a monthly. He was spending his -money fast, offering prizes such as grand pianos and trips around the -world for the greatest number of new subscribers. He had a standing -offer of ten thousand dollars to William Jennings Bryan to debate -socialism with him, but the canny “boy orator” never took that easy -money; he knew nothing about socialism, and the quick-witted editor -would have made a monkey of him. - -Wilshire always insisted that his conversion was purely a matter of -intellect; he had become convinced that capitalism was self-eliminating, -and that its breakdown was near. But as a matter of fact, a sense of -justice and a kind heart had much to do with his crusade. To hear him -talk, you would think him a cynical man of the world, a veritable -Mephisto; but his greatest faults were generosity, which made it -impossible for him to keep money, and a sort of “Colonel Sellers” -optimism, which made him sure he was going to get a lot more at once. -The advertising men in New York had assured him that the problem of a -monthly magazine was solved when it got four hundred thousand -subscribers, because at that mark the advertising made any magazine -self-sustaining. Hence the prizes; but alas, when the four hundred -thousand mark was reached, it was discovered that the big national -advertisers would not patronize a magazine that in its reading columns -threatened their privileges. So Wilshire was “stuck,” and went into the -business of mining gold in order to keep his magazine going in spite of -the advertisers. That is a tale I shall tell later. - -The editor took me uptown and introduced me to two sisters, of whom the -older soon became his wife. The couple came to Princeton on their -honeymoon and became our intimate friends. Mary Wilshire was a sort of -older sister to me--though as a matter of fact I believe she was -younger. “Gay” printed my picture in his magazine, and introduced me to -the socialist movement as a coming novelist. I wrote for his columns--I -remember “The Toy and the Man,” wherein I poked fun at the desire of -grown-up Americans to accumulate quantities of unnecessary material -things. If you look about you at the America of sixty years later, you -will see that my sermon failed entirely of its effect. - -It was either that summer or the next that the Wilshires took us with -them for a two-week trip to Halifax, the editor having got -transportation in exchange for advertising. We drove about and saw the -Nova Scotia country, at its loveliest in early summer, and went swimming -by moonlight in an inland lake. Incidentally, I discovered some -cousins--it seems that a branch of the Sinclairs had left Virginia after -the Civil War; so here was a surgeon at this British Army station. -Somehow I got the impression that he was not entirely proud of his young -genius relative, with an unmodish wife who took care of her own baby. He -did not invite us to meet the wealth and fashion of the British Army, -and we had time to ramble alone on the beach, where the baby filled his -chubby fists with masses of squashy starfish. - - -IV - -_Manassas_ was completed in the spring of 1904 and published in August. -Meanwhile I was reading the socialist weekly, _Appeal to Reason_, which -was published in Girard, Kansas; it then had a circulation of half a -million, and doubled it in the next few years. At that time two Western -Miners’ officials, Moyer and Haywood, were being tried for a murder that -they probably did not commit. The _Appeal_ was sure of their innocence. -I was too, and in general I was becoming a red-hot “radical.” When the -twenty thousand workers in the Chicago stockyards had their strike -smashed in a most shocking way, I wrote a manifesto addressed to them: -“You have lost the strike, and now what are you going to do about it?” -This was just the sort of thing the _Appeal_ wanted, and they made it -into a shouting first-page broadside and distributed hundreds of -thousands of copies. I wrote a second broadside, “Farmers of America, -Unite!” The _Appeal_ paid me for this by sending me twenty or thirty -thousand copies, which was like a present of a herd of white elephants! -I had to hire a boy and a horse and buggy for a couple of weeks to -distribute them over the countryside around Princeton. Two years later I -ran for Congress on the socialist ticket in that district, and maybe my -propaganda got me half a dozen extra votes. - -I learned something about the American small farming community during my -three and a half years near Princeton. What their fathers had done, they -did; as their fathers had voted, so voted they, and thought it was for -Lincoln, or perhaps Tilden. They lived in pitiful ignorance and under -the shadow of degeneracy. I often thought of writing a book about -them--but you would not have believed me, because the facts fitted so -perfectly into my socialist thesis that you would have been sure I was -making them to order. - -In a neighborhood two miles square, which I knew by personal contact and -the gossip of neighbors, the only decent families were half a dozen that -lived on farms of a hundred acres or more. The families that lived on -ten or twenty-acre farms contained drunkards, degenerates, mental or -physical defectives, semi-idiots, victims of tuberculosis or of venereal -disease, and now and then a petty criminal. You could descend in the -scale, according to the size of the farm, until you came to the Jukes--I -don’t recall their real name, but students of eugenics will accept that -substitute. The Jukes had no farm at all, but squatted in an old barn, -and had six half-naked brats, and got drunk on vinegar, and beat each -other, and howled and screamed and rioted, and stole poultry and apples -from the neighbors. - -These small farmers of New Jersey and other eastern states represented -what had been left behind from wave after wave of migration--either to -the West or to the cities. The capable and active ones escaped, while -the weak ones stayed behind and constituted our “farm problem.” -Prohibition did not touch them because they made their own “applejack,” -with sixty per cent alcohol. Politics touched them only once a year, -when they were paid from two to five dollars for each vote the family -could produce. They worked their children sixteen hours a day and sent -them to school three or four months in winter, where they learned enough -to figure a list of groceries, and to read a local weekly containing -reports of church “sociables” and a few canned items supplied by the -power trust; also a Methodist or Baptist paper, with praises of the -“blood of the Lamb” and of patent medicines containing opium and -coal-tar poisons. Such was agricultural New Jersey almost sixty years -ago. The farms still go on voting for Lincoln and McKinley, and hating -the labor unions that force up the prices of the things farmers have to -buy. - - -V - -A play called _Candida_ by a new British dramatist had been produced in -New York. I had no money to see plays, but I borrowed the book, and it -was like meeting Shelley face to face, a rapturous experience. Then came -_Man and Superman_--I remember reading it in the summertime, lying in a -hammock by my woodland cabin and kicking my heels in the air with -delight over the picture of the British aristocracy in heaven--not -understanding the music, and being bored to death, but staying because -they considered that their social position required it. - -I was supporting my wife now, after a fashion, and so was in better -standing with my father-in-law. He had a six-week vacation in the latter -half of the summer, and invited me to accompany him on a canoe trip in -northern Ontario. My father-in-law was a city-bred man with a passion -for the primitive; he wanted to get to some place where no man had ever -been before, and then he would explode with delight and exclaim, “Wild -as hell!” We went up to the head of Lake Temeskaming, made a long -portage, and paddled over a chain of lakes some two or three hundred -miles, coming out by the Sturgeon River to Lake Winnipeg. We took two -canoes, and lugged them heroically on our shoulders, and learned to use -a “tumpline,” and ran dangerous rapids with many thrills, and killed a -dozen great pike in a day, and paddled up to a dozen moose so close that -we could have touched them with our paddles. This country, which is full -of cobalt and copper, is now a great mining region, but at that time -there were not even trails, and the only white man we saw in several -weeks was the keeper of a Hudson’s Bay Company post. - -Here were Indians living in their primitive condition, and this -interested me greatly. I asked many questions, and the trader at the -post told me how in wintertime these Indians would kill a moose, and -then move to the moose, and camp there until they had picked the bones. -When I was writing _Oil!_ I remembered this; I told about “Dad,” my -oilman, who would drill a well, and move his family to the well; I -compared him to the Indians who moved their families to a moose. Later -in the book I remarked, “Dad had moved to another moose”; and this got -me into trouble with printers and proofreaders, who would insist upon -making “moose” into “house.” I changed it back two or three times--until -finally I received a letter from one of the executives of the firm, -calling my attention to the difficulty; surely I could not be meaning to -say that Dad had moved to a _moose_! - -Going back home, I found _Manassas_ about to appear, and this was the -psychological moment to make a killing with the magazines. Gertrude -Atherton had published in the _North American Review_ an article -speculating as to why American literature, with so many opportunities to -be robust, should be so bourgeois. I wrote a reply, interpreting -American literature in terms of economics; but the _Review_ turned me -down. I took the article to _Colliers_, then edited by Norman Hapgood, -and he published it. The article was one of the strongest I have ever -written, but there was not a line about it in the capitalist newspapers. -I could not comprehend this; but now, after it has happened to me so -many times, I know what to think. - -_Collier’s_ published another article of mine, telling the American -people what socialists believed and aimed at. But that was the last. The -editors accepted an open letter to Lincoln Steffens about his series of -articles on “The Shame of the Cities,” which was appearing in -_McClure’s_. I had written a criticism of his articles, pointing out -that the corruption he reported came about because big business bought -the politicians or elected them; and that there could never be an end to -it until the government owned businesses, especially the public -utilities. I sent the article to Steffens. He wrote me that it was the -best criticism of his work that he had seen; he wanted _McClure’s_ to -publish it, but they didn’t dare to. So I turned it into an open letter -and sent it to _Collier’s_. I have told in _The Brass Check_ how I was -invited to Robbie Collier’s for dinner, and how old Peter Collier, -ex-packpeddler, announced to me that he would not permit my articles to -appear in his paper and “scare away” his half-million subscribers. The -greater part of the letter to Steffens was published in my book, _The -Industrial Republic_, long since out of print. It contained a remarkable -prophecy of our successive world crises. - -Steffens and I became friends at that time. He remained always one of my -closest and dearest friends, and we met whenever we were in the same -neighborhood. In 1914, I remember, he came out to Croton, near New York, -where we had rented a little house, and spent several weekends with us. -Once I took him for a tramp in the snow before he had had his coffee. He -appealed to my wife never to let that happen again, and she promised. - - -VI - -_Manassas_ appeared, and won critical praise, but sold less than two -thousand copies. The “men of this land” did not care about the heritage -that was come down to them; or, at any rate, they did not care to hear -about it from me. The five-hundred-dollar advance on this book was about -all I got for my labors. I had written in the course of four and one -half years a total of six novels or novelettes, published four of them, -and the sum of my receipts therefrom was less than one thousand dollars. - -Nevertheless, _Manassas_ was the means of leading me out of the woods. -The editor of the _Appeal to Reason_ read it and wrote me with -enthusiasm; I had portrayed the struggle over chattel slavery in -America, and now, why not do the same thing for wage slavery? I answered -that I would do it, provided he would stake me. The editor, Fred D. -Warren, agreed to advance five hundred dollars for the serial rights of -the novel, and I selected the Chicago stockyards as its scene. The -recent strike had brought the subject to my thoughts; and my manifesto, -“You have lost the strike,” had put me in touch with socialists among -the stockyard workers. - -So, in October 1904 I set out for Chicago, and for seven weeks lived -among the wage slaves of the Beef Trust, as we called it in those days. -People used to ask me afterward if I had not spent my life in Chicago, -and I answered that if I had done so, I could never have written _The -Jungle_; I would have taken for granted things that now hit me a sudden -violent blow. I went about, white-faced and thin, partly from -undernourishment, partly from horror. It seemed to me I was confronting -a veritable fortress of oppression. How to breach those walls, or to -scale them, was a military problem. - -I sat at night in the homes of the workers, foreign-born and native, and -they told me their stories, one after one, and I made notes of -everything. In the daytime I would wander about the yards, and my -friends would risk their jobs to show me what I wanted to see. I was not -much better dressed than the workers, and found that by the simple -device of carrying a dinner pail I could go anywhere. So long as I kept -moving, no one would heed me. When I wanted to make careful -observations, I would pass again and again through the same room. - -I went about the district, talking with lawyers, doctors, dentists, -nurses, policemen, politicians, real-estate agents--every sort of -person. I got my meals at the University Settlement, where I could check -my data with the men and women who were giving their lives to this -neighborhood. When the book appeared, they were a little shocked to find -how bad it seemed to the outside world; but Mary MacDowell and her group -stood by me pretty bravely--considering that the packers had given them -the cots on which the strike breakers had slept during their sojourn -inside the packing plants in violation of city laws! - -I remember being invited to Hull House to dinner and sitting next to the -saintly Jane Addams. I got into an argument with her consecrated band, -and upheld my contention that the one useful purpose of settlements was -the making of settlement workers into socialists. Afterward Jane Addams -remarked to a friend that I was a young man who had a great deal to -learn. Both she and I went on diligently learning, so that when we met -again, we did not have so much to argue over. - -One stroke of good fortune for me was the presence in Chicago of Adolphe -Smith, correspondent of the _Lancet_, the leading medical paper of Great -Britain. Smith was one of the founders of the Social-Democratic -Federation in England, and at the same time an authority on abattoirs, -having studied the packing plants of the world for the _Lancet_. -Whenever I was in doubt about the significance of my facts--when I -wondered if possibly my horror might be the oversensitiveness of a young -idealist--I would fortify myself by Smith’s expert, professional horror. -“These are not packing plants at all,” he declared; “these are packing -boxes crammed with wage slaves.” - -At the end of a month or more, I had my data and knew the story I meant -to tell, but I had no characters. Wandering about “back of the yards” -one Sunday afternoon I saw a wedding party going into the rear room of a -saloon. There were several carriages full of people. I stopped to watch, -and as they seemed hospitable, I slipped into the room and stood against -the wall. There the opening chapter of _The Jungle_ began to take form. -There were my characters--the bride, the groom, the old mother and -father, the boisterous cousin, the children, the three musicians, -everybody. I watched them one after another, fitted them into my story, -and began to write the scene in my mind, going over it and over, as was -my custom, fixing it fast. I went away to supper, and came back again, -and stayed until late at night, sitting in a chair against the wall, not -talking to anyone, just watching, imagining, and engraving the details -on my mind. It was two months before I got settled at home and first put -pen to paper; but the story stayed, and I wrote down whole paragraphs, -whole pages, exactly as I had memorized them. - - -VII - -Our life in the little sixteen-by-eighteen cabin had been wretched, and -we had set our hearts upon getting a regular farmhouse. We had gone -riding about the neighborhood, imagining ourselves in this house and -that--I looking for economy, and Corydon looking for beauty, and both of -us having the “blues” because the two never came together. Finally -Corydon had her way--in imagination at any rate; we chose a farm with a -good eight-room house that could be bought for $2,600, one thousand cash -and the rest on mortgage. There were sixty acres to the place, with good -barns, a wood lot, and three orchards; we imagined a cow, some chickens, -a horse and buggy--and persuaded ourselves that all this would pay for -itself. - -Now, before starting on _The Jungle_, I went to call upon Dr. Savage, -who had married us; I poured out my woes upon his devoted head. I told -him how Corydon had come close to suicide the previous winter and how I -dreaded another siege in our crowded quarters. I so worked upon his -feelings that he agreed to lend me a thousand dollars, and take another -mortgage on the farm as security. Poor, kind soul, he must have listened -to many a painful story in that big church study of his! He assured me -he was not a rich man, and I was glad when I was able to repay the money -at the end of a year. - -We moved into the new, palatial quarters, elegantly furnished with odds -and ends picked up at the “vendues” that were held here and there over -the countryside whenever some one died or moved away. You stood around -in the snow and stamped your feet, and waited for a chance to bid on a -lot of three kitchen chairs, with one seat and two rungs missing, or a -dozen dishes piled in a cracked washbasin. You paid cash and had -twenty-four hours in which to fetch your goods. I purchased a cow at -such a sale, also a horse and buggy. - -For my previous winters writing I had built with my own hands a little -cabin, eight feet wide and ten feet long, roofed with tar paper, and -supplied with one door and one window. In it stood a table, a chair, a -homemade shelf for books, and a little round potbellied stove that -burned coal--since the urgencies of inspiration were incompatible with -keeping up a wood fire. This little cabin was now loaded onto a farmer’s -wagon and transported to the new place, and set up on an exposed ridge; -in those days I valued view more than shelter, but nowadays I am less -romantic, and keep out of the wind. To this retreat I repaired on -Christmas Day, and started the first chapter of _The Jungle_. - -For three months I worked incessantly. I wrote with tears and anguish, -pouring into the pages all the pain that life had meant to me. -Externally, the story had to do with a family of stockyard workers, but -internally it was the story of my own family. Did I wish to know how the -poor suffered in wintertime in Chicago? I had only to recall the -previous winter in the cabin, when we had had only cotton blankets, and -had put rugs on top of us, and cowered shivering in our separate beds. -It was the same with hunger, with illness, with fear. Ona was Corydon, -speaking Lithuanian but otherwise unchanged. Our little boy was down -with pneumonia that winter, and nearly died, and the grief of that went -into the book. - - -VIII - -Three months of incessant work and little exercise put my stomach nearly -out of commission. A relative offered me some kind of pass on a steamer -to Savannah, and I took this trip, and went on to Florida, and spent a -couple of weeks roaming the beaches and fishing in the surf; I came back -refreshed, and put in the spring and summer on my task. The story had -begun in the _Appeal to Reason_--circulation half a million--and I was -getting letters from readers; I realized that this time I had something -that would be read. “I am afraid to trust myself to tell you how it -affects me,” wrote David Graham Phillips. - -Of course I had some human life during that year. There were times when -the country was beautiful; when the first snow fell, and again when the -peach orchard turned pink, the pear orchard white, and the apple orchard -pink and white. We had a vegetable garden, and had not yet discovered -that it cost us more than buying the vegetables. We bought some goose -eggs, hatched a flock of eight or ten, and chased them all over the -countryside until one day they disappeared into the stomachs of the -foxes or the Jukeses. I worked on the place all my spare time in summer -and became a jack-of-all-trades. I drove a hayrake, which was -picturesque and romantic--except that the clouds of pollen dust set me -to sneezing my head off. I was continually catching cold in those days, -and was still at the stage where I went to doctors, and let them give -me pills and powders, and pump my nose full of red and blue and green -and yellow-colored liquids, which never had the slightest effect that I -could discover. - -Shortly before the completion of the book, I set to work at the -launching of the Intercollegiate Socialist Society. I had reflected much -upon my education in college and university, and made sure that my -ignorance of the modern revolutionary movement had not been an accident. -Since the professors refused to teach the students about modern life, it -was up to the students to teach themselves; so I sent a circular letter -to all the college socialists I knew of and invited them to organize. On -September 12, 1905, we had a dinner at Peck’s Restaurant on Fulton -Street in New York, and chose Jack London as our president. The -newspapers gave three or four inches to the doings of this peculiar set -of cranks. I remember calling up the secretary of some university club -to ask for the membership list, and I could not make him understand the -strange name of our organization. “Intercollegiate _Socialist_ Society, -you say?” The Catholic Anarchist League, the Royal Communist Club, the -Association of Baptist Bolsheviks! - -We had no income, of course, and everything was done by volunteer labor. -Many times I sat up until two or three in the morning, wrapping packages -of literature to be mailed to persons who did not always want them and -sometimes wrote to say so. One who attended our first meeting was a -young student at Wesleyan by the name of Harry Laidler, and for several -years it was my dream that some day we might have an income of eighteen -dollars per week so that Harry could be our full-time secretary. The -organization, now known as the League for Industrial Democracy, has not -merely Harry W. Laidler but Norman Thomas also, and has raised about -fifty thousand dollars a year. Not so much, compared with the resources -of the power trust, but we have interested and trained two generations -of socialists, progressives, and liberals. The league has been at the -same address, 112 East 19th Street, New York, for some fifty-five -years--in itself an achievement; if you want to know about it, send a -postcard. - -Soon after our start, we organized a mass meeting at Carnegie Hall at -which the principal speaker was to be Jack London. I had corresponded -with him from the time of his first novel. At this time he had had his -great success with _The Sea Wolf_. He was on the crest of the wave of -glory and a hero in the movement of social protest. He was traveling -from California to Florida by sea, then by train to New York, and he was -due to arrive on the very evening of the meeting. His train was late, -and I had been asked to keep the crowd entertained until he arrived. The -hall was packed. I was in something of a panic because I didn’t think -that I was equal to the assignment. But just as I started for the -platform, a roar of cheers broke out--our hero and his wife were walking -down the aisle. - -Jack was not much taller than I, but he was broadly built--the picture -of an athlete. That night he gave us the substance of his famous -discourse, “Revolution,” later published in a little red paper pamphlet. -The crowd that listened so raptly was not, I must admit, very -collegiate. A few students came, but most of the audience was from the -Lower East Side; the ushers were Jewish boys and girls wearing red -badges. The socialist fervor of that evening now seems like even more -ancient history than it is. A good part of it went into the communist -movement, of course, and my friend Scott Nearing used to ask me how I -could continue to belong to the Socialist Party, made up of lawyers and -retired real-estate speculators! - - -IX - -The first chapters of _The Jungle_ had been read by George P. Brett of -the Macmillan Company, who was impressed by the book, and gave me an -advance of five hundred dollars. The last chapters were not up to -standard, because both my health and my money were gone, and a second -trip to Chicago, which I had hoped to make, was out of the question. I -did the best I could--and those critics who didn’t like the ending ought -to have seen it as it was in manuscript! I ran wild at the end, -attempting to solve all the problems of America; I put in the -Moyer-Haywood case, everything I knew and thought my readers ought to -know. I submitted these chapters to a test and got a cruel verdict; the -editor of the _Appeal_ came to visit me, and sat in my little living -room one evening to hear the story--and fell sound asleep! The polite -author went on reading for an hour or so, hoping that his guest would -wake up and be spared the embarrassment of being “caught!” (I cut the -material out.) - -I was called to New York for an interview with Mr. Brett. He wanted me -to cut out some of the “blood and guts” from the book; nothing so -horrible had ever been published in America--at least not by a -respectable concern. Brett had been a discerning but somewhat reserved -critic of my manuscripts so far; if I had taken his advice, I would have -had an easier time in life--but I would have had to be a different -person. Out of his vast publishing experience he now assured me that he -could sell three times as many copies of my book if I would only consent -to remove the objectionable passages; if I were unwilling to do this, -his firm would be compelled to decline the book. I remember taking the -problem to Lincoln Steffens, an older muckraker than I. Said he: “It is -useless to tell things that are incredible, even though they may be -true.” But I could not take his advice; I had to tell the truth, and let -people make of it what they could. - -I forget who were the other publishers that turned down _The Jungle_. -There were five in all; and by that time I was raging and determined to -publish it myself. The editor of the _Appeal_ generously consented to -give space to a statement of my troubles. Jack London wrote a rousing -manifesto, calling on the socialist movement to rally to the book, which -he called “the _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_ of wage slavery. It is alive and -warm. It is brutal with life. It is written of sweat and blood, and -groans and tears.” I offered a “Sustainer’s Edition,” price $1.20, -postpaid, and in a month or two I took in four thousand dollars--more -money than I had been able to earn in all the past five years. Success -always went to my head, and I became drunk, thinking it was going to be -like that the rest of my life; and so I could found a colony, or start a -magazine, or produce a play, or win a strike--whatever might be -necessary to change the world into what it ought to be. - -In this case the first thing I did was to buy a saddle horse for a -hundred and twenty-five dollars. It wasn’t as reckless as it sounds -because the horse could also be driven to the buggy, and I had to have -some form of exercise to help the poor stomach that apparently was not -equal to keeping up with the head. Also I had to have some way to get -into town quickly, because I now had a business on my hands and had to -be sending telegrams and mailing proofs. I had a printing firm in New -York at work putting _The Jungle_ into type. Then, just as the work was -completed, someone suggested that I offer the book to Doubleday, Page -and Company. So I found myself in New York again, for a series of -conferences with Walter H. Page and his young assistants. - -This publisher and editor played an important part in American history, -so I will tell what I saw of him. He was extremely kind and extremely -naïve; being good himself, he believed that other people were good; and -just as he was swallowed alive by Balfour and other British Tories -during World War I, so he was very nearly swallowed by the Chicago -packers. Anxious not to do anybody harm in such a good and beautiful -world, he submitted the proofs of _The Jungle_ to James Keeley, managing -editor of the Chicago _Tribune_ and a highly honorable gentleman, who -sent back a thirty-two page report on the book, prepared, so Keeley -avowed, by one of his reporters, a disinterested and competent man. I -sat down to a luncheon with the firm, at which this report was produced, -and I talked for two or three hours, exposing its rascalities. I -persuaded the firm to make an investigation of their own, and so they -sent out a young lawyer, and the first person this lawyer met in the -yards was a publicity agent of the packers. The lawyer mentioned _The -Jungle_, and the agent said, “Oh, yes, I know that book. I read the -proofs of it and prepared a thirty-two page report for James Keeley of -the _Tribune_.” - - -X - -The young lawyer’s report upheld me, so Doubleday, Page agreed to bring -out the book, allowing me to have a simultaneous edition of my own to -supply my “sustainers.” The book was published in February 1906, and the -controversy started at once. The answer of the packers appeared in a -series of articles by J. Ogden Armour in the _Saturday Evening Post_, -whose editor was Armour’s former secretary, George Horace Lorimer. The -great packer did not condescend to name any book, but he referred in -dignified fashion to the unscrupulous attacks upon his great business, -which was noble in all its motives and turned out products free from -every blemish. I remember reading this canned literature in Princeton, -and thinking it over as I rode my new saddle horse back to the farm. I -was boiling, and automatically my material began to sort itself out in -my mind. By the time I got home, I had a reply complete, and sat down -and wrote all through the night; the next morning I had an -eight-thousand-word magazine article, “The Condemned Meat Industry.” - -I took the first train for New York, and went to _Everybody’s Magazine_, -which had just electrified the country with Thomas W. Lawson’s exposure -of Wall Street methods. I figured they would be looking for something -new, and I asked to see the publisher of the magazine--realizing that -this was a matter too important to be decided by a mere editor. I saw E. -J. Ridgway and told him what I had, and he called in his staff of -editors. I read them the article straight through and it was accepted on -the spot, price eight hundred dollars. They stopped the presses on which -the May issue of the magazine was being printed, and took out a story to -make room for mine. Two lawyers were summoned, and once more I had to go -over my material line by line, and justify my statements. - -It was dynamite, no mistake. Bob Davis, of _Munsey’s Magazine_--how I -blessed him for it!--had introduced me to a wild, one-eyed Irishman who -had been a foreman on Armour’s killing beds and had told under oath the -story of how the condemned carcasses, thrown into the tanks to be -destroyed, were taken out at the bottom of the tanks and sold in the -city for meat. The Armours had come to him, and offered him five -thousand dollars to retract his story; by advice of a lawyer he accepted -the money and put it in the bank for his little daughter, and then made -another affidavit, telling how he had been bribed and why. I had both -these affidavits; also I had the court records of many pleas of guilty -that Mr. Armour and his associates had entered in various states to the -charge of selling adulterated meat products. It made a marvelous -companion piece to Mr. Armour’s canned literature in the _Saturday -Evening Post_. - -The article in _Everybody’s_ was expected to blow off the roof. But -alas, it appeared on the newsstands on April 20, and April 19 was the -date selected by the Maker of History for the destruction of San -Francisco by earthquake and fire. So the capitalist news agencies had an -excuse for not sending out any stories about “The Condemned Meat -Industry!” I have met with that sort of misfortune several times in the -course of my efforts to reach the public. In 1927 I traveled all the way -across the continent in order to make war on the city of Boston for the -suppression of my novel, _Oil!_; and just as I set to work, Lindbergh -landed in America after his flight to France! For a couple of weeks -there was nothing in the American newspapers but the “lone eagle” and -the advertisements. - - -XI - -However, _The Jungle_ made the front page a little later, thanks to the -efforts of the greatest publicity man of that time, Theodore Roosevelt. -For the utilizing of Roosevelt in our campaign, credit was claimed by -Isaac F. Marcosson, press agent for Doubleday, Page and Company, in his -book, _Adventures in Interviewing_. If I dispute his exclusive claim, it -is because both of us sent copies of the book to the President, and both -got letters saying that he was investigating the charges. (Roosevelt’s -secretary later told me that he had been getting a hundred letters a day -about _The Jungle_.) The President wrote to me that he was having the -Department of Agriculture investigate the matter, and I replied that -that was like asking a burglar to determine his own guilt. If Roosevelt -really wanted to know anything about conditions in the yards, he would -have to make a secret and confidential investigation. - -The result was a request for me to come to Washington. I was invited to -luncheon at the White House, where I met James R. Garfield, Francis E. -Leupp, and one or two other members of the “tennis cabinet.” We talked -about the packers for a while; said “Teddy”: “Mr. Sinclair, I bear no -love for those gentlemen, for I ate the meat they canned for the army in -Cuba.” Presently he fell to discussing the political situation in -Washington. At this time _Cosmopolitan_ was publishing a series of -articles called “The Treason of the Senate,” by the novelist David -Graham Phillips, which revealed the financial connections and the -reactionary activities of various Senators. (The articles were basically -sound, though I had the impression that Phillips, whom I knew rather -well, was longer on adjectives than on facts.) The President called the -roll of these traitors, and told me what he knew about each one. I sat -appalled--what, after all, did Theodore Roosevelt know about me? I was a -stranger, a young socialist agitator, from whom discretion was hardly to -be expected; yet here was the President of the United States discussing -his plans and policies, and pouring out his rage against his -enemies--not even troubling to warn me that our talk was confidential. - -I was so much amused by his language that when I left the White House, -the first thing I did was to write out, while I remembered it, his words -about Senator Hale of Maine, whom he called “the Senator from the -Shipbuilding Trust.” If you want to get the full effect of it, sit at a -table, clench your fist, and hit the table at every accented syllable: -“The most in-_nate_-ly and es-_sen_-tial-ly mal-_e_-vo-lent _scoun_-drel -that _God_ _Almight_-_y_ _ev_-er _put_ on _earth_!” I perceived after -this session the origin of what the newspapermen of Washington called -“the Ananias Club.” I was assumed to know that the President’s words -were not meant to be quoted; and if I broke the rule, “Teddy” would say -I was a liar, and the club would have a new member. - -A curious aspect of this matter: it was only a few weeks later that -Roosevelt made his famous speech denouncing the “muckrakers.” The speech -named no names but was generally taken to refer to David Graham Phillips -on account of his “Treason of the Senate” articles; and this gave great -comfort to the reactionaries. Yet Phillips in his wildest moment never -said anything against the Old Guard senators more extreme than I had -heard Roosevelt say with his own lips at his own luncheon table. -Needless to say, this experience did not increase my respect for the -game of politics as played in America. - -I was sent to see Charles P. Neill, labor commissioner, and James -Bronson Reynolds, a settlement worker, the two men who had been selected -to make the “secret and confidential” investigation. I talked matters -out with them, promised silence, and kept the promise. But when I got -back to Princeton, I found a letter from Chicago telling me it was known -that the President was preparing an investigation of the yards and that -the packers had men working in three shifts, day and night, cleaning -things up. I found also waiting for me a business gentleman with dollar -signs written all over him, trying to interest me in a proposition to -establish an independent packing company and market my name and -reputation to the world. This gentleman haunted my life for a month, and -before he got through he had raised his bid to three hundred thousand -dollars in stock. I have never been sure whether it was a real offer, or -a well-disguised attempt to buy me. If it was the latter, it would be -the only time in my life this had happened; I suppose I could consider -that I had been complimented. - - -XII - -Roosevelt’s commissioners asked me to go to Chicago with them; but I -have never cared to repeat any work once completed. I offered to send a -representative to put the commissioners in touch with the workers in the -yards. For this I selected two socialists whom I had come to know in the -“local” in Trenton, Ella Reeve Bloor and her husband. Mrs. Bloor had -five small children, but that never kept her from sallying forth on -behalf of the cause. She was a little woman, as tireless as a cat; the -war converted her to Bolshevism, and her five children became active -communist workers, and she herself became “Mother Bloor,” gray-haired, -but hardy, and familiar with the insides of a hundred city jails. I paid -the expenses of her and her husband for several weeks, a matter of a -thousand dollars. You will find me dropping a thousand here and a -thousand there, all through the rest of this story; I can figure up -seventy-five of them, all spent on causes--and often spent before I got -them. - -The commissioners obtained evidence of practically everything charged in -_The Jungle_, except that I was not able to produce legal proof of men -falling into vats and being rendered into pure leaf lard. There had been -several cases, but always the packers had seen to it that the widows -were returned to the old country. Even so, there was enough to make a -terrific story if it got into the newspapers. It had been Roosevelt’s -idea to reform the meat-inspection service, and put the bill through -Congress without any fuss. But the packers themselves prevented this by -their intrigues against the bill. Finally, with the tacit consent of -the commission, I put the New York _Times_ onto the track of Mr. and -Mrs. Bloor, and the whole story was on the front page next day. So -Roosevelt had to publish the report, and the truth was out. - -I moved up to New York and opened an amateur publicity office in a -couple of hotel rooms, with two secretaries working overtime. I gave -interviews and wrote statements for the press until I was dizzy, and -when I lay down to sleep at two o’clock in the morning, my brain would -go on working. It seemed to me that the walls of the mighty fortress of -greed were on the point of cracking; it needed only one push, and then -another, and another. In the end, of course, they stood without a dent; -the packers had lost a few millions, but they quickly made that up by -advertising that their products were now guaranteed pure by the new -government inspection service. A year later Mrs. Bloor went back, this -time with a reporter from the New York _Herald_. They worked in the -yards for many weeks and found all the old forms of graft untouched. -Their story was killed by James Gordon Bennett, as I have related in -_The Brass Check._ - -In the midst of all this there came to my aid a powerful voice from -abroad. The Honorable Winston Churchill, thirty-two years of age, was a -member of Parliament and a journalist with a large following. He -published a highly favorable two-part article on _The Jungle_ in an -English weekly with the odd name of P.T.O.--the initials, with the first -two reversed, of the editor and publisher, T. P. O’Connor. (Because -O’Connor was an Irishman, you say it “Tay Pay O.”) I quote the first and -last paragraphs of Churchill’s articles, which ran to more than five -thousand words. - - When I promised to write a few notes on this book for the first - number of Mr. O’Connor’s new paper, I had an object--I hoped to - make it better known. In the weeks that have passed that object has - disappeared. The book has become famous. It has arrested the eye of - a warm-hearted autocrat; it has agitated the machinery of a State - department; and having passed out of the sedate columns of the - reviewer into leading articles and “latest intelligence,” has - disturbed in the Old World and the New the digestions, and perhaps - the consciences, of mankind.... - - It is possible that this remarkable book may come to be considered - a factor in far-reaching events. The indignation of millions of - Americans has been aroused. That is a fire which has more than once - burnt with a consuming flame. There are in the Great Republic in - plentiful abundance all the moral forces necessary to such a - purging process. The issue between Capital and Labour is far more - cleanly cut to-day in the United States than in other communities - or in any other age. It may be that in the next few years we shall - be furnished with Transatlantic answers to many of the outstanding - questions of economics and sociology upon whose verge British - political parties stand in perplexity and hesitation. And that is, - after all, an additional reason why English readers should not - shrink from the malodorous recesses of Mr. Upton Sinclair’s - “Jungle.” - -In the fifty-six years that have passed, Winston Churchill has become -one of the most famous names in history. I am pleased by what he said -about my book. But I cannot help wondering if he would have written as -freely if I had dealt with the horrors I saw in the slums of London -seven years later, or of conditions in the mining towns of which I -learned from John Burns, who represented the miners in Parliament. - -I had now “arrived.” The New York _Evening World_ said, “Not since Byron -awoke one morning to find himself famous has there been such an example -of world-wide celebrity won in a day by a book as has come to Upton -Sinclair.” _The Jungle_ was being translated into seventeen languages, -and was a best seller in America and in Great Britain for six months. -Photographers and reporters journeyed to Princeton, hired hacks and -drove out to my farm, and the neighbors who had been selling me rusty -machinery and broken-down mules suddenly discovered that I had “put them -on the map.” Editors wrote or telegraphed commissions, and I was free to -name my own price. My friend William Dinwiddie, sent by the New York -_Evening World_ to get me to write something for them, first got me to -sign a contract at five cents a word, and then said: “Sinclair, the -first thing you need to learn is to charge.” So I doubled my price to -the next paper--and might just as well have quadrupled it. - -How did it feel to be famous? I can truly say that it meant little to me -personally. I got few thrills. I had suffered too much and overstrained -whatever it is that experiences thrills. If I had been thinking about my -own desires, I would have taken the first train to the wilderness and -never come back to crowds and excitement; but I stayed, because “fame” -meant that newspapers and magazines would print a little bit of what I -wanted to say, and by this means the wage slaves in the giant industries -of America would hear some words in their own interest. - - -XIII - -In the third chapter of this narrative, I mentioned one “Jonesy,” a city -inspector of fruit who was the hero of “Jerome’s lemon story.” I -promised to tell another tale about this Jonesy, and here is the place -where it comes in. - -I had made some examination of the slaughterhouses in and near New York, -and stated in a newspaper article that conditions in them were no better -than in Chicago. This aroused the head of New York City’s health -department, who denounced me as a “muckraker,” and challenged me to -produce evidence of my charges. The reporters came on the run; and to -one of them, who happened to be a friend, I made a laughing remark: “It -happens that I know a certain inspector of fruit, a subordinate of the -health commissioner’s, who manages to keep a motorcar and a mistress on -a salary of a couple of thousand dollars a year. How do you suppose he -does it?” The remark was not meant for publication, but it appeared in -next morning’s paper. - -At about ten o’clock that evening, a reporter called me on the phone at -my hotel. Said he: “I want to give you a tip. The commissioner is taking -you up on that statement about the city fruit inspector who keeps a -motorcar and a mistress. He knows who the man is, of course, but he -figures that you won’t dare to name him because he’s a friend of your -family’s. So he is writing you a letter, calling you a liar, and daring -you to name the man. He has sent the letter to the papers, and I have a -copy of it.” - -There was a pretty kettle of fish! As matters actually stood, I had no -legal evidence of Jonesy’s graft--only the word of Jonesy s family, the -frequent family jokes. It would have been awkward to name him--but still -more awkward to let a Tammany politician, who happened to be Jonesy’s -boon companion, destroy the work I was trying to do. - -I called Jonesy’s home on the phone, and his wife--whom I knew--told me -he was out. I tried his club, and several other places, and finally -called the wife again. I explained that it was a matter of the greatest -urgency and that I could think of only one thing to do: would she please -give me the telephone number of her husband’s mistress? - -So at last I got my victim on the phone and spoke as follows: “The -commissioner has sent to the newspapers a letter challenging me to name -the fruit inspector who is a grafter. I didn’t intend for this to be -published, and I’m sorry it happened, but I refuse to let the -commissioner brand me before the public and destroy my work. If his -challenge is published, I shall name you.” - -The tones of Jonesy were what in my dime novels I had been wont to -describe as “icy.” Said he: “I suppose you know there are libel laws in -this country.” Said I: “That’s my lookout. I think I know where I can -get the proofs if I have to. I’m telling you in advance so that you may -stop the commissioner. Call him at once and tell him that if that letter -is published, I shall name you, and name him as your friend and crony.” - -What happened after that I never heard. I only know that the letter did -not appear in any New York newspaper. - - -XIV - -Roosevelt sent me a message by Frank Doubleday: “Tell Sinclair to go -home and let me run the country for a while.” But I did not accept the -advice. I broached to _Everybody’s Magazine_ the idea of a series of -articles exposing the conditions under which children worked in -industry. They thought this a promising idea and agreed to use a series -of eight or ten such articles. Alas, being new at the game, I omitted to -tie them down with a contract. I took Mrs. Bloor and went down to the -glass factories of southern New Jersey in the heat of midsummer, and I -spent my time watching little boys of ten and twelve working all night -in front of red-hot furnaces. One story I remember: an exhausted child -staggering home at daybreak, falling asleep on the railroad tracks, and -being run over by a train. I lived in the homes of these workers, I -talked with them and ate their food, and in later years I put some of -them into my books. Always the critics say--without knowing anything -about it--that I “idealize” these characters. I can only say that if -there is any finer type in the world than the humble workingman who has -adopted brotherhood as his religion and sacrifices his time and money -and often his job for his faith, I have not encountered it. - -I went next to the Allegheny steel country, the real headquarters of -American wage slavery in those old days. What I wrote horrified -_Everybody’s_, and they changed their minds about my series. So I had to -rest, whether I would or not. - -It was high time; for one of my teeth became ulcerated, and I had a -painful time, wandering about the city of Trenton on a Sunday, trying in -vain to find a dentist. After two nights of suffering I went to a -dentist in New York, had the tooth drilled through, and for the first -time in my life nearly fainted. Afterward I staggered out, went into the -first hotel I saw, and got a room and fell on the bed. It happened to be -a fashionable hotel, and this gave great glee to the newspapers, which -were pleased to discover signs of leisure-class follies in a socialist. - -There is a saying among women that every child costs a tooth. With me it -read: every crusade costs a tooth. Of course this wasn’t necessary; it -was not merely overwork but ignorance of diet, the eating of white flour -and sugar and other denatured foods, and pouring into the drain pipe the -mineral salts from fruits and vegetables. But I did not know anything -about all this; my college education, which had left out socialism, and -money, and love and marriage, had also left out diet and health. Instead -of such things, I had learned what a _hapax legomenon_ is, and a _pons -asinorum_, and a _glyptocrinus decadactylus_--and was proud of -possessing such wisdom. - -Another activity during that summer and autumn of 1906 was an effort to -turn _The Jungle_ into a play. Arch and Edgar Selwyn were playbrokers at -this time and suggested Edgar’s wife as my collaborator. Margaret Mayo -afterward wrote a highly successful farce-comedy, _Baby Mine_, but _The -Jungle_ was something different, and I fear we made a poor -dramatization. We had a manager who was thinking of nothing but making -money, and some slapstick comedians put in dubious jokes that I, in my -innocence, did not recognize until I heard the gallery tittering. The -play came to New York for six weeks and lost money--or so I was told by -the managers, with whom I had invested three thousand dollars. - -Concerning _The Jungle_ I wrote that “I aimed at the public’s heart, and -by accident I hit it in the stomach.” I helped to clean up the yards and -improve the country’s meat supply. Now the workers have strong unions -and, I hope, are able to look out for themselves. - - - - -_6_ - -_Utopia_ - - -I - -Three winters spent upon an isolated farm had taken all the romance out -of the back-to-nature life for a young author. The roads were either -deep with mud or cut with the tracks of sleighs, so that the only place -to walk was up and down in a field, along the lee side of a fence. Also, -four summers had taken the romance out of agriculture as an avocation -for a literary man. The cows broke into the pear orchard and stuffed -themselves and died; the farmhands who were brought from the city got -drunk and sold the farm produce for their own benefit. “Away from -nature!” became the slogan. - -The young writer, who had been close to starving for the past five or -six years, now had thirty thousand dollars, in hand or on the way, and -it was burning holes in all his pockets. He had never heard of such a -thing as investing money, and would have considered it an immoral thing -to contemplate. He wanted to spend his money for the uplifting of -mankind, and it was characteristic of him that even in the matter of -getting a home he tried to combine it with the solving of a social -problem, and with setting an example to his fellowmen. - -As a socialist Thyrsis of course believed in co-operation, and regarded -the home as the most ancient relic of individualism. Every person had, -or sought to have, his own home, and there lived his own little selfish -life, wasteful, extravagant, and reactionary. It did not occur to -Thyrsis that not every home might be as unhappy as his own; if anyone -had suggested the idea to him, he would have said that no one should be -happy in a backward way of life, and he would have tried to make them -unhappy by his arguments. - -His plan was to establish a co-operative home, to demonstrate its -practicability and the wider opportunities it would bring. There was -nothing revolutionary about this idea; it was being practiced in many -parts of America--only people were doing it without realizing what they -were doing. Up in the Adirondacks were clubs where people owned the land -in common and built individual cabins, or rented them from the club, and -had a common kitchen and dining room; they ran their affairs, as all -clubs are run, on a basis of equality and democracy. Only the members -didn’t use these radical phrases and made no stir in the newspapers. - -Thyrsis, for his part, had to make a stir in the papers, else how could -he find anybody to go into a club with him? He knew but few persons, and -only two or three of these were ready for the experiment. How could -others be found? It might have been done by personal inquiry, but that -would have been a slow process; when Thyrsis wanted anything, he wanted -it at once. Being a modern, up-to-date American, he shared the idea that -the way to get something was to advertise. So he wrote an article for -the _Independent_ (June 4, 1906), outlining his plan for a “home colony” -and asking to hear from all persons who were interested. Soon afterward -he rented a hall, and announced in the newspapers that a series of -discussion and organization meetings would be held. - - -II - -Many persons came; some of them serious, some of them cranks, some of -them both. The process of sorting them out was a difficult one, and was -not accomplished without heart-burning. There is no standard test for -cranks, and there were some with whom Thyrsis could have got along well -enough but who were not acceptable to the rest of the group. There were -some who quietly withdrew--having perhaps decided that Thyrsis was a -crank. - -Anyhow, the new organization came into being. A company was formed, -stock issued, and the world was invited to invest. In this, as in other -reform schemes, Thyrsis found that it was possible to raise about one -tenth of the money, and necessary to put up the rest out of one’s own -pocket. A search was begun for a suitable building; and real-estate -agents came swarming, and broken-down hotels were inspected and found -unsuitable. Finally there came better tidings; some members of the -committee had stumbled upon a place with the poetical name of Helicon -Hall. - -It stood on the heights behind the Palisades, overlooking Englewood, New -Jersey, just above the Fort Lee ferry from New York. It had been a boys’ -school, and there was a beautiful building planned by an -aesthetic-minded pedagogue who hoped that boys could be civilized by -living in dignified surroundings and by wearing dress suits every -evening for dinner. There were two or three acres of land, and the price -was $36,000, all but ten thousand on mortgage. Thyrsis, of course, knew -nothing about real estate, what it was worth, or how one bought it; but -the sellers were willing to teach him, and in a day or two the deal was -made. - -So, from November 1, 1906, to March 7, 1907 (at three o’clock in the -morning, to be precise), the young dreamer of Utopia lived according to -his dreams. Not exactly, of course, for nothing ever turns out as one -plans. There were troubles, as in all human affairs. There was a time -when the co-operative mothers of the Helicon Home Colony charged that -the head of the children’s department had permitted the toothbrushes to -get mixed up; there was a time when the manager in charge of supplies -forgot the lemons, and it was necessary for Thyrsis to drive to town and -get some in a hurry. But in what home can a writer escape such problems? - - -III - -The most obvious success was with the children. There were fourteen in -the colony, and the care they received proved not merely the economics -of co-operation but also its morals; our children lived a social life -and learned to respect the rights of others, which does not always -happen in an individual home. There was a good-sized theater in the -building, and this became the children’s separate world. They did most -of their own work and enjoyed it; they had their meals in a dining room -of their own, with chairs and tables that fitted them, food that agreed -with them and was served at proper hours. Now and then they assembled in -a children’s parliament and discussed their problems, deciding what was -right and what wrong for them. There was a story of a three-year-old -popping up with “All in favor say aye!” - -There was one full-time employee in this children’s department, the rest -of the time being contributed by the various mothers at an agreed rate -of compensation. Many persons had laughed at the idea that mothers could -co-operate in the care of children, but as a matter of fact our mothers -did it without serious trouble. There were different ideas; we had some -believers in “libertarian” education, but when it came to the actual -working out of theories from day to day, we found that everyone wanted -the children to have no more freedom than was consistent with the -happiness and peace of others. - -I recall only one parent who was permanently dissatisfied. This was a -completely respectable and antisocialistic lady from Tennessee, the wife -of a surgeon, who was sure that her darlings had to have hot bread every -day. So she exercised her right to take them to an individual home. She -also took her husband, and the husband, in departing, tried to take our -dining room maid as his mistress, but without success. This, needless to -say, occasioned sarcastic remarks among our colonists as to socialist -versus capitalist “free love.” - -It was generally taken for granted among the newspapermen of New York -that the purpose for which I had started this colony was to have plenty -of mistresses handy. They wrote us up on that basis--not in plain words, -for that would have been libel--but by innuendo easily understood. So it -was with our socialist colony as with the old-time New England -colonies--there were Indians hiding in the bushes, seeking to pierce us -with sharp arrows of wit. Reporters came in disguise, and went off and -wrote false reports; others came as guests, and went off and ridiculed -us because we had beans for lunch. - -I do not know of any assemblage of forty adult persons where a higher -standard of sexual morals prevailed than at Helicon Hall. Our colonists -were for the most part young literary couples who had one or two -children and did not know how to fit them into the literary life; in -short, they were persons with the same problem as myself. Professor W. -P. Montague, of Columbia, had two boys, and his wife was studying to be -a doctor of medicine. Maybe, as the old-fashioned moralists argued, she -ought to have stayed at home and taken care of her children; but the -fact was that she wouldn’t, and found it better to leave the children in -care of her fellow colonists than with an ignorant servant. - -But it was hard on Montague when persons came as guests, attended our -Saturday-night dances, and went off and described him dancing with the -dining-room girl. It happened that this was a perfectly respectable girl -from Ireland who had been a servant at our farm for a year or two; she -was quiet and friendly and liked by everybody. Since none of the colony -workers were treated as social inferiors, Minnie danced with everybody -else and had a good time; but it didn’t look so harmless in the New York -gutter press, and when Montague went to Barnard to lecture the young -ladies on philosophy, he was conscious of stern watchfulness on the part -of the lady dean of that exclusive institution. Minnie, now many times a -grandmother, lives in Berkeley, California, and writes to me now and -then. - -Montague came to us innocent of social theories and even of knowledge. -But presently he found himself backed up against our four-sided -fireplace, assailed by ferocious bands of socialists, anarchists, -syndicalists, and single taxers. We could not discover that we made any -dent in his armor; but presently came rumors that in the Faculty Club of -Columbia, where he ate his lunch, he was being denounced as a “red” and -finding himself backed up against the wall by ferocious bands of -Republicans, Democrats, and Goo-goos (members of the Good Government -League). Of course the palest pink in Helicon Hall would have seemed -flaming red in Columbia. - - -IV - -There were Professor William Noyes, of Teacher’s College, and his wife, -Anna, who afterward conducted a private school. There were Edwin -Björkman, critic, and translator of Strindberg, and his wife, Frances -Maule, a suffrage worker. There were Alice MacGowan and Grace MacGowan -Cooke, novelists. There was Michael Williams, a young writer, who became -editor of the _Commonweal_, the Catholic weekly. I count a total of a -dozen colonists who were, or afterward became, well-known writers. - -There came to tend our furnaces and do odd jobs two runaway students -from Yale named Sinclair Lewis and Allan Updegraff; we educated them a -lot better than Yale would have done you may be sure. “Hal” and “Up” -both wrote novels, but Up was better known as a poet. Hal became the -most successful novelist of his time. When he came to Helicon Hall, he -was very young, eager, bursting with energy and hope. He later married -my secretary at the colony, Edith Summers, a golden-haired and shrewdly -observant young person whose gentle voice and unassuming ways gave us no -idea of her talent. She eventually became Mrs. Edith Summers Kelly, -author of the novel _Weeds_; and after the tumult and shouting have -died, this is one of the books that students will be told to read as -they are now told to read _Evangeline_ and _Hermonn and Dorothea_. I -corresponded with Hal Lewis to the end of his life, but I saw him only -once in his later years--sad ones, ruined by alcohol. - -We had a rule among our busy workers that nobody came to any other -person’s room except by invitation; so everyone had all the privacy he -wanted. When your work was done, and you felt like conversation, there -was always someone by the four-sided fireplace or in the billiard room. -In the evenings there were visitors, interesting persons from many parts -of the world. John Dewey came occasionally, as the guest of Montague. -Dewey was perhaps the best-known professor at Columbia in my time, and -he exercised tremendous influence upon American education, though his -ideas have often been misunderstood to the point of caricature. -Personally, he was a most kind and gracious gentleman. Another visitor -was William James, who was perhaps the greatest of American -psychologists and certainly the ablest of that time. He was open-minded -and eager in the investigation of psychic phenomena, and I remember -vividly sitting with him at a table watching an old lady with a ouija -board. I had never seen this object before, but the old lady held it for -a good and trusted friend. She held a pencil or pen in her hand and went -into a sort of trance, while some force moved her hand over the board -from letter to letter. In Dewey’s presence her hand moved and spelled -out the sentence “Providence child has been carried to bed.” We took -this sentence to our faithful member named Randall, who owned a small -business in Providence, Rhode Island, and had a wife and child there. He -went to the telephone immediately and was told that the child was ill -with pneumonia. - -Another guest I remember was John Coryell, an anarchist, who earned his -living in the strangest way--he was Bertha M. Clay, author of the -sentimental romances that all servant maids then read, and may still -read. Sadakichi Hartmann, the art critic came and was one of the few who -were not welcome; he sent a postcard in advance, “Sadakichi Hartmann -will arrive at six P.M.” and there he was, on time, but unfortunately -drunk, and his companion, Jo Davidson, the sculptor, was not able to -control him. When the time came for departure, he didn’t want to depart -but insisted on sleeping on the cushioned seats in front of our -fireplace. We had to turn him out in the snow, and the next day he wrote -a letter to the papers about us, and there was quite a furor. - -During these months at the colony I wrote _The Industrial Republic_, a -prophecy of socialism in America. I have never reprinted this book -because of the embarrassing fact that I had prophesied Hearst as a -radical president of the United States. He really looked like a radical -then, and I was too naïve to imagine the depths of his cynicism and -depravity. When in the effort to become governor of New York he made a -deal with Tom Murphy, the boss of Tammany, whom he had previously -cartooned in prison stripes, I wanted to tear up my book. Incidentally, -I had prophesied socialism in America in the year 1913; instead we had -two world wars and the Russian Revolution--and I fear that more world -wars and more revolutions stand between us and a truly democratic and -free society. The world is even worse than I was able to realize; but I -still cling to my faith in the methods of democracy. - - -V - -The Helicon Home Colony came to an end abruptly, at three o’clock on a -Sunday morning. The first warning I received of its doom was a sound as -of enormous hammers smashing in the doors of the building. I was told -afterward that it was super-heated air in plastered walls, blowing out -sections of the walls. I smelled smoke and leaped out of bed. - -My sleeping room was in a tower, and I had to go down a ladder to my -study below; there was a door, leading to a balcony, which ran all the -way around the inside of a court, three stories above the ground. I -opened the door, and a mass of black smoke hit me--it seemed really -solid, with heavy black flakes of soot. I shouted fire, and ran out on -the balcony and up to the front, where there was a studio made over into -sleeping quarters for eight or ten of our colony workers. I ran through -this place, shouting to awaken the sleepers, but got no response; -apparently everybody had got out--without stopping to warn me! The next -day, I learned that one man had been left behind--a stranger who had -been working for us as a carpenter; he had been drinking the night -before and paid for it with his life. - -When I came back from the studio to the balcony, the flames were -sweeping over it in a furious blast. If I live to be a hundred, I shall -never forget that sensation; it was like a demon hand sweeping over -me--it took all the hair from one side of my head and a part of my -nightshirt. I escaped by crouching against the wall, stooping low, and -running fast. Fortunately the stairs were not yet in flames, so I got -down into the central court, which was full of broken glass and burning -brands, not very kind to my bare feet. I ran to the children’s quarters -and made sure they were all out; then I ran outside, and tried to stop -the fall of two ladies who had to jump from windows of the second story. -Harder to stop the fall of human bodies than I would have imagined! - -We stood in the snow and watched our beautiful utopia flame and roar, -until it crashed in and died away to a dull glow. Then we went into the -homes of our fashionable neighbors, who hadn’t known quite what to make -of us in our success but were kind to us in our failure. They fitted us -out with their old clothes--for hardly anyone had saved a stitch. I had -the soles of my feet cleaned out by a surgeon, and was driven to New -York to stay with my friends, the Wilshires, for a couple of days. An -odd sensation, to realize that you do not own even a comb or a -tooth-brush--only half a nightshirt! Some manuscripts were in the hands -of publishers, so I was more fortunate than others of my friends. - -Two or three days later I was driven back to Englewood to attend, on -crutches, the sessions of the coroner’s jury. So I learned what the -outside world had been thinking about our little utopia. They not only -thought it a “free-love nest,” but the village horse doctor on the jury -thought we had set fire to it ourselves, to get the insurance. Also, and -worse yet, they thought we had arranged our affairs in such a way that -we could beat the local tradesmen out of the money we owed them. It was -a matter for suspicion that we had got ropes, to serve as fire escapes, -shortly before the fire; they blamed us for this, and at the same time -they blamed us because we had made insufficient preparations--although -they had made no objection to the same conditions existing in a boys’ -school for many years. In short, we did not please them in any way, and -everything they said or insinuated went on to the front pages of the -yellow newspapers of the country. - -Every dollar of the debts of the Helicon Home Colony was paid as soon as -my feet got well, which was in a week or two. Likewise all those persons -who were left destitute were aided. I bought myself new clothes and -looked around to decide what to do next. If I had had the cash on hand, -I would have started the rebuilding of Helicon Hall at once; but we had -long negotiations with insurance companies before us, and in the -meantime I wanted to write another novel. I took my family to Point -Pleasant, New Jersey, rented a little cottage, and went back to the -single-family mode of life. It was like leaving modern civilization and -returning to the dark ages. I felt that way about it for a long time, -and made efforts at another colony in spite of a constantly increasing -load of handicaps. - - -VI - -We employed an honest lawyer and made an honest statement of the value -of our property. The insurance companies then cut it by one third and -told us that if we were not satisfied, we could sue, which would mean -waiting several years for our money. I learned too late that this is -their regular practice; to meet it, you double the value of your claim. -You must have a _dis_honest lawyer. - -We could not afford to wait, for many persons were in distress, and I -was unwilling to see them suffer even though they had no legal claim -upon me or the company. We settled the insurance matters and sold the -land for what it would bring; after the mortgage holders were paid, I -had a few thousand dollars left from the thirty thousand _The Jungle_ -had earned. My friend Wilshire was in trouble with his gold mine just -then, and as he had loaned me money several times, I now loaned some to -him; that is, I invested it in his mine, and he wrote me a letter -agreeing to return it on demand. But his affairs thereafter were in such -shape that I never did demand it. And that was the end of my first -“fortune.” - -However, I did not worry; I was going to make another at once--so I -thought. Having portrayed the workers of America and how they lived, I -was now going to the opposite end of the scale--to portray the rich, and -how they lived. There had come many invitations to meet these rich; -there were intelligent ones among them, like “Robbie” Collier, Mrs. -“Clarrie” Mackay, and Mrs. “Ollie” Belmont; there were some who were -moved by curiosity and boredom, and some even with a touch of mischief. -The suggestion that I should write _The Metropolis_ came first from a -lady whose social position was impregnable; she offered me help and kept -her promise, and all I had to do in return was to promise never to -mention her name. - -I refer to this matter because, in the storm of denouncement that -greeted _The Metropolis_, the critics declared that it was less easy to -find out about “society” than about the stockyards. But the truth is -that I had not the slightest trouble in going among New York’s smart set -at this time. Many authors had stepped up the golden ladder, and my feet -were on it. My radical talk didn’t hurt me seriously; it was a novelty, -and the rich--especially the young ones--object to nothing but boredom. -Also there are some of the rich who have social consciences, and are -aware that they have not earned what they are consuming. You will meet a -number of such persons in the course of this story. - -The reason why _The Metropolis_ is a poor book is not that I did not -have the material but that I had too much. Also, I wrote it in a hurry, -under most unhappy circumstances. The career of a novelist is enough for -one man, and founding colonies and starting reform organizations and -conducting political campaigns had better be left to persons of tougher -fiber. It took me thirty years to learn that lesson thoroughly; meantime -I lost the reading public that _The Jungle_ had brought me. - -I did my writing about smart society in a shack that had walls full of -bedbugs. I made cyanogen gas, a procedure almost as perilous to me as to -the bugs. I worked through the spring and summer, and when the New York -_Herald_ offered me my own price to make another investigation of the -stockyards, I resisted the temptation and turned the job over to Ella -Reeve Bloor. The result was a great story “killed,” as I have previously -mentioned. - -I was having my customary indigestion and headaches, the symptoms of -overwork that I would not heed. Also, in the middle of the summer, -Corydon suffered an attack of appendicitis that very nearly ended the -troubles between us. A country doctor diagnosed her illness as -menstrual, and when, after several days, I called a surgeon from New -York, he said it was too late to operate. So there lay my youthful dream -of happiness, at the gates of death for a week or two. I had then an -experience that taught me something about the powers of suggestion, -which are so close to magical; I saved Corydon’s life, and she knew it, -and told me so afterward. - -I literally pulled her back through those gates of death. She was lying -in a semistupor, completely worn out by pain that had lasted more than a -week; she had given up, when she heard my voice. I did not pray for -her--I did not know how to do that--but I prayed to her, urging her to -live, to keep holding on; and that voice came to her as something -commanding, stirring new energies in her soul. When modern -psychotherapists state that we die because we want to die, I understand -exactly what they mean. - -Corydon was taken to the Battle Creek Sanitarium to recuperate, -accompanied by her mother and an elderly surgeon friend. How easy it is -for human beings to accumulate needs! Four summers back Corydon and -Thyrsis had lived with their baby in a tent in the woods and had thought -themselves fortunate to have an income of thirty dollars a month assured -them; but now Corydon needed sixty dollars a week to stay at a -leisure-class health resort, and half as much for her mother’s board, -and a private physician into the bargain. The child had to have a -nursemaid, and a relative to take care of him in the Point Pleasant -cottage; while the father had to flee to the Adirondack wilderness to -get away from the worry and strain of it all! Such is success in -America, the land of unlimited possibilities. - - -VII - -To one of the most remote lakes in the Adirondacks I portaged a canoe, -found a deserted open camp, stowed my duffle, and set to work to finish -_The Metropolis_. My only companions were bluejays and squirrels by day, -and a large stout porcupine by night. I lived on rice, beans, prunes, -bacon, and fish--no fresh fruit or vegetables--and wondered why I -suffered from constipation and headaches. I was beginning to grope -around in the field of diet reform and decided that beans, rice, and -prunes were not the solution to my problem! - -To the lake came a party of young people, a dozen of them, evidently -wealthy, with guides and expensive paraphernalia. They had a campfire -down the shore and sang songs at night, and the lonely writer would -paddle by and listen in the darkness, and think about his sick wife, who -also sang. Then one afternoon several of the young men came calling; one -of the party had got into a bee’s nest and was badly stung. Did I have -anything to help? They invited me to join them at their campfire. I did -so, and met a jolly party, and chatted with several pretty girls. One -of them, sitting next to me, asked what I did, and I admitted that I -wrote books. That always interests people; they think it is romantic to -be a writer--not knowing about the constipation and the headaches. - -I always tried to avoid giving my name, because I had come to know all -possible things that people would say to the author of _The Jungle_. But -these people asked the name, and when I gave it, I became aware of some -kind of situation; there was laughing and teasing, and finally I learned -what I had blundered into--the girl at my side was a daughter of the -head of J. Ogden Armour’s legal staff! - -We fought our battles over again, and I learned, either from this girl -or from someone in the party, that Mr. Armour had been shut up with his -lawyers for the greater part of three days and nights, insisting upon -having me indicted for criminal libel, and hearing the lawyers argue -that he could not “stand the gaff.” I suppose that must have happened in -more than one office since I started my attack on American big business. -The secret is this: you must be sure that the criminal has committed -worse crimes than the ones you reveal. I have been sued for libel only -once in my life, and that was when an eccentric lady pacifist named -Rosika Schwimmer took exception to my playful account of her activities; -this incident I will tell about later. - -_The Metropolis_ was done, and the manuscript shipped off to Doubleday, -Page and Company. Meantime I went over into Keene Valley and paid a -visit of a week or two to Prestonia Mann Martin, wealthy utopian, who -for many years had turned her Adirondack camp into a place of summer -discussions--incidentally making her guests practice co-operation in -kitchen and laundry. Her husband was an Englishman, one of the founders -of the Fabian Society. When I met them, they were both on the way toward -reaction; Prestonia was writing a book to prove that we had made no -progress in civilization since the Greeks. - -Both she and her husband became good, old-fashioned tories; the last -time I met him was just before World War I, and we got into an argument -over the results to be expected from woman suffrage. “Anyhow,” said he, -“it’s not worth bothering about, because neither you nor I will ever see -it.” I offered to wager that he would see it in New York State within -ten years, and John Martin thought that was the funniest idea he had -ever heard. But he saw it in about five years. - -At this camp was James Graham Stokes, then president of our -Intercollegiate Socialist Society. World War I came, and he began -drilling a regiment in one of the New York armories, preparing to kill -any of his former comrades who might attempt an uprising. His wife, Rose -Pastor, at one time a cigar worker in New York, had tried with gentle -patience to fit herself into the leisure-class world. When the war came, -she gave it up and became a Bolshevik, and her marriage went to wreck. - -Also at the camp was Harriet Stanton Blatch, suffragist, and Edward E. -Slosson, whom I had met as one of the editors of the _Independent_. He -became a well-known popularizer of science and started the Science -Service. We had much to argue about. - - -VIII - -Doubleday, Page and Company declined _The Metropolis_. They said it -wasn’t a novel at all and urged me to take a year to rewrite it. I had -further sessions with Walter H. Page and observed that amiable gentleman -again believing what other people told him. The bright young men in his -business office were certain that New York society wasn’t as bad as I -portrayed it; when I told them what I knew, I observed a certain chill. -I attributed it to the fact that their magazine, the _World’s Work_, was -edited and published in New York, and its revenue came from the -advertising of banks and trust companies that I exposed in my book. It -was one thing to tell about graft in Chicago, a thousand miles away, and -another to tell about it in one’s own financial family. Doubleday, Page -had made a fortune out of _The Jungle_ and used it to become rich and -reactionary. I bade them a sad farewell. - -The _American Magazine_, then owned and run by reformers, read the -manuscript and agreed to feature parts of it as a serial. I left the -book manuscript with Moffat, Yard and Company, and went out to join my -wife at the Battle Creek Sanitarium. I stayed there for three weeks or -so and tried their cure. I listened to Dr. W. K. Kellogg set forth the -horrors of a carnivorous diet, and as a result I tried vegetarianism -for the next three years. I felt better while I was taking treatments at -the “San,” so I thought I had solved my problem of how to overwork with -impunity. - -Michael Williams, one of our Helicon Hall colonists, now out of a job, -came out to the “San” to write it up for some magazine, and he and I saw -a great deal of each other at this time. Mike was a Canadian of Welsh -descent who had had a hard life, beginning as porter in a big department -store, and contracting both tuberculosis and the drink habit. He had -cured himself of the latter and was trying to cure himself of the former -by Battle Creek methods. Incidentally, he was an ardent socialist, and a -writer of no little talent; I thought he would serve the cause and was -glad to help him. We devised a brilliant scheme for a vacation and a -book combined; we would get a couple of covered wagons and take our two -families across the continent on a tour, living the outdoor life and -seeing America close at hand. A “literary caravan” we would call it, -“Utopia on the Trek.” The _American Magazine_ fell violently for the -idea and promised to make a serial out of our adventures. - -But that was a summer plan, and it was now November. We decided to take -our families to Bermuda for the winter, and there write a book about our -health experiences. Moffat, Yard were very keen about _The Metropolis_ -and its prospects; I, remembering the advice of my newspaper friend that -I should “learn to charge,” extracted an advance of five thousand -dollars on royalty account. So the path of life stretched rosy before -Mike and me. We would have a two-family utopia amid the coral reefs of -Bermuda; I would pay the bills, and Mike would repay me out of his -future earnings. “It will be a debt of honor,” he said, proudly, and -repeated it every now and then. - -We went to New York, the first stage of our journey, just in the wake of -a great event. Wall Street had been in the midst of a frenzy of -speculation, but “somebody asked for a dollar,” and there was the panic -of 1907. I have told in _The Brass Check_ the peculiar circumstances -under which I came to get the inside story of this event. Suffice it -here to say that I had the biggest news story ever sprung in America, -certainly at any rate in my time. I was able not merely to charge but to -prove that the elder Morgan had deliberately brought on that panic as a -means of putting the independent trust companies out of business. The -_American Magazine_ editors wanted the story and signed a contract for -it, but in the course of two or three weeks they got cold feet and -begged me to let them off, which I did. - - -IX - -Behold Mike and me in a fairyland set with jewels, in the remotest part -of the Bermudas, far from the maddening crowd of tourists. The house is -white limestone, set upon a rocky shore overlooking a little bay, behind -which the sun sets every evening. Out on a point in front of us stands -an old ruin of a mansion, deserted, but having a marvelous mahogany -staircase inside so that we can assure the children it was once the home -of a pirate chief. The water is brilliant azure, shading to emerald in -the shallows; over it flies the man-o’-war bird, snow-white, with a long -white feather trailing like a pennant. The sun shines nearly always. -There is a tennis court, surrounded by a towering hedge of oleanders in -perpetual blossom. There are roses, and a garden in which a colored boy -raises our vegetarian vegetables. The house is wide and rambling, with -enough verandas so that both halves of this two-family utopia can sleep -outdoors. - -Mike is working on his autobiographical novel--it was published under -the title of _The High Romance_. I am writing _The Millennium_, a play, -and we write our health book together--I won’t tell you the name of -that, having changed my ideas to some extent. I have brought a secretary -with me, and Mike has half her time, the salary being added to that -“debt of honor” of which we keep a careful account. There is a Swedish -governess who takes care of my son and the two Williams children -impartially; also Mike’s wife has an elderly friend to assist her. There -is Minnie to do the housework for all of us--Irish Minnie who danced -with the college professors at Helicon Hall. Our utopia contains a total -of twelve persons, and my five thousand dollars exactly suffices for the -fares and the six months’ expenses. - -Then _The Metropolis_ is published and sells eighteen thousand copies, -barely justifying the advance; so there are no more royalties, and I am -stuck in a strange land, without money to get the family home! Mike -volunteers to go to New York and find a publisher for the health book, -our common property; he will get an advance and remit me half. He goes, -and places the book with the Frederick A. Stokes Company; he collects an -advance and puts it all into his own pocket--and I am stuck again! - -I borrow money from somebody and come home. Mike and his family go to -California, and he takes up his old drinking habits and gets another -hemorrhage; the next thing I hear, he has sought refuge in the religion -of his childhood. He told all that in _The High Romance_; Saint Theresa -came to him, and proved her presence by making him smell a rose as he -was walking down the street. That was a miracle, and by it Mike knew he -was one of the elect. That any hypnotist could have worked a hundred -such miracles--could have caused Mike to smell all the flowers that -bloom in the spring, tra-la-la--that had nothing to do with the case. - - -X - -So ended my attempt to raise up and train a new socialist writer. It is -an ugly story to tell on a man--the only mean story in this amiable -book, you may note. Nothing could hire me to tell it--except for a later -development, which you have still to hear. - -Ten years passed, and Mike was all but forgotten. I started a magazine -and in it published _The Profits of Religion_, dealing with the churches -by the method of economic interpretation. Mike, being now a champion of -Roman Catholicism--his publishers were introducing him as “one of the -most influential lay Catholics of America”--sallied forth to destroy my -book. That was all right; I grant every man a right to disagree with -me--the more the merrier, it is all advertising. But Mike found his task -difficult, for the reason that my statements in _The Profits of -Religion_ are derived from Catholic sources--devotional works, papal -decrees, pastoral letters, editorials in church papers--everything with -the holy imprimatur, _nihil obstat_. - -So, instead of attacking the book, Mike chose to attack its author. He -accused me of being a writer for gain, and headed his review with the -title “A Prophet for Profit”! I have heard that charge many times, but -it did seem to me there was one person in America who was barred from -making it--and that was my old friend and pensioner, Michael Williams. -Since he made it, and published it, it seems to me that the consequences -are upon his own head. And that is why I tell the story here. I never -saw him again, and never will--for he is dead. - - -XI - -The satiric comedy _The Millennium_, which I had in my suitcase, made a -hit with the leading stage impresario of that time, David Belasco. He -agreed to produce it on an elaborate scale in the course of the coming -winter. He was fighting the “trust” and had two big theaters in New -York, where he put on two big productions every year. But after keeping -me waiting for a year, and making many promises, he suddenly made peace -with his enemies; he then wanted small shows that could be put on the -road, so he threw over _The Millennium_ and produced _The Easiest Way_, -by Eugene Walter, which had only eight characters. So vanished one more -of those dreams that haunted me for ten years or more--earning a lot of -money and starting another colony. - -I got an advance from a publisher, and took my family to Lake Placid in -the Adirondacks, rented a little camp, and settled down to the task of -weaving into a novel my story of how the elder J. P. Morgan had caused -the panic of the previous autumn. _The Moneychangers_ was the title. It -was to be a sequel to _The Metropolis_. I was planning a trilogy to -replace the one that had died with _Manassas_. My plans were still -grandiloquent. - -When I was gathering material for the book, Lincoln Steffens introduced -me to two of my most valuable informants: Samuel Untermyer and James B. -Dill. Dill had been the most highly paid corporation lawyer in Wall -Street, and had recently been appointed Chief Justice of the Supreme -Court in New Jersey. So he was free and could talk; and the stories he -told me you wouldn’t believe. I will tell only one. He took me out to -his home in New Jersey to spend the night, and when we came into the -dining room, he said, “Make a note of this table and that window with -the double French doors, I will tell you a story about them.” - -This was the story. There was a lawsuit involving several million -dollars, and Dill came into possession of a document that would decide -the case. He wanted to make certain that this document could not be -stolen. He was certain that a desperate attempt would be made to steal -it, so he put two or three typists to work all day, and they made a -total of twenty-one copies; he sent his office employees out to rent -safe-deposit boxes in various banks in and around Wall Street. He sealed -the copies in twenty-one envelopes, and one of them contained the -original document. He alone knew which bank got the original. He took -one of the copies out to his home that evening and said to his butler, -“The house will be burglarized tonight, but don’t pay any attention to -it. I want them to get what they come for.” - -He set the sealed envelope on the corner of his dining-room table; sure -enough, the next morning he found that the French windows had been -opened and the envelope taken. - -When he reached his office in the morning he called up the firm of the -other side in the case and said, “By now you know what we have; our -terms are two and one-half million dollars”--or whatever the amount -was--and they settled on that basis. I used the story in one of my -novels and, of course, everybody said it was preposterous; but it was -told to me by James B. Dill. - -_The Moneychangers_ did not come up to my hopes, mainly because of the -unhappy situation in which I was living. My health made continuous -application impossible. I beg the reader’s pardon for referring to these -matters, but they are a factor in the lives of authors. I am fortunate -in being able to promise a happy ending to the story--I mean that I have -solved the problem of doing my work and keeping entirely well. I will -tell the secrets in due course--so read on! - -For recreation I climbed the mountains, played tennis, and swam in the -lake. I slept in an open camp under the pine trees and conformed to all -the health laws I knew. We had Irish Minnie with us, and also a woman -friend of Corydon’s, a young student whom she had met at Battle Creek, -very religious, a Seventh-day Adventist. Corydon was trying various -kinds of mental healing, and I was hoping for anything to keep her happy -while I went on solving the problems of the world. - -For myself I had good company that summer; a man whom I had met two -years before, at the time _The Jungle_ was published. An Englishman -twelve years older than I, he had come to New York and sent me a letter -of introduction from Lady Warwick, our socialist countess. H. G. Wells -was the traveler’s name, and I had been obliged to tell him that I had -never heard of him. He sent me his _Modern Utopia_, inscribing it -charmingly, “To the most hopeful of Socialists, from the next most -hopeful.” I found it a peerless book, and wrote him a letter that he -accepted as “a coronation.” I had him with me that summer in the -Adirondacks by the magic of eight or ten of his early romances, the most -delightful books ever made for a vacation. _Thirty Strange Stories_ was -one title, and I smiled patronizingly, saying that a man could write one -strange story or maybe half a dozen--but thirty! Yet there they were, -and every one was strange, and I knew that I had met a great imaginative -talent. Since then I have heard the highbrow critics belittle H. G. -Wells; but I know that with Bernard Shaw he constituted a major period -in British letters. - -_The Moneychangers_ was published, and my revelations made a sensation -for a week or two. The book sold about as well as _The Metropolis_, so I -was ahead again--just long enough to write another book. But it seemed -as if my writing days were at an end; I was close to a nervous -breakdown, and had to get away from a most unhappy domestic situation -and take a complete rest. Corydon wanted to have an apartment of her own -in New York, and solve her own problems. My friend Gaylord Wilshire now -had a gold mine, high up in the eastern slope of the Sierra mountains; -also George Sterling, the poet, was begging me to come to Carmel and -visit him; so I set out over the pathway of the argonauts in a Pullman -car. - - - - -_7_ - -_Wandering_ - - -I - -It was my first trip across the American continent; and I stopped first -in Chicago, to visit the stockyards after four years. There was a big -hall, and a cheering crowd--the socialists having got up a mass meeting. -In front of the platform sat a row of newspaper reporters, and I told -them of the New York _Herald_’s investigation of conditions in the -presumably reformed yards. The investigation had been made a year -before, and nothing about it had appeared in the Chicago press. A good -story, was it not?--I asked the reporters at the press tables, and they -nodded and grinned. Yes, it was a good story; but not a line about -either story or meeting appeared in any capitalist paper of Chicago next -morning. - -The next stop was Lawrence, Kansas, to meet the coming poet of America, -as I considered him. He was a student at the state university, and I had -discovered his verses in the magazines and had written to him; he had -sent me batches of manuscript and poured out his heart. A real genius -this time--one who wrote all day and all night, in a frenzy, just as I -had done. He had gone to the university a bare-footed tramp, and now -slept in an attic over a stable, wrapped in a horse blanket. He was so -eager to meet me that he borrowed money, bought a railroad ticket, and -boarded my train a couple of hours before it reached Lawrence; we had -lunch in the diner--the first time in the poet’s life, he assured me. - -When we got to town, I was escorted about and shown off, and begged to -talk to a group of the students and even a professor or two. It was a -great hour for the “box-car poet”; I being an object of curiosity, and -he being host and impresario. We went for a walk in the country, and he -told me his troubles. He had never had anything to do with a woman, but -here the girls flirted with him--none of them in earnest, because he was -a poor devil, and poetry was a joke compared with money. Now and then he -was on the verge of suicide, but he’d be damned if he’d give them that -much satisfaction. Such was Harry Kemp in his far-off day of glory; I -was thirty, and he twenty-five, and the future was veiled to us both. So -eager was he for my time that he borrowed more money and rode another -two or three hours on the train with me. - -Denver, and Ben Lindsey, judge of the Children’s Court; a new idea and a -new man. I watched the court at work and sat in at a session of the -Judge’s friends in the YMCA. He was in the midst of one of those -political fights that came every year or two, until finally the “beast” -got him. He revealed to me that he had written an account of his war -with the organized corruption of Denver. I took the manuscript, read it -on the train, and telegraphed _Everybody’s Magazine_ about it; they sent -out Harvey O’Higgins and so got another big serial, “The Beast and the -Jungle.” - -The book was afterward published by Doubleday, Page and Company, and -withheld from circulation--the same trick they played upon Theodore -Dreiser, but never upon Upton Sinclair, you can wager! If there should -ever be another crop of muckrakers in America, here is a tip they will -find useful: put a clause into your contract to the effect that if at -any time the publisher fails to keep the book in print and sell it to -all who care to buy it, the author may have the right to the use of the -plates, and print and sell an edition of his own. That makes it -impossible for the publisher to “sell you out”; the would-be buyer, when -he reads that clause, will realize that he is buying nothing. - -A day in Ogden, Utah, with a horseback ride up the canyon; and one in -Reno, Nevada, walking for hours among the irrigation ditches in the -hills, and then, in the evening, watching the gambling--it was a -wide-open town even in those days. A curious two-faced little city, -with a fine state university, and a fashionable tone set by several -hundred temporary residents from the East, seeking divorces. The -Catholics and the fundamentalists of America have combined to force men -and women to live together when they want to part; so here were the -lawyers and the politicians of this little mining town getting rich, by -selling deliverance to the lucky few who could afford a few weeks’ -holiday. Corydon was talking of joining this divorce colony, so I looked -the ground over with personal interest. - - -II - -A day’s journey on the little railroad that runs behind the Sierras, -through the red deserts of Nevada. In the little town of Bishop, -California, the Wilshires met me, and we rode saddle horses up to the -mine, eighteen miles in the mountains. A high valley with Bishop Creek -running through, towering peaks all about, and cold, clear lakes--the -first snows of the year were falling, and trout had quit biting, but I -climbed the peaks, and ate large meals in the dining room with the -miners. The camp was run on a basis of comradeship, with high wages and -plenty of socialist propaganda; we slept in a rough shack and in the -evenings discussed the mine with the superintendent and foreman and -assayer. These were old-time mining men, and they were of one accord -that here was the greatest gold mine in America. You could see the vein, -all the way up the mountainside, and down in the workings you could -knock pieces off the face and bring them up and have them assayed before -your eyes. - -But alas, there were complications in quartz mining beyond my -understanding. Most of the vein was low-grade, and it could only be made -to pay if worked on a large scale. Wilshire did not have the capital to -work it in that way, and in the effort to get the money, he bled himself -and thousands of readers of his magazine who had been brought to share -his rosy hopes. I stood by him through that long ordeal, and know that -he did everything--except to turn the mine over to some of the big -capitalist groups that sought to buy it and freeze out the old -stockholders. Ultimately, of course, the big fellows got it. - -Socialists ought not to fool with money-making schemes in capitalist -society. I have heard that said a hundred times, and I guess it is -right; but there is something to be noted on the other side. The -socialists of America have never been able to maintain an organ of -propaganda upon a national scale; the country is too big, and the amount -of capital required is beyond their resources. The _Appeal to Reason_ -was a gift to them from a real-estate speculator with a conscience, old -J. A. Wayland--may the managers of the next world be pitiful to him. -(His enemies set a trap for him, baited with a woman; he crossed a state -line in her company, which is a prison offense in our pious America, and -when he got caught, he blew out his brains.) _Wilshire’s Magazine_ was a -gift from a billboard advertising man with a sense of humor. So long as -his money lasted, we all took his gift with thanks; if his gold-mining -gamble had succeeded, we would all have made money, and had a still -bigger magazine, and everything would have been lovely. But my old -friend Gay died in a hospital in New York, all crippled up with -arthritis. I missed his fertile mind and his sly, quiet smile. - - -III - -On to Carmel, a town that boasts more scenery to the square mile than -any other place I know; a broad beach, bordered by deep pine woods and -flanked by rocky headlands; at one side a valley, with farms, a river -running through it and mountains beyond. Fifty years ago the place was -owned by a real-estate speculator of the Bohemian Club type; that is to -say, a person with the art bug who would donate a lot to any celebrity -who would confer the honor of his presence. Needless to say, George -Sterling, the Bohemian Club’s poet laureate, had his pick of lots, and a -bungalow on a little knoll by the edge of a wood remote from traffic and -“boosting.” - -George was at this time forty, but showed no signs of age. He was tall -and spare, built like an Indian, with a face whose resemblance to Dante -had often been noted. When he was with the roistering San Francisco crew -he drank, but when he was alone he lived the life of an athlete in -training; he cut wood, hunted, walked miles in the mountains, and swam -miles in the sea. A charming companion, tenderhearted as a child, bitter -only against cruelty and greed; incidentally a fastidious poet, aloof -and dedicated. - -His friend Arnold Genthe gave me the use of a cottage, and there I lived -alone for two or three months of winter, in peace and happiness unknown -to me for a long time. I had been reading the literature of the health -cranks, and had resolved upon a drastic experiment; I would try the -raw-food diet, for which so much was promised. I ate two meals a day, of -nuts, fruits, olives, and salad vegetables; the only cooked food being -two or three shredded-wheat biscuits or some graham crackers. The diet -agreed with me marvelously, and for the entire period I never had an -ache or pain. So I was triumphant, entirely overlooking the fact that I -was doing none of the nerve-destroying labor of creative writing. I was -reading, walking, riding horseback, playing tennis, meeting with George -and other friends; if I had done that all my life I might never have had -an ache or pain. - -In Oakland was the Ruskin Club, an organization of socialist -intellectuals, who wanted to give a dinner and hear me make a speech. -George and I went up to town, and George stopped in the Bohemian Club, -and stood in front of the bar with his boon companions; I stood with him -and drank a glass of orange juice, as is my custom. Then we set out for -the ferry, George talking rapidly, and I listening in a strange state of -uncertainty. I couldn’t understand what George was saying, and I -couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t until we got to Oakland that I -realized what was the matter; my California Dante was drunk. When we got -to the dinner, someone who knew him better than I took him off and -walked him around the block and fed him bromo-seltzers; the socialist -poem he had written for the occasion had to be read by someone else. - -I went back to Carmel alone, feeling most sorrowful. I was used to my -poor old father getting drunk, and some of my other men relatives, but -this was the first time I had ever seen a great mind distorted by -alcohol. I wrote George a note, telling him that I was leaving Carmel -because I could not be happy there. George came running over to my place -at once, and with tears in his eyes pleaded forgiveness. He swore that -he had had only two drinks; it was because he had taken them on an empty -stomach. But I knew that sort of drinker’s talk, and it did not move -me. Then he swore that if I would stay, he would not touch another drop -while I was in California. That promise I accepted, and he kept it -religiously. Many a time I have thought my best service to letters might -have been to stay right there the rest of my days! - -That Ruskin Club dinner was a quaint affair. Frederick Irons Bamford, -assistant librarian of the Oakland Public Library, had organized the -group and ran it with a firm hand. I think he must have been a -Sunday-school superintendent before he came into the socialist movement; -he shepherded the guests in just that way, telling us exactly what to do -at each stage, and we did it with good-natured laughter. There were -songs printed for us to sing, each at the proper moment; there were -speeches, poems, announcements in due order. “And now,” said our -shepherd, “we will have ten minutes of humor. Will some one kindly tell -a funny story?” - -A man arose, and said, “I will tell you a story that nobody can -understand.” The two or three hundred banqueters pricked up their ears, -of course, and prepared to meet the challenge. I have tried out this -“story that nobody can understand” on several audiences, and it always -“goes,” so I give you a chance at it. Said the man at the banquet: “I -wish to explain that this is not one of those silly jokes where you look -for a point but there is no point. This is a really funny story, and you -would laugh heartily if you could understand it, but you can’t. I will -ask you, if you are able to see the point, to raise your hand, so that -we can count you.” He told the story, and a silence followed; all the -people craned their necks to see if there was any hand up. Finally -several did go up, I forget how many. We all had a good laugh, and it -was really ten minutes of humor. The story was as follows: - -Mrs. Jones goes into her grocer’s and asks for a dozen boxes of matches. -Says the grocer: “Why, Mrs. Jones, you had a dozen boxes of matches -yesterday!” Says Mrs. Jones: “Oh, yes, but you see, my husband is deaf -and dumb, and he talks in his sleep.” - -Raise your hand! - - -IV - -Tramping the hills and forests and beaches of Carmel, riding horseback -over the Seventeen Mile Drive, there began to haunt my brain a vision -of a blank-verse tragedy; the story of a child of the coal mines who is -adopted by rich people and educated, and finally becomes a leader of -social revolution. The first act was set in the depths of the mine, a -meeting between the rich child and the poor one, a fairy scene haunted -by the weird creatures who people the mine boy’s fancy as he sits all -day in the darkness, opening and closing a door to let the muleteams -through. The second act was to happen in utopia, being the young hero’s -vision of a world in which he played the part of a spiritual leader. The -third act was in the drawing room of a Fifth Avenue mansion, whose -windows looked out upon the street where the hero leads the mob to his -own death. - -The verses of this to me marvelous drama would come rolling through my -mind like breakers on the Carmel strand; but in the interest of health I -put off writing them, and soon they were gone forever. I suppose it is -natural that I should think of this drama as the greatest thing I ever -had hold of--on the principle that the biggest fish is the one that got -away. Curiously enough, the main feature of the second act was to be an -invention whereby the hero was to be heard by the whole world at once. -Such was my concept of utopia; and now, more than half a century later, -the people of my home town sit all evening and listen to the wonders of -the Hair-Again Hair Restorer, and the bargains in Two-Pants Suits at -Toots, the Friendly Tailor; every now and then there is a “hookup” of a -hundred or two stations, whereby all America sees and hears the -batterings of two bruisers; or maybe the Jazz-Boy Babies, singing; or -maybe the “message” of some politician seeking office. - -My rest came to an end, because a stock company in San Francisco -proposed to put on my dramatization of _Prince Hagen_, and the newspaper -reporters came and wrote up my “squirrel diet” and my views on love and -marriage, duly “pepped up”--though I don’t think we had that phrase yet. -I thought there ought to be a socialist drama in America, and I sat down -and wrote three little one-act plays, which required only three actors -and no scenery at all. Feeling so serene in my new-found health, I -resolved to organize a company and show how it could be done. I made a -deal with the head of a school of acting to train my company, going -halves with him on the profits; and for two or three weeks I had all -the comrades of the Bay cities distributing handbills, announcing our -world-beating dramatic sensation. - -One of these plays was _The Second-Story Man_. It was later published in -one of the Haldeman-Julius Little Blue Books; every now and then some -actor would write and tell me it was “a wonder,” and would I let him do -it in vaudeville? He would get it ready, and then the masters of the -circuit would say nix on that radical stuff. The second play was a -conversation between “John D” and “the Author” on a California beach, -having to do with socialism and John D’s part in bringing it nearer--by -putting all the little fellows out of business. The third play, _The -Indignant Subscriber_, told about a newspaper reader who lures the -editor of his morning newspaper out in a boat in the middle of a lake, -makes him listen for the first time in his life, and ends by dumping him -overboard and swimming away. In production, the “boat” was made by two -chairs tied at opposite ends of a board; the editor sat in one chair, -and the indignant subscriber in the other, and the oars were two brooms. -The comedy of rowing out into the middle of an imaginary lake while -admiring the imaginary scenery was enjoyed by the audience, and when the -editor was dumped overboard, a thousand social rebels whooped with -delight. - -The plays were given seven or eight times, and the theaters were packed; -the enterprise was, dramatically speaking, a success; but, alas, I had -failed to investigate the economics of my problem. The company had -engagements for only two or three nights in the week, whereas the actors -were getting full salaries. Distances were great, and the railway fares -ate up the receipts. If I had started this undertaking in the Middle -West where the company could have traveled short distances on trolley -cars, and if I had done the booking in advance so as to have a full -schedule, there is no doubt that we could have made a success. As it -was, the adventure cost me a couple of thousand dollars. - - -V - -Letters from Corydon informed me that our son had celebrated his winter -in New York by being laid up with tonsillitis; also, Corydon herself had -not found joy in freedom, and was ready to live according to her -husband’s ideas for a while. David Belasco was promising to produce _The -Millennium_ in the following autumn, so I telegraphed Corydon to join me -in Miami, Florida. I took a train to Galveston, Texas, and from there a -steamer to Key West. - -My squirrel diet was difficult to obtain on trains, and perhaps I had -overworked on my dramatic enterprise--anyhow, on the steamer across the -Gulf of Mexico I developed a fever. I remember a hot night when it was -impossible to sleep in the stateroom. I went out on deck and tossed all -night in a steamer chair, having for company a member of the fashionable -set of one of our big cities--I forget which, but they are all alike. A -man somewhat older than I, he had just broken with his wife and was -traveling in order to get away from her; he had a bottle in his pocket, -and the contents of others inside him, enough to unlimber his tongue. - -He told me about his quarrel with his wife, every word that she had said -and every word that he had said; he told me every crime she had ever -committed, and some of his own; he poured out the grief of being rich -and fashionable in a big American city; he told me about the -fornications and adulteries of his friends--in short, I contemplated a -social delirium with my own half-delirious mind. The element of -phantasmagoria that you find in some of my books may be derived from -that night’s experience, in which fragments of fashionable horror -wavered and jiggled before my mind, vanished and flashed back again, -loomed colossal and exploded in star showers, like human faces, -locomotives, airplanes, and skyscrapers in a futurist moving-picture -film. - -At Key West I was taken off the steamer and deposited in a private -hospital, where I stayed for a week; then, somewhat tottery, I met -Corydon and our son at Miami, and we found ourselves a little cottage in -a remote settlement down the coast, Coconut Grove. It was April, and -hot, and I basked in the sunshine; I took long walks over a white shell -road that ran straight west into a flaming sunset, with a forest of tall -pine trees on each side. Incidentally, I slapped innumerable deer flies -on my face and hands and legs. I do not know if they call them that in -Florida--maybe they don’t admit their existence; but deer fly was the -name in the Adirondacks and Canada for those little flat devils, having -half-black and half-white wings, and stinging you like a needle. - -We went swimming in a wide, shallow bay, warm as a bathtub; you had to -walk half a mile to get to deep water, and on the soft bottom lay great -round black creatures that scooted away when you came near. I wondered -if it would be possible to catch one, but fortunately I did not try, for -they were the disagreeable sting rays or stingarees. (Having become a -loyal Californian, it gives me pleasure to tell about the entomological -and piscatorial perils of Florida.) The owner of a big beach-front place -tried to sell it to us for five or six thousand dollars, and we talked -of buying it for quite a while. I suppose that during the postwar boom -the owner sold it for a million or two, and it is now the site of a -twenty-story office building full of tenants. - -In Coconut Grove, as in Carmel, there was a “literary colony.” I met -some of them, but remember only one: a figure who walked the white shell -roads with me, tall, athletic, brown, and handsome as a Greek -statue--Witter Bynner, the poet. Corydon, smiling, remarked, “Bynner is -a winner.” That compliment, from a qualified expert, I pass on to him, -in exchange for the many fine letters he has written to me about my -books. He is eighty now--and I am eighty-four. - -I think it was during these six weeks that I wrote _The Machine_, the -play that forms a sequel to _The Moneychangers_. An odd sort of -trilogy--two novels and a play! But it was the best I could do at the -time. I saw a vision of myself as a prosperous Broadway dramatist, a -licensed court jester of capitalism. But the vision proved to be a -mirage. - - -VI - -For the summer of 1909 I rented a cottage on the shore at Cutchogue, -near the far end of Long Island; beautiful blue water in front of us, -and tall shade trees in the rear. I was carrying on with my raw-food -diet, and my family also was giving it a trial. To aid and abet us we -had a household assistant and secretary who was an even less usual -person than myself. Dave Howatt was his name. He was fair-haired and -rosy-cheeked and he nourished his great frame upon two handfuls of -pecans or almonds, two dishes of soaked raw prunes, and a definite -number of ripe bananas every day--it may have been a dozen or two, I -cannot remember. This blond Anglo-Saxon monkey romped with my son, -oversaw his upbringing, typed my letters, and washed and soaked the -family prunes. A youth after my own heart--vegetarian, teetotaler, -nonsmoker, pacifist, philosophical anarchist, conscientious objector to -capitalism, dreamer, and practitioner of brotherhood--Dave had been at -Bernarr Macfadden’s Physical Culture City, and had known Harry Kemp -since boyhood. Now Dave is living in Cuba, and at last report was loving -it. - -But alas for idealistic theories and hopes--the diet that had served me -so marvelously on the shore of the Pacific played the dickens with me on -the shore of the Atlantic. The difference was that now I was doing -creative writing, putting a continuous strain upon brain and nerves, and -apparently not having the energy to digest raw food. Dave Howatt, in his -role of guide and mentor, thought my indigestion was due to my evil -habit of including cooked breadstuff in the diet, so for a while I -changed from a squirrel to a monkey. Then he thought I ate too much, so -I cut the quantity in half, which reduced the size of the balloon inside -me; but it left me hungry all the time, so that when I played tennis, I -would have to stop in the middle and come home and get a prune. - -Under these trying conditions I wrote another book, endeavoring to put -the socialist argument into a simple story, which could carry it to -minds that otherwise would never get it. I aimed at the elemental and -naïve, something like _The Vicar of Wakefield_ or _Pilgrims Progress_. -The border line between the naïve and the banal is difficult to draw, -and so authorities differ about _Samuel the Seeker_. Some of my friends -called it a wretched thing, and the public agreed with them. But on the -other hand, Frederik van Eeden, great novelist and poet in his own -language, wrote me a letter of rapture about _Samuel_, considering it my -best. Robert Whitaker, pacifist clergyman who committed the crime of -taking the sixth commandment literally and spent several months in a Los -Angeles jail during World War I, came on a copy of the book at that -time, and he also judged it a success. The publishing firm of Bauza in -Barcelona, desiring to issue an edition of my novels, saw fit to lead -off with _Samuel Busca la Verdad_. So perhaps in the days of the -co-operative commonwealth the pedagogues will discover a new classic, -suitable for required reading in high schools! - - -VII - -By the end of the summer my health was too bad to tell about, and I had -got my thoughts centered on a new remedy, a fast cure. I had been -reading _Physical Culture_ magazine, and I wrote to Bernarr Macfadden, -who was then running a rival institution to the Battle Creek Sanitarium. -He invited me to bring my family and let him have a try at my problem. - -Athlete, showman, lecturer, editor, publisher, and health -experimenter--I could make B. M. the subject of an entertaining essay, -but there is not space here. To the high-brows he was a symbol of the -vulgarity and cheapness of America. And it won’t help for me to defend -him, because I may also be on that list. I merely state what Macfadden -did for me--which was to teach me, free, gratis, and for nothing, more -about the true principles of keeping well and fit for my work than all -the orthodox and ordained physicians who charged me many thousands of -dollars for not doing it. Believe me, I went to the best there were in -every field, and while some of them had mercy on a writer, others -treated me like a millionaire. I number many doctors among my friends, -and the better they know me, the more freely they admit the -unsatisfactory state of their work. Leo Buerger, a college mate who -became a leading specialist in New York, summed the situation up when I -mentioned the osteopaths, and remarked that they sometimes made cures. -Said my eminent friend: “They cure without diagnosing, and we diagnose -without curing.” - -My visit to Macfadden took place in 1909--back in the dark ages, before -the words “preventive medicine” had ever been joined together. I had -asked doctor after doctor to advise me how to keep well, and not one of -them seemed to know what I was talking about; they attempted to cure my -sickness, and then they sent me away to go on doing the things that had -brought the sickness on. The secrets of natural living were the property -of a little group of adventurous persons known as “health cranks”; and -it has been my pleasure to watch the leading ideas of these “cranks” -being rediscovered one by one by medical authority, and so made known to -the newspapers and the public. It was not Dr. Auguste Rollier of -Switzerland who invented the sun cure; no indeed, the semilunatics of -Physical Culture City were going around in breechclouts, men and women -getting themselves arrested by rural constables, before ever the word -_Nacktkultur_ was imported. - -The same thing is true of vitamins, and of the evils of denatured foods, -and the importance of bulk in the diet--we knew all that before Sir -Arbuthnot Lane ever addressed a medical congress. As to fasting, I stood -the ridicule of my medical friends for twenty years, and then in the -files of the _Journal of Metabolism_ I found the records of laboratory -tests upon humans as well as dogs proving that the effect of a prolonged -fast is a permanent increase in the metabolic rate--which is the same -thing as rejuvenation, and exactly what we “health cranks” have claimed. - - -VIII - -At Macfadden’s institution in Battle Creek were perhaps a hundred -patients, faithfully trying out these eccentricities. They fasted for -periods long or short; I met one man who went to fifty-five days, -attempting a cure for locomotor ataxia--he was beginning to walk, in -spite of all the dogmas. Later I met a man who weighed nearly three -hundred pounds, who fasted over ninety days, which is the record so far -as I know. This was before suffragettes and hunger strikes, and it was -the accepted idea that a human being would starve to death in three or -four days. - -After the fast we went on a thing known as a milk diet, absorbing a -glass of fresh milk every half hour, and sometimes every twenty minutes, -until we had got up to eight quarts a day. The fasters sat around, pale -and feeble in the sunshine, while the milk drinkers swarmed at the dairy -counter, and bloomed and expanded and swapped anecdotes--it was a -laboratory of ideas, and if you had a new one, no matter how queer, you -could find somebody who had tried it, or was ready to try it forthwith. -When you came off the milk diet, you might try some odd combination such -as sour milk and dates. In the big dining room you were served every -sort of vegetarian food. There were dark rumors that the smell of -beefsteaks was coming from Macfadden’s private quarters. I asked him -about it, and he told me he was trying another experiment. - -I met him again when he was sixty; still of the same experimental -disposition, he wanted to know what I had learned in twenty years. He -then owned a string of magazines and newspapers, I don’t know how many, -and I would not venture to imagine how many millions they brought him -every year, or the number of his blooming daughters--I think there were -eight in a photograph on his desk. He still had his muscles of steel, -and would take two packs of cards, put them together, and tear them in -half before your eyes. He had been a weakling in his youth, had built up -that powerful frame, and would put on bathing trunks and come out on a -platform and show it to people; very vulgar, of course--no “ethical” -medico would dream of doing it. But it caused great numbers of men and -women to take an interest in their health, and it set up resistance to -those forces of modern civilization that were destroying the body. - -My personal experience has been told in a book, _The Fasting Cure_, so I -will merely say that I took a fast of ten or twelve days, and then a -milk diet of three weeks, and achieved a sense of marvelous well-being. -My wife did the same, and we became enthusiasts. I took a second fast of -a week or so, and when I left the place I had gained about twenty -pounds, which I needed. But I did not keep it, for as soon as I left the -sanitarium I started on a new book. - - -IX - -Harry Kemp came to see us in Battle Creek; he was on his way back to -college after a summer’s work on the oreboats of the Great Lakes. He had -a suitcase full of manuscripts, an extra shirt, and a heart bubbling -over with literary excitements. He met Corydon for the first time and -found her interesting; Corydon, for her part, was maternal to a forlorn -poet. - -The fates wove their webs, unguessed by any of us. It happened that at -the Kellogg Institution, just down the street, there was a young lady -from the Delta district of Mississippi--she had accompanied her mother -and a cousin who were undergoing treatment. Mary Craig Kimbrough was the -name of the young lady, and one day when she was walking with her -cousin, the cousin remarked, “Would you like to meet an author? There -goes Upton Sinclair with his wife.” Said the haughty young lady, “I -don’t think he would interest me.” But the cousin insisted. “Oh, come -on, I met him the other day, and he’s not so bad as he looks.” - -She called the author from across the street, introductions were -exchanged, and we chatted for a few minutes. The propagandist author, -being just then excited over fasting, and having no manners or tact or -taste or anything of that sort, informed an extremely proud young -Southern belle that she was far too thin and needed a fast and a milk -diet. It was the first time in her whole life that a man had ever -addressed her except in the Southern mode of compliment. - -I invited her and her cousin and her mother to come over to Macfadden’s -that evening, where I was to give an outdoor talk. They came; and I was -in a jovial mood, telling of the many queer ideas I had tried out in my -search for health. The audience rocked with laughter when I set forth -how, in the course of my first fast, I had walked down a hill from the -institution, and then didn’t have the strength to climb back. No one was -more amused than the young lady from Mississippi. - -I remember that we took a walk up and down the piazza of the sanitarium, -while this most sedate and dignified person--then twenty-five years of -age--confided to me that she was troubled in her mind and would -appreciate my advice. She revealed that she found herself unable to -believe what she had been taught about the Bible. This was a source of -great distress to her, and she didn’t know quite what to think of -herself. Had I ever heard of anyone similarly afflicted? - -I assured her with all necessary gravity that I had heard of such cases. -This was a relief to her; there were few such persons in the Mississippi -Delta, she declared. The development of her faithlessness had become a -cause of anguish to her family; her mother would assemble the ladies of -all the local churches in her drawing room, and the straying sheep would -be called in and compelled to kneel down with them, while one after -another they petitioned the Deity for the salvation of her soul. When -they had finished, they would look at the fair sheep, and wait to see -the effect of their labors; but so far the medicine had failed. - -I assured the young lady that I also was a lost soul, and gave her the -names of an assortment of books--T. H. Huxley’s essays among them. She -duly bought them all, and when she got home, a brother discovered her -reading them and took them away to his law office, where only men could -be corrupted by them. He himself soon gave up his faith. - - -X - -For the winter I took my family to the single-tax colony at Fairhope, -Alabama, on Mobile Bay. Since I could not have a colony of my own, I -would try other people’s. Here were two or three hundred assorted -reformers who had organized their affairs according to the gospel of -Henry George. They were trying to eke out a living from poor soil and -felt certain they were setting an example to the rest of the world. The -climate permitted the outdoor life, and we found a cottage for rent on -the bay front, remote from the village. Dave Howatt was with us again; -having meantime found himself a raw-food wife, he lived apart from us -and came to his secretarial job daily. - -I was overworking again; and when my recalcitrant stomach made too much -trouble, I would fast for a day, three days, a week. I was trying the -raw-food diet, and failing as before. I was now a full-fledged physical -culturist, following a Spartan regime. In front of our house ran a long -pier, out to the deep water of the bay. Often the boards of this pier -were covered with frost, very stimulating to the bare feet, and whipped -by icy winds, stimulating to the skin; each morning I made a swim in -this bay a part of my law. (Says Zarathustra: “Canst thou hang thy will -above thee as thy law?”) - -Among the assorted philosophies expressed at Fairhope was the cult of -Dr. J. H. Salisbury, meat-diet advocate; I read his book. Let me remind -you again that this was before the days of any real knowledge about -diet. Salisbury was one of the first regular M.D.’s who tried -experiments upon himself and other human beings in order to find out how -particular foods actually affect the human body. He assembled a “poison -squad” of healthy young men, fed them on various diets, and studied the -ailments they developed. By such methods he thought to prove that excess -of carbohydrates was the cause of tuberculosis in humans. His guess was -wrong--yet not so far wrong as it seems. It is my belief that denatured -forms of starch and sugar are the predisposing cause of the disease; -people live on white flour, sugar, and lard, and when the body has -become weakened, the inroads of bacteria begin. - -Anyhow, Salisbury would put his “poison squad” on a diet of lean beef, -chopped and lightly cooked, and cure them of their symptoms in a week or -two. He had a phrase by which he described the great health error, -“making a yeastpot of your stomach.” That was what I had been doing, and -now, to the horror of my friend Dave Howatt, I decided to try the -Salisbury system. I remember my emotions, walking up and down in front -of the local butchershop and getting up the courage to enter. To my -relief, I caused no sensation. Apparently the butcher took it quite as a -matter of course that a man should purchase a pound of sirloin. - -I had been a practicing vegetarian--and what was worse, a preaching -one--for a matter of three years; and now I was a backslider. My -socialist comrade, Eugene Wood, happened to be spending the winter in -Fairhope, and he wrote a jolly piece about “America’s leading raw-food -advocate who happens just now to be living upon a diet of stewed -beefsteaks.” I had to bow my head, and add crow to my menu! - - -XI - -In Fairhope was the Organic School, invention of Mrs. Marietta Johnson. -It was then a rudimentary affair, conducted in a couple of shacks, but -has since become famous. Our son, David, then eight years old, attended -it. His education had been scattery, with his parents moving from a -winter resort to a summer resort. But he had always had the world’s best -literature and had done the rest for himself. Fairhope he found to his -taste; we had a back porch and a front porch to our isolated cottage, -and he would spread his quilt and pillow on the former, and I would -spread mine on the latter, and sleep outdoors every night on the floor. -I asked if he minded the hard surface, and his reply belongs to the days -of the world’s divine simplicity. “Oh, Papa, it’s fine! I like to wake -up in the night and look at the moon, and listen to the owl, and pee!” - -I tried the experiment of fasting while doing my writing; a marvelous -idea, to have no stomach at all to interfere with creative activity! A -comedy sprang full-grown into my brain, and I wrote it in two days and a -half of continuous work--a three-act play, _The Naturewoman_. I record -the feat as a warning to my fellow writers--don’t try it! During a fast -you are living on your nerves and cannot stand the strain of creative -labor. When I finished, I could hardly digest a spoonful of orange -juice. - -_The Naturewoman_, like all my plays, had no success. It was published -in the volume _Plays of Protest_ a couple of years later, and had no -sale. Not long thereafter, the students of Smith College, studying drama -under Samuel Eliot, gave it in New York, and these emancipated young -ladies found it charmingly quaint and old-fashioned; they played it in a -vein of gentle farce. Apparently it never occurred to them that the -author might have meant it that way. I have frequently observed that an -advocate of new ideas is not permitted to have a sense of humor; that is -apparently reserved for persons who have no ideas at all. For fifty-six -years I have been ridiculed for a passage in _The Jungle_ that deals -with the moral claims of dying hogs--which passage was intended as -hilarious farce. The New York _Evening Post_ described it as “nauseous -hogwash”--and refused to publish my letter of explanation. - -Corydon had come to Fairhope for a while, and then had gone north on -affairs of her own; it had been arranged that she was to get a divorce -from me. I thought that a novel about modern marriage that would show -the possibility of a couple’s agreeing to part, and still remaining -friends, would be interesting and useful. So I began _Love’s -Pilgrimage_. In the spring I came north and took up my residence in -another single-tax colony, at Arden, Delaware, founded and run by Frank -Stephens, a sculptor of Philadelphia; a charming place about twenty -miles from the big city, with many little cabins and bungalows scattered -on the edge of the woods. Frank was glad to have me come--and alas, a -year and a half later he was gladder to have me go! For the Philadelphia -newspapers found me out, and thereafter, in the stories that appeared -about Arden, socialism was more prominent than single tax, and I was -more prominent than the founder. This was my misfortune, not my fault. I -wanted nothing but to be let alone to write my book; but fate and the -editors ruled otherwise. - - -XII - -No bungalows being available in the neighborhood, I rented a lot and -installed my ménage in three tents. Corydon, feeling it not yet -convenient to get her divorce, occupied one of the tents, on a strictly -literary basis. David had a troop of children to run all over the place -with, and I had the book in which I was absorbed. It was turning out to -be longer than I had planned--something that has frequently happened to -my books. - -The single-tax utopia, technically known as an enclave, had been founded -by a group of men who were sick of grime, greed and strain, and fled -away to a legend, the Forest of Arden. Some had a few dollars and could -stay all the time; others went up to Philadelphia and were slaves in the -daytime. On Saturday evenings they built a campfire in the woodland -theater, sang songs and recited, and now and then gave _Robin Hood_ or -_Midsummer Night’s Dream_. On holidays they would get up a fancy pageant -and have a dance in the barn at night, and people would actually have a -good time without getting drunk. One anarchist shoemaker was the only -person who drank in Arden, so far as I know, and he has long since gone -the way of drinkers. - -Personally, I was never much for dressing up--not after the age of six -or so, when my mother had made me into a baker boy for a fancy-dress -party. But I liked to watch others more free of care; also I liked to -have young fellows who would play tennis in the afternoon. There was -Donald Stephens, son of the founder, and there were several of the -children of Ella Reeve Bloor. One of these, Hal Ware, was my opponent in -the finals of a tournament--I won’t say how it turned out! After the -Russian Revolution, Hal went over in charge of the first American -tractor unit; an odd turn of fate, that a dweller in the Forest of Arden -should carry to the peasants of the steppes the dream of a utopia based -upon machinery! Don Stephens served a year in the Delaware state prison -as a conscientious objector to war, and then helped at the New York end -of the Russian tractor work. - -Also there was a young professor of the University of Pennsylvania, -Scott Nearing--a mild liberal, impatient with my socialistic theories. -Did my arguments make any impression on him? I never knew; but in time -he was kicked out of the university, and then he traveled beyond me and -called me the only revolutionist left in the Socialist Party. There was -Will Price, Philadelphia architect, genial and burly--what a glorious -Friar Tuck he made, or was it the Sheriff of Nottingham? No doubt he -sits now in the single taxers’ heaven, engaged in a spirited debate with -William Morris over the former’s theory of a railroad right of way owned -by the public, with anybody allowed to run trains over it! Will had the -misfortune to fall in love with my secretary, and she was in love with -someone else; a mixup that will happen even in utopia. - -Corydon was corresponding with the young lady from the Delta district of -Mississippi--who had fasted and gained weight, according to my -recommendation. She had then gone home, taking along a “health crank” -nurse; she had put her father and mother on a fast, and to the horror of -the local doctors, had cured them of “incurable” diseases. Now this Miss -Kimbrough was writing a book, _The Daughter of the Confederacy_, dealing -with the tragic life story of Winnie Davis, daughter of Jefferson Davis. -Winnie had fallen in love with a Yankee, had been forced to renounce -him, and had died of a broken heart. Judge Kimbrough had been Mrs. -Davis’ lawyer, and had fallen heir to the Davis heirlooms and letters. -Mary Craig Kimbrough now wrote that she needed someone to advise her -about the book, and Corydon went south to help her with the manuscript. - -David and I put a stove in our tents and prepared to hibernate in the -snowbound Forest of Arden. How many of the so-called necessities men can -dispense with when they have to! Once I was asked to drive a youthful -guest a couple of miles in a car, so that he might find a barber and get -a shave; I was too polite to tell this guest that I had never been -shaved by a barber in my life. In New York I heard another young man of -delicate rearing - -[Illustration: _Priscilla Harden Sinclair_] - -[Illustration: _Upton Beall Sinclair, Sr._] - -[Illustration: _Upton Sinclair at the age of eight_] - -[Illustration: _Upton Sinclair at twenty-seven, when he was writing_ The -Jungle] - -[Illustration: _Winston Churchill reviews_ The Jungle] - -[Illustration: _George Bernard Shaw_ at Ayot-St. Lawrence, about 1913] - -[Illustration: _Mary Craig Sinclair and Upton Sinclair in Bermuda, -1913_] - -[Illustration: _George Sterling, his wife, Carrie, and Jack London_] - -[Illustration: _Mrs. Kate Crane-Gartz_] - -[Illustration: _Sergei Eisenstein, about 1933_] - -[Illustration: _Upton Sinclair during the EPIC campaign, 1934_] - -[Illustration: _Upton Sinclair and Harry Hopkins, 1934_] - -[Illustration: Flivver King _in Detroit, 1937_] - -[Illustration: _Upton Sinclair, about 1960, with autographed picture of -Albert Einstein_] - -[Illustration: - -MILTON K. BELL - -_Upton Sinclair standing before his home in Monrovia, California_] - -[Illustration: - -DON CRAVENS - -_May Hard Sinclair and Upton Sinclair, 1962_] - -[Illustration: - -DON CRAVENS - -_Upton Sinclair with seventy-nine of the books he has written_] - -lament the fact that the servant did not always remember to draw the -water for his bath; I was tempted to narrate how I bathed every morning -of that winter in Arden with water in a tin washbasin and a newspaper -spread upon a tent floor. I remember our Christmas turkey, which we hung -up outside in the cold; we cooked it joint by joint, hung by a wire -inside the little round wood stove. Nobody’s turkey ever tasted better. - -When Mitchell Kennerley accepted _Love’s Pilgrimage_, and paid me an -advance of twelve hundred and fifty dollars, I decided to build a house -on my single-tax lot at the edge of the Forest of Arden. Frank Stephens -was the builder, and I didn’t hold it against him that, like all other -builders, he underestimated the cost. It came to twenty-six hundred -dollars and kept me scratching for quite a while. I was contributing -articles to _Physical Culture_ at a hundred and fifty dollars a month, -which provided my living. - -The little two-story cottage was completed early in the spring of 1911. -It was painted brown on the outside, and stained on the inside. There -was a living room in front with an open fireplace and a chimney that -smoked. High on the wall, a shelf ran all the way round and held most of -my books. In the rear was one small bedroom, and a still smaller -kitchen, plus a bathroom without plumbing. Upstairs was an attic that I -planned some day to make into two rooms. We moved in, feeling most -luxurious after the tents. Next door was a one-room cabin belonging to -Scott Nearing; I rented it for a study, and so had everything of a -material nature that a man of letters could desire. - -The Forest of Arden turned green again, and put flower carpets on its -floor, and the tennis court was rolled and marked, and everything was -jolly. The young people were preparing _The Merchant of Venice_, and the -Esperantists of America held a convention in the big barn; I studied -that language for three weeks, and when I went to supper at the inn I -would say, _“Mi desiras lo puddingo”_--at least that is the way I recall -it after fifty years. I was writing a sequel to _Love’s Pilgrimage_, -which I completed but have never published. - -Unknown to me, the fates had been weaving a net about my life; and now -they were ready to draw it tight. Corydon wrote that Mary Craig -Kimbrough was coming to New York to talk with a publisher who had read -her life of Winnie Davis, and that she, Corydon, was coming with her. -Also there came a letter from Harry Kemp, saying that he was finishing -at the university, and was then going to “beat” his way east and visit -Arden. George Sterling was on his way from California to New York--he -too was to be tied up in that net! - -There was an odd development, which served as a sort of curtain raiser -to the main tragedy. A little discussion club got into a dispute with -George Brown, the anarchist shoemaker. The club members were accustomed -to hold meetings in the outdoor theater, and Brown would come and air -his opinions on the physiology of sex. The women and girls didn’t like -it. They asked him to shut up, but he stood on the elemental right of an -anarchist to say anything anywhere at any time. He broke up several -meetings--until finally the executives of the club went to Wilmington -and swore out a warrant for his arrest for disturbing the peace. - -That, of course, brought the newspaper reporters, and put my picture in -the papers again. I had had nothing to do with the discussion club or -with the arrest of Brown, but I lived in Arden and was part of the -scenery. The anarchist was sentenced to five days on the rockpile at the -state prison; he came back boiling with rage and plotting a dire -revenge: he would have all the members of the baseball team arrested for -playing on Sunday, and _they_ would have a turn on the rockpile! He -would add Upton Sinclair, who had been playing tennis on Sunday, and -thus would punish Arden by putting it on the front page of every -newspaper in America. He carried out this scheme, and eleven of us were -summoned to court, and under a long-forgotten statute, dating from 1793, -were sentenced to eighteen hours on the rockpile. This made one of the -funniest newspaper stories ever telegraphed over the world--you may find -the details in _The Brass Check_ if you are curious. What the anarchist -shoemaker did not realize, and what nobody else realized, was that he -was setting the stage and assembling the audience for the notorious -Sinclair-Kemp divorce scandal. The fates were against me. - - - - -_8_ - -_Exile_ - - -I - -The story of Corydon and Thyrsis comes now to its painful climax. They -had been married for eleven years, and for the last seven or eight had -realized that they were mismated. They talked much of divorce, and -according to accepted conventions, Corydon was the one to get it. But -the world made divorce difficult and placed handicaps upon a divorced -woman; so Corydon kept hesitating, taking one step forward and two steps -back. - -If this story belonged to Thyrsis alone, he would tell it all, on the -theory that the past is past and never returns, and the only use we can -make of blunders is to help others in avoiding them. But the story is -Corydon’s also, and Corydon found herself a new husband and a new life, -and has long since retired from the limelight. - -Thyrsis, an unhappily married man, bore among his friends the reputation -of being “puritanical”; a onetime virtue that now ranks as a dangerous -disease. About the bedside of the patient gather the psychoanalysts and -up-to-the-minute “intellectuals”; they take his temperature, or lack of -it, and shake their heads anxiously over his subnormal condition. Jack -London was much worried about Thyrsis and wrote warning letters; but in -the course of time, Jack’s own theories brought him to a situation where -he could not have his wife and another woman at the same time, and so he -voluntarily removed himself from the world. Then Frank Harris took over -the case of Thyrsis and prescribed for the patient a tempestuous love -affair. No man can become a great novelist without one, it seems, nor -can a modern autobiography be worthy of suppression by the police unless -it contains several adulteries per volume. - -Let the fact be recorded that Thyrsis was capable of falling in love, -and if he did not do it frequently, it was because he had so many other -matters on his mind. There is a story having to do with this period, -which ought to be told because of the satisfaction it will bring to the -lovers of love, and to those who dislike the puritanical Thyrsis and -will be pleased to see him “get his.” - -It was the winter of 1910-11, when Corydon had gone south, having once -more decided upon a divorce. Thyrsis was a free man, so he thought--and, -incidentally, a lonely and restless one. He was thirty-two at this time, -and went up to New York to attend a gathering in Carnegie Hall, where -the Intercollegiate Socialist Society was acting as host to Victor -Berger, socialist Congressman-elect. Thyrsis came early, and in one of -the aisles came face to face with a lovely young woman of twenty-one or -two, wearing the red badge of an usher. In those observant eyes and that -frank open countenance was revealed something he had been seeking for a -long time; there was a mental flash, and the two moved automatically -toward each other. Said she, without hesitation: “You are Thyrsis?” Said -he: “You are Inez Milholland?” - -A Vassar girl, with a wealthy father, Inez had joined the Socialist -Party and had become an active suffragette--all of which, of course, -made a sensation in the newspapers. That evening, after the meeting, -Thyrsis went with her to her hotel, and they sat in the lobby conversing -until three o’clock in the morning, when the place was deserted by all -but the night watchman. What did they not talk about, in the vast range -of the socialist and suffrage movements in America, and in England, -where Inez had been to school; the people they knew, the books they had -read, the events that the future held behind its veil! - -“I never met anyone I could talk to so easily,” said Thyrsis; and Inez -returned the compliment. “But don’t fall in love with me,” she added. -When he asked, “Why not?” she answered, “I am already in love, and you -would only make yourself unhappy.” Later, she told him that she too was -unhappy; it was a married man, and she would not break up another -woman’s home but would only eat her heart out. Again that old, old -story that Heine sings, and for which neither socialists nor suffragists -have any remedy! - - _Es ist eine alte Geschichte_ - _Doch klingt sie immer neu._ - -Inez desired to meet Berger, and he came next morning. The three of us -went for a drive and had lunch at the Claremont. We spent the afternoon -walking in the park, then had dinner at the hotel, and spent the evening -together, solving all the problems of human society. It was another -intellectual explosion, this time _à trois_. Said the socialist -Congressman: “Thyrsis, if it wouldn’t be that I am a family man, I would -run away with that girl so quick you would never see her once again.” -Thyrsis repeated that to Inez, who smiled and said, “He is mistaken; it -is not like that.” - -Thyrsis disregarded the sisterly advice that had been given to him. He -fell in love--with such desperate and terrifying violence as he had -never conceived possible in his hard-working, sober life. He understood -for the first time the meaning of that ancient symbol of the little -archer with the bow and arrow. Commonplace as the metaphor seemed, there -was no other to be used; it was like being shot--a convulsive pain, a -sense of complete collapse, an anguish repeated, day after day, without -any respite or hope of it. - -He could not give up. It seemed to him that here was the woman who had -been made for him, and the thought that he had to lose her was not to be -borne. He would go back to Arden and write letters--such mad, wild, -pain-distracted letters as would satisfy the most exacting intellectual, -the most implacable hater of Puritans! Inez afterward assured him that -she had destroyed these letters, which was kind of her. She was always -kind, and straightforward, saying what she meant, as men and women will -do in utopia. - -The storm passed, as storms do, and new life came to Thyrsis. Four years -afterward he met Inez Milholland again. She was now married, and it -seemed to Thyrsis that the world had laid its paralyzing hand upon her; -she was no longer simple, in the manner of the early gods. Was it that -the spell was broken? Or was it that Thyrsis had an abnormal dislike -for fashionable costumes, large picture hats, and long jade earrings? -Another two years, and Inez, a suffrage politician, came out to -California and broke her heart trying to carry the state for Hughes, on -the theory that he would be more generous to the cause than Woodrow -Wilson. This was supposed to be strategy, but to Thyrsis it seemed -insanity. In any case, what a melancholy descent from the young ardors -of the Intercollegiate Socialist Society! She died of exhaustion. - - -II - -The story of Corydon and Thyrsis comes to an end in the year 1911. -George Sterling was coming from California, Harry Kemp from Kansas; Mary -Craig Kimbrough was in New York to consult with a publisher, and Corydon -had come with her. - -George Sterling, the day of his arrival, came to call upon Corydon in -her father’s home. There he met the young lady from Mississippi and -promptly fell upon his knees before her, after the fashion of romantic -poets, even after they are forty. She was pale from a winter’s labor -over manuscript, and George called her a “star in alabaster” and other -extravagant things that moved her to merry laughter. Later on, Thyrsis -met the couple walking on the street and stopped to greet them. Said -Thyrsis matter-of-factly: “You don’t look well, Craig. Really, you look -like a skull!” George raged, “I am going to kill that man some day!” But -Craig replied, “There is the first man in the world who ever told me the -truth.” - -George Sterling, an unhappily married man, wanted to marry Craig. She -told him, “I can never love any man.” When he demanded to know the -reason, she told him that her heart had been broken by an early love -affair at home; she knew she would never love again. But the poet could -not accept that statement; he began writing sonnets to her--more than a -hundred in the course of the next year. Eighteen years later it was my -sad duty to edit these _Sonnets to Craig_ for publication, and they were -received by the high-brow literary world with some uncertainty. They -have a fatal defect--it is possible to understand what they mean. -Literary tastes move in cycles, and just now poetry lovers are -impressed by eccentricities of language and punctuation. But the day -will come when they care about real feelings, expressed in musical -language, and then they will thrill to such lines as these: - - All gracious things, and delicate and sweet, - Within the spaces of thy beauty meet - -And again: - - Sweet in this love are terrors that beguile - And joys that make a hazard of my breath. - -And again: - - Stand back from me! Have mercy for a space, - Lest madness break thine image in my mind! - -In connection with this unhappy love affair, there was another curious -tangle of circumstances. The girlhood sweetheart of Craig in the Far -South had brought to her a poem so sad that it had moved her to tears, -and she had carried it ever since in her memory. “The Man I Might Have -Been” was its title--the grief-stricken cry of those who fall into the -trap of John Barleycorn. Now here was the author of that poem, in love -with the same woman; and both the unhappy suitors--the Southern boy and -the crowned poet of California--were fated to end their lives by their -own hands, and those of John Barleycorn. - -Thyrsis was invited up to New York to give advice about the life of -Winnie Davis. It was April and happened to be warm, so he wore tennis -shoes because they were comfortable; to make up for this informality he -added kid gloves--which seemed to Mary Craig Kimbrough of Mississippi -the funniest combination ever heard of. She said nothing, being the soul -of politeness; but her lively red-brown eyes took in everything. She was -learning about these strange new creatures called radicals, and their -ideas, some of which appeared sensible and others crazy. Watching -Thyrsis, she thought, “The funny, funny man!” She watched him, thinking -the same thought for a matter of half a century; but she did not always -have to be polite about it. - -Corydon, Thyrsis, and Craig settled themselves in the little cottage on -the edge of the Forest of Arden. Springtime had come, and the Arden -folk were giving _Midsummer Night’s Dream_; Corydon was Titania, in -yellow tights and a golden crown. At this juncture came Harry Kemp, -having completed another year at the University of Kansas; he was -lugging two suitcases full of books and manuscripts, plus an extra blue -shirt and a pair of socks. There was a girl at Arden who was a lover of -poetry, and Thyrsis, fond matchmaker, had the idea that the poet might -become interested in this girl. But the fates had other plans, and were -not slow to reveal them. Corydon was interested in the poet. - -It was during this time that Harry Kemp wrote a sonnet to Thyrsis and -handed it to him with the words, “You may publish this some day.” It -will not be ranked as a great sonnet, but it is curious as a part of the -story; so, after Harry’s death, his permission is accepted. - - Child, wandering down the great world for a day - And with a child’s soul seeing thru and thru - The passing prejudice to Truth’s own view. - Immortal spirit robed in mortal day, - Striving to find and follow the one way - That is your way, none other’s--to be true - To that which makes a sincere man of you! - Still be yourself, and let tongues say their say! - - Still fling the seed with daring hand abroad, - And, then, mayhap, the Race to come will be - Gladdened, with ripened fruit and bursting pod - Of Love, and Brotherhood, and Liberty-- - Open to Nature and Her Laws from God - As spreading gulfs lie open to the Sea! - - -III - -Corydon went to New York, to the apartment of her mother and father, -which was vacant in the summer. Harry followed her; and then came -Thyrsis, and the great divorce scandal burst upon the world. It was made -by the newspapers, so the story had to be told in _The Brass Check_. -There seems no good reason to repeat it here; suffice it to say that -Thyrsis found himself presented in the capitalist press as having -taught his wife free love and then repudiated her when she took him at -his word. The newspapers invented statements, they set traps, and -betrayed confidences--and when they got through with their victim, they -had turned his hair gray. - -Corydon and Harry fled from the storm. But after a few days they came -back; and then there were interviews of many columns, and -Sunday-supplement pages with many pictures, in the course of which the -great American public learned all about Thyrsis’ dietetic eccentricities -and his objections to coffee and cigarettes. Corydon caused vast glee to -the New York smart set by describing her life partner as “an essential -monogamist”; those who read and laughed did not remember that only last -week they had read that he was a “free lover.” As a matter of fact, -neither the writers nor the readers knew what was meant by either term, -so the incongruity did not trouble them. - -Thyrsis filed suit for divorce in New York state, which is ruled by -Catholic laws, administered by Catholic judges. If in his writings you -find a certain acerbity toward the Catholic political machine, bear in -mind these experiences, which seared into a writer’s soul scars never to -be effaced. The Catholic judge appointed a “referee” to hear testimony -in the case, and this referee, moved by stupidity plus idle curiosity, -asked Thyrsis questions concerning his wife’s actions that under the New -York law the husband was not permitted to answer. But the referee -demanded that they be answered, and what was Thyrsis to do? He answered; -so the Catholic judge had a pretext upon which to reject the -recommendation of his referee. - -The court and the referee had between them several hundred dollars of -Thyrsis’ hard-earned money, which, under the law, they were permitted to -keep--even though Thyrsis got no divorce. He filed another suit and paid -more money, and waited another three or four months, in the midst of -journalistic excursions and alarms. Another referee took testimony, and -this time was careful to ask only the exactly prescribed questions; in -due course another decision was handed down by another Catholic judge, -who had also been “seen” by parties interested. This time the decision -was that Thyrsis had failed to beat up his wife, or to choke or stab or -poison her, or otherwise manifest masculine resentment at her -unfaithfulness; therefore he was suspected of “collusion,” and the -application was again denied. Of course the judge did not literally say -that Thyrsis should have behaved in those violent ways; but that was the -only possible implication of his decision. When a husband was fair and -decent, desiring his dissatisfied wife to find happiness if she -could--that was a dangerous and unorthodox kind of behavior, suggestive -of “radical” ideas. Men and women suspected of harboring such ideas -should be punished by being tied together in the holy bonds of matrimony -and left to tear each other to pieces like the Kilkenny cats. - -In February 1912 Thyrsis took his son and departed for Europe, traveling -second-class in a third-class Italian steamer; sick in body and soul, -and not sure whether he was going to live or die, nor caring very much. -He had managed to borrow a little money for the trip, and he had a job, -writing monthly articles for _Physical Culture Magazine_ for a hundred -and fifty dollars each. As a writer of books he was destroyed, and -nobody thought he would ever have a public again. Mitchell Kennerley, -publisher of _Love’s Pilgrimage_, remarked, “If people can read about -you for two cents, they are not going to pay a dollar and a half to do -it.” _Love’s Pilgrimage_ had been published a month or two before the -divorce scandal broke and had started as a whirlwind success--selling a -thousand copies a week. The week after the scandal broke, it dropped -dead, and the publisher did not sell a hundred copies in a year. - - -IV - -Springtime in Florence! “_Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluehn?_” -Could any man walk under Tuscan skies in March and fail to be happy? -George D. Herron had a villa on the slopes towards Fiesole, where he -lived in what peace he could find; Thyrsis spent a couple of weeks with -him, and talked over old times and the state of the world, with the -great cataclysm of World War I only two years and a half in the future. -Carrie Rand Herron played Schumann’s _Widmung_ in the twilight--and for -her a death by cancer was even nearer than the war. - -Was Thyrsis happy? In truth, he hardly knew where he was or what he was -doing. Places and events went by as if in a dream, and nothing had -meaning unless it spoke of pain and enslavement, in America as in Italy. -The grim castle of Strozzi was an incarnation in stone of the Beef Trust -or the Steel Trust. Crowds of olive-skinned starving children with sore -eyes, peering out of doorways of tenements in the back streets of -Florence, were simply Mulberry Row in New York. Galleries full of -multiplied madonnas and crucified martyrs spoke of Tammany Hall and its -Catholic machine, with Catholic cops twisting the arms of socialist -working girls on the picket line; Catholic archbishops striding down the -aisle of a hall commanding the police to arrest women lecturers on birth -control; Catholic judges sitting on the bench in black silk robes, -punishing socialist muckrakers for being too decent to their erring -wives. - -Milan: a great city, with many sights, but for Thyrsis only one -attraction--a socialist paper in an obscure working-class quarter, with -an editor who was translating Thyrsis’ books. And then Switzerland, with -towering snow-clad mountains and clear blue lakes--and another socialist -editor. Then Germany, and one of the Lietz schools, a new experiment in -education, where Thyrsis had arranged to leave his son: a lovely spot on -the edge of the Harz Mountains, with a troop of merry youngsters living -the outdoor life. Nearby were miles of potatoes and sugar beets, with -Polish women working in gangs like Negro slaves. There was another -school in Schloss Bieberstein, for the older boys, fine strapping -fellows, bare-legged and bare-armed, hardened to the cold, and ready for -the slaughter pits; in three years most of them would be turned into -manure for potatoes and sugar beets. - -Then Holland, where Frederik van Eeden had undertaken to help Thyrsis -get the freedom that was not to be had in New York. A lawyer was -consulted and put the matter up to the startled judges of the Amsterdam -courts. Under the Dutch law, the husband was not required to prove that -he had beaten or choked or poisoned his wife; he might receive a divorce -on the basis of a signed statement by the wife, admitting infidelity. -But what about granting this privilege to a wandering author from -America? How long would he have to remain a resident of Holland in order -to be entitled to the benefit of civilized and enlightened law? The -judges finally agreed that they would admit this one American to their -clemency--but never again! Amsterdam was not going to be turned into -another Reno! - - -V - -A visit to England. Gaylord Wilshire was living in Hampstead, -endeavoring to finance his gold mine in London. The great coal strike -was on, and Tom Mann, editor of a syndicalist newspaper, was sent to -jail for six months. Wilshire, who by now had come to despair of -political action for the workers, leaped into the breach, and he and -Thyrsis got out several issues of the paper--the contribution of the -latter consisting of a debate in which he opposed the leading idea of -the editor. Apparently that satisfied the London police, for the -eccentric Americans were allowed to argue without molestation. The -newspaper reporters came swarming, and it was a novel experience for -Thyrsis to give interviews and read next morning what he said, instead -of how he looked and what he ate and how his wife had run away with a -“box-car poet.” - -Some things he liked in England, and some not. A ghastly thing to see -the effect upon the human race of slow starvation continued through many -centuries! Here were creatures distorted out of human semblance; swarms -of them turning out on a bank holiday to play, having forgotten how to -run, almost how to walk; shambling like apes, drooping like baboons, -guffawing with loud noises, speaking a jabber hardly to be understood. -They lay around on Hampstead Heath, men and women in each others’ arms, -a sight new to an American. Whether they were drunk or sober was -difficult for a stranger to tell. - -The miners’ strike committee held its meetings in the Westminster Hotel; -and just across the way were the Parliament buildings, and labor members -to welcome a socialist author. John Burns took Thyrsis onto the floor of -the House to hear the debate on the settlement of the coal strike, a -full-dress affair reported all over the world; Asquith versus Balfour, -or rather both of them versus the working masses of Britain. This was -what capitalism considered statesmanship--this hodgepodge of cant and -cruelty, bundled in a gray fog of dullness. Thyrsis sat in a sacred -seat, where no visitor was supposed to be, and gazed upon rows of -savages in silk hats, roaring for what little blood was left in the -veins of half-starved miners’ families. He clenched his hands until his -nails made holes in his skin. - -When the great lawyer Asquith was in the midst of his sophistries, the -young American could stand no more; he half rose from his seat, with his -mouth open to say what he thought of these starvers of British labor. -Half a dozen times he rose, with words starting from his throat, and -half a dozen times he sank back again. They would have arrested him, no -doubt, and his protest would have been heard. But it would also have -gone to Amsterdam, where the polite judges had still to decide the -problem of the custody of Thyrsis’ son! - -Thyrsis went out and visited Westminster Abbey, where he was swept by a -storm of horror and loathing; wandering among marble tombs and statues -of ruling-class killers and the poets and men of genius who had betrayed -the muse to Mammon. High-vaulting arches, lost in dimness; priests in -jeweled robes, and white-clad choirs chanting incessant subjection; a -blaze of candles, a haze of altar smoke, and mental slaves with heads -bowed in their arms--the very living presence of that giant Fear, in the -name of which the organized crimes of the ages have been committed. Here -was the explanation of those swarms on Hampstead Heath, deprived of -human semblance; here was the meaning of pettifogging lawyers and noble -earls and silk-hatted savages shouting for the lifeblood of starving -miners; here was the very body and blood of that Godhead of Capitalism-- - - Great Christus-Jingo, at whose feet - Christian and Jew and Atheist meet! - - -VI - -Miss Mary Craig Kimbrough came traveling. It was natural that a young -lady from Mississippi should desire to see art galleries and meet -celebrities in England; and if she came as the guest of an earl and a -countess, that would surely be respectable according to Mississippi -standards. It so happened that the noble earl was a bit of a radical and -had had his own marital scandal. He had gone to Reno, Nevada, and got -himself divorced from an unsatisfactory marriage; then, upon his -remarriage in England, his peers had haled him before them, convicted -him of bigamy, and sentenced him to six months in jail. - -A tremendous uproar in its day, but it had been many days ago; the -English nobility are a numerous family, which Mississippi could hardly -be expected to keep straight. Craig’s father had the general impression, -held by every old-fashioned Southern gentleman, that the English -nobility are a depraved lot; but on the other hand, Craig’s mother knew -that they are socially irresistible. She proved it whenever, at a -gathering of the local chapter of the United Daughters of the -Confederacy, she was asked for news about her daughter who was visiting -the Countess Russell in London. - -“Aunt Molly” was a plump little Irish lady, the warmest hearted soul -that ever carried a heavy title. She had had her own divorce tragedy, -and her warm Irish heart was with Thyrsis. She had published two or -three novels, and for writing purposes had a retreat, an ancient cottage -on the edge of a village not far from Eton. It was so low that you had -to stoop to get through the doorway, and its chimney had smoked for at -least three hundred years; but it was newly plastered inside, and -furnished with antiques and bright chintzes. Here Aunt Molly brought her -protegée, and Thyrsis came from Holland to collect local color for the -new novel, _Sylvia_, which he was making out of Craig’s tales of her -girlhood in the Far South. In after years the heroine would stop in the -middle of an anecdote, look puzzled, and say, “Did that really happen to -me? Or is it one of the things we made up for _Sylvia_?” - -One glimpse of the British aristocracy at home. The novel Thyrsis was -writing dealt with a splendid young Harvard millionaire, one of whose -friends remarks that he deliberately cultivated the brutal manners of -the British upper classes toward their social inferiors. Craig was -distressed by this, insisting that it couldn’t be true; finally it was -agreed that Aunt Molly should be the arbitrator. The problem was -submitted, and this high authority laughed and said, “Well, look at -Frank!” She went on to tell anecdotes portraying the bad manners of his -lordship, her husband; also of his uncles and his cousins, Lord This and -the Marquis of That and the Duke of Other. Craig subsided, and the -sentence stands as it was written. - -Thyrsis, himself, walking along the road in his everyday clothes, saw a -fancy equipage drive up and halt, while the occupants asked him the way -to a certain place; having been politely answered, the lady and -gentleman drove on without so much as a nod of thanks. On another -occasion, while walking, he attempted to ask the way of a gentleman out -for a constitutional, and this person stalked by without a sound or a -glance. Mentioning this experience to a conventional Englishman, Thyrsis -received the following explanation: “But if one entered into talk with -any stranger who hailed him on the road, one might meet all sorts of -undesirable persons!” - - -VI - -To Aunt Molly’s home in London came H. G. Wells, and with the countess’ -half-dozen tiny white dogs dancing in their laps, the two social -philosophers compared their views on the state of the world. Wells had -now come to the conclusion it would take about three hundred years to -get socialism, which to Thyrsis seemed the same as being a die-hard -tory. Wells took him to lunch at the New Reform Club, and as they were -leaving the dining room, he stopped and whispered that Thyrsis now had -an opportunity to observe the Grand Khan of Anglo-American literature, -Henry James, eating a muttonchop. On the landing halfway down the stairs -they ran into Hilaire Belloc, who held them with half an hour of -brilliance. He exhibited an amazing familiarity with the medieval world -and its manifold futilities. It was like an exhibition of a million -dollars’ worth of skyrockets and pyrotechnical set pieces; when it was -over, you went away with nothing. - -Also Thyrsis met Frank Harris, possessor of a golden tongue. Harris -would talk about Jesus and Shakespeare in words so beautiful that only -those masters could have matched it; but in the midst of his eloquence -something would turn his thoughts to a person he disliked, and there -would pour from the same throat such a stream of abuse as might have -shocked a fallen archangel. Harris invited the young author to lunch at -an expensive hotel and spent four or five pounds on the occasion; -politeness forbade Thyrsis to hint his feelings of distress at such a -demonstration. He would not partake of the costly wines, and could have -lived for a couple of weeks on such an expenditure. Not long after this, -Harris published in a magazine his solution of all the problems of -health--which was to use a stomach pump, get rid of all you had eaten, -and start over again. - -Then Bernard Shaw. For eight or nine years Thyrsis had followed our -modern Voltaire with admiration, but also with some fear of his sharp -tongue. When he met him, he discovered the kindest and sweetest-tempered -of humans, the cleanest, also; he had bright blue eyes, a red-gold beard -turning gray, and the face of a mature angel. The modern Voltaire -motored Thyrsis out to his country place and gave him a muttonchop or -something for lunch, while he himself ate ascetic beans and salad, and -admitted sadly that his periodic headaches might possibly be due to -excess of starch, as Thyrsis suggested. To listen to G. B. S. at lunch -was exactly like hearing him at Albert Hall or reading one of his -prefaces; he would talk an endless stream of wit and laughter, with -never a pause or a dull moment. - -After lunch they walked to see the old church. Not even a modern -Voltaire could imagine a visitor from America failing to be interested -in looking at the ruins of an old church! On the way they came to a sign -warning motorists that they were passing a school. Thyrsis asked, “Where -is the school?” His host laughed and explained, “This is England. The -school was moved some years ago, but we haven’t got round to moving the -sign yet. The motorists slow up, and then, just after they have got up -speed again, they come to the school.” - -Years back, Thyrsis had met May Sinclair, then visiting in New York. -Those were the days of _The Divine Fire_--does anyone remember that -novel? Thyrsis had sent it to Jack London, who wrote that if he could -write one such story, he would be willing to die. Now in London, Thyrsis -went to see May Sinclair at her studio, and listened while she received -another visitor to tea and asked him questions. It was a shy youth, a -shop assistant in London, who had been invited because May Sinclair was -writing a book about such a person and wished to know what hours he -worked, what his duties were, and so on. One could guess that the poor -youth had never been in such company before, and never would be again. - -The class lines are tightly drawn in that tight little island. May -Sinclair told me a little story about H. G. Wells, who had begun life as -a shop assistant; talking to Wells about the novel she was writing, she -asked him some question about the dialect of a shop assistant. Wells -flushed with annoyance and said: “How should _I_ know?” Thyrsis thought -that was a dreadful story, so dreadful that he covered his face with his -hands when he heard it. May Sinclair was distressed, because she hadn’t -meant to gossip--she hadn’t realized how this anecdote would sound to an -American socialist. - - -VIII - -Thyrsis went back to Holland, which was supposed to be his residence. He -was not deceiving the honorable judges of the Amsterdam courts--he -really did mean to live in Holland, where everybody was so polite and -where, alone of all places in Europe, they did not give you short -change, or coins made of lead. It was an unusually cold and rainy -summer--the peasants of France were reported to be gathering their hay -from boats. Thyrsis sat in a little room, doing his writing by a wood -stove, and waiting in vain for the sun to appear. His friend Van Eeden -took him walking and pointed out the beautiful effects of the tumbled -clouds on the horizon. “These are the clouds that our Dutch painters -have made so famous!” But Thyrsis did not want to paint clouds, he -wanted to get warm. - -Craig came to Holland, and Dr. Van Eeden and his wife introduced her to -staid burgomasters’ wives, who were as much thrilled to meet the -granddaughter of American slave owners as she was to meet Dutch -dignitaries. Because Van Eeden had been through a divorce scandal in his -own life, he could sympathize with the troubled pair. An odd fact, that -all the friends who helped him through these days of trial--the Herrons -in Italy, the Wilshires and Russells in England, the Van Eedens in -Holland--had been through the divorce mill. - -Frederick van Eeden was at this time in his fifties, the best-known -novelist and poet of his country. But the country was too small, he -said--it was discouraging to write for only seven million people! He had -had a varied career--physician, pioneer psychotherapist, then labor -leader and founder of a colony like Thyrsis; he lived on the remains of -this colony, a small estate called Walden. His beard was turning gray, -but his mind was still omnivorous, and he and his young American friend -ranged the world in their arguments. - -Van Eeden s wife was a quiet woman, young in years but old in fashion, -the heroine of Van Eeden’s _Bride of Dreams_; she sat by and did her -sewing and seemed a trifle shocked when the young lady from Mississippi -ventured to poke fun at the ideas of her lord and master. Her two little -children were lacking altogether in American boisterousness; their -utmost limit of self-assertion was to stand by Thyrsis’ chair at -suppertime, and watch him with big round eyes while he ate a fig, and -whisper “Ik ok!”--that is, “Me, too!” Thyrsis found the Dutch language a -source of great amusement, and he evolved a rule for getting along; -first say it in German, and if that is not understood, say it in -English, and if that is not understood, say it halfway between. - -Van Eeden took Thyrsis to Berlin, where they visited a young German -poet, Erich Gutkind, who under the pen name of Volker had published an -ecstatic book that Van Eeden expected to outmode Nietzsche. A charming -young Jewish couple--Thyrsis called them the _Gute Kinder_, and -sometimes the _Sternengucker_, because of the big telescope they had on -the roof of their home. Van Eeden and Gutkind were on fire with a plan -to form a band of chosen spirits to lead mankind out of the wilderness -of materialism; Thyrsis brought tears into the young rhapsodist’s eyes -by the brutality of his insistence that the sacred band would have to -decide the problem of social revolution first. - -All three of these men saw the war coming, and the problem of what to do -about it occupied their thoughts. Thyrsis had written a manifesto -against war, calling on the socialist parties of the world to pledge -themselves to mass insurrection against it. He had found sympathy among -socialists in England and France, but very little in Germany. Karl -Kautsky had written that the agitation of such a program would be -illegal in Germany--which apparently settled it with him and his party. -Thyrsis now spent a day with Kautsky and his wife and son--_die heilige -Familie_, as their enemies dubbed them. He debated the problem with -Suedekum, with Fischer, with Ledebour and Liebknecht; the latter two -escorted him about the Reichstag and took him to lunch--in a separate -dining room where Social Democratic members were herded, apart from the -rest! Ledebour and Liebknecht were sympathetic to his program, but could -not promise any effective action, and what they told him had much to do -with Thyrsis’ decision to support the Allies in 1917. - - -IX - -Yes, the war was not far away. Military men with bristling mustaches -were strutting about, jostling ordinary folk out of the way, staring -over the heads of the men, and into the faces of women. “Papa, why do -they twist their mustaches into points?” inquired David, eleven years -old, and the answer was, “It is to frighten you.” “But it doesn’t -frighten me,” said the little boy. However, it frightened his father, so -that he removed his son from the German school to one in England. - -The _Gute Kinder_ took their guests driving to see the sights of Berlin, -including the monstrous statues of the Sieges Allee. Thyrsis thought he -had never seen anything so funny since the beginning of his life. He -found something funnier to say about each one--until his host leaned -over and signaled him to be quiet, pointing to the cab driver up in -front. More than once it had happened that a ribald foreigner, daring to -commit _lèse-majesté_ in the hearing of a Prussian ex-soldier, had been -driven to the police station and placed under arrest. - -Thyrsis was invited to meet Walter Rathenau. He had never heard the -name, but his friends explained that this was the young heir of the -great German electrical trust; he went in for social reform and wrote -bold books. They were driven to the Kaiserlicher Automobil Klub, a -gorgeous establishment, with footmen in short pants and silk stockings. -There was a private dining room and an elaborate repast, including -plovers’ eggs, a dish of which Thyrsis had never heard and which proved -to be dangerous in practice, since you never knew what you were going to -find when you cracked a shell. Thereafter the irreverent strangers -always referred to Rathenau as _Kiebitzei_. - -They united in finding him genial but a trifle overconfident--an -attitude that accompanies the possession of vast sums of money and the -necessity of making final decisions upon great issues. Van Eeden was a -much older man who had made himself a reputation in many different -fields--yet he did not feel so certain about anything as he found this -young master of electricity and finance. However, there is this to be -added: it is the men who know what they think who are capable of action. -Walter Rathenau would no doubt have made over German industry along more -social and human lines if the reactionaries had not murdered him. - - -X - -The Dutch divorce was granted, in pleasant fashion, without Thyrsis -having to appear in court. Craig, who was back in England under the wing -of her earl and countess, now wished to return to Mississippi to -persuade her parents to let her marry a divorced man; Thyrsis also -wished to go, having a new novel to market. These were the happy days -before the passport curse, so it was possible to travel incognito and -land in New York without newspaper excitement. In the interest of -propriety, the pair traveled on separate steamers. Craig came on the -_Lusitania_, ship of ill fate for her as for others; in a stormy -December passage she was thrown and broke the bones at the base of the -spine, which caused her suffering for many years, and made a hard task -yet harder for her. - -The siege of the family began. The father was a judge and knew the -law--at least he knew his own kind, and took no stock in a piece of -engraved stationery from Amsterdam that he could not read. “Daughter, -you cannot marry a married man!” That was all he would say; and the -answer, “Papa, I have made up my mind to marry him!” meant nothing. She -would spend her nights weeping--an old story in her life. She was his -first child, and her portrait, a beautiful oil painting, hung in the -drawing room; when she went away to New York again, he put this portrait -up in the attic. - -Thyrsis, meantime, was interviewing publishers--an old story in _his_ -life. Mitchell Kennerley had no use for _Sylvia--it_ was not in the -modern manner. Thyrsis’ fate was to wander from one publisher to -another--since he would not obey the rules of their game. Literary works -were turned out according to pattern, stamped with a trademark, and sold -to customers who wanted another exactly like the last. A new publisher -came forward, an old-fashioned one; but apparently the buyers of -old-fashioned novels distrusted the Thyrsis label. _Sylvia_ sold only -moderately, and the sequel, _Sylvia’s Marriage_, hardly sold at all. Two -thousand copies in America and a hundred thousand in Great Britain--that -was a record for a prophet in his own country! - -It was a time of stirring among the foreign-born workers in America, and -Thyrsis and other young enthusiasts thought it was the beginning of the -change for which they prayed. There was a strike of silkworkers in -Paterson, New Jersey, and the intelligentsia of Greenwich Village made -weekend pilgrimages for strike relief and oratory. Leading the strike -were Bill Haywood, grim old one-eyed miners’ chief from the Rockies; -Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, who had begun her rebel career as a high-school -girl in New York; Carlo Tresca, his face and body scarred by the bullets -of his masters’ gunmen; Joe Ettor and Arthur Giovannitti, fresh from a -frame-up for murder in Massachusetts. Helping them, and at the same time -studying them for copy, were budding young novelists such as Leroy Scott -and Ernest Poole; a dramatist, Thompson Buchanan, who was later to -employ his knowledge in the concoction of anti-Bolshevik nightmares; and -John Reed, war correspondent, whose bones were destined to lie in the -Kremlin in less than ten years. - -They besought Thyrsis to join them; he yielded to the temptation, and -once more saw the busy pencils of the newspaper reporters flying. Did -they make up the false quotations themselves, or was their copy doctored -in the office? Impossible to say; but Thyrsis saw himself quoted as -advising violence, which he had never done in his life. He filed the -clippings away, and filed the rage in his heart. It was still six years -to the writing of _The Brass Check_. - -A terrible thing to see tens of thousands of human beings starved into -slavery, held down by policemen’s clubs and newspaper slanders. The -young sympathizers were desperate, and in the hope of moving the heart -of New York, they planned the “Paterson Pageant”--to bring two thousand -silkworkers to the stage of Madison Square Garden and give a mass -performance of the events of the strike, with special emphasis on -speeches and singing. Over this scheme a group of twenty or thirty men -and women slaved day and night for several weeks, and bled their -pocketbooks empty--and then saw the New York papers hinting that they -had stolen the money of the strikers! Two things out of that adventure -will never pass from memory: first, the old warehouse in which -rehearsals were held, and John Reed with his shirt sleeves rolled up, -shouting through a megaphone, drilling those who were to serve as -captains of the mass; and second, the arrival of that mass, two thousand -half-starved strikers in Madison Square Garden rushing for the -sandwiches and coffee! - - -XI - -The elderly Judge in Mississippi would not change his decision once -given; but the ladies of the family were more pliable, and by springtime -it had become plain to them that they could not break the bonds that -held their daughter to the dreaded socialist muckraker. Two of them came -to New York on a pilgrimage to see what sort of man it might be that had -woven this evil spell. The mother was a lady who refrained from boasting -of being the seventh lineal descendant of that Lady Southworth who had -come to Massachusetts to marry the second colonial governor; but who -allowed herself a modest pride as founder of the Christian (Disciples) -church of her home town and sponsor of no one knew how many monuments to -Confederate heroes throughout the South. With her came a greataunt, one -of the few “strong-minded women” the state of Mississippi had produced; -she had gone to California, and become a schoolteacher, and married a -pioneer, General Green, who was known as the “father of irrigation” and -had left her a newspaper, the Colusa _Sun_, to manage. - -These two reached New York in a state of trepidation hardly to be -comprehended by irreverent intellectuals. Oh, fortunate chance that the -socialist muckraker had been born close to Mason and Dixon’s line, and -had so many Virginia ancestors he could talk about! Actually, there -were cousins who were cousins of cousins! His mother had taught him -exactly how to use a knife and fork; his bride-to-be had taught him that -gloves do not go with tennis shoes! For these reasons, plus a lawyer’s -assurance that the divorce was valid in the United States, it was -decided that there should be a wedding. - -But surely not in New York, swarming place of reporters! Let it be in -some decent part of the world, where family and good breeding count! -Mississippi was impossible, because the Judge forbade it; but in -Virginia there were cousins who would lend the shelter of their name and -homestead. So the party took a night train--one amused but attentive -muckraker and three Southern ladies on the verge of a nervous crisis, -seeing a newspaper reporter in every sleeping-car berth. “Oh, the -reporters! What will the reporters say!” Thyrsis heard this for a week, -until he could stand it no more and suddenly exploded in a masculine -cry: “Oh, _damn_ the reporters!” There followed an awe-stricken -silence--but in their secret hearts the two elderly ladies were -relieved. It was a real man, after all! - -Fredericksburg, scene of the slaughter of some fifteen thousand Yankees. -The old-maid cousins knew Craig, because she had been sent to them to -recuperate after dancing seasons; they now welcomed this romantic -expedition with open arms. There was a tremendous scurrying about, and -the respectable mother set out to persuade the pastor of her respectable -kind of church to officiate. But, alas, that dread stigma of a divorce! -Thyrsis had to seek out an Episcopal clergyman and persuade him. Having -been brought up in that church, he knew how to talk to such a clergyman; -having been the innocent party in the divorce, he had under the church -law the right to be remarried. - -But the clergyman required evidence that Thyrsis had been the innocent -party; so the would-be bridegroom came back to the hotel to get the -divorce certificate. As it happened, in the hurry of packing, the proper -document had been overlooked; instead, there was another and subsequent -document, giving Thyrsis the custody of his son. It was in the Dutch -language, and the author, who was no Dutchman, took it and translated -it, with the elderly clergyman looking over his shoulder. Somehow the -legal formulas became confused, and a certificate of custody underwent -a mysterious transmogrification--it became a certificate of divorce -based on the wife’s admitted infidelity. - -The Episcopal proprieties having thus been satisfied, the clergyman put -on his glad robes, and there was a ceremony in an ancient family garden -by the banks of the swiftly flowing Rappahannock, with the odor of -violets and crocuses in the air, and a mother and a greataunt and -several old-maid cousins standing by in a state of uncertain romance. As -for the bride and groom--the world had battered them too much, and they -could hardly squeeze out a tear or a smile. Thyrsis had even forgotten -the ring, and with sudden tears his mother-in-law slipped her own -wedding ring from her finger into his hand. Apart from this lapse, and -the single “damn,” he played his part perfectly. He promised to love, -honor, and obey--and did so for a total of forty-eight years thereafter. - -At home in Mississippi sat the elderly Judge, having been forewarned of -the event and waiting for the storm to break. The telephone rang: the -Memphis _Commercial Appeal_--or perhaps it was the New Orleans -_Times-Picayune_. “Judge Kimbrough, we have a dispatch from -Fredericksburg, Virginia, saying that your daughter has married Upton -Sinclair.” “Yes, so I understand.” “The dispatch says that the husband -is an advocate of socialism, feminism, and birth control. Does your -daughter share her husband’s ideas on these matters?” Said the Judge: -“My daughter does not share _any_ of her husband’s ideas!” And so the -interview went out to the world. - - - - -_9_ - -_New Beginning_ - - -I - -The fates who deal out marriages seldom chose two more different human -personalities for yoking together. Craig was all caution and I was all -venture. She was all reticence, and I wanted to tell of my mistakes so -that others could learn to avoid them. Craig would have died before she -let anyone know hers. When she got some money she wanted to hide it like -a squirrel; when I got some I wanted to start another crusade, to change -a world that seemed to me in such sad shape. Craig agreed about the -shape, but what she wanted to do was to hide us from it. This duel was -destined to last for forty-eight years. - -My mother and hers had proudly produced their family trees, and behold, -we were both descended from the same English king. We had traveled by -different routes: Craig’s ancestor, Lady Southworth, had come to -Massachusetts to be married to the colonial governor, William Bradford; -mine had come to Virginia and entered the Navy. One of my ancestors had -been a commander in the Battle of Lake Huron in the War of 1812, and his -son, Captain Arthur Sinclair, my grandfather, had commanded one of the -vessels with which Admiral Perry opened up Japan. That grandfather, -three uncles, and several cousins had fought in the Confederate States -Navy. Craig’s great-grandfather had been appointed by President -Jefferson the first surveyor general of the Territory of Mississippi. So -those two mothers had got along conversationally, and Mama Kimbrough had -good news to take back to Leflore County. - -The youngest Kimbrough daughter, Dolly, was at a school in Tarrytown, on -the Hudson, and I escorted Mama Kimbrough there. On the way she set out -to make a Christian out of me, and I was so attentive that we went an -hour past our station; we had to get out and wait for a train to take us -back. We found Dolly in bed, blooming in spite of an appendix operation. -By the time we returned to New York I had been able to persuade Mama -that my socialism was just Christian brotherhood brought up to date; -also Mama had decided that a trip to Europe with Craig and me would be -educational for Dolly. - - -II - -The first place we visited was Hellerau, in Germany, where the Dalcroze -School was holding its annual spring festival. Hellerau means “bright -meadow.” Rising from that meadow was a temple of art, and we witnessed a -performance of Gluck’s _Orpheus_, represented in dance as well as in -music. It was one of the loveliest things I had ever seen, and a quarter -of a century later I used it for the opening scene of _Worlds End_--the -world’s beginning of Lanny Budd. The young Lanny met on the bright -meadow--as we ourselves had met--Bernard Shaw with his golden beard -outshining any landscape. I had already had lunch at his home in London -and at his country home; he welcomed us, and our joy in the Dalcroze -festival was confirmed by Britain’s greatest stage critic. He was always -so kind, and the letters he wrote me about the Lanny Budd books helped -them to win translation into a score of foreign languages. - -We traveled to David’s school and collected him. We had lunch in a -restaurant in Dresden. I ordered an omelet in my most polished German, -and very carefully specified that I did not want pancakes. “_Kein -Mehl_,” I said several times, but they brought us pancakes; when we -refused to accept them and tried to leave the restaurant, they would not -let us out. Our train was due so we had to pay, and I bade an unloving -farewell to Germany--just a year before World War I. - -We went to Paris, and there rented an apartment for a couple of weeks. -When we were ready to pay our bill, the proprietress pulled a rug from -under the bed and accused us of having spilled grease on it. We had had -no grease, and hadn’t even seen the rug; but when we refused to pay for -the damage, the woman called in a policeman--I think he was the tallest -man I ever saw in uniform. He told us we would have to pay or we could -not leave. It was a “racket,” of course, but there was nothing we could -do; so to France also we bade an unloving farewell. When World War I -came, we weren’t quite sure which person we wanted most to have -punished--the German restaurant proprietor or the French virago and tall -policeman. - - -III - -We went to England, where nobody ever robbed us. We settled in the model -village of Letchworth, built by co-operatives. I had acquired from Mrs. -Bernard Shaw the right to make a novel out of a drama by the French -playwright Eugène Brieux, called _Damaged Goods_, dealing with venereal -disease. I wrote that novel and got an advance from the publisher, and -so we had a pleasant summer. I played tennis at the club, and in a -middle-aged bachelor girl found the first female antagonist who could -keep me busy. I have forgotten her name, but I remember that whenever I -got in a good shot she would exclaim, “Oh, _haught_!” - -Also I remember an outdoor socialist meeting at which I addressed an -audience of co-operators, speaking from the tail of a cart along with -dear, kind George Lansbury, member of Parliament and leader of the -left-wing socialists. - -We moved into London for a while, and there the lady from the -Mississippi Delta met more strange kinds of people--among them Mrs. -Pethick Lawrence, Sylvia Pankhurst, and other suffrage combatants. -Craig’s sister Dolly had met them too, and we learned, somewhat to our -dismay, that Dolly had carried into the National Art Gallery a hatchet -concealed under her skirt. Known suffragettes, when they tried to go in, -were searched; but the guards didn’t know Dolly, and it was a simple -matter for her to retire to the ladies’ room and pass the hatchet. What -would Chancellor Kimbrough, president of two banks in Mississippi, have -said if a newspaper reporter had called him up and told him that his -youngest daughter had been arrested for passing a hatchet! - -While I renewed my acquaintance with my socialist friends, it was -Craig’s pleasure to go out on the streets and watch the people. At home -the servants had been black; here they had white skins but even so were -like another race. The educated classes were gracious and keen-minded; -but the poor seemed to be speaking a strange language. What did “Kew” -mean? Every shop assistant said it when you handed her money; and once -when Craig and I were going down into “the Tube,” two male creatures -rushed past us in the midst of a hot argument. We caught one shouted -sentence, “Ow, gow an’ be a Sowshalist!” - -I had a curious experience in London with Jessica Finch, who was the -owner and director of a fashionable American school for young ladies, -just off Fifth Avenue in New York. Her prices were staggering, and -admission had to be arranged years in advance. She was an ardent -suffragist and a socialist as determined as myself; she taught these two -doctrines to her pupils, and when they went home for Christmas vacation, -the Intercollegiate Socialist Society moved into her school to hold its -annual convention. - -When Craig had first met me in New York, I had taken her to one of these -conventions, and she had met a youth named Walter Lippmann, founder and -president of the Harvard chapter of that organization. Walter was -interested now to meet a young lady from the Far South, and began at -once to further his education. “What is the economic status of the Negro -in Mississippi?” Craig, with her red-brown eyes twinkling, replied, “I -didn’t know he had any.” - -Jessica was in the habit of taking a bevy of her pupils abroad at the -end of each school year, and they were all snugly ensconced in the -palatial home of London’s great department-store proprietor, Harry -Gordon Selfridge. Jessica laughingly assured me that she had a Rembrandt -in her bedroom and that every one of the girls had a hundred thousand -dollars’ worth of pictures on her walls. Jessica loved to talk, and -there was plenty to talk about; the suffragettes and the British -socialist movement and the prospect of a world war. It must have been -two or three o’clock in the morning when we parted. Craig and I saw her -several years later in New York. She was married to J. O’Hara Cosgrave, -onetime editor of _Everybody’s Magazine_ and later editor of the New -York _Sunday World_. - -The happy summer passed. _Damaged Goods_ was coming out, and I had to be -in New York. Craig’s blessed mother, much against the judgment of the -Judge, allowed Dolly to stay in London to become a paying guest at the -Wilshires’ and attend the Dalcroze School of Eurythmics. My David was -placed in one of the progressive schools near the city. - -As I have already said, Craig had written some tales of her Southern -girlhood; and I had stolen them from her for a novel to be called -_Sylvia_. _Damaged Goods_, both the play and novel, had filled my mind -with the subject of venereal disease, something considered unmentionable -in those days. I now decided to use the material from _Sylvia_ for a -novel on that theme, and we settled down in a little apartment to finish -it. We had long arguments of course. Craig was herself Sylvia, and she -thought she knew what Sylvia would do and say. I had to agree; but I -thought I knew what the public would want to read. If anybody had been -in the next room while we were arguing they would surely have thought -that World War I had already broken out. - - -IV - -We decided to transfer the battleground to Bermuda for the winter. We -found one of those little white cottages built of blocks carved out from -coral. Craig had had enough of social life to last all her days, she -said; all she wanted was to sit in the shade of a palm tree and decide -what she believed about life. In the afternoon I would mount a bicycle -and ride down to the Princess Hotel and play tennis with a captain of -the British Army, stationed nearby. - -A former young woman secretary of mine had married a Bermuda planter, -and they would come for us in a carriage--no autos permitted in those -days--and take us to a home completely surrounded by onions and -potatoes. At night the planter took me out on Harrington Sound in a -flat-bottomed boat; holding a torch we would look into the clear water, -and there would be a big green lobster waiting to be stabbed with a -two-pronged spear. - -It was in Bermuda that we had an experience Craig delighted to tell -about. Walking along the lovely white coral road, we stopped at a little -store to buy something to eat. Looking up, my eyes were caught by -familiar objects on shelves near the ceiling--flat cans covered with -dust but with the labels still visible: “Armour’s Roast Beef.” “What are -those cans doing up there?” I asked, and the proprietor replied, “Oh, -some years ago a fellow wrote a book about that stuff, and I haven’t -been able to sell a can since.” - - -V - -In the spring of 1914 we came back to New York. The novel, which we -called _Sylvia’s Marriage_, was finished: the story of a Southern girl -who marries a wealthy Bostonian and Harvard man and bears a child -blinded by gonorrhea. A terrible story, of course, and an innovation in -the fiction of that time. I took the manuscript to Walter Lippmann, who -had himself graduated from Harvard and had founded a branch of the -Intercollegiate Socialist Society there. He read it, and invited me to -lunch at the Harvard Club. - -I remember vividly his reaction to my novel. I hadn’t thought of him as -an ardent partisan of Harvard, but perhaps he was already coming to a -more conservative attitude to life. He told me that my picture of a -Harvard man was utterly fantastic; no such pretentious snob had ever -been seen there, and my portrait was a travesty. I remember one -sentence: “It’s as preposterous as if you were to portray an orgy in -this place.” And Walter waved his hand to indicate that most decorous -dining room. - -I would have been embarrassed had I not known certain facts that, -unfortunately, I was not at liberty to mention to my old ISS friend. I -thanked him for his kindness, took my departure, and have not met him -since. - -It was Mary Craig who had provided me with the picture of that august -Harvard senior, named Van Tuiver in the novel. What had happened was -this. In my little cottage in the single-tax colony of Arden, Craig had -met a patron of the colony, a leading paper manufacturer, Fiske Warren. -When I left Arden, my secretary, Ellen, had become one of the -secretaries to this extremely wealthy and important Bostonian. On his -country estate each of his secretaries had a separate cottage of her -own, and Ellen had invited Craig to pay her a visit in her cottage. -Craig had done so, and Fiske had dropped in now and then in the evening -to chat with Craig. He did not invite her to the mansion, and Craig was -shrewd enough to guess why and proud enough to be amused. Fiske’s wife, -Gretchen Warren, was the most august and haughty leader of Boston -society, and was not accustomed to receive secretaries socially--or -friends of secretaries. - -To spare too many details: Craig happened to mention that she was a -lineal descendant of that Lady Southworth who had come to Massachusetts -to marry Governor Bradford. Fiske went up into the air as if she had put -a torpedo under him. He hurried to confirm it in his genealogy books, -and then to tell Gretchen about it--with the result that Ellen lost her -guest and Craig was moved up to the “big house” (I use the phrase to -which Craig was accustomed in Mississippi). - -So it had come about that she had met “Van Tuiver”--only of course that -was not his real name. Gretchen had invited the top clubmen of eligible -age to meet this Southern belle, and Craig had listened to their -magnificence. Of course, she was no longer “eligible,” being engaged to -me, but she was not at liberty to reveal that fact; and she let them -spread their glory before her. She had never met this particular kind of -arrogance and self-importance, in Mississippi or anywhere else. - -So when she came back from the visit she gave me Van Tuiver as a -character for our book, with every detail of his appearance, his manner, -and his language. And so it was that I was not disturbed by the opinion -of Walter Lippmann. Walter’s chances of meeting such a man at Harvard -had been of the slimmest, for Walter suffered not merely from the -handicap of being Jewish but also from having declassed himself by -setting up a socialist society. (Never have I forgotten the tone of -voice in which the secretary of the Harvard Club answered me when I -asked if I could obtain a list of Harvard students in order to send them -a circular about the proposed Intercollegiate Socialist Society. -“_Socialist!_” he exclaimed, incredulously; and I got the list -elsewhere.) - - -VI - -In New York we had found ourselves a ten-dollar-a-week apartment on -Morningside Heights. One evening I went to a meeting at Carnegie Hall -alone; Craig, being tired, preferred to sleep. I came back about -midnight; and after that she had little sleep, because I told her about -the meeting. - -Mrs. Laura Cannon, wife of the president of the Western Federation of -Miners, had told the story of what came to be known to the world as the -Ludlow massacre. In the lonely Rocky Mountains were coal camps fenced in -and guarded like medieval fortresses. No one could enter without a pass -or leave without another, and the miners and their families were in -effect white slaves. Rebelling against such conditions, they had gone on -strike and had been turned out of the camps. Down in the valley, with -the help of their unions, they had set up tent colonies; after they had -held out for several months, the gunmen of the company had come one -night, thrown kerosene on the tents, and set fire to them. Three women -and eleven children had been burned to death; but the newspapers of the -country, including those of New York, had given only an inch or two to -the event. - -The most important fact about the whole thing was that these coal camps -were owned by the Colorado Fuel and Iron Company, a Rockefeller concern. -I told my terrified wife what I had decided to do--to take Mrs. Cannon -to the office of John D. Rockefeller, Jr., in the morning and ask him to -hear her story. If he refused, we would charge him with murder before -the American public and organize a group of sympathizers who would put -mourning bands around their arms and walk up and down in front of the -Standard Oil Building in protest against the company’s crime. - -I won’t try to portray the dismay of my bride of just one year. We had -been so perfectly happy and so carefully respectable--and now this -horror! “You will all be arrested,” she exclaimed. I answered, “Maybe, -but they couldn’t do anything but fine us, and someone will put up the -money.” We didn’t have it. - -Craig couldn’t bring herself to say no--not this time. In the morning I -set to work to call people who had been at the meeting, and put them to -work to call others to the Liberal Club that evening. And, of course, we -did not fail to notify the newspapers. Some thirty or forty people -assembled--having scented publicity, which “radicals” dearly love. I set -forth the proposal and called for the help of those who would agree to a -program of complete silence and complete nonresistance. One man, -overcome with indignation, called for a program of collecting arms, and -I invited him to go into the next room, shut the door, and collect all -the arms he wanted. - -Craig was willing to be one of the marchers but insisted that she had to -have a proper costume. She waited until the department stores opened, -and then she got herself an elegant long white cape. When I arrived at -nine in the morning, I found no men but four ladies, one of whom had -provided herself with a many-colored banner and a loud screaming voice. -I invited her to set the banner against the wall of the Standard Oil -Company and to stuff her handkerchief in her mouth; we then took up our -silent parade in front of the office of Mr. John D. Rockefeller, Jr. (We -never saw him, and I learned that he had taken up the practice of coming -in by a back door.) - - -VII - -We walked for perhaps five minutes, and then policemen politely told us -to walk somewhere else; when we politely refused, they told us that we -were under arrest. One of them grabbed me by the arm and started to -hustle me, but I said to him very quietly, “Please behave like a -gentleman. I have no idea but to go with you.” So after that we had a -pleasant stroll to the police station, where we found a half-dozen -newspaper reporters with their pads of scratch paper and their busy -pens. - -To the sergeant at the desk I told the story of the Ludlow massacre all -over again. It wasn’t his business to listen, but it was the reporters’ -business, and all police sergeants are respectful to reporters. A little -later we were put into a patrol wagon and taken to the police court, and -again I told the story, this time to the judge. The policeman who had -arrested me testified that my conduct had been “that of a perfect -gentleman”; whereupon the judge found me guilty of disorderly conduct -and fined me three dollars. I declined to pay the fine, and so did the -four ladies; so each of us got three days instead of three dollars, and -I was led over the “Bridge of Sighs” to a cell in the ancient prison -known as The Tombs. - -A most interesting experience, because I had as cellmate a young Jewish -fellow in for stealing. He was a lively talker and told me all about his -art; and of course every kind of knowledge is useful to a novelist -sooner or later. This young fellow stole because he loved to. It was a -sporting proposition--he pitted his wits against the owners of property -in the great metropolis, and he didn’t especially mind when he was -caught because the charge was always petty theft; apparently they never -bothered to compare his fingerprints with previous fingerprints, and he -was always a “first offender.” He trusted me--I suppose he thought of a -socialist as an intellectual and higher type of thief. Anyhow, we were -pals, and I was entertained for two days. - -I never left the cell, because I had learned about fasting, and when I -contemplated prison fare, I decided this was a good time to apply my -knowledge. At the end of the second day a message came to me that if I -wanted to appeal my sentence I would have to pay a fine; for, obviously, -if I served the whole three days I could not sue to get my time back. It -was my wife who had sent this information, and she set out to find the -court where the one dollar for the third day was to be paid. She has -told in _Southern Belle_ the delightful story of how she got lost in the -several galleries of courtrooms and stopped a gentleman to ask the way -to the room where the fine should be paid. The gentleman asked, “What is -it for?” and Craig said, “Some idiot of a judge has sent my husband to -jail.” “Madam,” was the reply, “I am that judge.” But he told her where -to go to pay her dollar. - -We kept that demonstration going for a couple of weeks, and Craig met -such people as Judge Kimbrough’s daughter had never dreamed of meeting -in this world--lumberjacks from the mountains, sailors from the harbor, -and poor Jewish garment workers half-starved in a period of -unemployment. - -George Sterling, the poet, happened to be visiting in New York. He -marched on one side of Craig, with Craig holding his arm to keep him -from making any move when the “slugs” muttered insults at her. (“Slugs” -was what Craig called them, groping for a word.) Clement Wood, -stenographer and also poet, marched on the other side. Irish-born -novelist Alexander Irvine and Irish-born suffragette Elizabeth Freeman -took charge while Craig rested, and some rich supporter put up money for -a rest room and feeding station. I went out to Colorado to make -publicity there, and to write it; meantime Craig kept things going on -lower Broadway. Clement told her that an agent of the Rockefellers had -come to him and offered him money for secret information about our plans -and purposes. Since we had no secrets of any sort, Craig told him to get -all the Rockefeller money that was available. - - -VIII - -A group of students of the Ferrer School, an anarchist institution, came -down to march, and later decided to carry the demonstration to the -Rockefeller estate in Pocantico Hills. They did not ask our consent, and -we had nothing to do with it--until they were beaten up for trying to -hold a free-speech meeting in nearby Tarrytown. Then I went up to try to -persuade the board of directors of the town to let us hold a meeting; I -carried with me a letter from Georg Brandes, perhaps the most highly -respected literary critic in Europe--but I doubt if the trustees had -heard of him. They turned down our request. - -What should turn up then but an offer from a millionaire lady, whose -estate adjoined the Rockefellers’, to let us hold a free-speech meeting -in her open-air theater; I went there and made a speech and was not -beaten up. Let would-be reformers make a note of this item and always -have their free-speech meetings on the property of millionaires. - -The time came when all our money was gone, and we went back to our -little apartment on Morningside Heights. A day or two later our -telephone rang. It was the nearby police station calling to ask Craig if -she knew Arthur Caron and if she would come and identify his body. Caron -was a French-Canadian boy who had been in a strike in Rhode Island and -beaten there. After being beaten at Tarrytown, he and two of his -colleagues had set to work in a tenement-house room to make a bomb, -doubtless to blow up the Rockefellers. Instead, they had blown out the -top floor of the tenement house, and two of them were killed. - -I have often thought what must have been the effect of that event upon -the Rockefeller family. There has been an enormous change in their -attitude to the public since that time. John D., Jr., went out to his -coal mines and danced with the miners’ wives and made friends with the -angry old Mother Jones; more important, he made a deal to recognize the -unions and reform conditions in all the camps of the Colorado Fuel and -Iron Company. If you look at the record that his son, the present Nelson -A. Rockefeller, is making as governor of New York State, you will see -that our lessons were indeed learned by that family. - -One curious outcome of that “civil war” of ours had to do with the -newspapers. Craig had made friends with some of the reporters, and they -had told her how their stories were being mutilated in the office. The -New York _Herald_ gave us especially bad treatment, making many -statements about us that were pure invention. For example, they said -that the president of the board of trustees in Tarrytown had denounced -my conduct in an angry speech. I went up to see the gentleman, to whom I -had been perfectly courteous. He assured me he had made no such -statement to anyone--and he gave me a letter to that effect. - -That letter was shown to the _Herald_, but they refused publication and -even repeated the charge; so I told a lawyer friend to bring a libel -suit against them. Then I went back to my writing and forgot all about -it. The usual law’s delay occurred. Some three years later, to my -astonishment, I received a letter from my lawyer telling me that the -case had been settled, with the _Herald_ paying three thousand dollars’ -damages! - -George Sterling and Clement Wood each got a fine poem out of this -experience. George wandered down to the battery and gazed at the Statue -of Liberty and asked, - - Say, is it bale-fire in thy brazen hand, - A traitor light set on betraying coast - To lure to doom the mariner?... - -And Clement Wood, after collecting his Rockefeller money, wrote a sonnet -beginning: - - White-handed lord of murderous events, - Well have you guarded what your father gained.... - -Both these poems are in my anthology, _The Cry for Justice_, which I set -out to compile as soon as the excitement of the “mourning parade” was -over. - - -IX - -We were broke as usual, but the John C. Winston Company of Philadelphia -fell for my proposition of a book, _The Cry for Justice: An Anthology of -Social Protest_; they advanced a thousand dollars to make possible its -compilation. A good friend, Frederick C. Howe, then United States -Commissioner of Immigration, offered us the use of a cottage in the -hills above Croton-on-Hudson; so we moved out of our ten-dollar-a-week -apartment into a fifty-dollar-a-month cottage on the edge of woods that -sloped down to the Croton River. In summer the woods were green, and in -winter the ground was white, and George Sterling came and chopped down -dead trees for firewood. Clement Wood came to be my secretary and to -quarrel with me over all the poetry I put into _The Cry for Justice_ and -all that I left out--including some of his. Vachel Lindsay had come to -see us in New York, and his book had set Clement on fire; we would hear -him roaring through the forest: - - Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo ... - Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you! - -Poor dear Vachel! He had been sending me his stuff for two or three -years, and I had been praising it; but when I met him he suddenly burst -out, to my consternation, “_Oh, you don’t like me!_” I had to persuade -him that I liked him very much indeed. Clement liked him, and liked Walt -Whitman too, but he didn’t like Edward Carpenter for two cents. We had -fierce arguments, but in the end we got _The Cry for Justice_ put -together, and it was published and widely reviewed. - -Edgar Selwyn and his wife, Margaret Mayo, lived within bicycling -distance, and so I had tennis. Isadora Duncan’s sister had her dancing -school nearby, and we met unusual characters there. Floyd Dell and -Robert Minor constituted a little radical colony, and we could go there -and solve all the problems of the world, each in his own special way. - -As usual, I was on the verge of making a fortune; _The Jungle_ was being -made into a movie, and I went to watch the procedure in a big warehouse -in Yonkers. An odd confusion there--the show was being directed by A. E. -Thomas; I took this to be Augustus Thomas and named him as the director, -greatly to his surprise. It was a poor picture; the concern went into -bankruptcy, and so ended another dream. All I got was the film, and I -loaned it to some organization and never got it back. Whoever has it, -please let me know! - -One incident I remember on the opening night. In the lobby of the -theater I found myself being introduced to Richard Harding Davis. He had -come back from some expedition and was still wearing khaki. I had read -one or two of his books, and had an impression of him as a prince among -snobs; but when he heard my name, he held my hand and said, “Ah, now, -_you_ are a _real_ writer. I only write for money.” I never saw him -again. - -I saw the world war coming. I had a friend, J. G. Phelps Stokes, well -known in New York as the “millionaire socialist”--you didn’t have to be -more than moderately rich to receive that title. I learned that his -butler was in England and about to return, so I made arrangements for -the butler to bring back my son, David. I put the boy in the North -Carolina school of C. Hanford Henderson, whose wise and gracious book -about education I had read. That left Craig and me free, and at last -there came the long-awaited letter from the Judge, inviting us “home.” - - -X - -That meant Ashton Hall, on the Mississippi Sound near Gulfport. The -family used it only in summer, and we were free to have it eight months -of the year. I have a vivid memory of getting off at a little railroad -stop in the backwoods: we were the only persons to descend, and there -was only one person to meet us--a boy of fourteen dressed in the uniform -of a military academy, a boy with gracious manners and a strong Southern -brogue. Such was my first meeting with Hunter Southworth Kimbrough, who -was to be our standby for almost half a century. I remember how he -insisted on carrying both bags; and today I have only to go to the -telephone and call him, and eight hours later he arrives from Phoenix, -Arizona, ready to lift all the contents of the house on his sturdy -shoulders. - -We walked a quarter of a mile or so to the Gulf of Mexico, and there -just beyond a sandy-beach drive stood the lovely old house, built of -sound timbers before the Civil War. The front stood high above the -ground, so there was room underneath to stow sailboats and even buggies. -(Jefferson Davis’ buggy and his daughter’s boat were there.) We went up -a wide flight of steps to what was called a gallery, which ran around -three sides of the house. On it were big screened cages in which you -could hide from the mosquitoes when the wind from the back marshes drove -them to the front. - -There was a dining room that could seat a score of persons, and two -reception rooms with doors that rolled back to make a big room for -dancing. Upstairs were four bedrooms, and above that a great attic with -a row of beds and cots to accommodate the beaux when they came from New -Orleans. That attic was haunted for Craig, because it was there the -Judge had hung bunches of bananas to ripen, and Craig’s five-year-old -sister had climbed up and eaten unripe bananas and died in Craig’s -arms--this when Craig herself was little more than a child. The mother -had been screaming to God while Craig was making the child vomit; but -neither effort helped. - -There was “Aunt” Catherine, whom I had been hearing about ever since I -had met Craig, a half-dozen years previously. Aunt Catherine--all the -older Negroes were “Aunt” or “Uncle”--was an ex-slave and happy to tell -about “dem days.” “Dey wormed us all,” she said, “wormed us all good.” -Which sounded alarming but merely meant the giving of worm medicine. -Aunt Catherine’s happiness was to fix elaborate meals, and her distress -was great when she discovered that I did not want them. She took to -wandering off down the beach, visiting the servants in other beach -homes. She was elegant in the castoff clothing of Craig’s mother and -sisters, and I remember her coming down the beach with the wind blowing -half-a-dozen colored scarves in front of her. When Craig rebuked her -for neglecting her duties, the answer was, “But, Miss Ma’y, _somebody_ -gotta keep up de repitation of de family--_you_ won’t do it.” - - -XI - -Hunter, in the course of his explorations in Gulfport, picked up a -sailor on liberty from one of the ships. He brought the man to the house -to cut firewood and perform other labors. He was a Norwegian, a good -fellow, and we put him up in one of the rooms in a back building, where -the cooking was done and where the Negroes slept on the second floor. -Gus, as his name was, quarreled with Catherine, who had contempt for any -white man in the position of servant. She neglected to prepare his -breakfast early, and Gus burst into her room to scold her. Catherine -came to Craig, weeping wildly, “Oh, Miss Ma’y, I done seed a naked white -man--never befo’ in my life I seed a naked white man!” - -The great thing in Craig’s life now was the impending visit of her -father. Her heart was in her mouth when I came up the steps after a -walk, and the Judge was there. We shook hands, he bade me welcome, and I -thanked him for the most precious gift I had ever received. He had hated -to give it, of course, but all the same I had it, and for keeps. After a -little talk I went into the house, and Craig said, “Well, Papa, what do -you think of him?” The answer was, “I guess I overspoke myself.” Craig -told me afterward it was the first time in her life she had heard him -make any sort of apology. - -He was six feet four, with a little white beard. He was a judge of the -Chancery Court, which means that he handled estates and was happy in his -duty of protecting the property of widows. Also, he traveled a “circuit” -and presided at court in four counties, where he was famous for his way -of handling the Negroes who got into trouble. He could be very stern, -but he also had a keen sense of humor and knew there was nothing the -Negroes dreaded more than to be laughed at. He would propose penalties -that would make the audience roar, such as making two husky men who had -been fighting kiss each other and make up. - -But for good Negroes he had only kindness and understanding. He owned -plantations and lands, and some of his land was worked by trusted -Negroes on shares. They would come to see him and tell him their needs, -and he would sit on the back porch and chat with them, being interested -in their minds. He would tell funny stories about them, but he gave -serious advice and help when needed. On Christmas Day they all came to -have their “dram,” and in the evening when there were parties some would -play music and be as happy as the dancers. - -But don’t think that he couldn’t be stern, for he had to be. Dreadful -things happened. A Negro woman, furious with jealousy, poured boiling -grease into her sleeping husband’s ear; a woman nurse, jealous of a -rival for the position, set fire to the curtains on the balcony where -the white children were sleeping. Craig told the story of a Negro -meeting in the woods back of her Greenwood home. A fight broke out in -the night, and the Judge grabbed his shotgun and rushed out; Mama -Kimbrough grabbed his rifle and followed behind--to protect her big -six-foot-four husband. He didn’t want to shoot any of the Negroes -because they were “his.” He just waded in, using his shotgun as a club, -and scattered them and drove them to their cabins. Such was life on a -Mississippi plantation when Craig was a child, three quarters of a -century ago. The sight of bleeding Negroes was familiar to her from the -beginning of her life, and once she helped to sew on a torn ear. - - -XII - -My aim that winter was to write a novel called _King Coal_, dealing with -those labor camps in the Rocky Mountains about which I had learned so -much. The first essential for my work was quiet, and the way to get it -was to have a tent at a corner of the property remote from the house. A -tent must have a platform, so I ordered the necessary lumber and set to -work. Nobody at Ashton Hall, white or black, had ever seen a white -“gentleman” doing such work, and I damaged my reputation thereby. A -colored boy helped me to get the tent up, since that couldn’t be done -alone. I built a little doorframe for the front and tacked on mosquito -netting. - -Thereafter, when the wind brought mosquitoes, my technique was as -follows: I would dart out from the big house, run as fast as my feet -could take me to the tent, brush off the mosquitoes that had already -attached themselves, dart inside and fasten the door, then with a -flyswat proceed to eliminate all the mosquitoes inside. The size of the -tent was eight by ten; so I had three steps east and then three steps -west while I thought up the next scene in my story. I would sit down and -write for a while on the typewriter, then get up and walk and think some -more. So, in the end I had _King Coal_. - -The Judge came from Greenwood now and then and took me fishing--always -with a Negro man to row the boat and bait our hooks. Brother Willie -Kimbrough came, a big laughing stout man, and took me to catch pompano -in what was called Back Bay, a sort of deep sound. - -Craig’s sister Dolly, back from England, came to stay with us; Craig, -who disapproved of idleness, assigned her a job. Behind the house stood -an enormous arbor of scuppernong grapes, loaded with ripe fruit that it -would be a shame to waste. So Dolly put two Negro boys to picking -grapes. When they had two big baskets full, they would take them to the -trolley, and Dolly would ride into town and arrange with a grocery to -buy them. Never before had an occupant of Ashton Hall engaged in trade, -and Dolly wept once or twice, then became interested in making pocket -money. - -Everything was going beautifully, and if it went wrong there was someone -to attend to it. I made the mistake of leaving my small possessions, -such as fountain pen and cuff links, on my bureau, and one by one these -objects disappeared. After searching everywhere I mentioned the matter -to the youthful Hunter, who knew exactly what to do. He called a Negro -boy, one of the house servants, and said with due sternness, “Empty your -pockets.” Sure enough, the boy proceeded to shell out all my -possessions. Hunter didn’t say, “I’ll call the police.” He said, “Now, -you keep out of Mr. Sinclair’s room; if I ever hear of you being in -there again, I’ll skin you alive.” Such was “gov’ment” on the -Mississippi Sound. I don’t know how it is now, but I am able to -understand both sides in the racial problem. - - -XIII - -Visitors came to see us--among them Captain Jones. I don’t know that I -ever heard his first name, but that wasn’t necessary as there was only -one “Captain Jones” in that world. He had built the Gulfport harbor, -also the railroad that connected Gulfport with the North, and also the -trolley line that paralleled the road in front of Ashton Hall and -carried me into town when I wanted to play tennis at Captain Jones’s -Great Southern Hotel. - -The old gentleman and his wife came to Ashton Hall, and he poured out -his heart to us. He was probably the richest man in Mississippi; but -nobody loved him, nobody wanted anything but money from him, and some of -their ways were wicked and cruel. His railroad, which ran through the -desolate “piney woods” of southern Mississippi, was a blessing to -everybody along the way; but the miserable piney-woods people, -“clayeaters” as they were called, had only one thought--to plunder -Captain Jones’s railroad. They would cut the wire fence that protected -both sides of the track and turn some scrawny old cow onto the railroad -right of way; when the creature was struck and killed by a train, they -would demand the price of a prize bull in a cattle show. - -I was duly sympathetic, of course, and was somewhat embarrassed when a -strike of the dockworkers developed in Captain Jones’s Gulfport. He had -made all the prosperity of that town, and here was one more case of -ingratitude. It was embarrassing to me and to the Kimbrough family when -the strikers sent a deputation to ask me to speak at a meeting in the -largest hall in Gulfport. I had never refused an invitation from -strikers, and I wasn’t going to begin at the age of thirty-six. I told -them I couldn’t discuss their particular issues because I didn’t know -the circumstances and didn’t have time to investigate them; but I would -tell them my ideas of democracy in industry, otherwise known as -socialism, where strikes would be unnecessary because workers would be -striking against themselves. - -The meeting was duly announced, and the Kimbrough family were too polite -to tell me what they thought about the matter. What the wife of Captain -Jones thought about it surprised both Craig and me. She called us up and -said she would be glad to go to the meeting with us; and would we come -to the Great Southern Hotel and have dinner with her before the meeting? -Of course we said we would be pleased. - -It was Craig’s practice to sit in the very back of a hall, where she -would be inconspicuous and if possible unrecognized. But Mrs. Jones -wouldn’t have it that way. She took me by an arm and Craig by an arm, -and marched us straight down the center aisle to the front seats in the -hall so that everybody would know who had brought us. I have had a -number of experiences like that with the very rich, and they have -encouraged me to realize that democracy is a real force in America. - - -XIV - -So everything seemed lovely at Ashton Hall, until one tragic day when -the roof fell in on us--the moral and spiritual roof. My former wife saw -fit to come to Gulfport and bring a lawsuit for the custody of our son. -I cannot shirk the telling of this story because it played an enormous -part in my life and Craig’s; but I tell it as briefly and tactfully as -possible. I don’t think the lady actually wanted David, but the -grandmother did. My former wife is still living, has been married twice, -and has children and grandchildren whom I have no desire to hurt. -Suffice it to say that her coming created a scandal in Gulfport--one -that not even the wife of Captain Jones could mitigate. - -David was with us at the time, and I had a secretary, a young man from -the North, who considered it a great lark to carry the lad off into the -woods and hide him from the courts of Mississippi for a few days. There -was a trial with plenty of publicity; the court, presided over by a -Catholic judge, awarded six months’ custody to me and six months’ to his -mother. To make the painful story short, I took David to California for -the first six months; and when the time came for his mother to come and -get him, I heard nothing from her--then or afterward. - -Judge Kimbrough had made Craig an offer promising her Ashton Hall if she -would live there. It was said to be worth a hundred and fifty thousand -dollars, and with the development that has come in the past thirty or -forty years, the lot alone is probably worth that now. But we couldn’t -be happy there. A friend had told me about the wonders of southern -California, where there were no mosquitoes. I begged Craig to come, and -I went ahead to find a home. - - - - -_10_ - -_West to California_ - - -I - -It was November of 1915. I wanted to be warm so I went as far south as -possible, to Coronado; but it proved not to be so warm. Cold winds blew -off the wide Pacific, and the little cottage I rented leaked both wind -and rain. I pasted newspapers inside to keep out the wind--which was not -very ornamental. - -Craig was wretchedly unhappy over the humiliation she had brought to her -family, and only time could heal that wound. She told me long afterward -that she hadn’t been sure she would follow me to California; but her -father, who had labored so hard to keep us apart, now kept us together. -He said, “Daughter, you must go to your husband.” She came, and we had a -hard time because George P. Brett of Macmillan rejected _King Coal_. It -was a painful, a terrible subject, and I had failed to make the -characters convincing. Craig, who agreed with him, wrote to him telling -him her ideas and offering to make me revise the manuscript accordingly. -Brett said he would read the manuscript again after she had finished. - -You can imagine what a hold that gave her in our family arguments. The -heroine of my story was a daughter of the mining camps named Mary Burke. -I had failed to describe what she looked like; Craig sought in vain to -find out from me, because I didn’t know. Likewise, Craig insisted that -Mary Burke was naked, and thereafter for the rest of our lives the -revision of my manuscripts was known as “putting the clothes on Mary -Burke.” - -Anybody who heard us in that little leaky cottage would have been quite -sure we were getting ready for a divorce; but we made an agreement about -all our quarrels--whenever one of us got too excited, the other would -say “Manuscript,” and the excitement would diminish. - -When the rains stopped, I would go out and meet the idle rich, playing -tennis on the courts of the immense and fashionable Coronado Hotel. -Craig would never go; she had met enough rich people to last her the -rest of her life. But I had to have characters as well as tennis, and I -watched the characters playing at polo and other expensive diversions. I -wrote a novel about some of these people that has never yet been -published--Craig never got around to putting clothes on the characters. - -As far as I can recall we had only one visitor that entire winter. Jane -Addams wrote that she wanted to see me, and I was surprised and pleased. -I had seen a good deal of her in Chicago because I had had my meals at -the University Settlement all the time I was getting material for _The -Jungle_. What she had come for now was to ask me about Emanuel Julius. -Her niece, Marcet Haldeman, had become engaged to marry him, and what -sort of man was he? He was editor of the _Appeal to Reason_ and had been -the means of making _The Jungle_ known to the American masses. I am not -sure whether I had met him at that time, but I could say that he had a -brilliant mind and was, like myself, an ardent socialist. - -I may as well complete the story here by saying that the marriage took -place; and that after the tragic death of J. A. Wayland, Emanuel -Haldeman-Julius bought the _Appeal to Reason_ with his wife’s money and -built up a great publishing business, including many hundreds of titles -of the five-cent Little Blue Books that did so much to educate America. -But, alas, Julius took up with a secretary, and Marcet divorced him. -Julius drowned in his swimming pool, and no one knows whether it was a -suicide. The good Jane Addams did not live to see these painful events. -A son survives, a good friend. - - -II - -We decided that we wanted to get away from ocean winds; and I had met a -tennis professional who lived in Pasadena and who assured me I would -find plenty of tennis there. So we made the move and found ourselves a -brown-painted, two-story house on Sunset Avenue, a remote part of the -town. It was covered with a huge vine of red roses, and roses were as -important to Craig as tennis was to me. - -The house stood on the edge of a slope, with the valley of the Arroyo -Seco to the west. It was unfurnished, so Craig would walk several blocks -to the streetcar, ride a couple of miles downtown, and then wander about -looking for secondhand furniture shops. That way she got three chairs -with ragged upholstery for our living room, two beds for upstairs, and -packing boxes for tables and bureaus. We were able to do all those -things because Brett had accepted _King Coal_ and paid a -five-hundred-dollar advance. After that magical achievement, Craig was -boss of the family. - -Pasadena in the year 1916 was a small town that called itself “City of -Roses” and was called by others “City of Millionaires.” These last -occupied the wide, elegant Orange Grove Avenue, with palaces on both -sides and two very elegant hotels for the winter visitors. We had no -thought of the rich, and never expected them to have any thought of us -in our humble brown cottage overlooking the sunset. The beautiful roses -and the sunsets were enough for Craig, and as for me, I had started _The -Coal War_, a sequel to _King Coal_, with more about Mary Burke and her -clothes. I had learned now! - -But wherever there are millionaires there are also socialists--they are -cause and effect. The socialists came to see me and invited me to speak -at a meeting in support of a proposed co-operative; of course I went. I -had found a woman secretary to type my manuscripts--another necessity of -my life--and in the course of the evening this lady came to my wife and -whispered a portentous sentence: “Mrs. Gartz wants to meet you.” - -“Who is Mrs. Gartz?” asked Craig; and the awe-stricken secretary -replied, “Oh, my dear, she is the richest woman in Pasadena.” - -Craig said, “Well, bring her here.” - -The secretary, dismayed, responded, “She said for you to come to her.” - -The secretary didn’t know Craig very well, but she learned about her -right there. “If she wants to meet me,” said Craig, “she will come to -me.” And that was that. - -When the meeting was over, the secretary came back, and with her was a -large, magnificent lady of the kind that Craig had known all through her -girlhood. The lady was introduced; and, of course, she knew another lady -when she met one. More especially, she knew a lovely Southern voice and -manner; so she asked if she might come to see us, and Craig said that -she might. Craig made no apology for her living room that had only three -ragged chairs in it--the biggest one for the large rich lady and the -other two for Craig and myself. - -Mrs. Kate Crane-Gartz was the elder daughter of Charles R. Crane, -plumbing magnate of Chicago, dead then for several years. He had been a -newspaper celebrity, not only because he was one of the richest men in -America but because he differed from most rich men in being talkative -and in voicing original opinions. He was particularly down on college -education, insisting that it was all wasteful nonsense. He hadn’t had -one himself, and look where he had got! - -Mrs. Gartz was an elegant lady with a haughty manner and a tender heart. -She had had many sorrows, which we learned about in the course of time. -She had lost two of her children in a theater fire in Chicago. She still -had a son and a daughter, both of whom she adored, but they gave her -little happiness. She had a soft heart and an overfull purse, and she -was preyed upon freely--all that we learned soon. But there was one -person who would never prey upon her, and that was Mary Craig Sinclair. - - -III - -This new friend was the most curiously frank person we had ever known. -She looked around at our new establishment and said, “Why do you live -like this?” “We have to,” said Craig, and no more. “Don’t your husband’s -books sell?” demanded the visitor. “They have sold in the past,” said -Craig, “but he has spent all his money on the socialist movement. He -always does that, I’m sorry to say.” - -Mrs. Gartz obtained our promise to come and see her, also permission to -send her car for us. Then she got into a magnificent limousine and told -the uniformed chauffeur to drive her downtown to a furniture store. -Early the next morning came a van, and two men unloaded a set of parlor -furniture upholstered in blue velvet. - -Craig said, “What is this?” One of the men said, “It was ordered. We -don’t know anything about it.” Craig said, “I didn’t order it, and I -don’t want it. Take it back.” - -So it came about that there was one person in Pasadena whom Kate -Crane-Gartz could not merely respect but could even stand a bit in awe -of. There was one person she would never dare to humiliate, and one who -would come to her luncheon parties wearing unfashionable clothing. So it -came about that for something like a quarter of a century Mary Craig -Sinclair controlled the purse strings of the richest woman in Pasadena. - -The main factor in this, I think, was that for the first time in her -life Mrs. Gartz met someone whom she regarded as her social equal and -possibly her superior. Craig had not only the loveliest Southern voice, -but also had gracious manners, wit, and what is called charm. She could -keep a roomful of company in continuous laughter. Both men and women -would gather around to hear what she had to say. She had taste, and -could look lovely in clothes she found on a bargain counter. She had the -strangest imaginable combination of haughtiness and kindness. She had a -heart that bled for every kind of suffering except that which was -deserved. She was a judge of character, and no pretender could ever fool -her. - -Most important of all, she had come with my help to understand what was -wrong with the world--the social system that produces human misery -faster than all the charity in the world can relieve it. She had married -me partly because I had taught her that, and now she understood the -world better than any person whom Kate Crane-Gartz had ever known. - -For many years Craig would never take a cent from Mrs. Gartz for -herself. “Give it to the co-operative. Give it to the Socialist Party.” -For a while Mrs. Gartz was timid about doing that, so she would ask -Craig to pass it on, which Craig faithfully did. - -The “co-op” had been started by a devoted socialist woman named Tipton, -who took in washing while her husband drove a delivery wagon. You can -imagine that the first time Mrs. Kate Crane-Gartz showed up at one of -the monthly “co-op” bean suppers at the Tipton house it was an event in -the history of that City of Millionaires. - -Mr. Gartz, who handled his wife’s millions, was not long unaware of -these developments. He was beside himself with rage; and when for the -first time his wife invited us to a supper party at the fashionable -Maryland Hotel, he came into the dining room and stood behind my chair -and started muttering abuse in a low tone of voice. - -Craig had never had to handle a situation like that, but she was equal -to all situations. She got up and invited Mr. Gartz to come over to the -next table and speak to her. He obeyed, and she pointed out to him that -there was only one possible conclusion the public would draw if he -persisted in making a public scene with Upton Sinclair. With that -terrible threat she scared him; at the same time, with her lovely -Southern voice she calmed him down, and he went his way. Once or twice -he raved at me in his home, but I had promised not to answer him, and I -obeyed. - -That situation continued for a matter of twenty years. The daughter, -Gloria, sided with her father, and the son, Craney, sided with his -mother. Alas, Craney drank, and when he was drinking he was very -generous. To pacify him I would accept his gifts and then return them -when he was sober. I once returned a Buick car. - - -IV - -I finished _The Coal War_, a story of the great strike through which I -had lived in spirit if not in physical presence; but I never published -it, for world war had come and no one was interested in labor problems -any more. Mrs. Gartz was a pacifist. A federal agent came to investigate -her, and Craig had the job of pacifying _him_. “What I want to know is,” -he said, “is she pro-German, or is she just a fool?” Craig assured him -that the latter was the case. - -Craney became an Air Force officer and traveled around in a blimp -looking for German submarines off the Atlantic coast. I resigned from -the Socialist Party in order to support the war; and Mrs. Gartz, a -pacifist on her son’s account, took a lot of persuading from -Craig--who, being a Southerner, had less objection to fighting. At any -rate, that was true when the fighting was against the German Kaiser. - -My socialist comrades called me bad names for a while, and Craig and -Mrs. Gartz argued every time they met. But by that time Craig’s -influence had become strong enough to keep Mrs. Gartz from getting into -jail. We had a lot of fun laughing over the idea of Kitty--as I had come -to call her--misbehaving in a jail. I think even Mr. Gartz appreciated -what I was doing, and he no longer growled when he saw me in his home. - -In 1918 I started the publication of a little socialist magazine to -support the American position in the world war. I called it _Upton -Sinclair’s: For a Clean Peace and the Internation_. (Later the slogan -became _For Social Justice, by Peaceful Means if Possible_.) For that, -Craig felt justified in letting Mrs. Gartz hand her several government -bonds. It was amusing the way the great lady argued with us about what -was in the magazine, and at the same time helped to keep it going. Some -of my socialist and other friends argued with me. They would write me -letters of protest against my supporting the war, and I would put the -letters in the magazine and reply to them. The more angry the letters -were, the more my readers were entertained. All my life I have had fun -in controversy. - -My position was, of course, to the left of the government. Indeed, -Woodrow Wilson was to the left of his own government, and many of his -officials didn’t understand his ideas--or disapproved of them when they -did understand. When the first issue of the magazine appeared, I applied -to the Post Office Department for second-class entry--which was -essential, for if I had to pay first-class postage I would be bankrupt -at the outset. I had sent copies of the magazine to a number of persons -in Washington whom I knew or knew about; and when I got notice that the -second-class entry had been refused, I telegraphed to Colonel House. He -told me that he was with the President when the telegram was delivered, -and he had told the President what was in the magazine and the President -approved of it. - -As it happened, John Sharp Williams, United States Senator from -Mississippi, was Craig’s cousin; in her girlhood she had driven him over -the shell roads of the Gulf Coast and learned about politics from his -humorous stories. I had sent the magazine to him, of course; and now he -wrote that he had read it and had taken up the matter of the -second-class entry with Postmaster General Burleson, who was also a -Southerner. Burleson had a copy of the magazine with the passages that -he considered “subversive” marked. Williams said, “I’ll undertake to -read those passages to Woodrow Wilson, and I’ll agree to eat my hat if -he doesn’t approve every word of them.” - -So it all worked out very nicely. My little magazine got the -second-class entry, and Senator Williams of Mississippi went on wearing -his hat. - -I published, in all, ten issues of that little magazine. The first issue -was April 1918; then I had to skip a month because of the delay with -second-class entry. The last issue was February 1920. In all, I built up -a subscription list of ten thousand, paid for at one dollar per year. I -had five secretaries and office girls wrapping and mailing. Mrs. Gartz -would come down and argue with Craig and me--she being an out-and-out -pacifist. Her attitude was summed up by James Russell Lowell in two -lines of verse-- - - Ez fer war, I call it murder-- - There you hev it plain an’ flat. - ---although I don’t think Mrs. Gartz had ever heard of _The Biglow -Papers_. - - -V - -Like all the other liberals, radicals, and socialists, I was bitterly -disappointed by the settlement to which President Wilson consented in -Paris. It seemed to us that our hopes had been betrayed, and it seemed -to Mrs. Gartz that her seditious opinions had been vindicated. But -nothing made any difference in our friendship, or interrupted the flow -of checks to help keep the magazine going. - -The checks brought one amusing development before long: the president of -Pasadena’s biggest bank invited Mrs. Gartz to remove her account from -his institution. Whether that had ever happened in the banking world -before I do not know. Checks payable to Mary Craig Sinclair were -poisonous or incendiary. I might add that in the new bank Craig -deposited a thousand-dollar bond that Mrs. Gartz had brought to her -personally, in return for some writing Craig had done for her. “Don’t -let Mr. Sinclair get hold of it,” said Mrs. Gartz, “or he’ll spend it -all on the magazine. Go down to the bank and rent a safe-deposit box and -hide it away.” - -Since Craig could feel that she had earned this bond, she took Mrs. -Gartz’s advice. Some months later, she went down to the bank to get the -bond and discovered that the box was empty. In the normal course of -events she would have reported the matter to the head of the bank; but -she would have had to tell him where she had got the bond, and she did -not care to do that. She took the loss quietly and did not tell her -too-generous friend. - -While editing and publishing the magazine, I was also writing a new -novel based on my experiences in the Socialist Party, of which I had -been a member for a couple of decades. I had known all kinds of -picturesque characters and types, and heard stories of their adventures. -A Socialist Party candidate for vice president, Ben Hanford, had -invented the name “Jimmie Higgins” for the humble worker in the party -who makes no speeches and gets no honors but does the tiresome jobs of -addressing envelopes, distributing literature, and making house-to-house -calls to bring his fellow workers to meetings. I took this character for -my hero, and started the publication of _Jimmie Higgins_ in the -magazine. - -When in 1919 our Army made its somewhat crazy landing on the shores of -the Archangel Peninsula, as a start to putting down the Bolshevik -movement in Russia, I decided to change the tone of my novel at the end. -So far Jimmie had been a socialist patriot and had loyally gone to war; -but now he turned into a malcontent, to be jailed and tortured. I recall -that some reviewer in the New York _Times_ rebuked me severely for this -seditious invention; but it wasn’t long afterward that the New York -_Times_ itself was reporting just such incidents as having happened in -the Army at Archangel. When I wrote to the _Times_ pointing out these -details, my letter was ignored. - -In this magazine I had all kinds of fun. I got letters of praise and -letters of fury, and published them side by side. The more bad names I -was called, the more amusing I found it; and my readers let me know that -they too enjoyed it. I sent the magazine to well-known persons, got -responses pro and con, and published them. H. G. Wells wrote a gay -letter. I published it in facsimile, and somebody wrote asking me please -to supply a translation. Socialists denounced me as a renegade; patriots -denounced me as a traitor--and I printed the letters along with those of -Colonel House, Senator John Sharp Williams, and other patriots of -repute. - -All this labor was wearing on my brain and my stomach, as well as my -purse. Then suddenly I thought of a solution. Emanuel Haldeman-Julius -had taken over the _Appeal of Reason_ and changed its name to the -_Haldeman-Julius Weekly_. He had a circulation of something like half a -million, whereas _Upton Sinclair’s_ had succeeded in getting only ten -thousand. I was always lured by a larger audience, and I made him a -proposition to merge my magazine with his. He would let me have one full -page called “Upton Sinclair’s,” in which I would say what I pleased. The -serial I was writing would fill part of the page, which was newspaper -size, and I could supply material similar to the contents of my magazine -to fill the rest of the page. So it was agreed, and instead of having a -monthly deficit I would have an income of fifty dollars a week. At least -it was enough to pay the secretary who was taking my dictation. Also, it -was a load off the mind of my overburdened wife; and if any of my -subscribers complained, I could remind them that they had never offered -to pay my printer’s bill. - - - - -_11_ - -_The Muckrake Man_ - - -I - -For all my thinking lifetime I had been making tests of the big-business -press of America. Almost everywhere it was on the side of privilege and -exploitation, almost nowhere was it alert to the interest of democratic -freedom. I had made notes and had envelopes full of clippings, and a -head full of memories and a heart full of rage. I decided that I would -put all that into a book and use the huge circulation I had got from -that four-page Kansas weekly paper. - -Seeking a title, I went back to the days of my youth when I had joined -in the election campaign against Tammany Hall. William Travers Jerome -had told about the wholesale prostitution that was protected because of -graft paid to the police department. The “price of a woman’s shame” was -a brass check purchased at the entrance. Jerome had based his whole -campaign upon it, and it struck me that _The Brass Check_ was a fine -title for a book about the prostitution of the press. I made the term -known not merely to all America but to Europe as well, for the book was -translated into many languages. It was a book of facts that no one could -dispute, because I had saved the clippings, and I verified every story -that I told. - -It happened that an old friend was spending the winter in a cottage at -our fashionable hotel. Samuel Untermyer, whom I had met through Lincoln -Steffens, had been the highest-paid corporation lawyer in New York. Now -he was an old man, tired--except for his tongue. He could tell more -terrible stories of corruption than anyone I ever knew, and he had told -some to me when I visited his home up the Hudson and inspected the -orchids that decorated every room. - -I took him the manuscript of _The Brass Check_. When he had read it, he -said, “Upton, you can’t possibly publish that book. It contains a score -of criminal libels and a thousand civil suits.” I said, “I am going to -publish it and take the consequences.” - -In Hammond, Indiana, I had found a large printing concern that had -printed my book, _The Profits of Religion_, and made no objection. Now -with some qualms I sent them the bulky “criminal” manuscript. To my -surprise they made no comment, but quoted a price and proceeded to send -me proofs. - -I remember an amusing episode. The elderly treasurer of the company paid -a visit to California and asked to see me. He came, and I learned to -what I owed the honor. He said, very mildly, that he had recently -discovered that I had run up a debt of twenty thousand dollars, and he -wondered if I realized how much money that was. I told him that I had -never had such a debt in my life hitherto, but that the book was selling -well and the money would come in installments; and it did. - -The book was published serially in the _Appeal_, and I was really -surprised by the result. I had never had so many letters or so many -orders. I knew that this time I had a real best seller. When I got the -finished books, I gave a copy to my old friend, Gaylord Wilshire, who -had made his home in Pasadena. He threw me into a panic when he phoned -to tell me that it was inconceivable that the publication of this book -would be permitted in America. He urged me to get all my copies -distributed at once to socialist and labor groups and bookstores, and -tell them to hide the books. I took this seriously and did as he -suggested. It was an easy way to get rid of books, but a hard way to -make money. - -I had to have more paper; when I applied to the wholesalers I was told -there was no paper on the market. World War I had caused a shortage of -everything. The big concerns had their contracts, of course, and were -getting their paper; but there was none left over for a little fellow -like the author of _The Brass Check_. - -I wrote to every wholesale paper dealer in the United States, but got no -response. I took my lamentations into the city of Los Angeles, and there -made a surprising discovery. There was a kind of paper called -Kraft--otherwise known as plain brown wrapping paper. I could get it in -a light weight, and it was possible to read print on it. - -Nobody in the world had ever thought to print a book on it; but I got -the price for a carload, six thousand dollars, and went back home and -laid siege to my old friend, Sam Untermyer. I pointed out to him that I -hadn’t been arrested, and I hadn’t even had a civil suit threatened; so -I begged him to lend me six thousand dollars. I made him so ashamed of -his misjudgment as a lawyer that he actually wrote me a check. He was -quite pathetic when he told me how necessary it was that he should get -it back (He did.) - -The book created a tremendous sensation and, of course, no end of -controversy. I won’t go into the details because the stories are -old--and many of the newspapers have learned something about ethics. I -venture to think that reporters all over the country read the book and -took courage from it. Many of them are now editors, and while they still -have to “take policy,” they don’t take it quite so completely. - -I had called upon them to form a union to protect their rights, and this -they promptly did--but they preferred to call it a guild, which is more -aristocratic. Now the guild has branches all over the country and has -had some effect in establishing standards of professional decency. While -I was completing this book their New York chapter invited me to come and -receive an award. - - -II - -Next book: _The Goose-Step_. In the early spring of 1922 I left my -long-suffering wife in charge of my office with an elderly secretary and -three or four assistants, while I took a tour all over the United -States, going first to the Northwest, then across to Chicago, New York, -and Boston, then back through the Middle West and Southwest. I had been -through five years of City College and four years of postgraduate work -at Columbia, and had come out unaware that the modern socialist movement -existed. So now I meant to muckrake the colleges, showing where they -had got their money and how they were spending it. I had jotted down the -names of discontented schoolteachers and college professors who had -written to me, or whose cases had become known; I visited some thirty -cities, and in each of them some educator had assembled the malcontents -in his or her home, and I sat and made notes while they told me their -angry or hilarious stories. - -There were many comical episodes on my tour. The University of Wisconsin -had been liberal in the days of Robert LaFollette; but now it had a -reactionary president, and I had a lively time with him. I had applied -for the use of a hall, and he had already announced that he wouldn’t -grant it. He referred me to the board of regents, and I had a session -with them. I finally got the use of the gymnasium, and the newspaper -excitement brought a couple of thousand students to ask me questions for -an hour after my talk. The concluding paragraph of my Wisconsin story -was as follows: - - Next afternoon I met the champion tennis team of the university, - and played each of the pair in turn and beat them in straight sets; - I was told that the student body regarded this as a far more - sensational incident than my Socialist speech. An elderly professor - came up to me on the campus next day--I had never seen him before, - and didn’t know his name; he assured me with mock gravity that I - had made a grave blunder--I should have played the tennis matches - first, and made the speech second, and no building on the campus - would have been big enough to hold the crowd. - -From Wisconsin I went on to Chicago, to what I called the University of -Standard Oil. The students had a hymn that they sang there: - - Praise God from whom oil blessings flow, - Praise Him, oil creatures here below, - Praise Him above, Ye Heavenly Host, - Praise Father, Son--but John the most. - -I interviewed the president there, and he granted me the use of a small -hall. When I assured him I would need a larger one, he refused to -believe me; so I found myself quite literally packed in, with students -climbing into the windows and sitting on the sills and standing in the -corridors. Just outside the hall I had noticed a beautiful quadrangle -with lovely soft grass and plenty of room. I suggested that we all move -out onto the grass and that somebody find me a soapbox to stand on--the -classical pulpit of radical orators. There were loud cheers, and we -moved outside. Still more people came running, and I talked to the crowd -for an hour or two and answered questions for an hour or two more. -Everybody had a good time except the Standard Oil president. - -The next day I played the tennis champion of that university, and I have -to record that he beat me--but with an effort so mighty that he split -his pants. - - -III - -One of the cities was my birthplace, Baltimore, and one of my sources -there was Elizabeth Gilman, daughter of the founder of Johns Hopkins -University. She filled her home with professors one day and with -schoolteachers the next, and they told me their troubles. - -I have mentioned my friendship with Mencken. It began by mail; he was a -tireless letter writer. There are some two hundred letters from him in -the collection of my papers in the Lilly Library of the University of -Indiana. He liked to write little short notes--he had secretaries and -kept them busy. He didn’t care in the least what he said--provided only -that it was funny. The more extravagant, the more fun; and the more -seriously you took it, the still greater fun. When I was in New York, I -called at the _American Mercury_ office, and his conversation was just -like his letters. - -Now he had retired, and I visited his home in Baltimore--like Uncle -Bland’s, it was one of those brick houses, four stories high, apparently -built a whole block at a time in solid, uniform rows, each house with -three or four white marble steps up to the front door. Mencken poured -out his Jovian thunderbolts for a whole afternoon. This was the longest -time I had with him, and the most diverting. - -Uncle Bland, as I have already related, was the founder and president of -the United States Fidelity and Guaranty Company and had become one of -the most important men in Baltimore--but he had never met his “Sunpaper” -editor. He insisted that I invite Mencken out to Catonsville, his summer -home, for dinner. For this occasion my cousin Howard Bland sent his wife -and children over to the “big house,” and we four men had Howard’s -dining room for the evening. - -It wasn’t a pleasant occasion for me because the other three spent most -of the time discussing the various brands of wines, brandies, and -whiskies. Partly, of course, it was done to “kid” me. It was the time of -prohibition, and Uncle Bland had a tragic experience to report. He had -foreseen the trouble coming and had a large stock safely locked up in -his cellar; but while he was in his town house for the winter, the -cellar door was pried open, and everything was carted away in the night. -Everybody but me was grieved. - -I had shipped home various boxes containing documents. I came back and -for several months labored and wrote _The Goose-Step_. As usual, I was -warned about libel; but, as usual, it did not happen. - -_The Goose-Step_, a big book, 488 pages, price two dollars, was -published in 1923, and I assure you the college professors read it--and -talked about it, even out loud. I could get paper this time, and filled -all the orders, some twenty thousand copies. Then I wrote _The -Goslings_, 454 pages, price two dollars, telling about schools of all -sorts; the teachers read it, and many had the courage to write to me. I -had given them weapons to fight with, or perhaps lanterns to light with; -anyhow, I have seen changes in America, and I tell myself I have helped -a little to bring them about. - - -IV - -It was in that period that the American Civil Liberties Union was -started; I joined at once, and attended weekly luncheons of its -directors when I was in New York. Whether we had supported the war or -opposed it, we all supported our right to say what we thought and our -willingness to let the other fellow do the same. Among those I knew best -were Roger Baldwin, who became a civil-liberties hero and devoted his -life to the cause; Oswald Garrison Villard, publisher of _The Nation_, -who remained a pacifist even in the face of Kaiser Wilhelm; and B. W. -Huebsch, then a publisher on his own, and later editorial head of Viking -Press; he was my guide and mentor through the eleven Lanny Budd volumes, -about which I shall tell. - -Also, there was W. J. Ghent, author of _Our Benevolent Feudalism_. He -and I got into an argument over the war in the columns of _The Nation_. -The argument got too hot for Villard, and he wouldn’t publish my reply; -so I paid for a page advertisement in _The Nation_ and had my say. I -remember Ghent’s published comment: “Sinclair has taken the argument -into the advertising columns, where I am unable to follow.” After that, -I was summoned to a luncheon with Villard and Huebsch and very gently -asked to call off the war--that is, the Ghent War. - -Not long afterward came the founding of the Southern California branch -of the ACLU, a drama in which I had the leading role. It began when I -tried to read the Constitution of the United States at a meeting on -private property that had been organized on behalf of workers who were -on strike at San Pedro Harbor. I was arrested after the third sentence. -When I got out of jail, I wrote a letter to Louis D. Oaks, chief of -police in Los Angeles. It was printed as a leaflet and widely circulated -in Los Angeles. It was also printed in _The Nation_ of June 6, 1923, -along with an editorial note. I’m going to reprint that page from _The -Nation_, partly because it tells the story, but mainly because it -conveys so vividly the atmosphere of that period and the repression and -brutality that went on then--which a new generation might find hard to -credit. - - In refusing to bow to the police of Los Angeles, who in the harbor - strike have been the servile tools of the Merchants’ and - Manufacturers’ Association, Upton Sinclair is strictly and legally - a defender of the law against those who would violate it. And it is - doubly to his praise that in this case he, a civilian, happens to - be defending the law against the men who are sworn and paid to - uphold it and have all the power of constituted authority on their - side. The facts are undisputed: the police arrested Mr. Sinclair - and his associates on _private property_, where they had assembled - with the written consent of the owner. The law gives a police - officer the right to enter private property only in two cases: if - he has a warrant of arrest, or if a felony is actually being - committed. Neither of these excuses existed in Los Angeles. The - persons interfered with would have been legally justified in - dealing with the police as violently as with a thief or kidnapper. - We print below Mr. Sinclair’s letter to the chief of police of Los - Angeles because it is a recital of facts which our readers should - know and a nobly patriotic protest which should have their support. - - - _Pasadena, California, May 17, 1923_ - - - LOUIS D. OAKS, - - Chief of Police, Los Angeles - - Having escaped from your clutches yesterday afternoon, owing to the - fact that one of your men betrayed your plot to my wife, I am now - in position to answer your formal statement to the public, that I - am “more dangerous than 4,000 I.W.W.” I thank you for this - compliment, for to be dangerous to lawbreakers in office such as - yourself is the highest duty that a citizen of this community can - perform. - - In the presence of seven witnesses I obtained from Mayor Cryer on - Tuesday afternoon the promise that the police would respect my - constitutional rights at San Pedro, and that I would not be - molested unless I incited to violence. But when I came to you, I - learned that you had taken over the mayor’s office at the Harbor. - Now, from your signed statement to the press, I learn that you have - taken over the district attorney’s office also; for you tell the - public: “I will prosecute Sinclair with all the vigor at my - command, and upon his conviction I will demand a jail sentence with - hard labor.” And you then sent your men to swear to a complaint - charging me with “discussing, arguing, orating, and debating - certain thoughts and theories, which thoughts and theories were - contemptuous of the constitution of the State of California, - calculated to cause hatred and contempt of the government of the - United States of America, and which thoughts and theories were - detrimental and in opposition to the orderly conduct of affairs of - business, affecting the rights of private property and personal - liberty, and which thoughts and theories were calculated to cause - any citizen then and there present and hearing the same to quarrel - and fight and use force and violence.” And this although I told you - at least a dozen times in your office that my only purpose was to - stand on private property with the written permission of the owner, - and there to read the Constitution of the United States; and you - perfectly well know that I did this, and only this, and that three - sentences from the Bill of Rights of the Constitution was every - word that I was permitted to utter--the words being those which - guarantee “freedom of speech and of the press, and the right of the - people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for - the redress of grievances.” - - But you told me that “this Constitution stuff” does not go at the - Harbor. You have established martial law, and you told me that if I - tried to read the Constitution, even on private property, I would - be thrown into jail, and there would be no bail for me--and this - even though I read you the provision of the State constitution - guaranteeing me the right to bail. When you arrested me and my - friends, you spirited us away and held us “incommunicado,” denying - us what is our clear legal right, to communicate with our lawyers. - All night Tuesday, and all day Wednesday up to four o’clock, you - and your agents at the various jails and station-houses repeated - lies to my wife and my attorneys and kept me hidden from them. When - the clamor of the newspaper men forced you to let them interview - me, you forced them to pledge not to reveal where I was. You had - Sergeant Currie drive us up to Los Angeles, with strict injunctions - not to get there before four o’clock--he did not tell me, but I - heard another man give the order to him, and I watched his - maneuvers to carry it out. It was your scheme to rush us into court - at the last moment before closing, have lawyers appointed for us, - and have us committed without bail, and then spirit us away and - hide us again. To that end you had me buried in a cell in the city - jail, and to my demands for counsel the jailers made no reply. Only - the fact that someone you trusted tipped my wife off prevented the - carrying out of this criminal conspiracy. My lawyers rushed to the - jail, and forced the granting of bail, just on the stroke of five - o’clock, the last moment. - - I charge, and I intend to prove in court, that you are carrying out - the conspiracy of the Merchants’ and Manufacturers’ Association to - smash the harbor strike by brutal defiance of law. I was in the - office of I. H. Rice, president of this Association, and heard him - getting his orders from Hammond of the Hammond Lumber Company, and - heard his promise to Hammond that the job would be done without - delay. It is you who are doing the job for Rice, and the cruelties - you are perpetrating would shock this community if they were known, - and they will be punished if there is a God in Heaven to protect - the poor and friendless. You did all you could to keep me from - contact with the strikers in jail; nevertheless I learned of one - horror that was perpetrated only yesterday--fifty men crowded into - one small space, and because they committed some slight breach of - regulations, singing their songs, they were shut in this hole for - two hours without a breath of air, and almost suffocated. Also I - saw the food that these men are getting twice a day, and you would - not feed it to your dog. And now the city council has voted for - money to build a “bull-pen” for strikers, and day by day the public - is told that the strike is broken, and the men, denied every civil - right, have no place to meet to discuss their policies, and no one - to protect them or to protest for them. That is what you - want--those are the orders you have got from the Merchants’ and - Manufacturers’ Association; the men are to go back as slaves, and - the Constitution of the United States is to cease to exist so far - as concerns workingmen. - - All I can say, sir, is that I intend to do what little one man can - do to awaken the public conscience, and that meantime I am not - frightened by your menaces. I am not a giant physically; I shrink - from pain and filth and vermin and foul air, like any other man of - refinement; also, I freely admit that when I see a line of a - hundred policemen with drawn revolvers flung across a street to - keep anyone from coming onto private property to hear my feeble - voice, I am somewhat disturbed in my nerves. But I have a - conscience and a religious faith, and I know that our liberties - were not won without suffering, and may be lost again through our - cowardice. I intend to do my duty to my country. I have received a - telegram from the American Civil Liberties Union in New York, - asking me if I will speak at a mass meeting of protest in Los - Angeles, and I have answered that I will do so. That meeting will - be called at once, and you may come there and hear what the - citizens of this community think of your efforts to introduce the - legal proceedings of Czarist Russia into our free Republic. - - UPTON SINCLAIR - -The ending of this episode: We hired a good-sized hall in Los Angeles by -the week and held crowded meetings every afternoon and evening. The -Southern California branch of the American Civil Liberties Union was -formed, and a Congregational minister, Reverend Clinton J. Taft, -resigned from his pulpit and served as director for the next twenty -years or so. At the end of a couple of weeks the editor of the Los -Angeles _Examiner_ called me on the telephone and said, “Sinclair, how -long is this thing going on?” I answered, “Until we have civil liberties -in Los Angeles.” “What, specifically, do you mean by that?” he asked, -and I said, “For one thing, Chief Oaks must be kicked off the force; and -we must have the assurance that there will never again be mass arrests -of strikers.” The editor said, “You may count upon both these conditions -being met.” I asked, “What guarantee have we?” He said, “I have talked -it over with the half-dozen men who run this town, and I have their -word. You may take mine.” - -So we called off the meetings. A few days later we read in the -newspapers that Chief Oaks had been expelled from the force, having been -found parked in his car at night with a woman and a jug of whisky. So -far as I can recall, there have been no mass arrests of strikers in the -past twenty-nine years. - - -V - -Moved by the cruelties I had seen, I indulged myself in the pleasure of -writing two radical plays--“radical” was a terrible word in those days. -_Singing Jailbirds_ portrayed the Industrial Workers of the World, of -whom we had met many; they sang in jail and were put “in the hole” for -it. They were called “wobblies” because in the early days they had done -their first organizing in a restaurant kept by an old Chinaman who could -not say IWW but made it “I-wobble-wobble.” - -I started with that scene, and then had the wobblies in jail recalling -the battles they had fought and the evils they had suffered. There was a -lot of singing all through, and the play made a hit when it was produced -in Greenwich Village by a group of four young playwrights--one of them -was Eugene O’Neill and another was John Dos Passos, who now after forty -years has evolved from a rampant radical into a rampant conservative. I -was writing for Bernarr Macfadden’s _Physical Culture_ in those days (at -$150 per article). I took my boss to the show, and he put up a thousand -dollars to keep it going. I, of course, got nothing. - -The other play was in blank verse and was called _Hell_. It portrayed -the devils as being bored, and amusing themselves by sending a messenger -up to earth to create a great deposit of gold and set all the nations to -warring over it. (This was just after World War I, of course.) My -fastidious friend, George Sterling, was outraged by my verse, but I had -a lot of fun. I found myself a solitary spot on the edge of the Arroyo -Seco, and there paced up and down composing it and laughing over it. -Dear old Art Young made a delightful cover drawing, and I published the -play in pamphlet form; I still have copies, and--who can tell?--somebody -might produce it before World War III comes and ends all producing. - -Joking aside, I hope to live to see it. - - -VI - -The only house we went to in Pasadena was that of Mrs. Gartz. This was a -couple of miles up the slope from our home, and occupied a whole block -of beautiful grounds, like a park. The house was built around a central -court containing palm trees, ornamental plants, and a swimming pool. On -the front of the house was a wide veranda and a flight of stone steps. -The veranda looked out over the whole of Pasadena, and it was a pleasant -place to sit and listen to arguments over the future of mankind. - -Every Sunday afternoon Mrs. Gartz would invite some lecturer, and after -she met Craig, all these lectures dealt with the so-called radical -movement. It appeared that when the very rich become radical they go the -whole way. She became far more radical than we were, and it was Craig’s -function to tone her down; but, alas, this service was not appreciated -by Mrs. Gartz’s husband, who blamed us for all his troubles. I could -tell many funny stories of those meetings in a millionaire’s palace with -a raging millionaire husband roaming through the rooms, growling and -grumbling to himself. - -The whole of the class struggle was represented in that tormented home. -Wobblies, when they got out of jail, would come and tell Mrs. Gartz -their stories; the tears would come into her eyes, and she would write -indignant letters to the newspapers--which the newspapers did not print. -Also, there were the pacifists of all varieties, and later the -communists, who finally “captured” the gullible great lady. - -Mrs. Gartz took up the practice of writing to public officials about -these outrages against civil liberty, and as her letters were not always -coherent she would bring them to Craig to revise. Craig would take -occasion to tone them down a bit; so presently she was in charge of all -the great lady’s public relations. Craig hit upon the idea of publishing -a little volume entitled _Letters of Protest_. This made a hit, and -thereafter every year there would be a little volume that Mrs. Gartz -distributed to everyone on her mailing list. In all there were seven -pretty little books, and no doubt they helped somewhat to diminish the -stodginess of our millionaire city. - - -VII - -I have given a few glimpses of Mary Craig’s skill as a social -practitioner. I must also tell a little about her as a homemaker. - -To the north of the “brown house” we had bought, there extended seven -lots rising slightly to a corner, from which the view over the Arroyo -was still more attractive. Craig said nothing to me about her plans, but -she bought those lots on installment payments. When I started the -magazine it was on our dining-room table; so she went out traveling on -foot about the town and found an old house that she bought for a hundred -and fifty dollars and had moved onto the lot next to ours. She had a -carpenter build a long table, and that was where the magazines were -wrapped and prepared for the mail. One little cubbyhole in that house -became my office, and several books were written there. - -Of course, as the subscriptions came in we had to have still more help. -We had no car in those days, but somehow Craig found another house and -had it moved and connected up with the first one. Before she got -through, she had bought four houses and fitted them in a row on two -lots, and bought a fifth house to be wrecked for lumber to join the -other houses together. I wrote an article about it in my magazine, -_Upton Sinclair’s_, and printed a photograph of the houses. - -It made a really funny story, because every house was a different color. -I described the consternation of the neighbors; but they recovered when -the job was finished, for Craig really made a beautiful home of it, with -a long porch along the front and, of course, a uniform coat of paint. It -was an especially good home for us because Craig could have her room at -the south end and I could practice my violin at the north end. - -There was an old carpenter named Judd Fuller who worked for Craig, -making old houses into new. Many a time I sat on a roof with him, -nailing down shingles; and all the time we talked politics, and the -state of the world. I tried to make a socialist out of an old-style -American individualist, and I learned how to deal with that kind of -mind. Some years later I wrote a pamphlet called _Letters to Judd_, and -of course made him very proud. I printed something over a hundred -thousand of the pamphlet, and with the help of Haldeman-Julius -distributed them over the country. - - -VIII - -I decided to muckrake world literature. I had read a mass of it in the -one language my mother had taught me, in the three that my professors -had failed to teach me--Latin, Greek and German--and in the two I had -taught myself--French and Italian. To me literature was a weapon in the -class struggle--of the master class to hold its servants down, and of -the working class to break its bonds. In other words, I studied world -literature from the socialist point of view. - -That had been done here and there in spots; but so far as I knew it had -not been done systematically, and so far as I know it has not been done -since. Of course, _Mammonart_ was ridiculed by the literary authorities; -and of course I expected that. It was all a part of the class struggle, -and I had set it forth in the book. Great literature is a product of the -leisure classes and defends their position, whether consciously or by -implication. Literature that opposes them is called propaganda. And so -it is that you have probably never heard of my _Mammonart_. - -I had now studied our culture in five muckraking books: _The Profits of -Religion_, _The Brass Check_, _The Goose-Step_, _The Goslings_, -_Mammonart_. After that, I took up American literature, mostly of my own -time. I had known many of the writers, and some liked me and some -didn’t, according to which side they were on. I had published the five -earlier books myself--in both cloth and paper; but there were not so -many libel suits in the field of literature, so now I found a publisher. -From that time on for many years my arrangement was that the publisher -had his edition and I had mine, always at the same price. I had a card -file of some thirty thousand customers. - -I called the new book _Money Writes!_ Its thesis was that authors have -to eat; in order to get food they have to have money, and for that to -happen the publisher has to get more money. So, in a commercial world -it is money that decides what is to be written. My discussion of this -somewhat obvious truth gave offense to many persons. - - -IX - -When I was working on a book, my secretary had orders never to disturb -me. But one day she did disturb me by bringing in a visiting card -attached to a hundred-dollar bill. (She judged I would consider that a -fair price for an interruption.) I looked at the card and saw the name, -King C. Gillette, familiar to all men who use a safety razor. Some years -earlier I had noted on the shelves of the Pasadena Public Library two -large tomes entitled _World Corporation_ and _Social Redemption_. I had -taken them down and examined them with curiosity; they were written by a -man who apparently had never read a socialist book but had thought it -all out for himself. (I could guess that I might be the only person who -had ever taken those tomes from the library shelf.) - -Gillette, of course, was pleased to hear that I knew his books. He was a -large gentleman with white hair and mustache and rosy cheeks; extremely -kind, and touchingly absorbed in the hobby of abolishing poverty and -war. But I discovered that he had a horror of the very word _socialism_. -To him that meant class struggle and hatred, whereas he insisted that -his solution could all be brought about by gentle persuasion and calm -economic reasoning. He would take the time to explain this to anyone on -the slightest occasion. I discovered that the joy of his life was to get -someone to listen while in his gentle pleading voice he told about his -two-tome utopia. - -He had come to me for a definite purpose. He knew that I had an -audience, and he wanted me to convert that audience to his program. He -had a manuscript, and he wanted me to take it and revise it--of course, -not changing any of his ideas. For this service he was prepared to pay -me five hundred dollars a month; and a little later when he met my wife -he raised his offer. He said, “Mrs. Sinclair, if you will get him to do -this for me you will never have to think about money again as long as -you live.” That had a good sound to Craig, and she said I would do it. - -She told me so, and of course I had to do what she said. Little by -little I discovered what it meant: Mr. Gillette was coming for two -mornings every week to tell me his ideas--the same ideas over and over -again. He was a bit childish about it. He didn’t remember what he had -said a week or two previously and said it again, most seriously, -impressively, and kindly. It became an endurance test. How often could I -listen to the same ideas and pretend that they were new and wonderful? -The time came when I could stand no more, not if he had turned over to -me all the royalties from Gillette razors and blades. I had to tell him -that I had done everything I could do for him. - -I had helped him to get his manuscript into shape, but, alas, he had -scribbled all over it and interlined it. I had it recopied, and with his -permission submitted it to Horace Liveright, my publisher at that time. -Horace couldn’t very well refuse it because Gillette offered to put up -twenty-five thousand dollars for advertising. The book was published, -and in spite of all the effort it fell flat. - -But the dear old gentleman never gave up. He would come to see us now -and then and invite us to his home. He had one down at Balboa Beach, and -another far up in the San Fernando Valley. When Sergei Eisenstein came, -we took him and a party up to meet Gillette, but the family were away. -We had a picnic under one of the shade trees on the estate and carefully -gathered up all the debris. - - -X - -Writing books involves hard labor of both brain and typewriter. I have -mentioned more than once the subject of tennis--the device by which I -was able to get the blood out of my brain and into my digestive -apparatus. All through those years I used to say that I was never more -than twenty-four hours ahead of a headache. I had read somewhere in -history that it was the law in the armies of King Cyrus that every -soldier had to sweat every day. I found that I could get along with -sweating three times a week. (Out of curiosity I once weighed before and -after a hard tennis match in Pasadena’s summer weather, and discovered -that I had parted with four and a half pounds of water.) - -Tennis is a leisure-class recreation, and on the courts I met some of -the prominent young men of my City of Millionaires. I was amused to note -that their attitude toward me on the court was cordial and sometimes -even gay, but we did not meet elsewhere. Sometimes their wives would -drive them to the court and call for them when the game was over; but -never once was I invited to meet one of those wives. I quietly mounted -my bicycle and pedaled a couple of miles, slightly uphill, to my home. -On Sunday morning I had a regular date with three men: one of the town’s -leading bankers, one of the town’s leading real-estate men, and another -whose high occupation I have forgotten. We played at the -ultrafashionable Valley Hunt Club, but never once was I invited to enter -the doors of that club. When the game was over, I mounted my bicycle and -pedaled away. - -One of these cases is especially amusing, and I tell it even though it -leads me ahead of my story. I had a weekly tennis date with a young man -of a family that owned a great business in Los Angeles. The young man, -who lived in Pasadena, called me “the human rabbit,” because I scurried -across the court and got shots that he thought he had put away. Every -time we played, his wife would be waiting in her car, and I dutifully -kept my distance. - -After several years I learned from the newspapers that he had divorced -his wife. Then Craig read an advertisement that all the furniture of an -elegant home was being offered for sale. She wanted a large rug for the -living room, so I drove her to the place and waited outside while she -went in. It proved to be a long wait, but I always carry something to -read so I didn’t mind. Craig bought a rug, and told me that the lady who -was doing the selling was the ex-wife of my tennis friend! She was a -chatty lady and had told her varied social adventures, including this: - -“I almost caught Neil Vanderbilt. He drove up to a boulevard stop right -alongside me, and I caught his eye. If that red light had lasted fifteen -seconds longer, I’d have nailed him!” - -(I myself with Craig’s help had already “nailed” Neil, and I shall have -a bit to tell about him later on. He is the possessor of an enchanted -name, which has brought him much trouble. I know only one man equally -unfortunate--Prince Hopkins. When he traveled in Europe, the bellboys -hit their foreheads on the ground; he changed his name to Pryns to avoid -the sight.) - - -XI - -In some trading deal Craig had come into possession of two lots on -Signal Hill, near Long Beach; and now in the papers she read the -electrifying news that oil had been discovered under that wide hill. I -drove her down there to find out about it, and she learned that lot -owners in the different blocks were organizing, since obviously there -could be no drilling on a tiny bit of land. I must have taken Craig a -dozen times--a distance of twenty miles or so--and I sat for that many -evenings listening to the arguments. I hadn’t a word to say of course; -the lots belonged to Craig, and she was the business end of the family. - -It was human nature in the raw, and this was the first time I had seen -it completely naked. There were big lots, and there were little lots; -there were corner lots--these had higher value for residences, but did -they have more oil under them? Cliques were formed, and tempers -blazed--they never quite came to blows, but almost. And there sat a -novelist, watching, listening, and storing away material for what he -knew was going to be a great long novel. He listened to the lawyers and -to the oilmen who came to make offers; they told their troubles. They -wanted the lease as cheaply as possible, and they had no idea they were -going to be in a novel with the title _Oil!_--including the exclamation -point. The book was going to be taken by a book club, translated into -twenty-seven languages, and read all over the world--but all they wanted -was to get that lease more cheaply. - -One of them offered in exchange a goat ranch somewhere down to the -south, and so we drove there; I looked at the hills, and the goats, and -the people who raised them. A crude country fellow, he too was going to -be translated into twenty-seven languages, of which he had never even -heard the names. - -I told Craig what I was doing, of course; and it pleased her because it -would keep me out of mischief for a year. She got tired of the oil game -herself and sold her lots for ten thousand dollars each. - -Into the novel I put not merely the oil business but Hollywood, where -the wealthy playboys go; also the labor struggle, which is all over -America. It made a long novel, 527 closely printed pages; when it was -published, a kind Providence inspired the chief of police of Boston to -say that it was indecent, and to bar it from the city. After that, of -course, the publishers couldn’t get the books printed fast enough; and -they besieged me to go to Boston and make a fight. “Would you trade on -the indecency of your book?” demanded Craig; and I answered that I -wished to trade on its decency. So she let me go. - -In Grand Central Station when I took the train for Boston, I learned -that the bookstand there couldn’t keep a supply of the books; everyone -bound for Boston took copies for his friends. When I reached the city, I -interviewed the chief of police, an elderly Catholic gentleman who told -me which passages he objected to. I had those passages blacked out in -some copies and sold them on the street--the fig-leaf edition, a rare -collector’s item now. What shocked the Catholic gentleman most was the -passage in which an older sister mentions the subject of birth control -to a younger brother. I recall the soft voice of the old chief, -pleading: “Now surely, Mr. Sinclair, nobody should write a thing like -that.” I told him I earnestly wished that someone had done me that favor -when I was young. I believed in birth control, and practiced it, and I -am sure that the salvation of the human race will depend on it--and -soon. - - -XII - -During my stay in Boston I paid a visit to Bartolomeo Vanzetti, who had -been in prison at that time for about six years, and whom I had visited -not long after his arrest. He was one of the wisest and kindest persons -I ever knew, and I thought him as incapable of murder as I was. After he -and Nicola Sacco had been executed, I returned to Boston and gathered -material for a two-volume novel dealing with their case. - -I had developed what the doctor called a plantar wart under one heel, so -it was hard for me to walk; but I got myself into a Pullman car, and -when I reached Boston I hobbled around the streets with a crutch, -talking with everyone who had been close to the case. - -I had a story half formed in my mind. Among Mrs. Gartz’s rich friends I -had met an elderly lady, socially prominent in Boston; Mrs. Burton was -her name, and she enjoyed telling me odd stories about the tight little -group of self-determined aristocrats who ruled the social life of the -proud old city. Judge Alvan T. Fuller and President A. Lawrence Lowell -of Harvard belonged to that group--and Bartolomeo Vanzetti didn’t. Mrs. -Burton had come to California, seeking a new life, and I delighted her -by saying that she would be my heroine--“the runaway grandmother,” I -would call her. - -For my story I needed to know not merely the Italian laborers, who were -easy to meet, but the aristocrats, who were difficult. Soon after my -arrival, still on a crutch, I read that the proprietor of a great Boston -industry had died and was to be buried from his home. It was a perfect -setup: a great mill in a valley, the cottages of the workers all about -it, and the mansion of the owner on the height above. I went to that -mansion and followed the little river of guests into the double parlor -for the funeral service. When one of the sons of the family came up to -me, I told him I had great respect for his father, and he said I was -welcome. So I watched the scene of what I knew would be my opening -chapter. - -On my way back on a streetcar I was recognized by a reporter from the -_Evening Transcript_, the paper then read by everybody who was anybody -in and about Boston. He had come to write up the funeral, and he -included me. I shall never forget the horror on the face of a proper -Boston couple when I told them of my attendance at that funeral. Maybe -it will shock the readers of this book. I can only say that if you are a -novelist you think about “copy” and not about anybody’s feelings, even -your own. If I were talking to you about that scene, I wouldn’t say, -“Was it a proper thing to do?” I would say, “Did I get that scene -correct?” When I went back to the little beach cottage, I wrote a -two-volume novel in which all the scenes were correct; and the novel -will outlive me. - -On the way home I stopped at Denver for a conference with Fred Moore, -who had been the original attorney for Sacco and Vanzetti, and had been -turned away when one of the Boston aristocracy, W. G. Thompson, -consented to take over the appeals. Fred was bitter about it, of course, -and it might be that this had influenced his opinion. He told me he -thought there was a possibility that Sacco was involved in the payroll -holdup. He thought there was less chance in the case of Vanzetti. There -were anarchists who called themselves “direct actionists,” and Fred knew -of things they had done. I pointed out to him that if Sacco had been -guilty and Vanzetti innocent it meant that Vanzetti had given his life -to save the life of some comrade. - -Of course, I did not know and could only guess. I wrote the novel that -way, portraying Vanzetti as I had known him and as his friends had known -him. Some of the things I told displeased the fanatical believers; but -having portrayed the aristocrats as they were, I had to do the same -thing for the anarchists. The novel, _Boston_, ran serially in _The -Bookman_ and was published in two handsome volumes that went all over -the world. - -Just recently I had the honor of a visit from Michael Musmanno, who as a -young lawyer came late into the Sacco-Vanzetti case and gave his heart -as well as his time and labor to an effort to save the lives of those -two men. Being Italian himself, he felt that he knew them, and he became -firmly assured of their innocence. Now he has become a much-respected -justice of the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania; but he still feels as he -did, and poured out his soul as if he were addressing the jury of a -generation ago. The bitter old Boston judge and the grim governor and -the cold-hearted president of Harvard all came to life, and I found -myself sitting again in the warden’s reception room at Charlestown -prison, in converse with the wise and gentle working-class philosopher -named Bartolomeo Vanzetti. I had sent him several of my books, and he -had been permitted to have them; I wish that I could have had a -phonograph to take down his groping but sensitive words. - - - - -_12_ - -_More Causes--and Effects_ - - -I - -We had made too many friends and incurred too many obligations in -Pasadena; so we found a cottage down on the ocean front at Alamitos Bay, -Long Beach, and moved there. During both of my trips to Boston, Craig -stayed alone in the little beach cottage and never minded it. Somehow -she felt safe, and the waves on the other side of the boardwalk lulled -her to sleep. She had become fascinated with the problem of her own -mind, and studied it with the help of scores of books that I had got for -her. I still have more than a hundred volumes on psychology and -philosophy and psychic research that she read and marked--Bergson, -William James, William McDougall, Charcot, Janet--a long list of the -best. She had had psychic experiences herself in her girlhood and was -tormented with the desire to understand these hidden forces of the mind. -All the time that I was writing _Oil!_ and _Boston_, I was also helping -her to find out what her gift actually was--and to guess what it meant. -The result was the book called _Mental Radio_. - -The procedure we adopted was the simplest possible: I would make half a -dozen drawings on slips of paper and put each inside an envelope. Then I -would bring them to Craig, who was lying on her couch. She would lay one -of them over her solar plexus--having read somewhere that this might be -the center of the unknown forces. We didn’t know whether that was so or -not; but the solar plexus was as good as any other place. I would sit -quietly and keep watch so as to be able to say that she did not -cheat--although, of course, I knew that she had never cheated in her -life. She had only one obsession--she wanted to know for certain if -these forces were _real_. - -She would decide that something that had come into her mind was _the_ -reality, and she would take pencil and pad and make a drawing. Then we -would open the envelope and compare the two. The results were amazing to -us both. - -I had been reading about telepathy and clairvoyance since my youth. At -Columbia I had studied with James Hyslop, who had been a patient psychic -researcher; then there was the Unitarian minister who had performed my -first marriage--Minot J. Savage--who told me he had seen and talked with -a ghost who said that he had just been drowned off the coast of Britain. -The results in Craig’s case settled the matter for us, and settles it -for anyone who is unwilling to believe that we are a pair of imbeciles -as well as cheats. There is no other alternative, for we took every -possible precaution against any blunder, and there is no way to account -for what happened except to say that a drawing completely invisible to -the eyes can make an impression on the mind by some other means. - -It was not merely from my drawings that Craig got these impressions. She -got them from the mind of a professional medium, whom she employed to -experiment with her. I have given the details in _Mental Radio_. I -printed several thousand copies of the book, and the experiments it -describes have stayed unexplained now for thirty years. It is worth -noting also that _Mental Radio_ has just been reissued--this time by a -publisher of scientific books exclusively. This is significant. - -Professor William McDougall, who had been head of the department of -psychology first at Oxford and then at Harvard, wrote a preface to the -book. When he came to see us at the little beach cottage, he told us -that he had just accepted a position as head of the department of -psychology at Duke University; he had a fund at his disposal and -proposed to establish a department of parapsychology to investigate -these problems. He said he had taken the liberty of bringing several -cards in his pocket, and he would like to be able to say that Craig had -demonstrated her power to him. - -Craig, always a high-strung person, hated to be submitted to tests -because they made her nervous; but her respect for McDougall was great, -and she said she would do her best. She sat quietly and concentrated. -Then she said that she had an impression of a building with stone walls -and narrow windows, and the walls were covered with something that -looked like green leaves. McDougall took from an inside pocket a -postcard of a building at Oxford University covered with ivy. There were -two or three other successes that I have forgotten. The outcome was that -McDougall said he was satisfied, and would go to Duke and set up the new -department. He did so, with results that all the world knows. - -I was interested to observe the conventional thinker’s attitude toward a -set of ideas that he does not wish to accept. _Mental Radio_ contained -210 examples of successes in telepathy--partial successes and complete -successes. To the average orthodox scientist, the idea was -inconceivable, and it just wasn’t possible to tell him anything that he -knew in advance couldn’t have happened. On the other hand, the lovely -personality of Mary Craig is shown all through the book, and I cannot -recall that any scientist ever accused her of cheating. He would go out -of his way to think of something that _might_ have happened, and then he -would assume that it _had_ happened; it _must_ have happened, and that -settled the matter. He would entirely overlook the fact that I had -mentioned that same possibility and had stated explicitly that it -_hadn’t_ happened; that we had made it absolutely impossible for it _to -have_ happened. - -I won’t be unkind enough to name any scientist. One suggested solemnly -that it might have been possible for Mary Craig to have gotten an idea -of the drawing by seeing the movements of my hand at a distance. But in -the book I plainly stated that I never made the drawing without going -into another room and closing the door. That kind of oversight has been -committed again and again by the critics. - - * * * * * - -While I am on this subject I will venture to slip ahead for several -years and tell of one more experiment. Arthur Ford, the medium, was -paying a visit to Los Angeles, and I asked him to come out to our home -and see if his powers had waned. (He had never refused an invitation -from us--and he had never let us pay him a dollar.) He said he would -come, and Craig was so determined to make a real test that she wouldn’t -even let me invite our friends by telephone. Our line might be tapped! -She wrote a letter to Theodore Dreiser, and one to Rob Wagner, editor of -_Script_, who was a skeptic but wanted to be shown. - -When evening came, my orders were to wait outside for Arthur and take -him around behind the house so that he might not see who came in. This I -faithfully did; so there were Dreiser and his wife, and Rob Wagner and -his wife, and Craig’s sister, Dolly, and her husband. They were seated -in a semidark room; and when I brought Arthur in, he went straight to -the armchair provided, leaned back in it with his eyes toward the -ceiling, and covered his eyes with a silk handkerchief, which is his -practice. - -Presently came the voice that Ford calls Fletcher. “Fletcher” speaks -quietly and without a trace of emotion. He said there was a spirit -present who had been killed in a strange accident. He had been crossing -a street when a team of runaway horses came galloping, and the center -pole had struck him in the chest. And then there was a spirit victim of -another strange accident. This man had been in a warship when one of the -guns had somehow backfired and killed him. And then there was a -newspaperman and quite a long conversation about various matters that I -have forgotten. I told the full details in an article for the _Psychic -Observer_ but do not have a copy at hand. - -At that point in the séance there came a tap on the door, and Mrs. Gartz -came in with one of her nephews. She had known nothing about the séance; -being highly antagonistic, she had not been invited. Fletcher said, -“There is a strong Catholic influence here, but there will be a -divorce.” - -That ended the affair, possibly because of Mrs. Gartz’s hostile -attitude. The lights were turned up, and the various guests spoke in -turn. Bob Irwin, Craig’s brother-in-law, said that his young brother had -been killed by exactly such a runaway team; Rob Wagner said that his -brother had been killed in the Navy in a gun accident. Theodore Dreiser -had been a journalist, but he denied that he had ever known such a man -or heard of any such events as had come out in the séance. Mrs. Gartz’s -nephew said that he was a Catholic, but there would surely not be any -divorce. - -So ended the evening; but the day after the next there came to Craig a -letter from Helen Dreiser saying that she was embarrassed to tell us -that Theodore had been drinking and had slept through the séance and not -heard a word. When she had repeated to him the various statements, he -admitted that he knew such a man and that the events mentioned had -occurred. - -The predicted divorce did not occur until a month or two later, when the -wife of the Gartz nephew divorced him. - -And now all the skeptics can put their wits to work and find out how -Arthur Ford got all those facts about people he had never met, and about -whom we had made such efforts at secrecy. I don’t like to be fooled any -more than the next man, but I agree with Professor McDougall and -Professor Rhine that it is the duty of science to investigate such -events and find out what are the forces by which they are brought about. - -Just by way of fun, I will add that Professor McDougall established his -department of parapsychology, and Professor Rhine has carried it on; one -of the things they have proved is that when Negroes shooting craps snap -their fingers and cry “Come seven! Come eleven!” they really are -influencing the dice. Rhine’s investigators have caused millions of dice -to be thrown mechanically, and observers have willed certain numbers to -come, and the numbers have come. The chances for the successes having -happened accidentally are up in the billions. Most embarrassing--but it -happens! - - -II - -Much of the story of my life is a story of the books I wrote. I read a -great many, too, and among those I found interesting was a history of -ancient Rome--because of the resemblance between the political and -economic circumstances of two thousand years ago and those I knew so -well in my native land. So I wrote _Roman Holiday_, the story of a rich -young American who amuses himself driving a racing automobile. He meets -with an accident and wakes up in the days when he had been driving -horses in a chariot race in the arena of ancient Rome. Everything is -familiar to him, and he goes back and forth between the two ages of -history, equally at home in both. This novel was a foreshadowing of my -tragic drama, _Cicero_--although, rather oddly, this realization did not -come to me until just recently, when _Cicero_ was produced. - - -III - -My next book handled the problem of prohibition, of special interest to -me ever since I had seen my father and two of my uncles die as -alcoholics. The whole country was boiling with excitement over the -struggle between the “wets” and the “drys,” so I put my youthful self -into a long novel, with all the characters I had known and the battles I -had fought against the saloon-keepers and the crooked politicians. _The -Wet Parade_ I called it. It was made into a very good motion picture, -with an illustrious cast that included Robert Young, Walter Huston, -Myrna Loy, Lewis Stone, and Jimmie Durante as the comic prohibition -agent. - -Of course, the “wet paraders” I knew, headed by H. L. Mencken, had all -kinds of fun with me. But many of my oldest and best friends have been -caught in that parade, and I have had to watch them go down to early -graves. Jack London was one of them. I have told of his appearance and -his rousing speech at a mass meeting in New York City back in the days -when we were launching the Intercollegiate Socialist Society. The next -day I had lunch with him. The occasion was completely spoiled for me -because Jack was drinking and I wasn’t, and he amused himself by teasing -me with his exploits--the stories he afterward put into his book, _John -Barleycorn_. Later, when I went to live in Pasadena, Jack urged me now -and again to come up to Glen Ellen, his wonderful estate. I did not go -because George Sterling told me that Jack’s drinking had become tragic. -Jack took his own life at the age of forty. - -And, alas, George Sterling followed his example. Shortly before George’s -death, Mencken, who was in California, told me that he had seen George -at the Bohemian Club in San Francisco and that he was in a terrible -state after another of his drinking bouts. A day or two later George -took poison--but Mencken learned nothing from that dreadful episode. - -On one of my trips to New York I was asked to make a funeral speech over -the body of a kind and generous publisher, Horace Liveright. I remember -his weeping, black-clad mother and, sitting apart from her, the lovely -young actress who had been living in his home in Hollywood when my wife -and I went there to dinner, and who had taken drink for drink with him. -I remember walking downtown with Theodore Dreiser after the funeral. We -discussed the tragedy of drinking, and I knew the anguish that -Theodore’s wife was suffering. But he learned nothing from the funeral -or from my arguments. - - -IV - -As I write there comes the news of the death of Ernest Hemingway. He -received an almost fatal wound in World War I, and this apparently -centered all his mind upon the idea of death. It became an obsession -with him--something not merely to write about but to inflict upon living -creatures. His idea of recreation was to kill large wild animals in -Africa, and half-tame bulls in Mexico, and small game in America, and -great fish in the sea. He wrote about all these experiences with -extraordinary vividness and became the most popular writer in America, -and perhaps in the world. When he died, the _Saturday Review_ gave -thirty pages to his personality and his writings, almost two thirds of -the reading matter in that issue. I read a good part of it, and found -myself in agreement with just one paragraph, by a contributor: - - To the present critic, who is amazed by and genuinely admires the - lean virtuosity of Mr. Hemingway, the second most astonishing thing - about him is the narrowness of his selective range. The people he - observes with fascinated fixation and then makes live before us are - real, but they are all very much alike: bullfighters, bruisers, - touts, gunmen, professional soldiers, prostitutes, hard drinkers, - dope fiends. - -Nowhere in the thirty pages did I find any mention of the fact that all -this extraordinary writing was done under the stimulus of alcohol. A -decade or so ago there was published in _Life_ an article by a staff man -who had been permitted to accompany Hemingway and a well-known motion -picture actress about the city of New York for a couple of typical days. -The writer described Hemingway as unable to go for an hour without a -drink of liquor. As a result of this practice his health broke, and -after a long siege in hospitals he put himself out of his misery by -putting both barrels of his beautiful shotgun into his mouth and blowing -off the top of his head. - - -V - -And then the mail brings a volume containing 867 pages and weighing -several pounds. It is _Sinclair Lewis: An American Life_, by Mark -Schorer. I have known about the preparation of this “monumental study” -for several years. It is a Book-of-the-Month-Club selection, and so will -be widely read; the story of a man whom I knew for almost half a -century, whom I admired and helped when I could, whose books I praised -when I could, and whose tragic ending I mourned because I had tried to -prevent it and failed. - -I have told how Hal Lewis showed up as a runaway student from Yale, -expecting to find our Helicon Home Colony more interesting. He met -there, not in an academic way but socially, such people as William James -and John Dewey; Jo Davidson, the sculptor, who was later to do his bust; -and Sadakichi Hartmann, art authority, whom Lewis had to help put out -because he (not Lewis) was drunk. Also I remember that Professor W. P. -Montague of Columbia University taught Lewis how to play billiards, and -Professor William Noyes of Teachers College taught him how to tend the -furnace. Edwin Björkman, translator of Strindberg, told him about that -strange playwright, and Edwin’s wife, a suffragette and editor, later -became Lewis’ boss. As I have already noted, Edith Summers, my -secretary, became Lewis’ sweetheart at Helicon Hall. - -It was all quite different from what he would have gotten at Yale, and -he learned a lot about the modern world and modern ideas. He left us -after several months and wrote us up in the New York _Sun_. That was -going to be the way of his life for the rest of his sixty-six years. He -would wander over America and Europe, then settle down somewhere and -write stories, long stories or short ones, about the people he had met -and what he imagined about them. - -Everywhere he went, both at home and in Europe, he ran into what is -called “social drinking,” and his temperament was such that whatever he -did he did to extremes. He became one of those drinking geniuses whose -talents blossom and fade. - -I have known two kinds of drink victims. There are the melancholy -drinkers who weep on your shoulder and ask you to help them. You try to, -but you can’t. Such a man was my kind father, whom I watched from -earliest childhood and whom I remember introducing to Hal Lewis at -Helicon Hall--shortly before my father’s pitiful ending. The other kind -is the fighting drunk, and Hal became one of those; you may read the -painful details in Professor Schorer’s book. Hal would throw his liquor -into the face of the man who had offended him. He would use vile -language and rush away--and rarely apologize later. - -I never saw him in that condition; I was careful never to be around. -That is why my friendship with him was carried on mostly by mail. I -called on him once in New York, and found that he had to revise the -manuscript of a play for rehearsal that afternoon; having been through -that kind of thing myself, I excused myself quickly. He brought his -first wife to my home in Pasadena, and he had not been drinking, so -Craig and I spent a pleasant evening with them. - -I have included ten of his letters in _My Lifetime in Letters_. -Professor Schorer has quoted a long one in which Hal scolds me for what -I had written about one or two of his least worthy novels. I am sorry to -report that his biographer has left out what I did to help my old friend -at the time when he was publishing his greatest novel--one that I could -praise without reservation. Hal had told me about _Babbitt_ during his -visit in Pasadena, and he wrote me from New York, “I have asked -Harcourt, Brace and Company to shoot you out a copy of _Babbitt_ just as -soon as possible.” I read the book at once, and sent them an opinion to -which they gave display in their first advertisement: - - I am now ready to get out in the street and shout hurrah, for - America’s most popular novelist has sent me a copy of his new book, - _Babbitt_. I am here to enter my prediction that it will be the - most talked-about and the most-read novel published in this country - in my life-time. - -The book became probably the best-selling novel of the decade. - -Later, when Lewis received the Nobel Prize and made his speech before -the king and the notables in Stockholm, he named me as one of the -American writers who might as well have been chosen for the prize. That -was as handsome as anything a man could do for a colleague, and it was -enough to keep me grateful to him up to the end. But I have to tell the -tragic story of his “decline” and his “fall”--these two words are -Schorer’s labels for large sections of the biography. “Decline” occupies -103 of the book’s pages, and “Fall” occupies the last 163 pages. -“Decline” and “Fall” together comprise one third of the volume; and, -oddly enough, when I figured up the years covered by those two sections, -they cover one third of Lewis’ life (22 out of 66 years). - -In Professor Schorer’s huge tome you may read the whole pitiful story of -American “social drinking” as it affected the life of one man of genius. -You may read about the parties and the rages, the various objects that -were thrown into other men’s faces, and so on. The Berkeley professor -has produced the most powerful argument against “social drinking” that I -have encountered in my eighty-four years. My own books about the -problem--_The Wet Parade_ and _The Cup of Fury_, which I wrote in -1956--are small ones; Schorer’s contains more than half a million -words--all of them interesting, many of them charming and gay, and the -last of them a nightmare. - - * * * * * - -I will give only the names of the gifted people known to me who fell -into the grip of John Barleycorn: Jack London, George Sterling, Eugene -O’Neill, Scott Fitzgerald, O. Henry, Stephen Crane, Finley Peter Dunne, -Isadora Duncan, William Seabrook, Edna St. Vincent Millay, George Cram -Cook, Dylan Thomas, Sherwood Anderson, Horace Liveright, Douglas -Fairbanks, Klaus Mann. Most of these persons I knew well; the others I -knew through friends. At least four took their own lives. Not one -reached the age of eighty, and only three got to seventy-one of these, -Seabrook, because he reformed. - -And I will add one more name, which will be a surprise to many people: -Eugene Debs, six times candidate of the Socialist Party for president of -the United States. Gene was one of the noblest and kindest men I have -had the good fortune to meet. He was a tireless fighter for social -justice. He was one friend of the poor and lowly who stood by his -principles and never wavered. In his campaigns he went from one end of -the country to the other addressing great audiences. I was one of his -pupils. - -I heard him first at a huge mass meeting at Madison Square Garden. I was -a young writer then, and he greeted me as though I were a long-lost -brother. Many years later when he came out to Los Angeles, I had the -pleasure of driving him from an afternoon meeting in the Zoological -Gardens to an evening meeting in the Hollywood Bowl. Theodore Dreiser -was there in a front seat, I remember, and he shouted his approval. - -Gene fought against the fiend all his life, and his friends helped him. -I personally never saw him touch a drop of liquor, but I got the story -from George H. Goebel, who had been appointed by the party leaders as -the candidate’s official guardian. It was Goebel’s duty to accompany him -on every lecture trip and stay with him every hour, morning, noon, and -night. That was an old story to me of course. Many times, as a lad, I -had been appointed to perform that duty for my father. But, alas, I was -not as big and strong as George Goebel. - - - - -_13_ - -_Some Eminent Visitors_ - - -I - -Albert Einstein came to America in 1931 to become a professor in the -California Institute of Technology in Pasadena. He had been world-famous -for a dozen years or so, had been awarded the Nobel Prize, and was a -doctor _honoris causa_ in fourteen of the world’s great universities. -His coming was a prestige matter to Cal Tech and had been announced -weeks in advance; reporters swarmed around him, the newspapers made -front-page stories of his arrival, the institute gave a banquet in his -honor, and one of the town’s many millionairesses contributed ten -thousand dollars for the privilege of tasting that food. - -I had been corresponding with Einstein for some years. He had read some -of my books and had written me: “To the most beautiful joys of my life -belongs your wicked tongue.” He had promised to come to see me; and soon -after his arrival in Pasadena, Craig’s sister Dolly came in and -reported, “There’s an old man walking up and down on the street, and he -keeps looking at the house.” - -Craig said, “Go out and ask what he wants.” Dolly went and came back to -report, “He says he’s Dr. Einstein.” Craig said, “Go bring him in,” and -called to me. - -Such was the beginning of as lovely a friendship as anyone could have in -this world. I report him as the kindest, gentlest, sweetest of men. He -had a keen wit, a delightful sense of humor, and his tongue could be -sharp--but only for the evils of this world. I don’t like the word -“radical”; but it is the word that the world chose to employ about me, -and Albert Einstein was as radical as I was. From first to last, during -his two winters in Pasadena, he never disagreed with an idea of mine or -declined a request I made of him. - -Of course, it was shocking to the authorities at Cal Tech that Einstein -chose to identify himself with the city’s sharpest social critic. I -could forgive Dr. Robert Millikan, president of the great institution, -because I knew he had to raise funds among the city’s millionaires and -so had to watch his step; but Einstein was less tolerant. He knew -snobbery when he saw it, and he expressed his opinions freely. He also -recognized anti-Semitism and knew when his loyal and devoted wife was -slighted. Said one young instructor at Cal Tech to Craig, “The Jews have -got Harvard, they are getting Princeton, and they are on the way to -getting Cal Tech.” - -Of course, when our friends knew that we knew Einstein, they all begged -to meet him; and when I told Einstein about it, he said, of course he -and his wife would come to a dinner and meet our friends. We engaged a -private dining room in the “swanky” Town House of Los Angeles. Craig and -I went a little early to make sure that everything was in order, and we -were in the dining room when Einstein and his wife arrived. He always -wore a black overcoat--I think a bit rusty--and a little soft black hat. -He came into the large room where a table was set for twelve and looked -around as if at a loss. Then he took off his overcoat, folded it -carefully, and laid it on the floor in an unoccupied corner. He then -took off the black hat and laid that on top of the coat. He was ready -for dinner. I was too tactful to mention that there is a hat-check room -in fashionable hotels. - -Another episode: Some labor leader was arrested in a strike. I felt it -my duty to make a protest, but I doubted if the press services would pay -heed to me. I thought they would pay heed to Einstein, and I asked him -if he would care to make a protest. He told me to write out the message -and he would sign it. He did so, and I turned it over to the United -Press. It was not sent out. Whereupon I telegraphed a protest to Carl -Bickel, head of the agency in New York. Bickel sent me a copy of the -rebuke he had telegraphed to the head of the Los Angeles office, -informing him that he had made the United Press ridiculous and that -hereafter anything that Einstein had to say on any subject was news. - -Once I mentioned to Einstein that someone had called my social protest -“undignified.” The next time he came to our home he brought a large and -very fine photograph of himself, eighteen by twenty-four inches, and on -it he had inscribed six lines of verse, in colloquial German that calls -for a Berliner. Needless to say, that trophy was framed and hung on the -wall, and German visitors always call for a flashlight and a footstool -to stand on. - -People ask for the text of the verses, so I give it here, first in -German, then in translation: - - _Wen ficht der schmutzigste Topf nicht an?_ - _Wer klopft die Welt auf den hohlen Zahn?_ - _Wer verachtet das Jetzt und schwört auf das Morgen?_ - _Wem macht kein “undignified” je Sorgen?_ - _Der Sinclair ist der tapfre Mann_ - _Wenn einer, dann ich es bezeugen kann._ - _In herzlichkeit_ - Albert Einstein - - Whom does the dirtiest pot not attack? - Who hits the world on the hollow tooth? - Who spurns the now and swears by the morrow? - Who takes no care about being “undignified”? - The Sinclair is the valiant man - If anyone, then I can attest it. - In heartiness - Albert Einstein - -There is an amusing story connected with those verses. _Life_ published -six pages of photographs of American rocking chairs; and I wrote them a -playful note, rebuking them for having left out the most characteristic -of all American chairs, the cradle rocker. I enclosed a photo of myself -in our cradle rocker and pointed out the photograph of Einstein just -behind the chair--which the great man had often sat in. I mentioned the -poem, and there came a phone call from _Life_’s Hollywood office. The -editor, an agreeable lady, asked for the text of the poem. I said it was -in German, and she didn’t know German. Would I translate it for her? I -said I would, but I also said it would be useless, as _Life_ wouldn’t -publish it. She asked why, and I answered, “Because it praises _me_.” - -The lady laughed merrily; she thought that was a witticism, asked again -for the translation, and wrote it out line by line. _Life_ published the -letter and the photograph, April 28, 1961. It did not mention the poem. -So I knew _Life_ better than one of its own editors! I had a bit of fun -telling her so when next I had her on the phone. - - * * * * * - -Einstein was surprised to learn that I had never been invited to speak -at Cal Tech and had never had the honor of meeting Dr. Millikan. I told -him that Bertrand Russell, when he had come to speak at Cal Tech, had -made an engagement to have lunch with us at the home of Mrs. Gartz. The -lecture took place in the morning, and we had arranged to meet him -afterward, but Dr. Millikan carried him off to lunch at the Valley Hunt -Club and made no apology to us. - -On one of Einstein’s last days in Pasadena, I went to his home to say -good-by to him. You entered his house into a hallway, and on one side -was a door opening into the dining room and on the other a door leading -into the living room. I was saying my farewell to Einstein in the living -room; just as I was ready to leave, Mrs. Einstein came in and said in a -half whisper, “Dr. Millikan is here. I took him into the dining room.” - -I, of course, started to get out of the way; but Einstein took me firmly -by one elbow and led me out of the living room and across the hall and -opened the dining-room door. “Dr. Millikan,” he said, “I want you to -meet my friend Upton Sinclair.” So, of course, we shook hands. I said a -few polite words and took myself off. - -I never saw Dr. Millikan again, but I will include one more story having -to do with him. At the time of our entrance into World War II, Phil La -Follette was opposing our entrance and came on a lecture tour to -Pasadena. Dr. Millikan’s son was casting about to find someone to oppose -Phil in debate, and he came to me. I was in favor of our entrance, as I -had been in the case of World War I; in both cases most of my socialist -friends opposed me, some of them very bitterly. - -When young Millikan asked if I would be willing to enter the lists, I -consented. My wife attended the debate and found herself seated just in -front of a group of young socialists who were jeering at my speech; when -she turned around and looked at them, they recognized her, and got up -and moved to another part of the hall. When some of the ardent patriots -jeered at La Follette, I got up from my seat on the platform and asked -them please to hear him. Some photographer took a snapshot of that -moment, and it made an amusing picture. - - * * * * * - -My friendship with Einstein continued by mail for almost twenty years. -And in the course of time I received another jingle from him--he had a -propensity for writing them. A pacifist lady, Rosika Schwimmer, worked -up a little fuss with me over a story I had told in my book _Upton -Sinclair Presents William Fox_, to the effect that she had gone to Fox -with a proposal to finance a “peace ship” to Europe, and he had -declined. Rosika claimed that the story was false and employed a lawyer -to demand that I state in the next edition of the book that it was -false. I was perfectly willing to say that she denied it, but how could -I say it was false when it was a square issue of veracity between two -persons, and I had no other evidence? - -Rosika sued me for libel--the only time that has ever happened to me. -Obviously it was no libel, for she had made the same appeal to Henry -Ford, and with success as all the world knew. She carried the case to -the Supreme Court of New York State and lost all the way. She also -carried it to Albert Einstein, and he, friend to all pacifists, wrote me -some verses, mildly suggesting I take on more weighty foes. I replied -with another set of verses, pointing out that I had taken on the Francos -and the Hitlers. - -Postscript: When I published an article about Einstein for the _Saturday -Review_ of April 14, 1962, Dr. Lee DuBridge, present head of Cal Tech, -wrote me a long letter protesting my statements about that institution. -In reply I wrote him some of my evidence that I had been too polite to -include in my article; for instance, that Mrs. Einstein had complained -to my wife that she had never been able to get the use of the bus that -was maintained for the convenience of faculty wives. Dr. DuBridge had -sent his letter to me to the _Saturday Review_, requesting publication; -but the _Saturday Review_ presently informed me that he had withdrawn -his request. I was left to guess that he had read my letter. - - -II - -You may be interested to hear of another man who sat in our cradle -rocker more recently. Craig’s brother Allan, a Mississippi planter who -has succeeded in his life purpose of buying back most of his father’s -lands, wrote Craig that his close friend, Judge Tom Brady, was lecturing -in southern California and would like to meet us. Allan had been Craig’s -darling from babyhood and could have anything he asked from her. An -appointment was made, and Hunter brought the Judge to our home one -evening. - -He was a grave and courteous Southern gentleman who was spokesman for -the citizens’ councils and had helped to spread them all over the Deep -South. We welcomed him, and he sat motionless in the chair and in a -quiet, persuasive voice repeated what was obviously the speech he had -been delivering to southern California audiences. It took an hour or -more, and we listened without interruption. - -Then I said, very gently, that I happened to have personal knowledge of -some of the events to which my guest had referred, and that several of -the institutions he had named as communist were nothing of the sort. For -example, the League for Industrial Democracy. I had founded it more than -half a century before. I had run it from my farmhouse attic in the hills -above Princeton, New Jersey, for the first year or two, and I had known -about its affairs ever since. It was just what it called itself: an -organization for democracy, and never anywhere in its publications was -there any suggestion for the achieving of socialist aims except by the -democratic process. - -Then some of the persons whom the judge had called -“communist-influenced” were my friends. For example, Oswald Garrison -Villard, for many years publisher and editor of the _Nation_. I had -known Villard well and had read his magazine from my youth. He was a -libertarian of conviction so determined that it might be called -religious. It would have been impossible to name an American less apt to -fall under communist influence. And so on for other names that I have -now forgotten. - -Our guest listened without interruption; when I finished, he said that -he was surprised by what I had told him and would give careful study to -the matter and not repeat the mistakes. So we parted as Southern -gentlemen, and on the way back to the motel he told Hunter that he was -humiliated by what had happened. When he got home he sent me his book -and later one or two pamphlets; but I have not heard that the policies -of the citizens’ councils have been modified in this respect. - - -III - -Early in 1933 William Fox, most mighty of the movie moguls--excuse the -movie language--came into my life. He wrote that he wished to visit my -home. My wife, who knew the smell of money when it came near, got a good -fire burning in our fireplace and saw that a pitcher of lemonade was -prepared, with no alcohol in it. The country boy from Oregon who was our -servant at that time was literally trembling with excitement at the -prospect of seeing the great William Fox. When the boy came in to report -the arrival, Craig said, “What did you tell him?” The answer was, “I -told him to rest his hat and set.” - -William Fox had brought his lawyer with him and was “set” for action. He -had been robbed of a good part of his fortune during the recent panic; -he wanted that story told--and I was the man to do it. I explained -somewhat sadly that I was in the midst of another writing job and never -liked to break off my work once started. Usually Craig let me make my -own decisions, but not that one. She told Mr. Fox that I would accept -his offer of twenty-five thousand dollars--and what could I do about -_that_? - -Every day Fox came with his suitcase full of documents and his little -round pudgy lawyer to elucidate them. Every day he rested his hat and -set, and every day he had his pitcher of prohibition lemonade. I hired -two secretaries to listen on alternate days, and so in a very short time -I had a book. The great mogul himself suggested the title, _Upton -Sinclair Presents William Fox_; and when the mighty labor was done and -the bulky manuscript complete, Fox put the check into my wife’s -hands--not mine! He went off to New York in the midst of loud cheers -from the Sinclair establishment. - -And what happened then? Well, to be precise--nothing. I waited patiently -for two or three days, and then I waited impatiently for two or three -weeks, and I heard not a word. Then I received a letter from my friend -Floyd Dell, who happened to be in New York. How Floyd got the -information I have forgotten, but the substance of it was that Fox was -using the threat of publishing my manuscript in an effort to get back -some of the properties of which he had been deprived. I asked a lawyer -friend in New York to verify this information for me, and when it was -verified I knew exactly what to do. I sent my carbon copy to my -dependable printers in Hammond, Indiana, and instructed them to put the -book into type, send me the proofs, and order paper for twenty-five -thousand copies. Before long it occurred to me that it might be a wise -precaution to tell them to order paper for another twenty-five thousand -copies. - -When those beautiful yellow-covered books hit Hollywood, it was with a -bang that might have been heard at the moon if there was anybody there -to listen. It wasn’t but a few hours before I received a frantic -telegram from William Fox, threatening me with all kinds of punishments; -but the twenty-five-thousand-dollar check had been cashed, and the books -had gone to reviewers all over the United States--and I guess William -Fox decided that he might just as well be the hero I had made him. -Anyhow, I heard no more protests, and I sold some fifty thousand copies -of the book at three dollars a copy. (It would cost twice that today.) I -was told that immediately after the book appeared, there was posted on -the bulletin board of all entrances to the immense Fox lot a warning -that anyone found on the lot with a copy of the book would be -immediately discharged. So, of course, all the hundreds of Fox employees -had to do their reading at home. - -It is interesting to note that now, as I read the proofs of this book, -the great Fox establishment is shut down and the company is issuing -statements that it is not going into bankruptcy. - - -IV - -It was also in 1933 that we got involved with Sergei Eisenstein, the -Russian film director. He had come to Hollywood two years before to make -a picture. Because he would not do what our screen masters wanted, his -plans had miscarried, and now he was about to return to Russia. Then, -only a few hours before he was supposed to leave, he sent a friend to us -with a wonderful idea: if only someone would raise the money, he would -go to Mexico and make an independent picture of the primitive Indians -about whom Diego Rivera had told him. - -We hated to see a great artist humiliated by the forces that had -assailed Eisenstein in California; so we very foolishly undertook to -raise the money. Mrs. Gartz put up the first five thousand dollars--on -condition that Craig’s brother Hunter Kimbrough should be the manager of -the expedition. - -Now, the way in which “independent” pictures are made is as follows: the -director gets a certain sum of money and shoots a certain number of -miles of film; then he telegraphs back to the investors that the picture -is, unfortunately, not completed and that he must have more money, and -more miles of film, or else, unfortunately, the investors will have no -picture. Thereupon, the investors put up more money, and the director -shoots more miles of film, and then telegraphs that the picture is, -unfortunately, not completed and that he must have more money, and more -miles of film, or else, unfortunately, the investors will have no -picture. There may have been some case in the history of movie -expeditions where this did not happen, but I have not been able to come -upon any recollection of it in Hollywood. - -Eisenstein and his staff went to the tropical land of Tehuantepec, and -made pictures of Tehuana maidens with great starched ruffles over their -heads, and bare feet that gripped the rough hillsides like hands, and -baskets made of gourds painted with roses. He went to Oaxaca and made -pictures of masonry tumbling into ruins during an earthquake. He went to -Chichén Itzá and made pictures of Mayan temples with plumed serpents and -stone-faced men and their living descendants, unchanged in three -thousand years. He climbed Popocatepetl and made pictures of Indian -villages lost in forgotten valleys. Miles and miles of film were -exposed, and packing cases full of negatives in tin cans came back to -Hollywood. - -Meanwhile, my wife and I found ourselves turned into company promoters, -addressing persuasive letters, many pages long, to friends of Soviet -Russia, devotees of Mexican art, and playboys of the film colony--anyone -who might be tempted by a masterpiece of camerawork and montage. We -interviewed lawyers and bankers, and signed trust agreements and -certificates of participating interest. We visited Mexican consuls and -United States customs inspectors, and arranged for censorship -exhibitions. We mailed bank drafts, took out insurance policies, -telephoned brokers, and performed a host of other duties far out of our -line. - -And Eisenstein went to the Hacienda Tetlapayac and made endless miles of -film of a maguey plantation, with peons wearing gorgeous striped -serapes, singing work hymns at dawn by old monastery walls, driven to -revolt by cruel taskmasters, and hunted to their death by wild-riding -vaqueros. He went to Mérida and “shot” señoritas with high-piled -headdresses and embroidered mantillas. He made the life story of a -bullfighter--his training and technique, his footwork and capework, his -intrigue with ladies of fashion, and his escape from vengeful husbands, -fiercer than any bull from Piedras Negras. The most marvelous material: -pictures of golden sunlight and black shadows; dream scenes of primitive -splendor; gorgeous pageants, like old tapestries come to life; -compositions in which the very clouds in the sky were trained to -perform. - -But, oh, the tens of miles of film and the tens of thousands of dollars! -The months and months--until at last Craig began to cry out in protest -and to demand an end. Mexico is a land of difficulties and dangers, and -Hunter Kimbrough was managing the expedition; her affection for him -multiplied the troubles in her mind. “Bring them home!” became her cry, -day and night. - -And, meanwhile, Eisenstein was in Chapala, shooting white pelicans, gray -pumas, and Nayaritan damsels paddling dugouts in mangrove swamps. He was -in Cholula, shooting Catholic churches with carven skulls, and images -of Jesus with real hair and teeth. He was in Guadalupe, photographing -miraculous healings, and penitents carrying crosses made of spiny -cactus, crawling by hundreds up rocky hillsides on bare knees. - -“Bring them home!” demanded Craig; and she and her husband came to a -deadlock over the issue. The husband was infatuated, she declared; he -was as complete a madman as a Soviet director. They argued for days and -nights; meanwhile, Eisenstein tore off the roof of a Tehuantepec mansion -to photograph a dance inside, gave a bullfight to keep an actor from -going to Spain, and made arrangements to hire the whole Mexican Army. -Again Craig clamored, “Bring them home!” And again husband and wife took -up the issue; this time the husband was seized by a deadly chill and had -to be taken to the hospital in an ambulance, and he lay on his back for -two weeks. - -The raising of money went on, and freight trains groaned under the loads -of raw film going into Mexico, and exposed film coming out. Eisenstein -shot the standing mummies of Michoacàn, the flower festivals of -Xochimilco, and the “dead peoples’ day” celebrations of Amecameca, and -ordered the Mexican Army to march out into the desert to fight a battle -with a background of organ cactuses thirty feet high. It was the -beginning of the fifteenth month of this Sisyphean labor when Craig -assembled the cohorts of her relatives and lawyers, and closed in for -the final grapple with her infatuated spouse. “Bring them home!” she -commanded; and for eight days and nights the debate continued. To avoid -going to the hospital, the husband went to the beach for three days; -then he came back, and there were more days and nights of conferences -with the assembled cohorts. At times such as this, husbands and wives -discover whether they really love each other! - -Craig was with me in the dream of a picture--until she decided that -Eisenstein meant to grind her husband up in a pulp machine and spin him -out into celluloid film. She thought that thirty-five miles of film was -enough for any picture. And then she stood and looked at her husband, -and her hands trembled and her lips quivered; she had licked him in that -last desperate duel, and she wondered if in his heart he could ever -forgive her. He did. - - -V - -The real reason for Eisenstein’s delaying tactics was that he did not -want to go back to his beloved Soviet Union. He had been trying to get a -contract to make a picture in India, one in Japan, one in the Argentine. -His relations with Craig’s brother had reached a point where he cursed -Hunter; and Hunter, a Mississippian, got a gun and told him the next -time he cursed he would be shot. So, I sent a cablegram to Stalin, -asking him to order Eisenstein to return home; in reply I received a -cablegram signed by Stalin informing me that they no longer had any use -for Eisenstein and considered him a renegade. - -The history of that cablegram is amusing. Craig regarded it as she would -a rattlesnake in her home. Anyone who saw it, including the F.B.I., -would assume that I was a cryptocommunist. The evil document must be -locked up in a secret treasure box that contained such things as the -letters from Jefferson Davis and his daughter, Winnie. I was not even -allowed to know where that box was hidden. - -But I had told one or two friends about the cablegram. Way back in the -early Greenwich Village days I had known Robert Minor, art editor of -_The Masses_. I had played tennis with him at Croton; and much later, in -the days when I was writing the Lanny Budd books, he provided me with a -story of what it was like to be arrested by the French police--a story -that makes a delightful ending for the first Lanny Budd book, _World’s -End_. Now, a friend in New York mentioned the cablegram to Bob, and -reported Bob’s comment, “Tell Upton if he has a cablegram from Stalin he -is the only man in America who can say it.” - -In the end, we made a contract with Amtorg, the Russian trade agency in -New York, which handled the whole Eisenstein matter. We agreed to ship -the film to them with precise specifications that the boxes should not -be opened in New York but should be forwarded immediately to Moscow -where Eisenstein would cut the film, and the cut film would be shipped -to us. So Eisenstein received orders that he could not fail to obey, and -Hunter did not have to shoot him. - -The director and his two associates left Mexico City in our Buick car -and drove to New York; but instead of going at once to Moscow, as the -agreement specified, Eisenstein stayed in New York, and about a week -later we received letters from persons in New York to whom he had been -showing the film. - -That settled the matter for us. We put it into the hands of our lawyer, -with instructions to repossess the film, repack it, and ship it to -Hollywood--which was done. We made an agreement with Sol Lesser to cut -it, and that was done. And in the spring of 1934 _Thunder Over Mexico_ -was scheduled to open at the Rialto Theater in New York. - -In the eyes of the communists, of course, we had committed a major -crime. We had deprived the great Russian master of his greatest art -work, and we had done it out of blind greed. All over the world the -communist propagandists took up that theme, and we could not answer -without damaging the property of our investors. - -The situation was still more odd because my friends, the socialists, -were also involved. I was just on the point of announcing my EPIC -campaign for the governorship of California. I had sent a copy of my -program to Norman Thomas, and he lit into it in the New York _Call_, -denouncing EPIC as a “tin-can economy,” and me as “a renegade to the -socialist movement.” The Socialist Party, which had placed a large order -for seats for the opening night of Eisenstein’s film, canceled the -order. So, we were getting it from all sides. On opening night there was -a minor riot; communists yelled protests, and some of them shook their -fists in my face in the lobby of the theater. - -I had one comfort, however. Among the investors in the picture was Otto -H. Kahn, New York banker and art patron; he had put in ten thousand -dollars at my request, without ever having met me. I invited him to -dinner with my wife and me at the Algonquin Hotel on the evening of the -opening. He came up to me in the lobby and took both my hands in his and -said, “I am telling all my friends that if they want to invest money and -want to be sure of having it carefully handled and promptly accounted -for, they should entrust it to the socialist, Mr. Upton Sinclair.” - -Of course, _Thunder Over Mexico_ wasn’t a very good picture. It couldn’t -be because it was only a travelogue and had no form. Sol Lesser, an -experienced producer, did his best and dealt with us fairly. The -investors got about half their money back, and Sol’s friendship was the -best thing that we got out of the whole experience. - -When the film had run its course, we turned it over to the Museum of -Modern Art in New York, and occasionally I see mention of its being -shown here and there. As for Eisenstein, he went back to Russia; I have -no report on his meeting with Stalin. But all the world knows that for -many years he was put to teaching his art instead of practicing it, and -that when he made another picture it was a glorification of the most -cruel of all the tsars. - - - - -_14_ - -_EPIC_ - - -I - -I come now to one of the great adventures of my life: the EPIC campaign. -There had come one of those periods in American history known as a -“slump,” or, more elegantly, a “depression.” The cause of this calamity -is obvious--the mass of the people do not get sufficient money to -purchase what modern machinery is able to produce. You cannot find this -statement in any capitalist newspaper, but it is plain to the mind of -any wide-awake child. The warehouses are packed with goods, and nobody -is buying them; this goes on until those who still have money have -bought and used up the goods; so then we have another boom and then -another bust. This has gone on all through our history and will go on as -long as the necessities of our lives are produced on speculation and -held for private profit. - -Now we had a bad slump, and Franklin Roosevelt was casting about for -ways to end it. In the state of California, which had a population of -seven million at the time, there were a million out of work, -public-relief funds were exhausted, and people were starving. The -proprietor of a small hotel down at the beach asked me to come and meet -some of his friends, and I went. His proposal was that I should resign -from the Socialist Party and join the Democratic Party, and let them put -me up as a candidate for governor at the coming November election. They -had no doubt that if I would offer a practical program I would capture -the Democratic nomination at the primaries, which came in the spring. I -told them that I had retired from politics and promised my wife to be a -writer. But they argued and pleaded, pointing out the terrible -conditions all around them; I promised to think it over and at least -suggest a program for them. - -To me the remedy was obvious. The factories were idle, and the workers -had no money. Let them be put to work on the state’s credit and produce -goods for their own use, and set up a system of exchange by which the -goods could be distributed. “Production for Use” was the slogan, and I -told my new friends about it. They agreed to every one of my suggestions -but one--that they should get somebody else to put forward the program -and run for governor. - -I talked it over with my dear wife, who as usual was horrified; but the -more I thought about it, the more interested I became, and finally I -thought that at least I could change my registration and become a -Democrat--quietly. It was a foolish idea, but I went ahead; and, of -course, some reporter spotted my name and published the news. Then, of -course, Craig found out and I got a mighty dressing down. - -A great many people got after me, and the result was I agreed to run for -the nomination at the primaries. I didn’t think I could possibly win, -and I was astonished by the tidal wave that came roaring in and gathered -me up. I had no peace from then on; I carried the Democratic primary -with 436,000 votes, a majority over the total cast for the half dozen -other candidates. - -So I had to go through with it, and Craig, according to her nature, had -to back me. She would hate it for every minute of the whole campaign and -afterward; but once I had committed myself, I was honor-bound, and -quitting would be cowardice. There are no cowards in Mississippi. - - -II - -Some months earlier I had made the acquaintance of a young man of some -wealth who had established a Bellamy Society and had printed an edition -of Bellamy’s charming _Parable of the Water Tank_. Now I went to him and -served notice that he had to be my campaign manager. I don’t know what -_his_ wife thought of that, but I know that he dropped everything and -gave his heart, his mind, and a lot of his money to that tremendous -political fight. Richard S. Otto was his name, and the name of the -movement was EPIC--End Poverty in California. It was a wonderful title, -and went all over the world. - -We had moved from our Long Beach cottage back to Pasadena, and now we -had to move from Pasadena because so many people had got our address and -gave us no peace. We bought on mortgage a home in Beverly Hills, where -we fondly thought we could hide. I had an elderly woman secretary, and -was using her little front room as an office. Now Dick Otto moved the -EPIC movement into that little front room, and presently the elderly -secretary had to find a new home and leave the whole cottage to EPIC. - -It wasn’t long before Dick had to hunt up a bigger place; he moved three -or four times and at the end leased a whole office building. People came -from all over the state, and brought funds when they had any; if they -had none, they offered their time, often when they had nothing to eat. -The movement spread like wildfire--quite literally that. The old-men -politicians were astonished, and the newspapers, which had kept silent -as long as they dared, had to come out and fight it in the open. - - * * * * * - -As for me, it meant dropping everything else, and turning myself into a -phonograph to be set up on a platform to repeat the same speech in every -city and town of California. At first I traveled by myself and had many -adventures, some of them amusing, others less so. I had an old car, -which had a habit of breaking down, and I would telephone to the speech -place to come and get me. Once I was late and was driving fast, and I -heard a siren behind me; of course, I stopped and told my troubles to -the police officer. He looked at my driver’s license before he said -anything; then, “Okay, Governor, I’ll take you.” So I rode with a police -escort blazing a mighty blast and clearing traffic off one of the main -highways of central California. The phonograph arrived, and the speech -was made! - -I am joking about its being the same speech, because as a matter of fact -something kept turning up and had to be dealt with. Our enemies -continually thought up new charges, and I had to answer them. I would -try to get them to come and debate with me, but I cannot recall one that -ever accepted. That doesn’t mean that I was a great orator, it simply -means that I had the facts on my side, and the facts kept on growing -more and more terrifying. The Republican opposition had no program--it -never does, because there is no way to defend idle factories and workers -locked out to starve. We have the same situation now, as I write, in -1962; but we don’t quite let them starve, we give them a stingy -“relief”--and they can thank EPIC for that, though they do not know it. - - -III - -Self-help co-operatives had sprung up all over the state, and of course -that was “production for use,” and those people automatically became -EPIC’S. - -Our opponents would not debate; however, there were challenges from the -audience, and now and then I would invite the man up to the platform and -let him ask his question and present his case. That was fair play, and -pleased the audience. There were always communists, and several times -they showered down leaflets from the gallery. They called EPIC “one more -rotten egg from the blue buzzard’s nest.” (The “blue buzzard” was the -communists’ name for the New Deal’s “blue eagle.”) When the shower fell, -I would ask someone in the audience to bring me a leaflet, and I would -read the text and give my answer. It was a simple one: We wanted to -achieve our purpose by the American method of majority consent. We might -not win, but if we cast a big vote we would force the Roosevelt -administration to take relief measures, and we would have made all -America familiar with the idea of production for use; both these things -we most certainly did. - -That campaign went on from May to November, and the news of it went all -over the United States and even further. We had troubles, of -course--arguments and almost rows at headquarters. I would be called in -to settle them, but all I told anybody was to do what Dick Otto said. -That brave fellow stood everything that came, including threats to kill -him. There was only one thing he needed, he said, and that was my -support. More important yet, he had Craig’s. She never went near the -headquarters, but when I was on the road, she spoke for me--over the -telephone. - -Sometimes she went to meetings that were not too far away. She always -sat back toward the rear and was seldom recognized. At the outset of the -campaign, at a meeting in a church, she observed that everybody sat -still, and it occurred to her to applaud something I had said; instantly -the audience woke up, and the applause became continuous. That was a -trick she did not forget. - -We had an eight-page weekly paper called the _EPIC News_, and I had to -write an editorial for it every week, and answer our enemies and keep -our organizers and workers all over the state alive to the situation. -Sometimes Craig wrote for that. - -A big advertising concern had been hired to defeat EPIC. They made a -careful study of everything I had written, and they took passages out of -context and even cut sentences off in the middle to make them mean the -opposite of what I had written. They had had an especially happy time -with _The Profits of Religion_. I received many letters from agitated -old ladies and gentlemen on the subject of my blasphemy. “Do you believe -in God?” asked one; and then the next question, “Define God.” I have -always answered my letters, and the answer to question one was “Yes,” -and the answer to question two was “The Infinite cannot be defined.” -There wasn’t the least trouble in finding quotations from both the Old -and New Testaments that sounded like EPIC, and it wasn’t necessary to -garble them. - - -IV - -When we carried the primaries, we were the Democratic Party of -California, and under the law we had a convention in Sacramento--the -state capital. I remember that Mrs. Gartz came with us to that -convention. Craig had been too busy to manage her now, and another lady -as large and stout as Mrs. Gartz had gotten hold of her. This lady had -herself nominated as EPIC candidate from her assembly district; also she -had a son and was frantically beseeching me to make him state -commissioner of education. She owned a half-dozen houses in California -and rented them, and had the wonderful idea that all homes should be -exempt from taxation. Poor Mrs. Gartz never knew what was being done to -her, and at the convention I had to tell those two large ladies to go -back to their seats and let me alone. The upshot was that Mrs. Gartz’s -daughter took her for a trip around the world until the EPIC nightmare -was over. - -Halfway through the campaign I wrote a little dramatic skit called -_Depression Island_. I imagined three men cast away on a small island, -with nothing to eat but coconuts. One was a businessman, and in the -process of trading he got all the coconuts and trees into his -possession. Then he became the capitalist and compelled the other two to -work for him on a scanty diet of coconuts. When the capitalist had -accumulated enough coconuts for all his possible needs, he told the -other two that there were “hard times.” He was sorry about it, but there -was nothing he could do; coconuts were overproduced, and the other two -fellows were out of jobs. - -But the other two didn’t starve gracefully. They organized themselves -into a union and also a government, and passed laws providing for public -ownership of the coconut trees. The little drama carefully covered every -point in the national situation, and nobody in that EPIC audience could -fail to get the idea. - -A group of our EPIC supporters in Hollywood undertook to put on the show -in the largest auditorium available. I went to see Charlie Chaplin, who -said he would come and speak at the affair--something he had never been -known to do previously. I remember trying to persuade several rich -people to put up rent for the auditorium. I forget who did, but there -was a huge crowd, and nobody failed to learn the geography -lesson--location of Depression Island on the map. - - -V - -In the month of October, not long before election day, I made a trip to -New York and Washington. I stopped off at Detroit and visited Father -Coughlin, a political priest who had tremendous influence at that time. -I told him our program, and he said he endorsed every bit of it. I asked -him to say so publicly, and he said he would; but he didn’t. He publicly -condemned some of the very things he had approved, and he denied that -he had given his approval. - -In New York, of course, there were swarms of reporters. EPIC had gone -all over the country by that time. I had an appointment with President -Roosevelt at Hyde Park. It was five o’clock one afternoon, and some -friends drove me up there. The two hours I spent in the big study of -that home were among the great moments of my life. That wonderfully keen -man sat and listened while I set forth every step of the program, and he -checked them off one after the other and called them right. Then he gave -me the pleasure of hearing his opinion of some of his enemies. At the -end he told me that he was coming out in favor of production for use. I -said, “If you do, Mr. President, it will elect me.” - -“Well,” he said, “I am going to do it”; and that was that. But he did -not do it. - -I went to Washington to interview some of Roosevelt’s cabinet members -and get their support if I could. Harry Hopkins promised us everything -in his power if we got elected. Harold Ickes did the same--the whole -United States Treasury, no less. Also, I spent an evening with Justice -Louis Brandeis--but he couldn’t promise me the whole Supreme Court. - -I addressed a luncheon of the National Press Club, and that was an -interesting adventure. There were, I should guess, a couple hundred -correspondents of newspapers all over the country, and indeed all over -the world. I talked to them for half an hour or so, and then they plied -me with questions for an hour or two more. I was told afterwards that -they were astonished by my mastery of the subject and my readiness in -facing every problem. They failed to realize the half year of training I -had received in California. I can say there wasn’t a single question -they asked me that I hadn’t answered a score of times at home. I not -only knew the answers, but I knew what the audience response would be. - -I had all the facts on my side--and, likewise, all the fun. I can say -that EPIC changed the political color of California; it scared the -reactionaries out of their wits, and never in twenty-eight years have -they dared go back to their old practices. The same thing can also be -said of civil liberties; they have never dared to break a strike as -they did at San Pedro Harbor before our civil-liberties campaign in the -early twenties. - - Say not the struggle nought availeth, - The labor and the pains are vain! - -In the last few days of the campaign, Aline Barnsdall, a -multimillionairess, came to Craig and told her she had decided to put -ten thousand dollars into the fight. Craig told her to take it to Dick -Otto, and needless to say she was welcomed at headquarters. Among other -things we did with that money was to put on a huge mass meeting in the -prize-fight arena in Los Angeles. I had never been in such a place -before and have not since. Speaking from the “ring,” I could face only -one fourth of the audience at any one time, so I distributed my time and -spoke to each fourth in turn. There were four loudspeakers, so everybody -could hear, and the audience enjoyed the novelty. The speech was relayed -and heard by an audience in the huge auditorium in San Francisco; so I -dealt with the problems of southern California for a while and then with -those of the north. - -I remember on the afternoon before the election a marvelous noon meeting -that packed the opera house in Los Angeles. Our enemies had made much of -the fact that the unemployed, otherwise known as “bums,” were coming to -the city on freight trains looking for free handouts. This had been -featured in motion pictures all over the state and had front-page -prominence in the Los Angeles _Times_. I told the audience that Harry -Chandler, owner of the _Times_, had himself come into Los Angeles on a -freight train in his youth. I shouted, “Harry, give the other bums a -chance!” I think the roar from the audience must have been audible as -far as the _Times_ building. - -No words could describe the fury of that campaign in its last days. I -was told of incidents after it was over. A high-school girl of Beverly -Hills told me of being invited to the home of a classmate for dinner. -The master of that home poured out his hatred of the EPIC candidate, and -the schoolgirl remarked, “Well, I heard him speak, and he sounded to me -quite reasonable.” The host replied, “Get up and get out of this house. -Nobody can talk like that in my home.” He drove her out without her -dinner. - -Another woman in Hollywood, a poet rather well known, told me of a -businessman she knew who had made his will and got himself a revolver, -and was going to the studio where I was scheduled to speak on election -night; if I won he was going to shoot me. I did not win, and in my -Beverly Hills home that night a group of our friends, including Lewis -Browne, sat and awaited the returns. Very soon it became evident that I -had been defeated, and Craig, usually a most reserved person in company, -sank down on the floor, weeping and exclaiming, “Thank God, thank God!” -Our dear Lewis, whom she knew and trusted, came to her and said, “Its -all right, Craig. We all understand. None of us wanted him to win.” - -Many people rejoiced that night, and many others wept; I was told that -the scenes at the EPIC headquarters were tragic indeed. I won’t describe -them, but will take you back to that old home in Greenwood, Mississippi, -where an elderly judge sat listening to his radio set. It was Craig’s -Papa, the one who had “overspoke himself” a little more than twenty -years earlier. He had owned a great plantation, much land, and two -beautiful homes. He was the president of two banks, vice president of -others--one of which he had founded; and in all of them he was a heavy -stockholder. The panic had come, the banks had failed, and under the law -he was liable to the depositors up to twice the amount of his own -holdings. It had wiped him out. - -I had warned him of what was coming. I had warned his son, Orman, who -also was a lawyer and ran the law business that had been his father’s. -Orman had replied, “To show you how much I think of your judgment I will -tell you that I am buying a thirty-thousand-dollar property.” That may -sound ungracious, but it wouldn’t if you knew Orman, who was a great -“kidder.” He bought the property on credit, and he was in trouble too. - -Interesting evidence of the respect in which Leflore County held “the -Judge”: the people who took over his homes did not let him know it; they -let him use both houses for his remaining years. I suppose they did it -by a secret arrangement with Orman; anyhow, he was there in his -Greenwood house, with his large gardens. All his Negroes were dependent -upon him; they worked the gardens and lived on the food--corn and beans, -tomatoes, and milk from the cows. - -Such was the situation when the Judge sat at his radio set, listening -to the news of the California election. It should not surprise you to -learn that he was hoping for his son-in-law’s victory, and disappointed -at his son-in-law’s defeat. - -He was a proud old gentleman. With Craig’s approval, I had sent him a -check for two hundred dollars--and that check was in his pocket, -uncashed, when he died. But one other gift he did accept. One of his -daughters wrote that his greatest trouble was that he had nothing to -read. I was taking some fifty magazines, and still do. Every week, after -I had read them, my secretary would bundle them up and mail them to the -Judge, and it touched our hearts to hear of his pleasure. - - - - -_15_ - -_Grist for My Mill_ - - -I - -It was a relief to me to have coughed up that EPIC alligator, and to -Craig it was the coughing up of a whole aquarium. It was days before she -could be sure that we were really out--and by then she discovered that -we couldn’t be, because there were still the headquarters and the _EPIC -News_, and all those poor people who had put everything they had into -the campaign. It was unthinkable to quit, but--we had no money. I sat -myself down and wrote the story of the campaign as I have told it here, -and offered it for serial purposes to California newspapers. Some thirty -accepted. I had based the price upon the circulation of the newspaper, -and some of them actually paid. Those that failed to pay I suppose had -been calling EPIC dishonest. I put the whole story into book form: “I, -Candidate for Governor--and How I Got Licked.” What I have written here -is a summary for a new generation. - -I had made plans for a lecture trip, to travel over the country and tell -about the campaign and answer questions about production for use. A -friend had presented us with a lovely German shepherd, and we had the -protection of that affectionate creature all over the United States. No -one could ever come close to our car. - -We crossed the continent twice, and I could make quite a story out of -our adventures. In Seattle the governor of the state called out the -troops, and I didn’t know whether his idea was to protect me or to -arrest me. Anyhow, I made the speech. In Portland I spoke in a baseball -park, and there I had the company of a young newspaperman, Dick -Neuberger, who later became United States Senator. In Butte we found -ourselves in a hotel amid a convention of rifleshooters, and discovered -that some shooter had either bored or shot a hole through the door of -our hotel room so that he could peek in at us. It was the wild and -woolly West. - -Once we got lost in lonely mountains, and because we were desperately -tired we asked shelter in one of two shacks by the roadside, where some -rough-looking men were living. One shack was given to us in all -kindness. Craig was a little scared of our hosts; but in the morning we -were politely asked how we had slept, and when Craig asked the price, -she was told, “It’s hard times, lady, would twenty-five cents be too -much?” She gave him a couple of dollars. - -Also, I never get tired of telling my experience in St. Louis, where -there was a large auditorium and a distinguished gentleman to introduce -me--the head of the astronomical observatory, I was told. The gentleman -made a most gracious speech and concluded, “And now ladies and -gentleman, I have great pleasure in introducing Mr. Sinclair Lewis.” The -audience began to laugh, the astronomer looked worried, and his son -jumped up and ran to him. I comforted him by saying that I had had much -experience with that mistake. - -In Chautauqua I debated before a huge audience with Congressman Hamilton -Fish, Republican aristocrat from Franklin Roosevelt’s district up the -Hudson. Fish had come to know me well, as we had had the same debate in -Hollywood and in Chicago. Craig never went in to my talks but sat in the -car under the protection of “Duchess.” When the debate was over the -audience strolled by, and Craig listened. Presently came “Ham,” and -Craig heard him say, “I really think he got the better of me.” But you -may be sure he didn’t say that from the platform! - -At Princeton I lectured in the university auditorium. Albert Einstein -was teaching there, and I spent the afternoon with him. He had consented -to introduce me at the debate, which was to be with a chosen -representative of the senior class. To our pained surprise there were -not more than twenty or thirty persons in that auditorium. I was -interested to hear Albert Einstein tell the students and faculty of -Princeton University what he thought of their interest in public -affairs. - -My opponent in the debate was a well-bred young gentleman, and I didn’t -want to be hard on him. I told the audience how I had lived in a tent -north of Princeton just thirty years previously. I had come to know some -of the students then and had walked in the hills with a senior who had -specialized in economics. I was interested now to discover that -instruction at Princeton had not changed a particle in thirty years; -what my opponent had said in 1935 was exactly the same as my student -friend had said in 1904. America had changed, but Princeton stood like a -rock in the middle of a powerful stream. - -We made two trips from coast to coast, lecturing about EPIC--including -the detours, a distance of sixteen thousand miles, and I drove every -mile of it. It took more than that long for the EPIC political movement -to fade away; the self-help co-operatives hung on for years. I had -visited many of them, and talked with hundreds of their members. - -They included the inhabitants of what was known as Pipe City near -Oakland, California. A most unusual name, but it was literally exact. -The city of Oakland had been in the process of putting down a main sewer -line with pipe six feet in diameter. The money had run out, and sections -of pipe were lined up along the highway. They provided shelter from the -rain if not from the cold, and hundreds of unemployed men wandering the -roads ducked in and made Oakland their begging center. - -Three of them happened to be men with education and business experience, -and they had conceived the idea of a self-help co-operative. Instead of -begging for food, let them beg for the means of production--the tools -and goods that people possessed and could no longer either use or sell. -Let the co-operators offer to do useful work in exchange for such goods. -In the city where so many thousands were idle there was no kind of work, -and no kind of material that could not be found and bartered for -services. An idle building was found, and the people piled into it and -before long were actually working. In the course of the depression the -co-op became a successful business, and the lesson was learned. Before -the New Deal had brought American industry back to life there were two -or three hundred of these self-help co-operatives scattered all over the -state. - -I had conceived a form in which these events could be woven into a -story. Each chapter would tell of some individual or family of a -different character and a different occupation, either hearing about the -co-op in a different way or stumbling upon it by accident, and so coming -into the story. I saw it as a river, flowing continuously, and growing -bigger with new streams added. So came the novel _Co-op_. - - -II - -Craig didn’t like communists. I am sad to have to report that there were -also some socialists with whom she failed to get along. Indeed, they -almost disillusioned her with the socialist movement--for she was a -personal person and thought that idealists ought to live up to their -programs. - -During the EPIC campaign, old Stitt Wilson, California socialist leader -and several times candidate for governor, had seen that the EPIC -movement was a tide and had decided to swim with it. He spoke at our -huge Fourth of July celebration in the Arroyo Seco. He was one of those -orators who take off their coats and wave their arms and shout, even in -a Fourth of July midday sun. After it was over, he was driven to our -home and ordered Craig to draw him a bath. She wouldn’t have minded -helping an old man, but she did mind taking an order; so, while he got -his bath he lost her regard. - -Then came Lena Morrow Lewis, tireless lecturer and strictly orthodox -Marxian. She was a guest in my absence and followed Craig around the -house, insisting on reading passages from Marx to her. Then she asked to -be allowed to stay in the house for a week or two while Craig was away, -and she left everything in a state of disarray--including the soiled -dishes. If Craig had been a guest in anybody’s house, there would not -have been a pin out of place, and every dish would have been polished. -So, the socialist movement went still lower in my lady’s esteem. - -Oddly enough, those who won her favor were the IWW. They had a most -terrible reputation in the capitalist newspapers. They were said to -drive copper nails into fruit trees. I made inquiries among -arboriculturists, but could not find a single one who could see what -harm copper nails could do in a fruit tree. Anyway, the “wobblies” were -freely sent to jail in California, and when they got out of jail, they -would frequently come to me because I had written a play about -them--_Singing Jailbirds_. They wanted to tell me their stories and have -me write more. Without exception they were decent and honest men, and -they won Craig’s heart. They would not even let her give them -money--only, in one case, fifty cents to get back to Los Angeles. - -As the years passed, the communists succeeded more and more in their -effort to take possession of the word “socialism.” Craig saw no -possibility of countering this--especially when the effort had to be -made by her husband. More and more she wanted me to give up the word, -which I had worn as a badge all my life. Craig’s effort was supported by -her brother Hunter, who was with the government in Washington prior to -World War II and knew many labor men. It was amusing when now and then a -newspaper reporter would come for an interview, and Craig and Hunter -would conspire together to make me into an ex-socialist. - -I have mentioned the Intercollegiate Socialist Society, which I founded -in 1905 and which later changed its name to the League for Industrial -Democracy. “Now surely,” Craig pleaded, “that is a good-enough name. Why -not be an Industrial Democrat?” It is a rather long name to say, but I -do my best to remember, and Hunter Kimbrough helps by reminding me it -was he, after all, who persuaded Harry Flannery, head of the educational -department of the AFL-CIO, to make use of books such as _The Jungle_, -_King Coal_, and _Flivver King_; they did, and a great deal about them -has gone out in print and over the radio. That, of course, is what I -have lived for. - - -III - -All through the EPIC campaign I had been asked questions regarding my -ideas about God; so I decided that I would arm myself for the future, -and I wrote and published a book, _What God Means to Me_. The largest of -all subjects, of course; but I made the book small and tried to make it -practical--that is, I told the ideas by which I had guided my life. I -content myself here by quoting the concluding sentences, and you can -have more for the asking. - - Somehow love has come to be in the world; somehow the dream of - justice haunts mankind. These things claim my heart; they speak to - me with a voice of authority. I know full well how badly the - idealists fare in our society. I know that Jesus was crucified, and - Joan burned, and Socrates poisoned; I know that Don Quixote was - made ridiculous, and Hamlet driven mad. But still the dream - persists, and in every part of the world are men determined “to - make right reason and the will of God prevail.” - - This God whom I preach is in the hearts of human beings, fighting - for justice; inside the churches and out--even in the rebel groups, - many of which reject His name. A world in which men exploit the - labor of their fellows, and pile up fortunes which serve no use but - the display of material power--such a world presents itself to - truly religious people as a world which must be changed. Those who - serve God truly in this age serve the ideal of brotherhood; of - helping our fellow-beings, instead of exploiting their labor, and - beating them down and degrading them in order to exploit them more - easily. - - The religion I am talking about is not yet “established.” It rarely - dwells in temples built with hands, nor is it financed with bond - issues underwritten by holders of front pews. It does not have an - ordained priesthood, nor enjoy the benefit of apostolic succession. - It is not dressed in gold and purple robes, nor are its altar - cloths embroidered with jewels. It does not honor the rich and - powerful, nor sanctify interest and dividends, nor lend support to - political machines, nor sprinkle holy water upon flags and cannon, - nor send young men out to slaughter and be slaughtered in the name - of the Prince of Peace. - - My God is a still, small voice in my heart. My God is something - that is with me when I sit alone, and wonder, and question the - mystery. My God says: “I am here, and I am now.” - - My God says: “Speak to Me, and I will answer; not in sounds, but in - stirrings of your soul; in courage, hope, energy, the stuff of your - life.” My God says: “Ask, and it shall be given you. Seek, and you - shall find. Knock, and it shall be opened unto you.” - - My God is the process of my being; nothing strange, but that which - goes on all the time. I ask, “Can I pray?” and He answers: “You are - praying.” He says: “The prayer and the answer are one.” - - To pray is to resolve. To pray is to take heart. The motto of the - Benedictine order tells us that “To work is to pray.” Mrs. Eddy - tells us that “Desire is prayer.” - - The old-time prophets knew this God of mine. Jesus said: “Believe - me that I am in the Father, and the Father in me.” That was not - egotism, nor was it theology; it was elementary psychology. - - The philosophers have known this God; Emerson wrote: “The simplest - person who in his integrity worships God, becomes God.” - - The poets have known this God; Tennyson wrote: - - Speak to Him thou, for he hears, and spirit with spirit can meet; - Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. - - My God is a personal God; for how else can I be a person? If He - does not know me, how can I know myself? - - My God is a God of freedom. He says: “Anyone may come to Me.” - - My God is a God of mercy. He says: “Come unto Me all ye that - travail and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you.” - - My God is a God of justice. Of Him it was said: “He hath put down - the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree.” - - My God is a God of love, in a world of raging madness. He has put - into the hearts of His people the idea of subduing the hate-makers. - - My God is an experimental God. He says: “I have made a world, and - am still making it.” He says to men: “I am still making you, and - you are still making Me.” - - -IV - -Much of this book, as you will have noted, is the story of other books, -their origins and their fates. This is something I could not help if I -tried, because my whole life has been a series of books. - -On our first motor trip up the Pacific Coast we had gone through one of -the redwood forests, and I was fascinated by those marvelous trees. One -of them was so big that the one-lane road had been cut through its -trunk. I got out and wandered about in the fern-covered forest, and when -I drove on, there popped into my mind a delightful story for children. -Two little gnomes, a young one and his grandfather, were the last of -their race to survive. A human child, wandering about in the ferns, was -greeted timidly by the grandfather and begged to help in finding a wife -for the younger gnome. - -The little girl promised to help, and the two gnomes were taken into the -automobile, which of course immediately became a “gnomobile”--the title -of the book. There followed a string of adventures extending all the way -from California to the forests of the East. The two gnomes were kept in -a large basket, and the playful young man of fashion who did the driving -told everybody that the basket contained Abyssinian geese. Thereafter he -was hounded by newspapermen who wanted to see those rare and precious -creatures. When the gnomes were stolen and put on exhibition in a -circus, the story indeed became exciting. - -This book for children was published with a lot of gay pictures; it was -also published in France, and is about to be republished here. Walt -Disney read it and told me that he had never done anything with live -characters, but if ever he did he would do _The Gnomobile_. Now, almost -thirty years later, he is setting out to keep the promise. I have a -contract. - - -V - -Next story: I thought it most amusing when my cousin, Wallis Warfield of -Baltimore, came near to wrecking the British Empire by running away with -its king; so I wrote a one-act play showing exactly how a Baltimore -belle went about fascinating any male animal, whether he had a crown or -a dunce’s cap on his head--or both at the same time. I called it _Wally -for Queen_. I thought it was hilariously funny; but when I sent it to my -friend, Arch Selwyn, movie producer, he wrote back, “Upton, are you -crazy, or do you think that I am?” So the crazy little play remains -unproduced. But I can wait, and maybe I’ll outlast my cousin and her -ex-king, and my story will be history and can be made into a musical -comedy, as happened to Bernard Shaw’s _Pygmalion_. - - -VI - -Sometime in the twenties Henry Ford had come for a winter’s vacation and -lived on an estate in Altadena not far from our home. Henry fancied -himself a sociologist, an economist, and an authority on what should be -done for his country. I wrote a note offering to call, and received an -invitation. I duly presented my card to the guard at the gates and was -admitted. I found the unpretentious great man in the garage with his -son, Edsel, busy looking over some junk they had found in this rented -place. They had in their hands a discarded carburetor and were twisting -it this way and that, trying to figure out what purpose the various -openings could have served. I don’t think I quite knew what a carburetor -was, so I was not able to help. - -Presently we went into the house; Henry’s wife was there, a quiet little -woman--I can’t recall anything that she said. Henry had a great deal to -say, and his wife listened. Henry thought he knew what was wrong with -America and told me. I saw that he liked to talk, and I let him, only -putting in a mild suggestion now and then. That suited him, and when I -left he suggested that I should come again and we would take a walk in -the hills. - -So we took a walk. Henry was a spare man and a fast walker even on -hills. I expressed the opinion that the American people needed educating -on economic questions, and Henry agreed with me. I asked him why he -didn’t do some of the educating himself, and the idea pleased him. I -suggested that he start a magazine, and he said he thought that when he -got back to Dearborn he would buy one. I suggested some of the topics -for the magazine--“Production for Use” and “Self-Help -Co-operatives”--and Henry said those things sounded good to him. He did -start a magazine. It was the _Dearborn Independent_; and from the outset -it was the most reactionary magazine in America. - -I had told Henry about King C. Gillette and his books. Gillette was -another multimillionaire, not quite so multi as Henry, but plenty. Henry -was interested. He consented to come and exchange ideas with Gillette, -and the appointment was made. A houseboy and two schoolboys whom my wife -employed for work on the place just couldn’t be persuaded to do any work -that morning. They lined up beside the drive to see the Flivver King and -the Razor King come in. (Razor King is a pun, but it was made by fate, -not by me.) - -The Flivver King was lean and spry, and the Razor King was large and -ponderous. They sat in easy chairs in front of our fireplace and -exchanged ideas. As I wrote shortly afterward, it was like watching two -billiard balls--they hit and then flew apart, and neither made the -slightest impression upon the other. America remained and still remains -what it always was--a land of vast riches and cruel poverty. Gillette’s -book fell flat, and Henry’s magazine died unmourned. - -As fate willed it, I was to have more to do with Ford, indirectly. And -though I never heard from him again, I feel quite sure that he knew what -I did--and didn’t like it. In the thirties, the CIO set out to organize -industrial workers, including those who worked in the big automobile -plants. Henry Ford was blindly and stubbornly opposed to unionization -and declared that he would close his plants rather than have them -organized. There was a strike, and he fought ruthlessly. Frank Murphy, -mayor of Detroit, said to me at the dinner table of Rob Wagner in -Beverly Hills: “Henry Ford employs some of the worst gangsters in -Detroit, and I can name them.” - -Because I had known Ford, I was much interested in what was going on; as -usual, I decided to make a novel of it. I called the book _Flivver -King_, and when it was done I sent a copy of the manuscript to one of -the strike leaders in Detroit. I expected a prompt response and was not -disappointed. They wanted that story, and they wanted it quickly. I -offered them 200,000 pamphlet copies to be retailed at fifty cents a -copy. However, I insisted on having the book done by my own printer, a -union shop, because I wanted the plates and the control. After some -dickering they accepted the offer, and the result was that in Ford -plants all over the world Ford workers could be seen with a little green -paperbound book, folded once lengthwise and stuck in their back pants -pocket. I was told that they put it there on purpose, where it could be -seen. It was a sort of badge of defiance. - -The story of the humble mechanic who had built the first self-moving -vehicle in his own garage and had revolutionized the traffic of mankind -all over the world--look at it now!--was a wonderful story, and I would -have been a bungler if I had not made it interesting. - -Ford’s battle with the union had a surprising ending. He suddenly gave -way and permitted his plants to be organized. It wasn’t until some years -later that I learned the reason--his wife told him that if he did close -the plants she would leave him. I can’t reveal the source of this -information, but I know that it is true. As I have already related, I -had met Mrs. Ford during my acquaintance with her husband. She had -scarcely said a word and had never expressed an opinion during my -arguments with Henry. But she had listened. She couldn’t have heard such -arguments as mine very often in her life--and perhaps they played a part -in persuading her that Ford’s workers should be allowed to have a union. -It pleases me to believe that. - - -VII - -My next book was a novelette called _Our Lady_, and I think it is my -favorite among all my too-many books. - -I had been brought up as a very religious little boy; I had been -confirmed in the Episcopal Church of the Holy Communion in New York at -the age of about fourteen. I remember that I attended service every day -during Lent. Later on in life I had found the New Testament an excellent -way of learning foreign languages. I knew the text so well that I could -save myself the trouble of looking up words in the dictionary; so I read -the New Testament first in Latin, then in Greek, then in German, then in -French, and then in Italian. - -I had conceived a real love, a personal affection, for the historical -Jesus; it seemed to me that he had been a social rebel who had been -taken up and made into an object of superstition instead of human love. -I had been particularly repelled by the deification of his mother; I -found myself thinking what she must have been in reality and what she -would have made of the worship of the Catholics. And so came my story: - -A humble peasant woman of Judea, named Marya, sees her beloved son go -off on a mission that terrifies her. In her neighborhood is a Nabatean -woman, a “dark-meated one,” a sorceress, much dreaded. Marya goes to her -and asks to see the future of her son. The sorceress weaves a spell, and -Marya in fright falls unconscious. She wakes up to find herself in the -modern world, walking on an avenue in Los Angeles, in the midst of a -great crowd on its way to a football stadium at which the Notre Dame -team is to be pitted against some local team. Since not all my readers -are scholarly persons, I point out that Notre Dame means “Our Lady”--in -other words, Marya, the mother of Jesus. - -Arriving at the gates, the woman in a humble peasant costume is assumed -to have been lost from one of the many floats; so she is seated in -another, goes in, and sees the game with all its uproar, having no idea -that it is being held in her name. She finds herself seated next to a -young Catholic priest from Notre Dame University; he is a student of -ancient languages and is astounded to hear her speak to him in ancient -Aramaic. He decides that this is a problem for the authorities of the -Church, and he takes her to a convent. He calls the bishop, and -ceremonies of exorcism are performed that send Marya back where she -belongs. She is disturbed by the strange experience and sternly rebukes -the Nabatean sorceress: “All this has nothing to do with me!” - -As I said, I think it is my favorite story, and I think that last line -has a special “punch.” I must add that I could never have written the -story if it had not been for the gracious and loving help of my friend -Lewis Browne, a scholar who knew those languages and cultures and gave -me all the rich details. That is why I think it is a good story, and -will be read as long as anything of mine. But perhaps not by my Catholic -friends. - - -VIII - -I would guess that I have earned a million dollars in the course of my -life; ninety-nine per cent of it came from writing and one per cent from -lecturing. First it was the half-dime novels; then it became serious -books, and my troubles and the readers’ began. Always I had been -advocating unpopular opinions, swimming against the current. I can hear -the voice of my dear mother, long since departed from this earth, -pleading with me not to make things so hard for myself but to write -things to please other people--and incidentally help my dear mother so -that she would not have to wear the discarded clothes of her well-to-do -sisters. - -But there was something in me that drove me to write what I believed and -what other people ought to believe: always something unpopular, -something difficult; a play about Marie Antoinette, for example--what -could be more unlikely from Upton Sinclair, or less likely to please his -readers? “Upton Sinclair just _loves_ Marie Antoinette,” said the _New -Republic_, jovially. - -No, I didn’t exactly love her, but I pitied poor human creatures in -their dreadful predicaments. A girl child had been raised and trained to -believe that she was destined by Almighty God to rule over millions of -people--or at least to sit on the throne beside the ruler and bring a -future ruler into the world; and she was destined instead to be dragged -from her throne and hauled through avenues packed with screaming, -cursing people crowding in to see her head chopped off upon a high -public platform. Who was she really, and what did she make of it--she -and the God whom she worshiped. - -She had a lover, the Swedish Count Fersen, quite proper according to the -customs of her time. I found that pitiful love story touching, and I -think I wrote a good play; but it would have been expensive to produce, -and no one here or in Paris has come forward. - -I did my homework on it, as I always do, and the book was highly -praised. There sticks in my mind a letter from an old gentleman who took -exception to my interpretation of the revolutionary slogan, “_Les -aristocrats à la lanterne!_” There was a French song at the time that I -translated, “The aristocrats, they shall hang from lanterns”; the old -gentleman found that an amusing blunder. But in the music room of the -Pasadena Library I had dug up a book of those historic revolutionary -chants, and had found a footnote explaining that in those days at street -and highway intersections high posts had been set up and chains strung -across, so that a lantern could be hung above the center of the roads. -It was literally true that the aristocrats had been hung from lanterns. - - - - -_16_ - -_Lanny Budd_ - - -I - -I come now to what I suppose is the most important part of my literary -performance. The Second World War was on the way. I had been predicting -it and crying out against it for many years--indeed, ever since the -First World War had been settled with so little good sense. At the end -of that awful peace settlement I had published my protests in the little -magazine, _Upton Sinclair’s_; but few had heeded. Now, at the age of -sixty, I decided to try once more, going back and picturing the -half-dozen years of the war and peace that had so tormented my soul. I -was going to write a real novel this time, not propaganda, but -history--a detailed picture of the most tragic five years in the story -of the tragic human race. - -I had enough money to last me for a year, and my dear wife had provided -me with a quiet and pleasant home. At one end of our place was a garden -fenced in and hidden by rose vines. And there was a lovely German -shepherd who was trained to lie still and never bark at the birds while -I was pecking on the typewriter. Nothing more could be asked for. The -greatest of all historic subjects, perfect peace to write in, a faithful -secretary to transcribe the manuscript, attend to the book business and -keep all visitors away; a garden path to walk up and down on while I -planned the next paragraph, and a good public library from which I could -get what history books I needed for the job. - -The year I was writing in was 1939, and the years I was writing about -were 1913 to 1919. For the opening scene I used our experience, already -described, in the German village of Hellerau or “bright meadow.” That -meadow had been bright, not merely with sunshine but with hope and joy -and art and beauty--and also with the golden beard of George Bernard -Shaw, when we attended the festival at the Dalcroze temple of art and -saw a performance of Gluck’s _Orpheus_. What setting could be more -appropriate for the beginning of a novel about everything that was -gracious and kind in the civilization of old Europe? - -I knew I had something extra this time and was shivering with delight -over it. The lovely American lady, “Beauty” Budd, and her charming and -eager son, Lanny, were at that festival. Our old friend Albert Rhys -Williams read my opening chapter and said to my wife, “You had better -watch out; Upton is in love with Beauty Budd.” So I was, all through -that enormous task; eleven volumes, 7,364 pages, over four million -words. When I began, I planned one novel to cover five years of Europe’s -history. I wonder if I would have had the nerve to go on with it if I -had known that it was going to cover more than forty years and take a -dozen years of work. - -I have read patronizing remarks about the Lanny Budd books from -high-brow critics. But some very distinguished individuals and journals -have done them honor. I quote a few of these opinions; they gave me -courage to go on writing the books, and they may give the reader courage -to read them. - -George Bernard Shaw: “When people ask me what happened in my long -lifetime I do not refer them to the newspaper files and to authorities -but to your novels.” - -Albert Einstein: “I am convinced that you are doing very important and -valuable work in giving to the American public a vivid insight into the -psychological and economical background of the tragedy evolving in our -generation. Only a real artist can accomplish this.” - -Thomas Mann: “Someday the whole cycle will certainly be recognized as -the best founded and best informed description of the political life of -our epoch.” - -New York _Times Book Review_: “Something of a miracle ... one of the -nation’s most valued literary properties.” - -New York _Herald-Tribune Books_: “This greatly daring, ambitious history -in story form of our times.” - -New York _Post_: “This planetary saga.... We see a whole civilization on -these pages.” - -_Times Literary Supplement_, London: “The inventive power, intellectual -resource and technical craft of these volumes, indeed, are easily -underrated.... How full, varied and decisive a job he makes of it! For -the fascination of _la haute politique_ in our time of destiny he adds -the wonders of the worlds of art, finance, Marxism, travel, spiritualism -and a good deal more. At the same time how irrepressible and all but -disinterested is the storyteller in Mr. Sinclair, who switches from a -burst of left-wing elucidation to a chapter of thrills without turning a -hair. The first impression he leaves here is of the sweep and diversity -of his knowledge.” - -Manchester _Guardian_: “Lanny Budd is the romantic rider of a -documentary whirlwind.... Criticism kneels.” - - -II - -Beginning in 1939, the Lanny Budd books occupied practically all of my -working time and a good part of my playtime over a ten-year period; -then, after an interval, for another year. I thought about little else -when I was writing them, and Craig was delighted to have me at home and -out of mischief. - -I knew some people who had been through the war, and I found others. I -had been in Britain, France, Germany, and Holland, and had friends who -lived there and would answer my questions. I had my own writings, -including my little magazine, which had covered the time. I had met all -kinds of people who had lived and struggled through that -war--businessmen, politicians, soldiers, radicals of every shade. In -spite of my wife’s anxieties about communists I had known Jack Reed and -Bob Minor and Anna Louise Strong--I could compile quite a list of -persons whom I oughtn’t to have known. - -Near the end of my story I found that the men who had been on Wilson’s -staff of advisors in Paris were willing to write long letters, answering -questions and giving me local color. Also there was Lincoln Steffens, -who had been in Paris at the time of the peace conference; he had been -close to Woodrow Wilson, and had known everything that was going on in -those dread days of the peace making--or the next war preparing. He told -me the details; and I had already learned a lot from George D. Herron, -who had been Woodrow Wilson’s secret agent, operating in Switzerland. I -have told about Herron earlier in this book. - -So I wrote the story of a little American boy, illegitimate son of a -munitions-making father, living on the French Riviera with an adoring -mother called Beauty. - -Those lively scenes unfolded before my mind, and I was in a state of -delight for pretty nearly a whole year. I began sending bits of the -manuscript here and there for checking, and I found that other people -were also pleased. How Lanny grew up and went out into the world of -politics and fashion--there were a thousand details I had to have -checked; and there may have been someone who ignored me, but I cannot -recall him. Whatever department of European life Lanny entered, there -was always someone who knew about it and would answer questions. That -went for munitions and politics and the intermingling of the two. It -went for elegance and fashion, manners and morals, art and war. - -I have to pay tribute to several of these friends, new or old. There was -S. K. Ratcliffe, journalist and man of all knowledge. I had met him in -England, and once every year he came on a lecture trip to California; we -became close friends. I asked if he would read a bit of manuscript, and -he said he would read every page. Little did the good soul realize what -that promise meant! I sent him chapter by chapter straight through that -whole series, and I found him a living encyclopedia. The details that he -knew, the little errors he caught--it was wonderful, and every time I -tried to pay him, he would say no. He would be proud, he said, to have -helped with the Lanny Budd books. - -There was my old classmate, Martin Birnbaum. He had been in my class in -grammar school and for five years in City College--I figure that meant -six thousand hours. Then he became my violin teacher, and always he -remained my friend. He made himself an art expert, and what he did and -what he knew you can read in his book, _The Last Romantic_, for which I -wrote a preface. It may have been his suggestion that being an art -expert would give Lanny Budd a pretext to visit all the rich and -powerful persons in both Europe and America. I knew, and still know, -very little about art, but Martin would tell me anything I wanted to -know--always exactly what my story required. - -I put Martin himself into the story; he is of Hungarian origin, and gave -me the Hungarian name Kerteszi, which means Birnbaum, which means “pear -tree.” Armed with Martin’s vast knowledge, Lanny could become a pal of -Hermann Goering and sell him wonderful paintings, or sell some of the -wonderful paintings that Goering had stolen. Armed with that art alibi, -Lanny could travel to every country in Europe, and come back to America -when he became a “presidential agent.” - - -III - -Incidentally, I actually knew a presidential agent, and he helped me -with Lanny Budd. This was Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jr.--“Neil” to the -thousands who know him. We met him early in California when he was -trying to start a liberal newspaper and came to persuade the Gartz -family to invest. I liked him, and what was more important, Craig liked -him; we saw a great deal of him, and watched his gallant fight to -finance a liberal newspaper in a reactionary community. - -In 1943 when I had gotten volume four to the printers and was thinking -about volume five, Neil happened along. I remember that two of Craig’s -nieces were visiting us, and Neil had recently obtained one of his -divorces. Maybe Craig had a certain notion in her head--I do not know, -and would not tell if I did--but anyhow the two young ladies prepared a -lunch of cold chicken and sundries, while I sat out by the little -homemade swimming pool and listened to Neil’s stories about his dealings -with Franklin Roosevelt during the Second World War. - -Neil really was a Presidential agent. He traveled to Europe on various -pretexts and came back and reported secretly to the boss. He had been -able to go into Germany and into Italy. He had been taken for a long -drive by Mussolini. The dictator did his own ferocious driving, and when -they ran over a child and killed it, Il Duce did not stop. (When Neil -published this story, Mussolini denied it, but that of course meant -nothing.) - -Neil told me of the secret door by which he had entered the White House, -and what Franklin wore and how he behaved. Presently, I said with some -excitement and hesitancy, “That would make a wonderful story for Lanny -Budd.” Neil said, “That’s why I’m telling it to you.” It was a -magnificent gift, and I here express my gratitude. _Presidential Agent_ -became the title of volume five of the series. - -Thereafter whenever I met Neil--I was about to say that I pumped him -dry, but I realize that that metaphor is wrong; he is a bubbling spring, -the most entertaining talker I ever listened to. Other people can be -interesting for half an hour, perhaps, but Neil--well, I will give the -statistics on our last meeting. He arrived at our home about three -o’clock in the afternoon and talked steadily until seven o’clock, when I -thought he ought to have some dinner; we got into his Cadillac--the only -time I ever rode in a Cadillac--and he talked all the way to dinner and -during dinner and on the way back to the house. Then he talked until -eleven o’clock in the evening. We listened to every word. - -Such stories! He has been married five times, and each marriage was a -set of mishaps. One dissatisfied wife forced her way into the great -Fifth Avenue mansion and refused to leave. When the servants shut off -the light and heat to get rid of her, she dumped armfuls of papers on -the tile floor and burned them, while she looked on. They included all -the letters Neil had had from Roosevelt. Such is life, if you happen to -be born an American millionaire! - -Craig was especially amused, because in her girlhood she had been for -two years a pupil at Mrs. Gardner’s fashionable school, directly across -Fifth Avenue from the Vanderbilt mansion. Curtains were drawn over all -the front windows of the school, and it was strictly against the rules -to open them. But don’t think the young ladies didn’t peek! Craig had -watched the family come out to their carriages and had seen a tiny boy, -two or three years old, toddling out with one or two attendants. She -could not know that this child would grow up to tell her muckraking -stories. - -Neil gave me not merely the title, _Presidential Agent_, he provided me -with many incidents and much local color, all accurate--for be sure that -millions of people read those stories in some twenty of the world’s -great languages, and few were the errors pointed out to me. Now Lanny -Budd is being prepared for TV, and Neil is somehow connected with it. -Maybe he is going to furnish local color. I hope for the best. - -One other person to whom I owe a heavy debt of thanks: Ben Huebsch, old -friend from the first days of the Civil Liberties Union in New York. He -was then an independent publisher, and later became editorial head of -Viking Press. It was to him that I sent the completed manuscript of -_World’s End_--one thousand or more pages. He afterward stated that he -had known in the first twenty-four hours that they would publish the -book. - -They published it beautifully; the Literary Guild took it, which meant -something over a hundred thousand copies at the start. Ben had pointed -out errors, and thereafter I sent him every chapter of the succeeding -ten volumes. He found many errors and gave much advice; he is one more -to whom the reader is indebted for the assurance that the books can be -read as history, as politics, art, and science, and a little bit of -everything--business, fashion, war and peace and human hope. - -I wrote the first three of the Lanny Budd books in Pasadena, and then we -moved to Monrovia. I remember because one day the telephone rang, and -the editor of the local newspaper asked me if I had heard that volume -three, _Dragon’s Teeth_, had just been awarded the Pulitzer Prize. I -hadn’t heard it and, of course, was thankful for the call. Bernard Shaw -and a large group of others had tried to get me the Nobel Prize but had -failed. Another try is now being prepared. - -I interrupted the writing of the Lanny Budd series only once--to do a -play about the atomic bomb, which everybody was speculating about at the -end of the 1940’s. They have been speculating ever since, and are -continuing as I write. Is our world going to be ended with a bang--or -will it take several? I put my speculations into a play called _A -Giant’s Strength_. “Oh, it is excellent to have a giant’s strength,” -says Shakespeare, “but it is tyrannous to use it as a giant.” It seems -to me not excellent to have a giant’s strength entrusted to persons with -the mentality of pigmies. My play pictured a Princeton professor of -physics fleeing with his family to hide in a cave somewhere in the -Rocky Mountains; and not even the caves were safe. - -Then I wrote the tenth volume of the Lanny Budd books, _O Shepherd, -Speak!_ The shepherd who was asked to speak from the grave was Franklin -Roosevelt, and I thought that was to be the end of my series. I was -entitled to a little fun, so I wrote _Another Pamela_--in which I took -Samuel Richardson’s old-time serving maid and exposed her to temptations -in a family that, I must admit, bore many resemblances to that of our -friend Kate Crane-Gartz. It pleased her wonderfully. She never objected -to publicity. The story is now being prepared as a musical comedy. - -Also I wrote _A Personal Jesus_, in which I speculated about what that -good man must have been in actuality. Having been brought up on the -Bible, in later years I was tempted to go back to those old stories and -old formulas and see them through a modern pair of spectacles. Needless -to say, they turned out to be somewhat different. I tried to imagine -Jesus as a human being. - -And then another light novel: What would happen if a modern man suddenly -found himself with the power to work miracles--miracles like those in -the Testaments both New and Old? How would he be received, and what -would he accomplish? So came _What Didymus Did_. My “Thomas called -Didymus” was a humble and rather ignorant American youth, and what he -did got him into a lot of trouble--and made a lot of fun. Oddly enough, -the book was translated and made an impression in the far-off native -land of the original Didymus. Just recently they had a communist -overturn in Kerala, and I earnestly hope that my little story was not to -blame. You see, in my story the communists got hold of Didymus in Los -Angeles and brought to smash the new religion he was trying to found. I -would hate to think that I had put evil ideas into any heads on the -southwest coast of modern India! - -After an interval of four years, I wrote _The Return of Lanny Budd_, -dealing with the postwar struggles against the communists. Some of my -friends objected to the episode in which Lanny encouraged an anti-Nazi -German youth to betray the secrets of his Nazi father. All I can say is -that it was a civil war as well as a social war, and that Lanny was -saving American lives. I happened to know of one such case, and have no -doubt there were hundreds. War is hell, and books should not prettify -it. - -After I had finished with Lanny Budd, I turned my attention to a subject -that I had not touched upon since _The Wet Parade_ a couple of decades -earlier. I called the book _The Cup of Fury_. My maternal grandfather -was a deacon in the Methodist Church, and on a lower shelf of his -bookcase was a row of bound volumes of the _Christian Herald_. They were -full of pictures, and as a little fellow I used to pull out a volume and -lie on the floor and learn to spell out words and read the titles and -the stories underneath. Now, seventy years later, I submitted the -manuscript of _The Cup of Fury_ to Daniel A. Poling, now editor of the -_Christian Herald_. He was enthusiastic about it and turned it over to -his publishers; it is still one of my best-selling books. - - -IV - -I have already told a great deal about Kate Crane-Gartz who played such -an important part in our lives. My wife loved her as a sister, and my -wife was the most loyal of friends. She had done a great deal of work -for Kitty; she had been well paid for it, and was sure that she had -earned the pay. In addition there was friendship, which cannot be bought -for money and can be repaid only with more friendship. But Craig had a -higher loyalty, which was to truth and to the human society in which we -have to live. - -Little by little, Mrs. Gartz’s mind had been laid siege to by the -communists. They had high-sounding phrases, they were trained in -subtlety, and they had no loyalty except to their cause of social -revolution. Directly or indirectly, they were subsidized by Moscow. Mrs. -Gartz was an easy mark because she was kindhearted; she believed what -she was told, and they knew exactly what to tell her. They told her that -we socialists were dreamers, out of touch with the real cruelties of -militarism and the corruptions of our political life. They told her that -she alone had the insight and courage to be a real pacifist and to -support the only real steps that could prevent another world war. They -pointed out that when the showdowns had come, Upton Sinclair and his -wife had supported two cruel world wars and that she, Kate Crane-Gartz, -was the only true and dedicated pacifist. She was the one who had been -right all along! - -I can’t say that Mrs. Gartz accepted all this, because I was not present -to investigate her mind, and she changed it frequently. All that she -asked of us was that we would come up to her home and answer the -communists; and that was what Mary Craig had made up her mind to do no -more. We had seen enough of their trickery and their success in -flattering our old friend. After we had been confronted by communists -several times without warning, Craig decided that we would stay -away--and that she would cash no more of Mrs. Gartz’s checks. (Years -later, she discovered half a dozen that she had put away; but the estate -had been closed.) - -All this had its humorous aspect if you could forget the pain on both -sides. Craig could not shut our door to Mrs. Gartz, so her decision was -that we would go into hiding. I don’t know how many cottages Craig -bought and moved me into in order to keep Mrs. Gartz from finding us. I -can tell you those that come to my mind and of which I remember the -names. - -In 1946 we found a little cottage in the hills up above Arlington. A -lovely location, a great high plateau with no smog in the air, and hills -all around with flocks of sheep tended by shepherds who were Basques. -There was a highway in the distance, and at night when the cars passed -over it, the long row of lights made a beautiful effect. Wandering over -those ridges I came upon a level spot with a half-dozen boulders laid -around in a circle, and it was easy for my imagination to turn it into -an Indian assembly place. I pictured there a gathering of departed -spirits, including Lincoln Steffens and Mrs. Gartz’s eldest son, who had -taken his own life. I imagined them discussing the state of the world, -each according to his own point of view; I wrote down the discussion and -called the little pamphlet _Limbo on the Loose_. - -And then there was a place in the hills above Corona, the most -comfortable cottage we ever had. We lived there a year or two and came -back to it after Craig’s first heart attack, as I shall narrate. There -were always troubles, of course. Boys played baseball on the place when -we were away and damaged the tile roof. Also, some of the neighbors -thought we were unsociable, which was too bad. The main trouble was that -our highway went wandering through the hills, and the traffic was fast -and heavy; so every time I went to town Craig was worried. - -In 1948 we found a lovely concrete house on the slope just above Lake -Elsinore. It had an extra building that had been a billiard room and -made a fine office for me. But, alas, we had no sooner fallen in love -with that beautiful lake than it proceeded to disappear. I don’t know -whether it went down through the mud or up into the air; anyhow, there -was no more lake, but only a great level plain of dust. I can’t remember -why we moved from there, and, alas, Craig is no longer here to tell me. -If she were here she probably wouldn’t let me be telling this story -anyway. - -I am giving a playful account of our game of hide-and-seek with Mrs. -Gartz; that is my way--especially if the troubles are past and I can no -longer undo them. It really seems absurd to say that we spent several -years of our lives keeping out of reach of one woman to whom my wife -felt in debt and whose feelings she could not bear to hurt. It wasn’t -the devil who was after us, it was a dear friend who wanted nothing -except to make us meet communists. - -Whenever we took a trip to some other region of California, Craig would -buy a picture post card of that place, sign it “With love,” and mail it -to Mrs. Gartz. Later on, Albert Rhys Williams, who had written a book -about Russia and didn’t mind knowing communists, told Craig that Mrs. -Gartz had received one of these cards and had sent him on a hunt. He -went to San Jacinto and asked at the post office and the hotels and -wherever there might be a possibility of finding out where the Upton -Sinclairs lived. All the Upton Sinclairs had done in San Jacinto was to -eat one lunch and write one post card. - - -V - -The time came when ill-health put an end to that strange game of -hide-and-seek. Craig had to go back to our comfortable Monrovia house -and lock the big wooden gates and keep them locked no matter who came. -One man climbed over the gates and told her that he had just been -released from the psychopathic ward at the Veterans’ Home in Sawtelle; -that time, Craig called the police. - -Her anxieties were the result of many experiences, extending over many -years. I will tell one more story, going back to the Pasadena days. A -Swedish giant, who must have been seven feet high, entered my study and -told me in a deep sepulchral voice, “I have a message direct from God.” -I, only five feet seven and cringing at a desk, said politely, -“Indeed--how interesting; and in what form is it?” Of course, I knew -what the form was because I saw a package under his arm. “It is a -manuscript,” he said. - -It was up to me to say, “You wish me to read it?” The sepulchral voice -replied, “No human eye has ever beheld it. No human eye ever _will_ -behold it.” - -I asked timidly, “What do you wish me to do?” - -Then I heard Craig’s voice in the doorway, “Upton, the plumber is -waiting for you.” - -When it comes to hints I am very dumb. “What plumber?” I asked. Craig, -used to my dumbness, continued, “There’s a leak in the basement, and you -have to go and let the plumber in.” I got it that time and followed her, -and we fled down to the other house and locked ourselves in. - -As to Mrs. Gartz, Craig had finally made up her mind to face it out. -When the celebrated “Red Dean” of Canterbury Cathedral visited Pasadena -and Mrs. Gartz wrote demanding that we meet him, Craig locked our gates -and let them stay that way. Mrs. Gartz came, with the communist prelate -by her side. Her chauffeur got out and pounded on the gate, while Craig -peered through a tiny crack in an upstairs window curtain. Afterward she -wept, because of what she had done to an old and beloved friend. - -Years later, another friend was driving Craig on one of the business -streets of Pasadena, and they passed a mortuary. “Just think,” said the -friend, pointing. “In there is all that is left of Kate Gartz--in an -urn, on a shelf.” - - - - -_17_ - -_Harvest_ - - -I - -Woman, the conservator. She is traditionally that, and from the first -moment we united our destinies, Craig had set herself to saving all the -papers that were lying about our house. She put them into boxes and -stacked the boxes in a storeroom. When she built the five old houses -into one house on Sunset Avenue, she had a mason come and build a -concrete room. She didn’t know about concrete so she did not supervise -the job, and very soon she had a leaky roof to torment her. She got old -Judd, the carpenter, and really laid down the law to him. She was going -to build four storerooms, each a separate airtight and watertight little -house; she was going to supervise that job herself. - -Old Judd had one set comment for all of Craig’s jobs: “Nobody ever did -anything like that before.” But he gave up and did what he was told; -soon on the long front porch and on the several back porches of that -extraordinary home were four tiny houses, three of them eight by ten and -one of them eight by sixteen, built as solidly as if they were really -houses, each with its double tar-paper roof--and all that under the -roofs of the regular porches. - -So at last the Sinclair papers were safe and dry. When we moved to the -new house in Monrovia each of those little houses was picked up with its -contents undisturbed, put on a truck, and transported a dozen miles or -so to the new place. Craig did all these things without telling me; I -was writing a new book while she was taking care of the old ones. - -The big double garage at the Monrovia place didn’t suit her because one -had to circle around the main house to get into it, and she didn’t trust -her husband’s ability to back out around a curve; so the big double -garage, which was of concrete, became my office, and the four little -houses were emptied and set therein. Later, a long concrete warehouse -was built, as well as an aluminum warehouse, and all the precious boxes -of papers were at last sheltered safely. - -I lived and worked in that Monrovia office over a period of some fifteen -years, and I managed to fill all the storerooms with boxes of papers. -The ceilings were high, and shelves went up to where you could only -reach them by ladder. I had over eight hundred foreign translations of -my books, not counting duplicates. I had what was estimated to be over a -quarter of a million letters, all packed away in files. I had -practically all the original manuscripts of my eighty books, and also of -the pamphlets and circulars. - - * * * * * - -We decided that the time had come to find a permanent resting place for -our papers. I called the head librarian of the Huntington Library, and -he came with two assistants. They spent a couple of weeks going through -everything and exclaiming with delight. Leslie E. Bliss, an elderly man, -said it was the best and the best-preserved collection he had ever seen. -He asked what we wanted for it, and at a wild guess I said fifty -thousand dollars. He said that was reasonable, and he would take -pleasure in advising his trustees to make the deal. - -Alas, I had forgotten to ask about those trustees. I quailed when I -learned that the chairman of the board was Mr. Herbert Hoover; and the -other members were all eminent and plutocratic. I was not favored by the -Pasadena gentlemen who control the Huntington Library; my collection was -declined. - -Dear, good Mr. Bliss was sad. He was kind enough to tell me of a -wonderful new library, both fireproof and bombproof, that was being -built at Indiana University with a million dollars put up by the -pharmaceutical firm of Lilly. He advised me to approach them; and in -April 1957 Cecil Byrd, the head of all that university’s libraries, and -also David Randall, head of the Lilly Library, came to see me. They said -just what Bliss had said, that ours was the most extensive and the -best-preserved collection they had ever seen. - -You remember the story I told about the Stalin telegram. I said to Byrd -and Randall, “If someone were to come upon a genuine document signed by -Tamerlane, or Genghis Khan, or any other of the wholesale slaughterers -of history, what do you think it would be worth?” One of them said, “Oh, -about a million dollars.” I laughed and said, “What we are asking for -the collection is ten thousand a year for five years.” They said, “It’s -a deal.” - - * * * * * - -One of the great sights of my life was the arrival of a huge van from a -storage company, and the packing of those treasures. The three packers -were experts. They had sheets of heavy cardboard, already cut and -creased, so that with a few motions of the hand each sheet became a box. -Into those boxes went all the priceless foreign editions, the original -manuscripts, the manila folders with the two hundred and fifty thousand -letters. The whole job was done in three or four hours, and off went our -lifetime’s treasure. Off went the bust by the Swedish sculptor, Carl -Eldh, and the large photograph of Albert Einstein with the poem to me, -written in German; off went all the books, pamphlets and manuscripts. - -I could fill a chapter with a listing of those treasures. There were -thirty-two letters from Einstein and a hundred and eighty-six from -Mencken, and a long one from Bernard Shaw about the Nobel Prize that he -had asked for me--in vain; also his letter that I quoted earlier, -praising the Lanny Budd books. Any scholar who really wants to know -about the pains I took with those eleven volumes will find the thousands -of letters I wrote to informed persons, checking details of history and -biography. Anyone can see the pains I took with a book like _The Brass -Check_ which contained, as Samuel Untermyer told me, fifty criminal -libels and a thousand civil suits, but brought no suit whatever. (I -ought to add that Untermyer’s statement was hyperbolical, and my memory -of it may be the same. It was something like that.) - -The collection rolled away, and the place seemed kind of empty--all -those storerooms and nothing in them! Only the outdoors was full--of -the grocery cartons the truckmen had discarded. They were piled to the -very top of the office, and I remember it cost us thirty-five dollars to -have them carted away. But we could afford it! - - -II - -So far I have said little about my efforts at playwriting. I have always -had aspirations to the stage, and no interest in “closet dramas”; I -wanted to write for producers, actors, and audiences. But, alas, I had -to write on subjects that appealed to few in those groups. Stage plays -are supposed to portray things as they are, and I wanted to portray -things as they ought to be--or to portray people trying to change them. -I spent a lifetime learning the lesson that no matter how real such -characters may be, no matter how lively their struggles may be, no -producer thinks that the public wants to see or hear them. - -One day I estimated that I had written thirty plays; half a dozen of -them one-acters, and the others full length. On the same day, oddly -enough, I received a letter from a graduate student who has been doing -research on my collection at Indiana University. He told me that in half -a year of research and reading he had found a total of twenty-eight -plays--thirteen published and fifteen unpublished. (I had two others in -my home.) The list may interest other students. - -Revolutionary or reform themes: _Co-op_; _Depression Island_; _Singing -Jailbirds_; _The Second-Story Man_; _After the War Is Over_; _Oil!_; -_Prince Hagen_. - -Indirect demands for reform: _The Machine_; _The Millennium_; _Doctor -Fist_; _The Great American Play_; _John D_; _Love in Arms_; _Bill -Porter_; _The Grand Duke Lectures_; _The Pamela Play_; _The Saleslady_; -_The Convict_; _The Naturewoman_; _Hell_. - -Those on topical subjects: _A Giant’s Strength_; _The Enemy Had It Too_. - -Nonreform subjects: _The Pot Boiler_; _Marie and Her Lover_; _The -Emancipated Husband_; _The Most Haunted House_; _Wally for Queen_; -_Cicero_. - -Lost and forgotten: _The Jungle_ dramatization. - - -III - -The latest of my plays, _Cicero: A Tragic Drama in Three Acts_, was -written in the winter of 1959-60. I had been reading a history of -ancient Rome and was impressed by the resemblances between the time of -Cicero and the time of Eisenhower: the extremes of contrast between the -rich and the poor; the rich exhibiting their glory by fantastic -extravagances; the unemployed poor crowding into the cities, existing in -slums on doles; the farmers deserting their land and rioting--they were -doing it in Oklahoma; the domination of public affairs by big money; and -the total blindness of the public to all these manifest evils. - -I did not intend to preach a sermon; on the contrary, I determined to -leave the resemblances to the discernment of the audience. I was going -to show what Cicero faced and what happened to him. He was a rich man -himself, a consul, a senator; he had all the honors. A lawyer, he tried -criminal cases and made fortunes; a statesman, he was driven into exile, -and when his party came into power he came back. In the end his enemies -triumphed, and he fled and was captured; his head and hands were cut off -and exhibited in the forum. That hasn’t happened as yet to anybody in -America--but who knows? - -Most terrifying in ancient Rome was--and in our own land is--the sexual -corruption. When I was young I wrote a book about love and marriage, -_Love’s Pilgrimage_. It contained a bridal scene and a birth scene that -were detailed and without precedent; but every line was clean and true, -and every doctor and every married person knew it. I was told there -would be trouble, but there wasn’t. I was told there would be trouble in -England, and I asked the English publisher to send a copy of the book to -every bishop of the Church of England. He did so, and I got some kind -letters from these gentlemen; you will find examples in the volume, _My -Lifetime in Letters_. There was no trouble. - -But the vileness that is being published today is revolting to every -decent-thinking person. It is deliberately advertised and sold as -vileness, and one after another the books enter the bestseller list. I -have chosen to stay out of that competition; all I say here is that it -is exactly what Cicero saw in ancient Rome. He blistered it in his -courtroom speeches; he named names--and that was a contributing cause to -his murder. - -I had the three-act _Cicero_ mimeographed, and one of the persons who I -hoped would honor it was Albert Camus. He wrote me cordially, and I -quote the first three sentences of his opinion--first in French and then -in translation: - - J’ai été bien touché par la confiance que vous m’avez faite en - m’envoyant votre _Ciceron_. C’est une tragédie pleine de sens et - plus actuelle qu’il n’y paraît. On y comprend mieux un certain - classicisme qui finissait dans les rains coupées et l’horreur. - - I have been indeed touched by the confidence you have shown me in - sending me your _Cicero_. It is a tragedy full of sense and more - real than it would seem. One there understands better a certain - classicism which would finish with the kidneys cut and the horror. - -I, and others, were puzzled by the _rains coupées_--“the kidneys cut.” -It was explained to me that the phrase approximates “a rabbit punch” in -American parlance. - -Camus went on to say that he had been “promised a theater” and would be -able to deal with the play “with more precision.” Soon thereafter I read -in the news that he had been assigned the directorship of the Théâtre -Française, perhaps the most famous in the world. My hopes rose high. -Then, alas, I read that he had been killed in a motorcar accident. - - -III - -Taking my cue from Camus, I decided that the play might be “classical” -in more than one sense, and might appeal to university audiences. I -submitted the script to John Ben Tarver, then in the department of -dramatic arts at New York University. With his permission I quote from -his reply, dated April 3, 1960: - - I have gone through _Cicero_ several times. It is a splendid play, - and I want to thank you again for sending it to us. Here are some - of my reactions: - - 1. It has color, contrast, variety. Too many modern dramas labor - one theme to death and never try to vary the thread of the story. - - 2. It is told in dramatic terms. The finest writing in the world - will not play in the theatre unless it is suited to a stage. - - 3. It makes a statement which has general meaning, a statement - which has meaning for today’s audience. - - 4. The characters are sharp. All parts are good for actors. Every - role is clearly defined. Cicero, in particular is superbly written. - - 5. It calls for all the elements of the theatre to be brought into - play. - -Tarver undertook to give the play a commercial production Off Broadway -in New York. He set out to raise the money, and I gave him the names of -friends who might be interested. That, alas, made my dear Craig unhappy, -because I had caused friends to lose money in the past, and I had been -forbidden ever to do it again. - -One of the names was that of Dick Otto, campaign manager of EPIC a -quarter of a century back. Craig considered him one of the finest men -she had ever known; she had stood by him all through those horrible two -or three years (for EPIC had gone on after my defeat in the election). -Then Dick had gone off on a small yacht to recuperate, and had come back -to his business and had extraordinary success. Craig forbade him to put -any money into the play, but he disobeyed her to the extent of ten -thousand dollars, and that was sad and mad and bad indeed. - -After elaborate preparation and numerous rehearsals, the play went on in -a small theater on Second Avenue. Whatever power controls the weather in -New York must have disapproved of my political and social opinions, for -there fell such masses of snow that it was impossible for most people to -get about. A few did get to the theater, and sent me enthusiastic -telegrams, which gave me hope for a day or two. But, alas, the critics -were lukewarm--most of them didn’t like the subject of the play. When I -read accounts of the stuff they have to witness and praise, I am not -surprised. - -_Cicero_ ran for about six weeks, and Dick Otto lost his ten thousand -dollars. I lost the advance paid to me, which I had put back as an -investment. Dick was sorry about the play but untroubled about the -money--in the meantime he had developed a deposit of quicksilver on his -property, and will now be richer than ever. The trouble is, it takes -more of his time, and he delays writing the autobiography that he has -been promising me--including, of course, the story of our EPIC campaign -as he saw it. - - - - -_18_ - -_A Tragic Ordeal_ - - -I - -I come now to the tragic, the almost unbearable part of my story. Craig -had been overworking and overworrying, for many years. Nobody could stop -her; when there was something to be done she did it, because she was the -one who knew _how_ to do it. She had got so that she no longer wanted a -servant. We had moved about so much. - -Also, there was the smog. The growth of industry in Los Angeles, -especially of the oil industry, had become tremendous; the fumes were -brought our way by the sea breeze, and they settled around the mountain -that went up directly back of our home. Everybody talked about smog, and -even the newspapers had to discuss it, bad as it was for business. - -So, in the spring of 1954, we moved again; this time to the Arizona -desert, as far away from industry as possible. Phoenix was where Hunter -lived, and he could come to help us. We found a cottage, and Hunter had -a seven-foot concrete wall put around the lot. Those four boxes that had -been built for storerooms, and which had been transported from Pasadena -to Monrovia, were now transported from Monrovia to Buckeye, and set down -in a row with an extra roof over them for coolness. One was to be my -workroom, and the others were to hold my stock of books. I still could -not get away from book orders. - -Craig worked as she had always done, unsparing of her strength. In the -middle of the night she called to me, terrified--she could not breathe. -Lying down asleep, she had almost choked, and to get her breath she had -to sit up. There were two doctors in the town, and I called one. He told -us she had an enlarged heart, and it was due to overexertion: what she -had now was a “congestive” heart attack. The heart was no longer equal -to pumping the blood out of the lungs, and she had to sit up in order -that part of her lungs could be clear. - -So there we were, in a strange place, both of us possessed by dread. A -specialist was brought from Phoenix, and he confirmed the diagnosis. -“The patient should be taken to a hospital.” She was taken to Phoenix -and treated for a couple of weeks, and she got a little better; but the -specialist gave us no hope. - -She was brought back to our Buckeye home, and I had her sole care. I had -her care for the next seven years, and there were few days when we did -not confront the thought of her doom. - - -II - -I came upon an article about a treatment for such heart conditions -advocated by Dr. Walter Kempner of Duke University, in Durham, North -Carolina. I wired asking for literature, and there came a copy of a -magazine published in Los Angeles called _G.P._, meaning “General -Practice.” It gave an account of Kempner’s treatment, and included x-ray -photographs of hearts before and after treatment. The difference was -striking, and I made up my mind that Craig was going to have Dr. -Kempner’s rice-and-fruit diet. (His belief is that the cause of the -heart enlargement is excess of salt in the blood, and rice is the -all-nourishing food that has the lowest quantity of salt). - -It was out of the question to move Craig to North Carolina. I phoned to -a physician we knew in Riverside and asked if he would give the rice -diet according to Kempner’s specifications. He said, “I will do it if -you will take the responsibility.” Then he gave a little laugh and -added, “If you will take half.” I said, “I will take all.” I arranged -for a hospital plane to take us to Riverside next morning. - -She didn’t want to go, but for once she was too weak to resist, and I -was in a position to have my way. We had to make an early start because -we had mountains to fly over, and when the sun was up the rising air -would make turbulence. At five o’clock in the morning Hunter was there, -and we carried Craig to our car and drove her to the little airfield of -the town, not much more than a cow pasture. - -It was a four-hundred-mile trip, my first by air. We flew over the road -I had driven many times, and it was fascinating to see it from above. I -told Craig about the sights; but, alas, she hadn’t much interest. At the -airport there was an ambulance waiting, and soon she was in a hospital -bed. - -I doubt if anybody in the hospital had ever heard of the rice diet, and -it was hard to get a large plate of well-cooked rice without gravy or -butter on it. In fact, it was hard to get anything that Craig wanted, -including quiet; but even so, the miracle began right away. She got well -and was able to breathe lying down. After a couple of weeks she was able -to walk a little. - -My mind turned to that little cottage up in the Corona hills only seven -miles away. In that cottage there would be no nurses gossiping outside -her door at midnight. I would be the one to take care of her, and I -would move on tiptoe whenever she slept. I persuaded her to let me take -her there; the doctor consented, on condition that I bring her down -twice a week for the blood tests that were necessary--to make sure that -the supply of salt in her blood wasn’t below the minimum required. I -promised so to do. - -So for half a year more we lived in that cottage. I was nurse, cook, -housemaid, chauffeur, and guardian angel. I cooked a pot and a half of -rice for Craig every day, and she was so well that it was a miracle. -Even the cautious doctor had to use extravagant language when he set the -newest x-ray photograph beside the earliest one. I said to him, “Don’t -you think that is remarkable?” His answer was, “I should say it is -spectacular.” - - * * * * * - -The results of the rice-and-fruit diet were so spectacular that I -decided to try it myself. I didn’t want to bother with blood tests, so I -added celery to the diet--it is a vegetable of which I happen to be -fond, and it gave me what I thought was the necessary bulk for safety. I -added a spoonful of dried-milk powder for a little more salt. We were -both having large quantities of fruit juice, mine being pineapple -because it is the sweetest. Both of us took vitamins. - -Throughout most of my writing life, certainly for a half century of it, -I had been accustomed to say that I was never more than twenty-four -hours ahead of a headache. But from the time I adopted the diet of rice -and fruit, which I still follow, I ceased to have headaches, and I have -even forgotten, now, what a headache feels like. Nor have I had any -other ailment, not even a cold. - - * * * * * - -But to return to my story. With the good doctor’s permission I took -Craig back to our Monrovia home, and we got some apparatus that was -supposed to take the smog out of our bedrooms. We lived there in peace -and happiness for a while; but then Craig discovered that she could no -longer bear to eat any more rice. She began trying all other kinds of -health foods, in particular bread stuffs that were supposed to be low in -salt. Also, she could no longer stand the blood tests, because the -nurses couldn’t find the vein in one wrist, and the other wrist had -become sore from too much puncturing. - -So all the heart troubles came back; and there was something worse, -called fibrillation--an endless quivering of the heart that was most -distressing and kept her awake at night. I had gotten an oxygen tank; -she would call me, and I would get up and put the little cap over her -nose and turn on the valve and wait until she had had enough, and then -turn off the valve and go back to bed and sleep, if I could, until she -called again. Neither of us wanted a stranger in the house, so I had her -sole care. I cooked her food, served it, and cleaned up afterward. - -Every day I took her outdoors. I took care of her flower beds, and she -would gaze at them with rapture--her poppies, her big red rosebush, her -camellia bush that bloomed every April, and a wonderful golden oleander -that bloomed all summer. - -Every night I put her to sleep with prayers. “Dear God, make her well,” -was what I wanted to say over and over again, but Craig insisted it must -be, “Dear God, make _us_ well.” I didn’t need any help so far as I could -see, but I said it her way; when the fibrillations got bad, I would say -it over a hundred times, or maybe two hundred, until at last she went -to sleep. I could never tell when she was asleep; so I would let my -voice die away softly, and wait and see if she spoke. - -That was our life for several years. Every now and then I would try to -persuade her to have some rice, just a little at a time; and that -little, alas, was not enough. She was tired of it and forbade me to -mention it. Month after month her condition got worse, her pain harder -to endure. The kind doctor would try pills with some new outlandish -name, and I would get the prescription filled and do my best to learn -which was which. - - -III - -It was during this period of long-drawn-out pain and struggle that Craig -wrote the beautiful book, _Southern Belle_. She wrote about herself and -her lovely childhood and girlhood, all because I pleaded with her to do -it. She wrote about her life with me, because she wanted to set me -straight with the world. Sometimes I would sit by the bed, and write to -her dictation; but most of the time she would write lying in bed with -her head propped forward, holding a pad with one hand and a pencil with -the other. - -It was a tiring position, and after she had been doing it for months, -she developed a pain near the base of the spine. I knew from the -beginning that it was a question of posture and tried to persuade her of -that, but in vain. I would take her to specialists, and they would -examine her and give their verdicts--and no two verdicts were the same. -I am quite sure that none of these doctors had ever had a patient who -had treated her spine in that fashion. Craig wouldn’t let me tell them; -I wasn’t a specialist--only a husband--and I must not influence their -judgment. - -How many of these dreadful details shall I put into a book? Of course, -anyone may skip them; but I had no way to skip them. Craig had stood by -me through my ordeals, and she was all I had in this world--apart from -the books I had written and the one I was writing. The only other person -who could help us was Hunter, and he would arrive from Phoenix eight -hours after I telephoned. He was there when Craig became delirious from -pain or from the injections that the doctors had given her. He would -comfort me when I, too, was on the verge of becoming delirious at the -sight of her suffering. She would say that she was suffering from cold -and would have me pile every blanket in the house on top of her; then -she would say that she was suffocating and would throw them all off. I -remember a night of that, and then I could not sleep in the day. We had -to have her taken to a hospital; and she hated hospitals, each one had -been worse than the last. - - -IV - -I cannot bring myself to tell much about the end. I do not think that -many could bear to read it. At times she became delirious, and wasn’t -herself any more; I had to make up my mind to that. Then suddenly she -_would_ be herself--her beautiful self, her dear, kind, loving self, her -darling self, agonizing about me and what I was going to do, and how I -could manage to survive in a dreadful world where everybody would be -trying to rob me, to trap me, to take away the money that she had worked -so desperately to keep me from spending. - -Three times during that long ordeal I found her lying on the hard -plastone floor of the upstairs kitchen that we had made for her. The -first two times we were alone in the house, and since I could not lift -her, I had to call the ambulance to get her back in bed. The second time -she was unconscious, and I called the doctor again. He thought these -were “light strokes,” and later on the autopsy confirmed the opinion; -but she had not been told. - -The third time was less than a month before the end. Her nephew, -Leftwich Kimbrough, was with us, so we two carried her to bed. I sat by, -keeping watch, and presently I heard her murmuring; I listened, and soon -went and got a writing pad and pen. They were fragments of a poem she -was composing while half-conscious, and I wrote what I heard: - - Stay in their hearts, dear Jesus, - Stay and make them kind. - -And then, after an interval: - - Oh, the poor lonely nigger, - Bring love to his soul. - -Later, I wrote underneath, for the record: “Craig’s murmured singing -after bad fall. I mentioned to her, it was Good Friday Eve, 1961.” - -You will recall my account of the visit of Judge Tom Brady, founder of -the citizens’ councils all through the Deep South. From earliest -childhood little Mary Craig Kimbrough had wrestled with that race -problem of her homeland. She heard and saw both sides; the fears of the -whites, for which they had reason, and the pitiful helplessness of the -ignorant blacks. Now, in her last hours, she was pleading, in the first -couplet for the whites whom she loved and in the second for the blacks, -whom she also loved. - -One day she would eat nothing but soft-boiled eggs, and the next day she -would eat nothing but gelatine. So the icebox was full of eggs and then -of gelatine. One elderly doctor told her that the best remedy for -fibrillation was whisky; so here was I, a lifelong teetotaler who had -made hatred of whisky a part of his religion, going out to buy it by the -quart. Craig insisted that I should never buy it in Monrovia where I was -known; I must drive out on one of the boulevards and stop in some -strange place and pay for a bottle with some imbecile name that I -forgot. That went on for quite a while, and the time came when Craig was -so weak that I couldn’t manage to hold her up while she tried to walk -the length of the room. - - -V - -She wouldn’t let us call the doctor because he would order her to the -hospital. But the time came when we had to call the doctor, and he -called the ambulance, and poor Craig was carried away on her last ride. -She was in the hospital for three weeks, and it cost us close to four -thousand dollars. This seems an ungracious thing to mention, but I am -thinking about what happens to the poor--how do _they_ die? Perhaps they -do it more quickly, and don’t have day and night nurses by their -bedside. This sounds like irony, but I let it stand. - -In addition to the nurses and the husband, there were Hunter and Sally, -his wife, two nieces, and a sister who had come on from Alabama. What -they saw was a hideously tormented human being. I pleaded with the -doctor--surely there must be some ethical code that would give him the -right to end such torment! But he said that stage had not yet been -reached. - -I won’t tell much about my own part in it. I would sit and gaze at the -features of my beloved who no longer knew me; or if she did know me she -was angry because I had let her be brought to the hospital. I would sit -there blinded with my own tears, and then I would get up and try to get -out of the hospital without making a spectacle of myself. - -Why do I tell such a story? Well, it happened. It was life. It is our -human fate. It happened to me, and it could happen to you. This universe -is a mystery to me. How beauty, kindness, goodness, could have such an -end visited upon it will keep me in agony of spirit for the rest of my -days on this planet. I do not know what to make of it, and I can draw -only this one moral from it: that nature has been, and can be, so cruel -to us that surely we should busy ourselves not to commit cruelties -against one another. I know that I had for half a century the love of -one of the kindest, wisest, and dearest souls that ever lived upon this -earth; why she should have died in such untellable horror is a question -I ask of God in vain. - -She died in St. Luke Hospital, Pasadena, on April 26, 1961. Her ashes -were shipped to a brother in Greenwood, Mississippi, and were interred -in a family plot in the cemetery in that town. - - - - -_19_ - -_End and Beginning_ - - -The death of Craig left me with a sense of desolation beyond my power to -describe. Hunter and his wife Sally went back to Arizona. The sister and -nieces scattered to their homes, and I was in that lovely old house in -which every single thing spoke of the woman who had bought it, arranged -it, used it--and would never see it again. I had lived in a town for -twenty years and never entered a single home; I had no one to speak to -but the clerks in the post office, the market, the bank. In my early -days I would not have minded that; I had camped alone all summer, in a -tent on an island in the St. Lawrence, and again in an “open camp” on an -Adirondack lake, and had been perfectly happy. But I no longer had the -firm conviction that the future of mankind depended upon the words I was -putting on paper; on the contrary, I was obsessed by memories of horror, -inescapable, inexcusable. The house was haunted--but I had no other -place to go. - -For more than seven years, ever since her first heart attack, Craig had -been insisting that I could not live alone. It had become a sort of -theme song: “Oh, what will you do? What will become of you? You _must_ -find some woman to take care of you.” Then she would add, “Oh, don’t let -some floozie get hold of you!” My answer was always the same: “I am -going to take care of you and keep you alive.” But now she was gone, and -I could say it no more. - -We had friends, but they were mostly far away; elderly married couples -who came to see us once or twice in a year: Sol Lesser, who had produced -_Thunder Over Mexico_ for us; Richard Otto, who had run the EPIC -campaign for us; Harry Oppenheimer, New York businessman who had -promised to come and run the state of California for me if I had had the -misfortune to get elected. Now I spent several weeks wondering which of -these good friends I should ask to help me find a wife. - -For decades I had been a friend and supporter of the _New Leader_; and -every week had read the gay verses of Richard Armour. He had sent me his -books, beginning with _It All Started with Columbus_, and continuing -with _It All Started with Eve_ and _It All Started with Marx_. I was so -pleased that I wrote him some lines in his own style; I recall the last -two lines: - - And if you find that I’m a charmer - You’ll know that I’ve been reading Armour. - -He is dean of Scripps College, some twenty miles east of my home; but -for many years we did not meet. It happened that Hunter Kimbrough was a -classmate of Frederick Hard, president of the college, and Hunter was in -the habit of stopping by on his way to and from Arizona. He and Dick -Armour became friends, and several months after Craig’s death, Hunter -invited Dick and his wife to my home for a picnic lunch. So it was that -I met Kathleen Armour, gracious, kind of heart and with a laugh as merry -as her husband’s verses. - -After days and nights of thinking about it, I composed a letter to -Kathleen, putting my plight before her. The unmarried women I knew could -be counted on the fingers of one hand, and not one of the four was -suitable. In a woman’s college Kathleen must know many; I didn’t mean a -pupil, but a teacher, or member of such a family. - -I received a cordial reply, and soon I was invited to Kathleen’s home. -There I met the sister of Hunter’s friend, Fred Hard, president of the -college. She was a widow, and her years were seventy-nine, appropriate -to my eighty-three. She was twice a mother, once a grandmother, and -three times a great-grandmother. She was of a kind disposition, with a -laugh as happy as Kathleen’s and an abundance of good sense. She was -born in South Carolina and had lived in several parts of the United -States. She was well read and was part of a cultured environment. She -was staying in the lovely home of the college president, keeping it -during summer while he and his wife were in Europe. Her name was May, -and Dick Armour had written her some verses: - - For her, two cities vie and jockey: - First Claremont claims her, then Milwockey. - The West and Middle West both crave her, - To both she brings her special savor, - For in the one or in the other’n, - She’s still herself, completely Southern. - But here alone we can rejoice - With lifted hearts and lifted voice - And happily and smugly say: - When it is August, we have May. - -I invited her to my home. The large downstairs rooms were dark, she -said; and I pointed out to her that the long velvet curtains could be -thrown back. In the living room are four double windows, from floor -almost to ceiling, and in the dining room are five more of the same; the -rooms are practically one, because the wide double doors roll back into -the walls. But she said she would be lonely in that half acre of gardens -surrounded by a high hedge of two hundred eugenia trees. She said she -might marry me if I would come to live in Claremont; but I saw myself -living in a town full of college boys and girls who would come to ask -for interviews, and who would consider me snobbish if I put a fence -around my house. I do my work outdoors, weather permitting--as it does -most of the time in southern California. - -So, back I went to my lonely existence. Hunter was disturbed, for to him -the Hard family represented the best of culture, that of the South. -Maybe the Armours had something to do with it--I did not ask--but I met -May at their house again, and she was cordial. More time passed, and -there came a birthday letter, telling me of her interest in my work and -wishing me happiness. So I went to see her again; this time I did not -stand on ceremony, but put my arms around her, and it was all settled in -a few minutes. - - -II - -We were to be married in the Episcopal Church, and the rector was called -in to hear my story. I had obtained a divorce half a century before, I -being the innocent party in the suit. I had been remarried by an -Episcopal clergyman, on the banks of the Rappahannock River--with -jonquils blooming on the riverbank and behind me the heights on which -twenty thousand Union soldiers had given their lives. The rector in -Claremont said that if the church had given its sanction once, it would -not refuse it again; so all was well. - -We wanted the wedding as quiet as possible. All my life I have sought -publicity--but for books and causes, not for myself, and if we could -have had our way, no one but the family would have known. But the law in -California requires that both parties appear at the county office -building and sign an application for a license--and this two days before -the marriage can take place. The license is valid anywhere in the state; -so I had an idea: “Let’s go into another county, where there’s less -chance of our being known.” We motored to San Bernardino, where two kind -ladies gave us the blanks and instructions, and gave no sign that there -was anything unusual about us. But soon after we got back to Claremont, -the telephone calls began, and we knew that all the cats were out of the -bag. Later we learned that courthouse reporters make it a practice to -inspect the lists daily before closing time. - -The clergyman had agreed that only members of the family and half a -dozen invited friends were to be admitted: the Armours, of course, and -the Sol Lessers, and the Richard Ottos of the far-off EPIC campaign. Dr. -Hard gave his sister away, and the bride’s granddaughter, Barbara Sabin, -was matron of honor. Hunter acted as my “best man.” The doors were -guarded, and the morning ceremony was performed with the customary -age-old dignity. But when the bride and groom emerged from a side door, -there was what appeared to be a mob. A flood of questions was poured -out, and cameras before our eyes were making little clicking noises. -There was a crony of the far-off EPIC days, Hans Rutzebeck, a sailor who -had written a grand book about his life, _The Mad Sea_. He had had -plenty of time to talk to the reporters, and when I greeted him his -claims of friendship were confirmed. - -So the story was lively, and it appeared in all the evening papers. More -detailed stories with photographs were in the morning papers all over -the world. I do not exaggerate; friends, and strangers too, cut them out -and sent them to us from half a dozen capitals of Europe, and from -Brazil, Tokyo, India, Australia. College president’s sister, aged 79, -marries muckrake man, aged 83--you can see how it was, and May was -amused. She even got an album in which to keep the clippings for her -great-grandchildren. - -So this story has a happy ending. We both enjoy good health, and age -does not bother us. We live with our books and papers in a wonderful -fireproof house that a rich banker built, got tired of, and sold cheaply -some twenty years ago. There is a half acre of land, completely -surrounded by the hedge of eugenia trees. There are twenty-one kinds of -fruit trees, and instead of lawns there are lantana and sweet alyssum, -which do not have to be mowed. There is a camellia bush, and a golden -oleander as big as a cottage; there are rosebushes, an iris bed, poppy -beds that are a dream--and when I get tired of hammering on a -typewriter, I go out and pull weeds from the poppies. - -Now the house is fixed up May’s way; the velvet curtains are drawn back, -and there are bright curtains and new paint in spots and everything is -gay. Her friends come and carry her off to luncheons and musicales and -exhibitions of paintings; in the evenings we read some of the fifty -magazines that I take, or play the word game called Scrabble, which she -has taught me. She is ahead one day, and I the next. - - -III - -Ordinarily I do not attend luncheons or dinners--my diet of rice and -fruit cuts down my social life. But as I write, my wife and I have just -returned from a trip to the East that was one long round of luncheons -and dinners. (I kept to my diet--and probably left a trail of puzzled -waiters behind me.) - -Some months ago the New York chapter of the American Newspaper Guild -wrote to inform me that a Page One Award in Letters was to be presented -to me and invited me to attend the ceremony late in April. Then, shortly -afterward, came a letter from Walter Reuther, president of the United -Automobile Workers, telling me that the UAW was also giving me an -award--at its annual convention in Atlantic City early in May--and would -like to present it to me in person. I could scarcely resist two such -invitations. - -The trip by air was a miracle to me. I had made only two short flights -before. Now I saw the whole of the United States spread under me like a -map, and I marveled at the nearness of the mountaintops and the vast -spread of the plains. On the bare, brown deserts I observed great black -spots, and I puzzled my head as to what could be growing on a desert -floor; until I realized suddenly that these were the shadows of clouds, -also beneath me. It was fascinating to observe how the shape of every -spot corresponded exactly to the shape of its cloud. In the Middle West -the farms were all laid out in perfect rectangles with the quarter -sections clearly distinguishable; but as we got farther east, the -irregularities increased until everything was chaos, including the -roads. - -All kinds of enterprises like to make use of celebrities, and the -airport was no exception. The management, learning of my age, had taken -the precaution to send a wheelchair to the plane. When May saw it she -said to the porter, “You get in and let him wheel you.” - -My son, David, was on hand with his wife and his car. An engineer, he -publishes pamphlets about his technical discoveries of which his father -is unable to understand a sentence. One of the problems he has solved is -that of spinning a plastic thread so fine that one spool of it would -reach all the way around the world. Both May and I are fortunate, in -that we can love and admire our “in-laws.” - -The American Newspaper Guild presented me with a handsome gold figure, -which now stands on our mantel. The citation runs as follows: - - Page One Award in Letters to Upton Sinclair, author of hundreds of - books and papers, including _The Jungle_ and _The Brass Check_, - over a span of 60 years, all of which contributed immeasurably to - the advancement of democracy and public enlightenment. 1962. - -Some sixteen hundred people were present, and I made a short speech. - - -IV - -A few days later David and his wife drove us down to Atlantic City, -where the sixty-five hundred delegates of the United Automobile Workers -throughout the world were having a week’s assembly. I had never met -either Walter Reuther or his younger brother, Victor, and this was a -pleasant occasion for both me and my family. Present also was Michael -Angelo Musmanno, who as a young lawyer had plunged into a last-hour -effort to save the lives of Sacco and Vanzetti. A wonderfully -kindhearted and exuberant person, now close to the seventies, he has -become a judge of the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania. When I asked him -how this miracle had come about, he answered with a smile: “It is an -elective office.” - -On a Sunday evening we found ourselves confronting the sixty-five -hundred cheering delegates, many of whom no doubt had read _Flivver -King_. It was a dinner affair, and I found myself seated between my wife -and Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt, whom I had not seen since a visit to the -White House in 1935, just after the EPIC campaign. There was plenty of -time for conversation, especially since I had had my rice-and-fruit meal -an hour or so earlier. - -Walter Reuther presented to me the Social Justice Award of the United -Automobile Workers--an ebony plaque that carries this citation: - - With admiration and affection and in thankful appreciation for the - great moral courage and social conscience that motivated your - writings as you exposed the inhuman exploitation of labor in - American industrial jungles. Your life and your work have - contributed immeasurably to the extension of the frontiers of - _Social Justice_. May 1962. - -In my speech of acceptance I told how I had made a socialist, or a -near-socialist, out of Henry Ford’s wife; and how, when he saw that he -could not win the strike, he made all his plans to close up his -plants--and was only deterred from it at the last moment by his wife’s -announcement that if he carried out this evil purpose she would leave -him. The story was new to those delegates, and I will not attempt to -describe the enthusiasm with which they received it. - -Mrs. Roosevelt also gave one of her warm-hearted talks, and so it was a -worthy occasion to those labor men and their wives. I imagined that -newspaper readers might also be interested in it, but I examined the New -York morning and afternoon papers and discovered that they had nothing -whatever to say about the affair. I am used to newspaper silence about -my doings, but I had really thought they would have something to say -about the eloquence of Eleanor Roosevelt, and of the welcome she had -received from that vast throng. But not one word in the Monday morning -and afternoon papers! I paid a call on the labor editor of the New York -_Times_, and he was cordial--he took me about and introduced me to -several other editors--but he had nothing to say about the paper’s -failure to say anything about the UAW assemblage. - -The award from the UAW included a check for a thousand dollars. I had -written Walter that I would use the money to put a copy of _Flivver -King_ in the libraries of all the branches of the union throughout the -world. In Atlantic City Victor Reuther told me that they planned to -reissue _Flivver King_ themselves and make it available to all their -members. So I shall use the money to put in the union libraries copies -of this present book and of the memorial edition of _Southern Belle_. - - -V - -Meanwhile, in New York, I met many old friends. Also, I was asked to -appear on several TV programs, and my interviews with Eric Goldman, Mike -Wallace, and Barry Gray were great fun. One of the most unusual -occasions was a luncheon given by my faithful agent, Bertha Klausner, -who invited only those people who are working, in one way or another, -with my various books--publishing or reissuing or dramatizing them for -stage or screen. And there was a roomful of them! - -Happily, there seems to be a revival of interest in my books. _The -Jungle_ is now in paperback, and students are reading it and teachers -are talking about it in their classes. _World’s End_ and _Dragon’s -Teeth_, two of the Lanny Budd volumes, are also in paperback. So is -_Manassas_, under the title of _Theirs Be the Guilt_. _Mental Radio_, my -precise and careful study of Craig’s demonstrations of her telepathic -power, has just been reissued by a publisher of scientific books, with -the original preface by William McDougall and, in addition, the preface -that Albert Einstein wrote for the German edition. _The Cry for Justice: -An Anthology of Social Protest_ is to be republished with modern -additions. And _A Personal Jesus_, an attempt at a modern insight, is -also being reissued. - -_Our Lady_ is being dramatized. _Another Pamela_ is being converted into -a musical comedy. Walt Disney is now setting out to make a movie of _The -Gnomobile_, my story for children, which is also going to be reissued -with gay illustrations from the French edition. And there is to be a TV -series drawn from the Lanny Budd books. I cannot attempt to control this -last and can only hope for the best. - - - - -_20_ - -_Summing Up_ - - -I - -A reader of this manuscript asked the question: “Just what do you think -you have accomplished in your long lifetime?” I give a few specific -answers. - -I begin with a certainty. At the age of twenty-eight I helped to clean -and protect the meat that comes to your table. I followed that matter -through to the end. I put the shocking facts into a book that went -around the world in both directions. I set forth the details at -President Theodore Roosevelt’s lunch table in the White House, and later -put them before his trusted investigators. I put their true report on -the front page of the New York _Times_, and I followed it up with -letters to Congressmen. I saw the laws passed; from friends in the -Chicago stockyards, I learned that they were enforced. The stockyard -workers now have strong unions; I know some of their officials, and if -the old conditions had come back, I would have been told of it and would -be telling it here. - -Second, I know that we still have many bad and prejudiced newspapers, -but many are better than they were. I think that _The Brass Check_ -helped to bring about the improvement. It also encouraged newspapermen -to form a union. And the guild, among other things, has improved the -quality of newspapers. - -Third, I know that our “mourning parade” before the offices of Standard -Oil in New York not merely ended slavery in the mining camps in the -Rocky Mountains but also changed the life course of the Rockefeller -family; and this has set an example to others of our millionaire -dynasties--including the Armours and the Fords. - -Fourth, I think that Mary Craig Sinclair, with my help, did much to -promote an interest in the investigation of psychic phenomena. Professor -William McDougall, an Englishman who became known as “the dean of -American Psychology,” told us that it was Craig’s demonstrations that -decided him to set up the department of parapsychology at Duke -University. It was McDougall who appointed J. B. Rhine, and the work -that has been done by these two men has made the subject respectable. -_Mental Radio_ is now issued by a scientific publishing house. - -Fifth, I know that the American Civil Liberties Union, which I helped to -organize in New York and of which I started the southern California -branch in 1923, has put an end to the oppression of labor in California -and made it no longer possible to crowd six hundred strikers into a jail -built to hold one hundred. - -Sixth, I know that the EPIC campaign of 1934 in California changed the -whole reactionary tone of the state. We now have a Democratic governor -and a Democratic state legislature, and the Republicans are unhappy. In -the depression through which we passed in 1961, no one died of -starvation. - -Seventh, I know that I had something to do with the development and -survival of American democratic ideas, both political and social, in -Japan. From 1915 on, practically every book I wrote was translated and -published in Japan, and I was informed that a decade or two in that -country were known as the _Sinkuru Jidai_, which means “the Sinclair -Era.” Every one of the Lanny Budd books was a best seller there; and in -September 1960, when the Japanese students appeared on the verge of a -procommunist revolution, my faithful translator, Ryo Namikawa, cabled, -begging me to send a message in favor of the democratic process of -social change. I paid over four hundred dollars to send a cablegram to -_Shimbun_, the biggest newspaper in Japan, and it appeared on the front -page the next day. Of course, I cannot say how much that had to do with -it. I only know that the students turned away from their communist -leadership and chose the democratic process and friendship with America. - -Eighth, my two books on the dreadful ravages of alcoholism may have had -some effect. The second, called _The Cup of Fury_, was taken up by the -church people, and it has sold over a hundred thousand copies. I get -many letters about it. - -Ninth. Way back in the year 1905, I started the Intercollegiate -Socialist Society, now the League of Industrial Democracy. I had had -nine years of college and university, and I hadn’t learned that the -modern socialist movement existed. I held that since the educators -wouldn’t educate the students, it was up to the students to educate the -educators--and this was what happened, partly because so many of our -students of those days are educators now. - -Tenth and last, there are the Lanny Budd books. They won the cordial -praise of George Bernard Shaw (who made them the basis for recommending -me for the Nobel Prize), H. G. Wells, Albert Einstein, and Thomas Mann. -I worked at those books like a slave for a dozen years, and if they -contain errors of historical fact, these have not been pointed out. The -books have been translated into a score of languages. They contain the -story of the years from 1911 to 1950, and I hope they have spread a -little enlightenment through the world. - -The English Queen Mary, who failed to hold the French port of Calais, -said that when she died, the word “Calais” would be found written on her -heart. I don’t know whether anyone will care to examine my heart, but if -they do they will find two words there--“Social Justice.” For that is -what I have believed in and fought for during sixty-three of my -eighty-four years. - - -II - -In politics and economics, I believe what I have believed ever since I -discovered the socialist movement at the beginning of this century. I -have incorporated those beliefs in a hundred books and pamphlets and -numberless articles. My books have been translated into forty languages, -and millions of people have read them. What those millions have found is -not only a defense of social justice but an unwavering conviction that -true social justice can be achieved and maintained only through the -democratic process. The majority of my books have been translated and -published in communist lands; of course, it may be that the texts have -been altered. If they were published as I wrote them, their readers -learned the ideals of democratic freedom. - -Despite my fight and the struggles of many others, communist -dictatorships have taken over half the world. Meanwhile, for the first -time, proud man, dressed with a little brief authority, has so perfected -the instruments of destruction that he is in a position to put an end to -the possibility of life on our earth and condemn this planet to go its -way through infinite space, lonely and forgotten. Whether this will -happen depends entirely upon the decision of two men--or possibly on the -decision of one of them. Both are known to the world by one initial, -“K.” What can a poor fellow whose name happens to begin with “S” do -about it? He can only say what he thinks and hope to be heard. He can -only go on fighting for social justice and the democratic ideal, hope -that man does not destroy himself, by design or by accident, and trust -that eventually the peoples of the world will force their rulers to -follow the ways of peace, of freedom, and of social justice. - - - - -_Books by Upton Sinclair_ - - -Springtime and Harvest 1901 (_Reissued as_ King Midas 1901) -The Journal of Arthur Stirling 1903 -Prince Hagen 1903 -Manassas: A Novel of the War 1904 (_Reissued as_ Theirs Be the Guilt 1959) -A Captain of Industry 1906 -The Jungle 1906 -The Industrial Republic 1907 -The Overman 1907 -The Metropolis 1908 -The Moneychangers 1908 -Samuel the Seeker 1910 -The Fasting Cure 1911 -Love’s Pilgrimage 1911 -Plays of Protest 1912 -The Millennium: A Comedy of the Year 2000 1912 -Sylvia 1913 -Damaged Goods 1913 -Sylvia’s Marriage 1914 -The Cry for Justice 1915 -King Coal 1917 -The Profits of Religion 1918 -Jimmie Higgins 1919 -The Brass Check 1919 -100%: The Story of a Patriot 1920 -The Book of Life 1921 -They Call Me Carpenter 1922 -The Goose-Step 1923 -Hell: A Verse Drama and Photoplay 1923 -The Goslings 1924 -Singing Jailbirds: A Drama in Four Acts 1924 -The Pot Boiler 1924 -Mammonart 1925 -Bill Porter: A Drama of O. Henry in Prison 1925 -The Spokesman’s Secretary 1926 -Letters to Judd 1926 -Oil! 1927 -Money Writes! 1927 -Boston 1928 -Mountain City 1930 -Mental Radio 1930, 1962 -Roman Holiday 1931 -The Wet Parade 1931 -American Outpost 1932 -Upton Sinclair Presents William Fox 1933 -The Way Out 1933 -I, Governor of California--and How I Ended Poverty 1933 -The Epic Plan for California 1934 -I, Candidate for Governor--and How I Got Licked 1935 -We, People of America 1935 -Depression Island 1935 -What God Means to Me 1936 -Co-op 1936 -The Gnomobile 1936, 1962 -Wally for Queen 1936 -The Flivver King 1937 -No Pasaran 1937 -Little Steel 1938 -Our Lady 1938 -Terror in Russia 1938 -Expect No Peace 1939 -Letters to a Millionaire 1939 -Marie Antoinette 1939 -Telling the World 1939 -Your Million Dollars 1939 -World’s End 1940 -World’s End Impending 1940 -Between Two Worlds 1941 -Peace or War in America 1941 -Dragon’s Teeth 1942 -Wide Is the Gate 1943 -Presidential Agent 1944 -Dragon Harvest 1945 -A World to Win 1946 -Presidential Mission 1947 -A Giant’s Strength 1948 -Limbo on the Loose 1948 -One Clear Call 1948 -To the Editor 1948 -O Shepherd, Speak! 1949 -Another Pamela 1950 -The Enemy Had It Too 1950 -A Personal Jesus 1952 -The Return of Lanny Budd 1953 -What Didymus Did 1955 -The Cup of Fury 1956 -It Happened to Didymus 1958 -Theirs Be the Guilt 1959 -My Lifetime in Letters 1960 -Affectionately Eve 1961 - - - - -_Index_ - - -Abbott, Leonard D., 101 - -Addams, Jane, 109-10, 213 - -_Adventures in Interviewing_, by Isaac F. Marcosson, 118 - -AFL-CIO, 282, 287 - -American Civil Liberties Union, 227, 228, 231, 328 - -Anderson, Sherwood, 252 - -_Appeal to Reason_ (later _Haldeman-Julius Weekly_), 89, - 101-02, 104, 105, 108, 112, 115, 150, 213, 221, 223 - -Armour, J. Ogden, 116-17, 139 - -Armour, Kathleen, 319, 321 - -Armour, Richard, 319, 321 - -Atherton, Gertrude, 107 - - -_Babbitt_, by Sinclair Lewis, 251-52 - -_Baby Mine_, by Margaret Mayo, 125 - -Baldwin, Roger, 227 - -Bamford, Frederick Irons, 152 - -Barnett, Gen. George, 13, 14 - -Barnett, Mrs. George, 13-14, 53 - -Barnsdall, Aline, 275 - -Barrows, Ellen, 197 - -Beall, Rev. Upton, 29 - -Belasco, David, 144, 155 - -Bellamy, Edward, 269 - -Belloc, Hilaire, 181 - -Belmont, Mrs. Oliver, 136 - -Bennett, James Gordon, 121 - -Berger, Victor, 170, 171 - -Beveridge, Sen. Albert J., 13 - -Bickel, Carl, 255 - -Bierce, Ambrose, 44 - -Birnbaum, Martin, 56, 294-95 - -Björkman, Edwin, 132, 250 - -Björkman, Mrs. Edwin (Frances Maule), 132, 250 - -Bland, Howard, 93, 227 - -Bland, John Randolph, 9, 11-12, 14, 45, 53-54, 63-64, 226-27 - -Blatch, Harriet Stanton, 140 - -Bliss, Leslie E., 304 - -Bloor, Mrs. Ella Reeve, 120-21, 124, 137, 165 - -Boston Society for Psychical Research, 33 - -Brady, Judge Tom, 259, 260, 316 - -Brandeis, Justice Louis, 274 - -Brandes, George, 201 - -Brett, George P., 114, 212, 214 - -_Bride of Dreams_, by Frederik van Eeden, 184 - -Brown, J. G., 37 - -Browne, Lewis, 276, 289 - -Brownell, W. C., 78 - -Buchanan, Thompson, 187 - -Buerger, Leo, 158 - -Burns, John, 122, 178 - -Butler, Nicholas Murray, 60, 61, 83 - -Bynner, Witter, 156 - -Byrd, Cecil, 304, 305 - - -California Institute of Technology, 254-55, 257, 258-59 - -Camus, Albert, 308 - -Cannon, Mrs. Laura, 198 - -Carmichael, Bert, 47-48 - -Caron, Arthur, 201 - -Carpenter, Edward, 203 - -Carpenter, Prof. George Rice, 58, 61 - -Chandler, Harry, 275 - -Chaplin, Charles, 273 - -Church of St. Mary the Virgin, 30 - -Church of the Holy Communion, 30, 99, 288 - -Church of the Messiah, 32, 77 - -Churchill, Winston, 121-22 - -Clay, Bertha M., pseudonym of John Coryell, 133 - -College of the City of New York, 21, 23-25, 37-40, 47, 48, 57, 224, 294 - -Collier, Peter, 108 - -Collier, Robert F., 108, 136 - -Columbia University, 25, 46, 48, 51, 56-63, 65, - 66, 86, 131, 132, 224, 244, 250 - -Community Church, 32 - -Cook, George Cram, 252 - -Cooke, Grace MacGowan, 132 - -Corydon (pseudonym of 1st wife), 13, 81, 93, 94, 104, 106, 108, 112, 156 - acquaintance of, with Sinclair, 17, 41-42 - advises Mary Craig Kimbrough on her book, 166, 167-68, 172 - and Harry Kemp, 160, 174-75 - courtship of, 75-77 - despondency and loneliness of, 95, 96-98, 111 - divorce of, from Sinclair, 172 - considered by her, 154-55, 165, 170 - granted in Holland, 186 - proceedings in, 175-76, 177-78 - scandal re, 168, 174-75, 178 - fights for custody of son, 210 - financial difficulties during pregnancy of, 79-80 - helps Sinclair write _Love’s Pilgrimage_, 75-76 - ill-health of, 95, 96, 137-38, 145 - in sanitariums, 138, 160 - leaves Sinclair to live with parents, 83, 86, 91; - to take own apartment, 146 - marriage of, to Sinclair, 77; - opposed by family, 77, 79 - remarries, 169, 210 - returns to Sinclair, 154-55, 165, 173, 210 - son of, _see_ Sinclair, David; birth of, 84 - -Coryell, John, 133 - -Coughlin, Father Charles E., 273-74 - -Crane, Charles R., 215 - -Crane, Stephen, 252 - - -_Damaged Goods_, by Eugène Brieux, 193 - -_The Daughter of the Confederacy_, by Mary Craig Kimbrough, 166 - -Davidson, Jo, 133, 250 - -Davis, Jefferson, 166, 205, 265 - -Davis, Richard Harding, 204 - -Davis, Robert, 117 - -Davis, Winnie, 166, 168, 173, 205, 265 - -Debs, Eugene, 44, 252-53 - -_The Defeat in the Victory_, by George D. Herron, 102 - -Dell, Floyd, 34, 88-90, 99, 204, 261 - -Democratic Party, 19, 64, 268, 272, 328 - -_The Demon of the Absolute_, by Paul Elmer More, 85 - -Dewey, John, 132, 250 - -De Witt, Samuel, 29 - -Dill, James B., 144-45 - -Dinwiddie, William, 122 - -Disney, Walt, 285, 326 - -_The Divine Fire_, by May Sinclair, 182 - -Doremus, R. Ogden, 23-24 - -Dos Passos, John, 232 - -Doubleday, Frank, 124 - -Dreiser, Theodore, 45, 85, 246, 247, 249, 253 - -DuBridge, Dr. Lee, 258-59 - -Duke University, 244, 328 - -Duncan, Isadora, 203, 252 - -Dunne, Finley Peter, 252 - - -_The Easiest Way_, by Eugene Walter, 144 - -Einstein, Albert, 254-59, 279-80, 292, 305, 326, 329 - -Eisenstein, Sergei, 64, 237, 262-67 - -Eldh, Carl, 305 - -EPIC (End Poverty in California), 266, - 268-76, 278, 280, 282, 309, 319, 321, 328 - -Ettor, Joe, 187 - - -Fairbanks, Douglas, 252 - -Faulkner, William, 45 - -_The Fighting Sinclairs_, 4-6 - -Finch, Jessica, 194-95 - -Fischer, 185 - -Fish, Hamilton, 279 - -Fitch, Ensign Clarke, USN (pen name of Upton Sinclair), 50 - -Fitzgerald, F. Scott, 45, 252 - -Flannery, Harry, 282 - -Flynn, Elizabeth Gurley, 187 - -Ford, Arthur, 245-47 - -Ford, Edsel, 285-86 - -Ford, Henry, 258, 285, 324-25 - -Ford, Mrs. Henry, 286, 287-88, 324-25 - -Fox, William, 260-61 - -Freeman, Elizabeth, 201 - -Fuller, Judge Alvan T., 241 - -Fuller, Judd, 234 - - -Garfield, James R., 118 - -Garrison, Lt. Frederick, USA (pen name of Upton Sinclair), 49 - -Gartz, Craney, 217, 300 - -Gartz, Gloria, 217, 273 - -Gartz, Mrs. Kate Crane, 214-18, 219-20, - 233, 240, 246, 257, 262, 272-73, 298, 299-302 - -Gartz, Adolph, 217, 218, 233 - -Genthe, Arnold, 151 - -Ghent, W. J., 228 - -Gillette, King C., 236-37, 286-87 - -Gilman, Elizabeth, 226 - -Ginn, Edwin, 93 - -Giovannitti, Arthur, 187 - -Goebel, George H., 253 - -Gold, Michael, 70 - -Goldman, Eric, 325 - -Gray, Barry, 325 - -Gurney, Edmund, 33 - -Gutkind, Erich, 184 - - -Haldeman, Marcet, 213 - -Haldeman-Julius, Emanuel, 87, 213, 221 - -Haldeman-Julius Little Blue Books, 83, 154 - -_Haldeman-Julius Weekly_ (formerly _Appeal to Reason_), 221 - -Hanford, Ben, 220 - -Hapgood, Norman, 107 - -Hard, Dr. Frederick, 319, 321 - -Hard, May (Mrs. Upton Sinclair, his 3d wife), 319-22 - -Harden, Harry, 7, 91 - -Harden, John S. (grandfather of Upton Sinclair), 7, 9, 10, 29 - -Harden, Mrs. John S. (Mary Ayers), 10-11 - -Hardy, Prof. George, 38 - -Harris, Frank, 169-70, 181-82 - -Hartmann, Sadakichi, 133, 250 - -Harvard University, 196-97, 241, 242, 244 - -Haywood, William D., 187 - -Hearst, William Randolph, 50, 133 - -Helicon Hall (Home Colony), 128-36, 141, 142, 250 - -Hemingway, Ernest, 45, 249-50 - -Henderson, C. Hanford, 204 - -Henry, O., 44, 252 - -Herbermann, Prof. Charles George, 38 - -Herron, George D., 93, 101-03, 176, 183, 294 - -Herron, Mrs. George (Carrie Rand), 176, 183 - -Higginson, Thomas Wentworth, 85, 93 - -_The High Romance_, by Michael Williams, 142, 143 - -Hitchcock, Ripley, 88 - -Hoover, Herbert, 304 - -Hopkins, Harry, 274 - -Hopkins, Pryns (Prince), 238 - -House, Col. Edward M., 218, 221 - -Howatt, David, 156-57, 162 - -Howe, Frederick C., 203 - -Howe, Julia Ward, 93 - -Huebsch, B. W., 228, 297 - -Huntington Library, 304 - -Hyslop, Prof. James, 60-61, 65, 244 - - -Ickes, Harold, 274 - -Industrial Workers of the World, 229, 232, 233, 281-82 - -Intercollegiate Socialist Society (later - League for Industrial Democracy), 113-14, - 140, 170, 172, 194, 196, 197, 248, 282, 329 - -Irvine, Alexander, 201 - -_It All Started with Columbus_, by Richard Armour, 319 - -_It All Started with Eve_, by Richard Armour, 319 - -_It All Started with Marx_, by Richard Armour, 319 - - -James, Henry, 181 - -James, William, 132-33, 250 - -Jerome, William Travers, 66, 67, 222 - -_John Barleycorn_, by Jack London, 248 - -Jones, Capt. and Mrs., 209, 210 - -“Jonesy,” fruit inspector, 67-68, 123-24 - - -Kahn, Otto H., 266 - -Kautsky, Karl, 184-85 - -Keeley, James, 116 - -Kellogg, W. K., 140 - -Kelly, Mrs. Edith Summers, 132, 250 - -Kemp, Harry, 147-48, 160, 168, 172, 174-75, 178 - -Kempner, Dr. Walter, 311 - -Kennerley, Mitchell, 167, 176, 186 - -Kimbrough, Allan, 259 - -Kimbrough, Dolly, 192, 193-94, 208, 246, 254 - -Kimbrough, Hunter Southworth, 204-05, 206, 208, 259, 260, 262, 263, 265, - 266, 282, 310, 314, 318, 319, 320 - -Kimbrough, Judge Allan McCaskell, 180, 186, 188, 190 - , 193, 195, 200, 204, 205, 206-07, 208, 212, 276-77 - -Kimbrough, Leftwich, 315 - -Kimbrough, Mary Craig (Mrs. Upton Sinclair, his 2d wife), 184, - 186, 193, 194, 195-96, 204-11 _passim_, 224, 251, - 254, 259, 263-65, 277, 279, 281, 286, 293, 307, 309 - and Corydon, 166, 167-68 - and Mrs. Kate Crane-Gartz, 214-18, 219-20, 233, 299-300, 301-02 - and Neil Vanderbilt, 238, 295, 296 - as homemaker, 234, 303 - books by, 166, 167-68, 173, 314, 325 - collaborates with Sinclair on _Mental Radio_ experiments, 33, 243-45, 326; - on revision of _King Coal_, 212-13 - death of, 317, 318, 319 - during Sinclair’s campaign for Governor, 269, 272, 275, 276, 278 - heroine of _Sylvia_, 180-81, 195 - in England, 179 - in Holland, 183 - interested in telepathy, 33, 243-47, 328 - last illness of, 300, 301, 310-17 - loved by George Sterling, 172 - marriage of, 188-90; - opposed by family, 186, 188 - meets Sinclair, 161-62 - participates in protest demonstration, 198-202 - persuades Sinclair to change name of socialist society, 282; - to edit King C. Gillette’s ms., 236-37; - to write book on William Fox, 260, 261 - _Sonnets to Craig_ written for, 172-73 - -Kimbrough, Mrs. Mary Hunter K., 180, 186, 188, 190, 191, 192, 195 - -Kimbrough, Orman, 276 - -Kimbrough, Sally, 318 - -Kimbrough, Willie, 208 - -Klausner, Bertha, 325 - - -La Follette, Philip F., 257-58 - -La Follette, Robert M., 225 - -Laidler, Harry, 113 - -Lansbury, George, 193 - -_The Last Romantic_, by Martin Birnbaum, 294 - -Lawrence, Mrs. Pethick, 193 - -League for Industrial Democracy (formerly Intercollegiate - Socialist Society), 113-14, 260, 282, 329 - -Ledebour, Georg, 185 - -Le Gallienne, Richard, 88 - -Leupp, Francis E., 118 - -Lesser, Sol, 266, 267, 319, 321 - -_Letters of Protest_, by Mrs. Kate Crane-Gartz, 233 - -Lewis, Henry Harrison, 41, 48-49, 50 - -Lewis, Lena Morrow, 281 - -Lewis, Sinclair, 45, 85, 132, 250-52, 279 - -Liebknecht, Wilhelm, 185 - -Lilly Library, University of Indiana, 226, 304-06 - -Lindsay, Vachel, 203 - -Lindsey, Judge Ben, 148 - -Lippmann, Walter, 194, 196, 197 - -Liveright, Horace, 237, 249, 252 - -London, Jack, 44, 113-14, 169, 182, 248, 252 - -Lorimer, George Horace, 116 - -Lowell, A. Lawrence, 241 - -Ludlow massacre, 198-203, 327-28 - - -McDougall, Prof. William, 244-45, 247, 326, 328 - -MacDowell, Edward, 48, 58-60 - -MacDowell, Mary, 109 - -Macfadden, Bernarr, 157, 158, 159, 232 - -MacGowan, Alice, 132 - -Mackay, Mrs. Clarence, 136 - -Mann, Klaus, 252 - -Mann, Thomas, 292-93, 329 - -Mann, Tom, 178 - -Marcosson, Isaac F., 118 - -Markham, Edwin, 85 - -Martin, John, 139-40 - -Martin, Mrs. John (Prestonia Mann), 139 - -Matthews, Brander, 61, 78 - -Mayo, Margaret, _see_ Selwyn, Mrs. Edgar - -Mead, Edwin D., 93 - -Mencken, H. L., 87, 226, 227, 248, 305 - -Mexico, Indians filmed by Eisenstein in, 26, 262-67 - -Mickiewicz, Ralph, 16 - -Milholland, Inez, 8, 170-72 - -Millay, Edna St. Vincent, 45, 252 - -Millikan, Dr. Robert, 255, 257 - -Minor, Robert, 204, 265, 293 - -_Modern Utopia_, by H. G. Wells, 146 - -Moir, Rev. William Wilmerding, 30-32, 42, 45-46, 49, 74 - -Montague, Lelia, 53 - -Montague, Prof. W. P., 131, 132, 250 - -Moore, Fred, 241 - -Mordell, Albert, 4-5 - -More, Paul Elmer, 83-84, 85, 101 - -Morgan, J. P., 141-42, 144 - -Murphy, Mayor Frank, 287 - -Murphy, Tom, 133 - -Museum of Modern Art, 267 - -Musmanno, Justice Michael Angelo, 242, 324 - - -Namikawa, Ryo, 328 - -Nearing, Scott, 114, 166, 167 - -Neill, Charles P., 119 - -Neuberger, Sen. Richard, 279 - -New York University, 308 - -Nobel Prize, 297, 305, 329 - -Noyes, Prof. William, 132, 250 - - -Oaks, Louis D., 228-32 - -O’Higgins, Harry, 148 - -O’Neill, Eugene, 45, 232, 252 - -Oppenheimer, Harry, 319 - -Otto, Richard S., 269-70, 275, 309, 319, 321 - -_Our Benevolent Feudalism_, by W. J. Ghent, 228 - -Oxford University, 244 - - -Page, Walter H., 116, 140 - -Pankhurst, Sylvia, 193 - -_Parable of the Water Tank_, by Edward Bellamy, 269 - -Peck, Harry Thurston, 60, 83 - -Perry, Bliss, 82 - -_Phantasms of the Living_, by Edmund Gurney, 33 - -Phelps, William Lyon, 61 - -Phillips, David Graham, 118-19 - -Poling, Daniel A., 299 - -Poole, Ernest, 187 - -Price, Will, 166 - -Prince, Dr. Walker Franklin, 33 - -Princeton University, 93, 279 - -Pulitzer Prize, 297 - - -Randall, David, 304, 305 - -Ratcliffe, S. K., 294 - -Rathenau, Walter, 185-86 - -Reed, John, 187, 188, 293 - -Reedy, W. M., 44 - -Republican Party, 271, 328 - -Reuther, Victor, 324 - -Reuther, Walter, 323, 324, 325 - -Reynolds, James Bronson, 119 - -Rhine, Prof. J. B., 247, 328 - -Ridgway, E. J., 117 - -Rivera, Diego, 262 - -Robinson, Prof. James Harvey, 60 - -Rockefeller, John D., Jr., 198, 199, 201, 202, 328 - -Rockefeller, Nelson A., 202 - -Roosevelt, Mrs. Eleanor, 325 - -Roosevelt, Franklin D., 268, 271, 274, 279, 296, 298 - -Roosevelt, Theodore, 118-19, 124, 327 - -Russell, Bertrand, 257 - -Russell, Frank, Lord, 179-80, 183, 186 - -Russell, Countess (“Aunt Molly”), 179-80, 181, 183, 186 - -Rutzebeck, Hans, 321 - - -Sabin, Barbara, 321 - -Sacco, Nicola, 240-42 - -Salisbury, Dr. J. H., 162-63 - -Sanborn, Frank B., 93 - -Santayana, George, 85 - -Savage, Rev. Minot J., 32-33, 77, 111, 244 - -Schorer, Mark, 250, 251, 252 - -Schwed, Fred, 38-39 - -Schwimmer, Rosika, 139, 258 - -Scott, Leroy, 187 - -Scripps College, 319 - -Seabrook, William, 252 - -_The Sea Wolf_, by Jack London, 114 - -Selfridge, Harry Gordon, 194 - -Selwyn, Arch, 125, 285 - -Selwyn, Edgar, 125, 203 - -Selwyn, Mrs. Edgar (Margaret Mayo), 125, 203 - -Shaw, George Bernard, 106, 146, 182, 192, 285, 292, 305, 329 - -Shaw, Mrs. George Bernard, 193 - -_Shelburne Essays_, by Paul Elmer More, 84 - -Sinclair, Capt. Arthur (grandfather of Upton Sinclair), 4, 5, 6, 191 - -Sinclair, Comm. Arthur (great-grandfather of Upton Sinclair), 5, 191 - -Sinclair, Arthur, Jr., 6 - -Sinclair, Mrs. Arthur (grandmother of Upton Sinclair), 4 - -Sinclair, David (son of Upton Sinclair), 84, 91, 94-95, - 96, 104, 112, 138, 142, 154, 163, 165, 166, - 176, 177, 179, 185, 189, 192, 195, 204, 210, 323, 324 - -Sinclair, George T., 5, 6 - -Sinclair, George Terry, 6, 25 - -Sinclair, May, 182-83 - -Sinclair, Priscilla Harden (Mrs. Upton, mother of Upton Sinclair), - 3, 6-7, 8, 9, 14, 15, 17, 19, 24, 28, - 29, 34, 36, 41, 42, 50, 59, 65, 69, 77, 79, 91, 189, 191, 235, 289 - -Sinclair, Upton - acting company organized by, 153-54 - and Inez Milholland, 170-72 - and Protestant Episcopal Church, 29-33, 99-100, 288; - Unitarian Church, 32, 288 - arrested for playing tennis, 168; - for protest demonstration, 199-200; - for reading U.S. Constitution, 228 - as candidate for Congress, 105; - for Governor of California, 266, 268-76, 278 - as election watcher, 66-67 - as producer of Eisenstein’s film, 262-67 - as reporter for N. Y. _Evening Post_, 42-43 - at City College, 21, 23-25, 37-40, 47, 48, 57, 224, 294 - at Columbia University, 48, 51, 56, 57-63, 224, 244 - attends British Parliament to hear debate, 178-79 - biographer of, _see_ Dell, Floyd - biography of, published, 99 - birthplace of, 226 - card-playing by, 92 - childhood of, 3, 7-12, 14-28 - collaborates with Michael Williams on health book, 142-43 - confirmation of, 30, 288 - declines appointment to U.S. Naval Academy, 25 - divorce of, 168, 174-75, 175-76, 177-78, 183, 186, 189 - early education of, 8-9, 21-25 - edits King C. Gillette’s ms., 236-37 - estimate of works of, 88-90, 292-93, 308-09, 327-30 - family of - account re members of, in the Navy, 4-6 - aunts, 3, 11, 13, 15, 29, 53 - cousins, 13, 14, 53, 93, 104, 191, 227, 285 - father, _see_ Sinclair, Upton Beall - grandfathers, 4, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10, 29, 191 - grandmothers, 4, 10-11, 29 - granduncles, 5, 6 - mother, _see_ Sinclair, Priscilla Harden - son, _see_ Sinclair, David - uncles, 6, 7, 8, 9, 11-12, - 14, 25, 45, 53-54, 63-64, 78, 79, 91, 191, 226-27 - wife, _see_ Corydon; Hard, May (3d wife); Kimbrough, Mary Craig (2d wife) - helps launch Nietzsche cult in America, 87 - Home Colony of, 128-36 - ill-health of, 73, 87, 125, 137, 140-41, 155, 158, 237, 294; - and consequent interest in special diet, 140-41, - 153, 157-60, 162, 163, 311, 312-13, 322 - interested in foreign languages, 61-63, 167, 235, 288; - in law, 25, 48; - in mental telepathy, 33, 243-47, 326, 328; - in music, 56-57, 71, 77, 79, 234 - lecture tour by, 278-82 - literary hoax by, 88 - marriage of, 77, 188-90, 321 - method of working of, 94 - newspaper guild formed at suggestion of, 224 - organizes protest demonstration, 198-203, 327-28 - pen names of, 49, 50 - papers of, given to Lilly Library, 226, 304-06 - prizes of: Nobel Prize sought for him, 305, 329; - Page One Award, 323; - Pulitzer Prize, 297; - Social Justice Award, 324-25 - reading habits of, 8-9, 20, 32, 47, 48, 53-54, 57, 62-63, 86, 87 - residences of, and visits by, in: - Adirondack Mts., 41-42, 55, 56-57, 87, 138-40, 144-46, 318 - Arden, Del., single-tax colony, 164-67, 173, 196-97 - Arlington, Cal., 300 - Baltimore, 3-4, 9, 16, 45, 53-54, 226-27 - Battle Creek, Mich., 140, 158-61 - Bermuda, 141-42, 195-96 - Bishop, Cal., 149-50 - Boston, 92-93, 224, 240, 243 - Buckeye, Cal., 310, 311 - Butte, 279 - Carmel, Cal., 146, 150-51, 152-53, 155 - Coconut Grove, Fla., 155-56 - Chautauqua, N.Y., 279 - Chicago, 109-10, 147, 224, 225-26 - Claremont, Cal., 321 - Corona, Cal., 300, 311-16 _passim_ - Coronado, Cal., 212-13 - Croton-on-Hudson, 108, 203 - Cutchogue, L.I., 156 - Denver, 148, 241 - England, 8, 178, 192, 193 - Fairhope, Ala., single-tax colony, 162-64 - Florence, 176-77 - Florida, 112, 155-56 - Germany, 177, 184-86, 192 - Halifax, 104 - Holland, 177, 183 - Key West, Fla., 155 - Lake Elsinore, Cal., 301 - Lake Placid, 74 - Lawrence, Kan., 147 - Long Beach, Cal., 243-47, 270 - Los Angeles, 228-32, 253 - Miami, 155-54 - Milan, 177 - Mississippi, 204-10 - Monrovia, Cal., 297, 301, 303-04, 310, 316 - Naples, 62-63 - New York City, 8, 16-27, 29-52 _passim_, 57-67, 74, 77-80, 83, - 91, 101, 113, 115, 116, 123, 125, 135, 170-71, 173, - 174-76, 186-89, 191-92, 196-202, 224, 249, 253, 322-24, 325 - Oakland, 151, 152, 280 - Ogden, Utah, 148 - Ontario, 68-69, 106-07 - Paris, 192-93 - Pasadena, 11, 213-23 _passim_, - 233-38, 248, 251, 254-70 _passim_, 297, 310, 317 - Pawlet, Vt., 36-37 - Phoenix, 310-11 - Point Pleasant, N.J., 135 - Portland, Ore., 279 - Princeton, 94-95, 96-97, 105, 110-17 _passim_, 119, 259, 279-80 - Quebec, 71-74, 76, 318 - Reno, 148-49 - St. Louis, 279 - San Bernardino, 321 - Santa Barbara, 13-14 - Seattle, 278 - Switzerland, 177 - Thousand Islands, 48, 80-82, 86 - Trenton, 125 - Virginia, 14-15, 189-90 - Washington, D.C., 118-19 - Wisconsin, 225 - resigns from Socialist Party, 217, 268-69 - sonnet to, 174 - supports American participation - in World Wars I and II, 217, 218, 257-58, 299 - tours the U.S., 224-27, 278-82 - urges Henry Ford to start a magazine, 286 - views of - on drinking, 6-7, 43, 44-45, 248-53, 328 - on fame, 122-23 - on his accomplishments, 327-30 - on inadequacy of American education, 61-62, 85, 224-25, 227, 235, 280 - on marriage, 75 - on natural beauty, 54-56, 72 - on New York State divorce laws, 175-76 - on religious beliefs and practices, 29-33, - 37, 38, 99-100, 272, 282-84, 288 - on sex education, 28-29, 46-47, 240 - on social, economic, and political issues, 9-10, 12, - 25, 26, 29, 40, 43, 44-45, 46, 49, 64, 65, 70, 73, - 99, 100, 101, 105-06, 107-08, 113-14, 118-21, 123, - 124-25, 126, 128, 133-34, 178-79, 180-81, 187, 209, - 210, 216, 228-32, 235-36, 286, 329-30 - on writing, 51-52, 58, 71, 72, 73-74, 84, 241 - writings of - _After the War Is Over_ (play), 306 - _Another Pamela_, 298, 306, 326 - _Appomattox_, 92 - _Bill Porter_ (play), 306 - _The Book of Life_, 47 - _Boston_, 242, 243 - _The Brass Check_, 108, 121, 187, 222-24, 235, 305, 323, 327 - _A Captain of Industry_, 91 - _Caradrion_ (blank-verse narrative), 83 - _Cicero: A Tragic Drama_...., 248, 306-09 - _The Coal War_, 214, 217 - “The Condemned Meat Industry” (essay), 117-18 - _The Convict_ (play), 306 - _Co-op_ (play), 280-81, 306 - _The Cry for Justice: An Anthology of Social Protest_, 203, 326 - _The Cup of Fury_, 252, 328 - _Damaged Goods_ (based on Brieux’ play), 193, 195 - _Depression Island_ (play), 273, 306 - _Doctor Fist_ (play), 306 - _Dragon’s Teeth_, 297, 326 - _The Emancipated Husband_ (play), 306 - _The Enemy Had It Too_ (play), 306 - “Farmers of America, Unite” (manifesto), 105 - _The Fasting Cure_, 160 - _Flivver King_, 282, 287, 324, 325 - _Gettysburg_, 92 - _A Giant’s Strength_ (play), 297, 306 - _The Gnomobile_ (children’s story), 284-85, 326 - _The Goose-Step_, 224, 227, 235 - _The Goslings_, 227, 235 - _The Grand Duke Lectures_ (play), 306 - _The Great American Play_, 306 - _Hell_ (play), 232, 306 - “I, Candidate for Governor--and How I Got Licked,” 278 - _The Indignant Subscriber_ (play), 154 - _The Industrial Republic_, 108, 133 - _Jimmie Higgins_, 220 - _John D._ (play), 154, 306 - _The Journal of Arthur Stirling_, 74, 87-89, 90, 92, 101, 103 - _The Jungle_, 13, 67, 85, 109-10, 111-12, 114-19, 120, 122, 136, - 137, 140, 145, 164, 196, 204, 213, 282, 323, 325; - dramatization of, 125-26 - _King Coal_, 208, 212, 214, 282 - _King Midas_ (reissue of _Springtime and Harvest_), 80, 82, 85-86 - “Language Study: Some Facts” (article), 85 - _Letters to Judd_ (pamphlet), 235 - _Limbo on the Loose_ (pamphlet), 300 - _Love in Arms_ (play), 306 - _Love’s Pilgrimage_, 43, 44, 46, 75, 83, 84-85, 90, 92, 164, 167, 176 - _The Machine_ (play), 156, 306 - _Mammonart_, 87, 235 - _Manassas: A Novel of the War_ (reissued as _Theirs Be the Guilt_), - 92, 93, 94, 103, 104, 107, 108, 326 - _Marie and Her Lover_ (play), 289-90, 306 - _Mental Radio_, 33, 243-45, 326 - _The Metropolis_, 9, 136-37, 138, 139, 140, 141, 144, 146 - _The Millennium_ (play), 142, 144, 155, 306 - _Money Writes!_, 235-36 - _The Moneychangers_, 144, 145, 146, 156 - _The Most Haunted House_ (play), 306 - _My Lifetime in Letters_, 251 - _The Naturewoman_ (play), 164, 306 - _Oil!_ (play), 107, 118, 139-40, 243, 306 - _O Shepherd, Speak!_, 298 - _Our Lady_ (novelette), 288-89; - play, 326 - _The Overman_ (novelette), 83 - _The Pamela Play_, 306 - _A Personal Jesus_, 298, 326 - _Plays of Protest_, 164 - _The Pot Boiler_ (play), 306 - _The Prairie Pirates_, 41 - _Presidential Agent_, 296 - _Prince Hagen_, 82, 83, 95, 103; - play, 153, 306 - _The Profits of Religion_, 30, 143, 223, 235, 272 - _The Return of Lanny Budd_, 299 - “A Review of Reviewers,” 85 - _Roman Holiday_, 247-48 - _The Saleslady_ (play), 306 - _Samuel the Seeker_, 157-58 - _The Second-Story Man_ (play), 154, 306 - _Singing Jailbirds_ (play), 232, 306 - _Springtime and Harvest_ (reissued as - _King Midas_), 71-72, 77-79, 80, 85-86, 93 - _Sylvia_, 180-81, 195 - _Sylvia’s Marriage_, 187 - “Teaching of Languages” (article), 85 - _Theirs Be the Guilt_ (reissue of _Manassas_, _q.v._), 326 - “The Toy and the Man” (essay), 104 - _Upton Sinclair Presents William Fox_, 258, 261 - _Upton Sinclair’s_ (magazine), 218-21, 234, 291 - _Wally for Queen_ (play), 285, 306 - _The Wet Parade_, 17, 44, 248 - _What Didymus Did_, 298 - _What God Means to Me_, 282 - _World’s End_, 192, 265, 297, 326 - articles, essays, reviews, etc., 59, 83, 85, 88-90, 96, - 105, 107, 109, 123, 128, 167, 184, 232, 246 - “Clif Faraday” stories, 50-51 - early writings, 33-36, 39-40, 41, 42, 47, 48-52, 68 - first story, 36; - novel, 41 (unpublished), 77-79, 80 - health book written in collaboration, 141-42 - “Lanny Budd” books, 192, 228, 265, 291-98, 299, 305, 326, 328, 329 - “Mark Mallory” stories, 49-51 - novel based on his experiences with Socialist Party, 220 - novel based on Sacco-Vanzetti case, 240-42 - open letter protesting unjust arrest, 228-31 - plays, listed, 306 - -Sinclair, Mrs. Upton, _see_ Corydon (1st wife); Hard, - May (3d wife); Kimbrough, Mary Craig (2d wife) - -Sinclair, Upton Beall (father of Upton Sinclair), 4, 6-7, 8, - 9, 14-15, 19-20, 24, 29, 36, 43-45, 91, 248, 251 - -Sinclair, Dr. William B., 5-6 - -Sinclair, William B., Jr., 6 - -Sinclair, William H., 6 - -_Sinclair Lewis_, by Mark Schorer, 250-52 - -Slosson, Edward E., 140 - -Smith, Adolphe, 110 - -Smith, Alfred E., 22 - -Smith College, 164 - -_Social Redemption_, by King C. Gillette, 236 - -Socialist Party, 114, 166, 170, 216, 217, 220, 252, 266, 268 - -_Sonnets to Craig_, by George Sterling, 172-73 - -_Southern Belle_, by Mary Craig (Kimbrough) Sinclair, 200, 314, 325 - -Stalin, Joseph, 265 - -Stedman, Edmund Clarence, 76, 106 - -Stedman, Laura, 76 - -Steffens, Lincoln, 107-08, 115, 222, 294, 300 - -Stephens, Donald, 165, 166 - -Stephens, Frank, 164-65, 167 - -Sterling, George, 44, 146, 150-52, 172, 200-01, 202, 203, 248, 252 - -Stern, Simon, 33, 41, 49 - -Stokes, James Graham Phelps, 140, 204 - -Stokes, Mrs. James Graham (Rose Pastor), 140 - -Strong, Anna Louise, 293 - -Südekum, David, 185 - - -Taft, Rev. Clinton J., 231 - -Tammany Hall, 19, 29, 37, 45, 64, 65, 66-67, 123, 133, 222 - -Tarver, John Ben, 308-09 - -Teachers College, 132, 250 - -_Thirty Strange Stories_, by H. G. Wells, 146 - -Thomas, A. E., 204 - -Thomas, Augustus, 204 - -Thomas, Dylan, 45, 252 - -Thomas, Norman, 113, 266 - -Thompson, W. G., 241 - -_Thunder Over Mexico_, film by Eisenstein, 262-67, 319 - -Thyrsis, _see_ Sinclair, Upton - -Tibbs, Taylor, 17 - -Trent, Prof. W. P., 58, 61 - -Tresca, Carlo, 187 - -Trinity Church, 30 - -_Two Tears on the Alabama_, by Arthur Sinclair, Jr., 6 - - -United States Fidelity and Guaranty Company, 11, 226 - -University of Chicago, 225-26 - -University of Indiana, 226, 304-05, 306 - -University of Kansas, 174 - -University of Pennsylvania, 166 - -University of Wisconsin, 225 - -Untermyer, Samuel, 144, 222-23, 224, 305 - -Updegraff, Allan, 132 - - -Vanderbilt, Cornelius (“Neil”), Jr., 238, 295-97 - -Van Eeden, Frederik, 157, 177, 183-84 - -Vanzetti, Bartolomeo, 240-42 - -Villard, Oswald Garrison, 228, 259-60 - -Volker, pen name of Erich Gutkind, 184 - - -Wagner, Rob, 246, 287 - -Wallace, Mike, 325 - -Walter, Eugene, 144 - -Ware, Hal, 165-66 - -Warfield, Wallis, 285 - -Warren, Fiske, 196-97 - -Warren, Gretchen, 197 - -Warren, Fred D., 108-09, 114-15 - -Waterman, Maj., 16, 18-19 - -Wayland, J. A., 150, 213 - -Webb, Gen. Alexander S., 24 - -_Weeds_, by Edith Summers Kelly, 132 - -Weisiger, Col., 16-17, 30 - -Wells, H. G., 145-46, 181, 183, 221, 329 - -Wendell, Barrett, 85 - -Wheeler, Edward J., 80 - -Whitaker, Robert, 157 - -White, Matthew, Jr., 36 - -Whitman, Walt, 203 - -Williams, Albert Rhys, 292, 301 - -Williams, Sen. John Sharp, 218-19, 221 - -Williams, Michael, 132, 141-44 - -Wilshire, Gaylord, 101-04, 135, 136, 146, 149-50, 178, 183, 223 - -Wilshire, Mrs. Gaylord (Mary), 104, 183 - -_Wilshire’s Magazine_, 101, 150 - -Wilson, Stitt, 281 - -Wilson, Woodrow, 218-19, 294 - -Wood, Clement, 201, 202-03 - -Wood, Eugene, 163 - -Woodberry, George Edward, 60 - -_World Corporation_, by King C. Gillette, 236 - - -Yale University, 132, 250 - -Young, Art, 232 - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF UPTON -SINCLAIR *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no - restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it - under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this - eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the - United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where - you are located before using this eBook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that: - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without -widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/66840-0.zip b/old/66840-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 8645b4b..0000000 --- a/old/66840-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h.zip b/old/66840-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index bf38c88..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/66840-h.htm b/old/66840-h/66840-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 4ccb687..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/66840-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14435 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" -"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en" xml:lang="en"> - <head> <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover" /> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> -<title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Autobiography of Upton Sinclair. -</title> -<style type="text/css"> - -a:link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - - link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - -a:visited {background-color:#ffffff;color:purple;text-decoration:none;} - -a:hover {background-color:#ffffff;color:#FF0000;text-decoration:underline;} - -body{margin-left:4%;margin-right:6%;background:#ffffff;color:black;font-family:"Times New Roman", serif;font-size:medium;} - -.blockquot {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;} - -.c {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - -.caption {font-weight:normal;} -.caption p{font-size:95%;text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - -.cb {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;font-weight:bold;} - -.figcenter {margin:3% auto 3% auto;clear:both; -text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - -.hang {text-indent:-2%;margin-left:2%;} - - h1 {margin-top:5%;text-align:center;clear:both; -font-weight:normal;} - - h2 {margin-top:4%;margin-bottom:2%;text-align:center;clear:both; - font-size:130%;font-weight:bold;} - - h3 {margin:4% auto 2% auto;text-align:center;clear:both; -font-size:95%;font-weight:bold;} - - hr {width:90%;margin:2em auto 2em auto;clear:both;color:black;} - - hr.full {width: 60%;margin:2% auto 2% auto;border-top:2px solid black; -padding:.1em;border-bottom:2px solid black;border-left:none;border-right:none;} - -.ills {margin:1em auto 1em 5em;} - - img {border:none;} - -.lftspc {margin-left:.25em;} - -.nind {text-indent:0%;} - -.nonvis {display:inline;} -.x-bookmaker .nonvis {display: none;} - @media print, handheld - {.nonvis - {display: none;} - } - - p {margin-top:.2em;text-align:justify;margin-bottom:.2em;text-indent:4%;} - -.pagenum {font-style:normal;position:absolute; -left:95%;font-size:55%;text-align:right;color:gray; -background-color:#ffffff;font-variant:normal;font-style:normal;font-weight:normal;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0em;} -.x-bookmaker .pagenum {display: none;} - -.pdd {padding-left:1em;text-indent:-1em;} - -.r {text-align:right;margin-right: 5%;} - -.rt {text-align:right;} - -small {font-size: 70%;} - -.smcap {font-variant:small-caps;font-size:120%;} - -table {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;border:none;} - -div.poetry {text-align:center;} -div.poem {font-size:90%;margin:auto auto;text-indent:0%; -display: inline-block; text-align: left;} -.poem .stanza {margin-top: 1em;margin-bottom:1em;} -.poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i3 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 3em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i10 {display: block; margin-left: 8em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i15 {display: block; margin-left: 10em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -</style> - </head> -<body> - -<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Autobiography of Upton Sinclair, by Upton Sinclair</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Autobiography of Upton Sinclair</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Upton Sinclair</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: November 29, 2021 [eBook #66840]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif, Augustana University and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF UPTON SINCLAIR ***</div> -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/cover.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" -height="550" alt="[Image of -the book's cover unavailable.]" /></a> -</p> - -<table cellpadding="0" -style="border: 2px black solid;margin:auto auto;max-width:50%; -padding:1%;" summary="deprecated"> -<tr><td> -<p class="c"><a href="#Contents">Contents.</a></p> -<p class="c">A few minor typographical errors have been corrected.</p> -<p class="c"><a href="#List_of_Illustrations">List of Illustrations</a><br /> <span class="nonvis">(In certain versions of this etext [in certain browsers] -clicking on the image will bring up a larger version.)</span></p> -<p class="c"><a href="#Books_by_Upton_Sinclair">Books by Upton Sinclair</a><br /> -<a href="#Index">Index</a></p> -<p class="c">(etext transcriber's note)</p></td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="cb"><i>The Autobiography of Upton Sinclair</i></p> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h1><i>The Autobiography<br /> -of</i><br /> -UPTON SINCLAIR</h1> - -<p class="cb">New York<br /> -HARCOURT, BRACE & WORLD, INC.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="c"> -Printed in the United States of America<br /> -</p> - -<h2><a name="Preface" id="Preface"></a><i>Preface</i></h2> - -<p class="nind">All through my seventy-one years of writing life—I started at -thirteen—I have had from my readers suggestions that I should tell my -own story. When I was halfway through those writing years I accepted the -suggestion and wrote a book called <i>American Outpost</i>. The major part of -that book, revised and brought up to date, is incorporated in this -volume.</p> - -<p>I put myself in the position of a veteran of many campaigns who gathers -the youngsters about his knee. He knows these youngsters cannot really -share the anguish and turmoil of his early years, for they belong to a -new generation which is looking to be entertained and amused. So the old -campaigner takes a casual and lighthearted tone.</p> - -<p>If any old-timer is offended by this—well, there are any number of -serious books, plays, and pamphlets of mine that he can read, plus an -anthology and a selection of letters written to me by the really great -writers of our time. If that is not enough he can travel to the -University of Indiana and there, in the Lilly Library, he can read the -250,000 letters that have been written to me over the years—and the -carbon copies of my replies. After he has read all this, I shall have -written more.</p> - -<h2><a name="Contents" id="Contents"></a><i>Contents</i></h2> - -<table cellpadding="2" summary="deprecated"> -<tr><td> </td><td><i><a href="#Preface">Preface</a></i></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#Preface">v</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#I">I</a></td><td><a href="#I"><i>Childhood</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_3">3</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#II">II</a></td><td><a href="#II"><i>Youth</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_28">28</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#III">III</a></td><td><a href="#III"><i>Genius</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_53">53</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#IV">IV</a></td><td><a href="#IV"><i>Marriage</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_75">75</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#V">V</a></td><td><a href="#V"><i>Revolt</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_99">99</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#VI">VI</a></td><td><a href="#VI"><i>Utopia</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_127">127</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#VII">VII</a></td><td><a href="#VII"><i>Wandering</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_147">147</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#VIII">VIII</a></td><td><a href="#VIII"><i>Exile</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_169">169</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#IX">IX</a></td><td><a href="#IX"><i>New Beginning</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_191">191</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#X">X</a></td><td><a href="#X"><i>West to California</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_212">212</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#XI">XI</a></td><td><a href="#XI"><i>The Muckrake Man</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_222">222</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#XII">XII</a></td><td><a href="#XII"><i>More Causes—and Effects</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_243">243</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#XIII">XIII</a></td><td><a href="#XIII"><i>Some Eminent Visitors</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_254">254</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#XIV">XIV</a></td><td><a href="#XIV"><i>EPIC</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_268">268</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#XV">XV</a></td><td><a href="#XV"><i>Grist for My Mill</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_278">278</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#XVI">XVI</a></td><td><a href="#XVI"><i>Lanny Budd</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_291">291</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#XVII">XVII</a></td><td><a href="#XVII"><i>Harvest</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_303">303</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#XVIII">XVIII</a></td><td><a href="#XVIII"><i>A Tragic Ordeal</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_310">310</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#XIX">XIX</a></td><td><a href="#XIX"><i>End and Beginning</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_318">318</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#XX">XX</a></td><td><a href="#XX"><i>Summing Up</i></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_327">327</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td><i><a href="#Books_by_Upton_Sinclair">Books by Upton Sinclair</a></i></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_331">331</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td><i><a href="#Index">Index</a></i></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#Index">333</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<h2><a name="List_of_Illustrations" id="List_of_Illustrations"></a><i>List of Illustrations</i></h2> - -<p>(<i>The illustrations will be found between pages 166 and 167. All but the -last three were supplied by the Upton Sinclair Collection, Lilly -Library, Indiana University, Indiana.</i>)</p> - -<div class="ills"> -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_001">Priscilla Harden Sinclair</a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_002">Upton Beall Sinclair, Sr.</a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_003">Upton Sinclair at the age of eight</a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_004">Upton Sinclair at twenty-seven, when he was writing <i>The Jungle</i></a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_005">Winston Churchill reviews <i>The Jungle</i></a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_006">George Bernard Shaw at Ayot-St. Lawrence, about 1913</a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_007">Mary Craig Sinclair and Upton Sinclair in Bermuda, 1913</a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_008">George Sterling, his wife, Carrie, and Jack London</a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_009">Mrs. Kate Crane-Gartz</a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_010">Sergei Eisenstein, about 1933</a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_011">Upton Sinclair during the EPIC campaign, 1934</a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_012">Upton Sinclair and Harry Hopkins, 1934</a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_013"><i>Flivver King</i> in Detroit, 1937</a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_014">Upton Sinclair, about 1960, with autographed picture of Albert Einstein</a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_015">Upton Sinclair standing before his home in Monrovia, California</a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_016">May Hard Sinclair and Upton Sinclair, 1962</a></p> - -<p class="pdd"><a href="#ill_017">Upton Sinclair with seventy-nine of the books he has written</a></p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="The_Autobiography_of_Upton_Sinclair" id="The_Autobiography_of_Upton_Sinclair"></a><i>The Autobiography of Upton Sinclair</i></h2> - -<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a><i>1</i><br /><br /> -<i>Childhood</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>My first recollection of life is one that my mother insisted I could not -possibly have, because I was only eighteen months old at the time. Yet -there it is in my mind: a room where I have been left in the care of a -relative while my parents are taking a trip. I see a little old lady, -black-clad, in a curtained room; I know where the bed is located, and -the oilstove on which the cooking is done, and the thrills of exploring -a new place. Be sure that children know far more than we give them -credit for; I hear fond parents praising their precious darlings, and I -wince, noting how the darlings are drinking in every word. Always in my -childhood I would think: “How silly these grownups are! And how easy to -outwit!”</p> - -<p>I was a toddler when one day my mother told me not to throw a piece of -rag into a drain. “Paper dissolves, but rag doesn’t.” I treasured up -this wisdom and, visiting my Aunt Florence, remarked with great -impressiveness, “It is all right to throw paper into the drain, because -it dissolves, but you mustn’t throw rags in, because they don’t -dissolve.” Wonder, mingled with amusement, appeared on the face of my -sweet and gentle relative. My first taste of glory.</p> - -<p>Baltimore, Maryland, was the place, and I remember boardinghouse and -lodginghouse rooms. We never had but one room at a time, and I slept on -a sofa or crossways at the foot of my parents’ bed; a custom that caused -me no discomfort that I can re<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span>call. One adventure recurred; the -gaslight would be turned on in the middle of the night, and I would -start up, rubbing my eyes, and join in the exciting chase for bedbugs. -They came out in the dark and scurried into hiding when they saw the -light; so they must be mashed quickly. For thrills like this, wealthy -grown-up children travel to the heart of Africa on costly safaris. The -more bugs we killed, the fewer there were to bite us the rest of the -night, which I suppose is the argument of the lion hunters also. Next -morning, the landlady would come, and corpses in the washbasin or -impaled on pins would be exhibited to her; the bed would be taken to -pieces and “corrosive sublimate” rubbed into the cracks with a chicken -feather.</p> - -<p>My position in life was a singular one, and only in later years did I -understand it. When I went to call on my father’s mother, a black-clad, -frail little lady, there might be only cold bread and dried herring for -Sunday-night supper, but it would be served with exquisite courtesy and -overseen by a great oil painting of my grandfather in naval -uniform—with that same predatory beak that I have carried through life -and have handed on to my son. Grandfather Sinclair had been a captain in -the United States Navy and so had his father before him, and ancestors -far back had commanded in the British Navy. The family had lived in -Virginia, and there had been slaves and estates. But the slaves had been -set free, and the homestead burned, and the head of the family drowned -at sea in the last year of the Civil War. His descendants, four sons and -two daughters, lived in embarrassing poverty, but with the -consciousness, at every moment of their lives, that they were persons of -great consequence and dignity.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Being interested in the future rather than the past, I always considered -ancestors a bore. All I knew about mine were a few anecdotes my mother -told me. Then my friend Albert Mordell, who was writing a paper for a -historical magazine, came upon my great-grandfather. He wrote me: “The -life of your ancestors is a history of the American navy.” It amused him -to discover that a notorious “red” had such respectable forefathers, and -he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> had a manuscript called <i>The Fighting Sinclairs</i>, which may someday -be published. Meanwhile, since every biography is required to have -ancestors, I quote a summary that Mr. Mordell kindly supplied. Those not -interested in ancestors are permitted to skip.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Commodore Arthur Sinclair, the great-grandfather of Upton, fought in the -first American naval battle after the Revolution, he being a midshipman -on the <i>Constellation</i>, when it fought the <i>Insurgente</i>, in 1798. He was -also in the latter part of the war with Tripoli. He was on the <i>Argus</i> -in the first cruise of the War of 1812, and captured many prizes. He -fought in the leading battle of Lake Ontario under Commander Chauncey. -The battle was between the <i>Pike</i>, on which he was captain, and the -<i>Wolf</i>. He also a little later had command of the entire squadron on the -upper lakes. He commanded the <i>Congress</i> in its cruise to South America -in 1818, carrying the commissioners to investigate conditions, and on -its cruise was born the Monroe Doctrine, for the commissioner’s report -led to the promulgation of the Doctrine. He also founded a naval school -at Norfolk. When he died in 1831, the flags of all the ships were -ordered at half-mast, and mourning was ordered worn by the officers for -thirty days. He was an intimate friend of practically all the naval -heroes in the War of 1812.</p> - -<p>He had three sons, Arthur, George T., and Dr. William B., all of whom -became officers in the old navy and resigned in 1861 to join the -Confederacy. Arthur, who is Upton’s grandfather, was with Perry in Japan -in the early fifties. He also commanded a ship in the late fifties—the -<i>Vandalia</i>—and was compelled to destroy a village of cannibals on an -island in the Pacific.</p> - -<p>His brother, George T., was in the famous voyage of the <i>Potomac</i> around -the world in the early thirties, which went to attack a town in the -Malay Islands for some ravages upon an American ship. He also was with -Commander Elliott, the Lake Erie hero, on the <i>Constitution</i> in the -Mediterranean. He was in the famous Wilkes exploring expedition around -1840, when they discovered the Antarctic continent; and, like the rest -of the officers, he had trouble with Wilkes, whom they had -court-martialed. He also served in the African Squadron hunting slavers -in the early fifties, and later in the home squadron in the <i>Wabash</i> -under Commander Paulding. It was on this ship that the famous -filibuster, William Walker, who made himself dictator of Nicaragua, -surrendered to Paulding.</p> - -<p>The third brother, Dr. William B. Sinclair, was in the Mediterranean -Squadron with Commander Isaac Hull about 1840. He was also in the -African Squadron. All these three brothers were in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> Mexican waters -during the war, but saw no active service there. At the opening of the -Civil War, they became officers in the Confederate Navy and saw various -services.</p> - -<p>Arthur was compelled to burn his ship the <i>Mississippi</i> at the battle of -New Orleans to prevent its falling into the hands of his friend (now his -enemy) Farragut. He was drowned on a blockade runner when leaving -Liverpool toward the end of the war. George built a ship in England for -the Confederacy, but it was never taken over by them because the English -took hold of it. Dr. Sinclair served as physician in the Confederate -Navy.</p> - -<p>These three men also had four sons who became officers in the -Confederate Navy. Arthur had two sons in this navy—Arthur, Jr., and -Terry. Arthur, Jr., an uncle of Upton, was in the battle between the -<i>Monitor</i> and the <i>Merrimac</i>, and wrote an account of it. He served two -years on the <i>Alabama</i>, and was in the famous fight with the -<i>Kearsarge</i>, and left a book about his experiences: <i>Two Years on the -Alabama</i>.</p> - -<p>His brother, Terry, also an uncle of Upton, was on the Confederate -Cruiser <i>Florida</i>, the most important ship next to the <i>Alabama</i>, for -two years. This was captured unlawfully, and Terry was made a prisoner -of war, but was soon released. He left a magazine article about his -experience. George T.’s son, William H., commanded a prize ship taken by -the <i>Alabama</i>. Dr. William B.’s son, William B., Jr., was drowned at the -age of eighteen from the <i>Florida</i> because he gave his oar to a shipmate -who could not swim.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>My father was the youngest son of Captain Arthur Sinclair and was raised -in Norfolk. In the days before the war, and after it, all Southern -gentlemen “drank.” My father became a wholesale whisky salesman, which -made it easy and even necessary for him to follow the fashion. Later on -he became a “drummer” for straw-hat manufacturers, and then for -manufacturers of men’s clothing; but he could never get away from drink, -for the beginning of every deal was a “treat,” and the close of it was -another. Whisky in its multiple forms—mint juleps, toddies, hot -Scotches, egg-nogs, punch—was the most conspicuous single fact in my -boyhood. I saw it and smelled it and heard it everywhere I turned, but I -never tasted it.</p> - -<p>The reason was my mother, whose whole married life was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> poisoned by -alcohol, and who taught me a daily lesson in horror. It took my good and -gentle-souled father thirty or forty years to kill himself, and I -watched the process week by week and sometimes hour by hour. It made an -indelible impression upon my childish soul, and is the reason why I am a -prohibitionist, to the dismay of my “libertarian” friends.</p> - -<p>It was not that my father could not earn money, but that he could not -keep it. He would come home with some bank notes, and the salvation of -his wife and little son would depend upon the capture of this treasure. -My mother acquired the habit of going through his pockets at night; and -since he never knew how much he had brought home, there would be -arguments in the morning, an unending duel of wits. Father would hide -the money when he came in late, and then in the morning he would forget -where he had hidden it, and there would be searching under mattresses -and carpets and inside the lining of clothing—all sorts of unlikely -places. If my mother found it first, you may be sure that my father was -allowed to go on looking.</p> - -<p>When he was not under the influence of the Demon Rum, the little -“drummer” dearly loved his family; so the thirty years during which I -watched him were one long moral agony. He would make all sorts of -pledges, with tears in his eyes; he would invent all sorts of devices to -cheat his cruel master. He would not “touch a drop” until six o’clock in -the evening; he would drink lemonade or ginger ale when he was treating -the customers. But alas, he would change to beer, in order not to -“excite comment”; and then after a week or a month of beer, we would -smell whisky on his breath again, and the tears and wranglings and -naggings would be resumed.</p> - -<p>This same thing was going on in most of the homes in Maryland and -Virginia of which I had knowledge. My father’s older brother died an -inebriate in a soldiers’ home. My earliest memory of the home of my -maternal grandfather is of being awakened by a disturbance downstairs, -and looking over the banisters in alarm while my grandfather—a -Methodist deacon—was struggling with his grown son to keep him from -going out when he was drunk. Dear old Uncle Harry, burly and full of -laughter, a sportsman and favorite of all the world—at the age of forty -or so he put a bullet through his head in Central Park, New York.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span></p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>Human beings are what life makes them, and there is no more fascinating -subject of study than the origin of mental and moral qualities. My -father’s drinking accounted for other eccentricities of mine besides my -belief in prohibition. It caused me to follow my mother in everything, -and so to have a great respect for women; thus it came about that I -walked in the first suffrage parade in New York, behind the snow-white -charger of Inez Milholland. My mother did not drink coffee, nor even -tea; and so, when I visited in England, I made all my hostesses unhappy. -No lady had ever been known to smoke in Baltimore—only old Negro women -with pipes; therefore I did not smoke—except once. When I was eight -years old, a big boy on the street gave me a cigarette, and I started -it; but another boy told me a policeman would arrest me, so I threw the -cigarette away, and ran and hid in an alley, and have never yet -recovered from this fear. It has saved me a great deal of money, and -some health also, I am sure.</p> - -<p>The sordid surroundings in which I was forced to live as a child made me -a dreamer. I took to literature, because that was the easiest refuge. I -knew practically nothing about music; my mother, with the upbringing of -a young lady, could play a few pieces on the piano, but we seldom had a -piano, and the music I heard was church hymns, and the plantation -melodies that my plump little father hummed while shaving himself with a -big razor. My mother had at one time painted pictures; I recall a snow -scene in oils, with a kind of tinsel to make sparkles in the snow. But I -never learned this wonderful art.</p> - -<p>My mother would read books to me, and everything I heard I remembered. I -taught myself to read at the age of five, before anyone realized what -was happening. I would ask what this letter was, and that, and go away -and learn it, and make the sounds, and very soon I was able to take care -of myself. I asked my numerous uncles and aunts and cousins to send me -only books for Christmas; and now, three quarters of a century later, -traces of their gifts are still in my head. Let someone with a taste for -research dig into the Christmas books of the early eighties, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> find a -generous broad volume, with many illustrations, merry rhymes, and a -title containing the phrase “a peculiar family.” From this book I -learned to read, and I would ask my mother if she knew any such -“peculiar” persons; for example, the “little boy who was so dreadfully -polite, he would not even sneeze unless he asked you if he might.” He -sneezed by accident, and “scared all the company into the middle of next -week.”</p> - -<p>While arguments between my father and my mother were going on, I was -with Gulliver in Lilliput, or on the way to the Celestial City with -Christian, or in the shop with the little tailor who killed “seven at -one blow.” I had Grimm and Andersen and <i>The Story of the Bible</i>, and -Henty and Alger and Captain Mayne Reid. I would be missing at a party -and be discovered behind the sofa with a book. At the home of my Uncle -Bland there was an encyclopedia, and my kind uncle was greatly impressed -to find me absorbed in the article on gunpowder. Of course, I was -pleased to have my zeal for learning admired—but also I really did want -to know about gunpowder.</p> - -<p>Readers of my novels know that I have one favorite theme, the contrast -between the social classes; there are characters from both worlds, the -rich and the poor, and the plots are contrived to carry you from one to -the other. The explanation is that as far back as I can remember, my -life was a series of Cinderella transformations; one night I would be -sleeping on a vermin-ridden sofa in a lodginghouse, and the next night -under silken coverlets in a fashionable home. It all depended on whether -my father had the money for that week’s board. If he didn’t, my mother -paid a visit to her father, the railroad official in Baltimore. No -Cophetua or Aladdin in fairy lore ever stepped back and forth between -the hovel and the palace as frequently as I.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>When <i>The Metropolis</i> was published in 1908, the New York critics said -it was a poor novel because the author didn’t know the thing called -“society.” As a matter of fact, the reason was exactly the opposite; the -author knew “society” too well to overcome his distaste for it. -Attempting to prove this will of course<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> lay me open to the charge of -snobbery; it is not good form to establish your own social position. -But, on the other hand, neither is it good form to tell about your -drunken father, or the bedbugs in your childhood couch; so perhaps one -admission will offset the other. What I am doing is explaining a -temperament and a literary product, and this can be done only by making -real to you both sides of my double life—the bedbugs and liquor on the -one hand, the snobbery on the other.</p> - -<p>My maternal grandfather was John S. Harden, secretary-treasurer of the -Western Maryland Railroad. I remember going to his office and seeing -rows of canvas bags full of gold and silver coin that were to go into -pay envelopes. I remember also that the president of the road lived just -up the street from us and that I broke one of his basement windows with -a ball. I was sent to confess my crime and carry the money to pay for -it.</p> - -<p>Grandfather Harden was a pillar of the Methodist Church, which was not -fashionable; but even so, the leaders of Baltimore’s affairs came to his -terrapin suppers, and I vividly recall these creatures—I mean the -terrapin—crawling around in the backyard, and how a Negro man speared -them through the heads with a stout fork, and cut off their heads with a -butcher knife. Apparently it was not forbidden for a Methodist to serve -sherry wine in terrapin stew—or brandy, provided it had been soaked up -by fruitcake or plum pudding.</p> - -<p>I recall the long reddish beard of this good and kindly old man and the -large bald spot on the top of his head. It did not occur to me as -strange that his hair should grow the wrong way; but I recall that I was -fascinated by a mole placed exactly on the top, like a button, and once -I yielded to a dreadful temptation and gave it a slap. Then I fled in -terror to the top story of the house. I was brought down by my shocked -mother and aunts, and ordered to apologize. I recollect this grandfather -carving unending quantities of chickens, ducks, turkeys, and hams; but I -cannot to save me recall a single word that he spoke. I suppose the -reason the carving stands out in my mind is that I was the youngest of -the family of a dozen or so and therefore the last to get my plate at -mealtimes.</p> - -<p>I recall even better my maternal grandmother, a stout, jolly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> old lady, -who made delightful ginger cookies and played on the piano and sang -little tunes to which I danced as a child:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Here we go, two by two,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dressed in yellow, pink and blue.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">Mary Ayers was her maiden name, and someone who looked up her family -tree discovered that she could lay claim to several castles in Ireland. -The family got in touch with the Irish connections, and letters were -exchanged, with the result that one of the younger sons came -emigrating—a country “squire,” six feet or more, rosy-cheeked, and with -a broad brogue. He told us about his search for a job and of the -unloving reception he met when he went into a business place. “<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Git -oot,’ said the man, and so I thought I’d better git oot.” Not finding -anything in Baltimore, our Irish squire wound up on the New York police -force—a most dreadful humiliation to the family. My mother, of a -mischievous disposition, would wait until her fashionable niece and -nephew were entertaining company, and then inquire innocently: “By the -way, whatever became of that cousin of ours who’s a policeman up in New -York?”</p> - -<p>My mother’s older sister married John Randolph Bland, named for John -Randolph, the Virginia statesman. This Uncle Bland, as I called him, -became one of the richest men in Baltimore. Sometime before his death, I -saw him scolded in a country club of his home city because of his -dictatorial ways. The paper referred to him as “the great Bland”—which -I suppose establishes his position. He knew all the businessmen of the -city, and they trusted him. So he was able to sell them shares in a -bonding concern he organized. I remember walking downtown with him one -day when I was a child. We stopped at a big grocery store while he -persuaded the owner to take shares in the company he was founding. Its -name was the United States Fidelity and Guaranty Company, and of course -he became its president. You have probably heard of it because it has -branches all over America and in many of the world’s capitals.</p> - -<p>After I had taken up my residence in Pasadena, he made a tour of the -country to become acquainted with the agents of his company; he gave a -banquet to those in southern California.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> There must have been two -hundred of them, for they filled the biggest private dining room of our -biggest hotel. His muckraker-nephew was invited to partake of this feast -and listen to the oratory—but not to be heard, you may be sure! We all -sang “Annie Laurie” and “Nellie Gray” and other songs calculated to work -up a battle spirit and send us out to take away the other fellow’s -business.</p> - -<p>In my childhood, I lived for months at a time at Uncle Bland’s. He and -his family lived in one of those brick houses—four stories high, with -three or four white marble steps—which are so characteristic of -Baltimore and were apparently planned and built by the block. Uncle -Bland’s daughter married an heir of many millions, and through the years -of her young ladyhood I witnessed dances and parties, terrapin suppers, -punch, dresses, gossip—everything that is called “society.” Prior to -that came the debut and wedding of my mother’s younger sister, all of -which I remember, even to the time when she woke my mother in the middle -of the night, exclaiming, “Tell me, Priscie, shall I many him?” For the -benefit of the romantically minded, let me say that she did and that -they lived happily until his death.</p> - -<p>Let me picture for you the training of a novelist of social contrasts! -My relatives were intimate with the society editor of Baltimore’s -leading newspaper; a person of “good family,” no common newspaperman, be -it understood. His name was Doctor Taylor, so apparently he was a -physician as well as a writer. I see him, dapper, blond, and dainty, -with a boutonniere made of one white flower in a ring of purple flowers; -he was one of those strange, half-feminine men who are accepted as -sexless and admitted to the boudoirs of ladies in deshabille to help -drape their dresses and design their hats. All the while he kept up a -rapid-fire chatter about everybody who was anybody in the city. I sat in -a corner and heard the talk—whose grandfather was a grocer and whose -cousin eloped with a fiddler. I breathed that atmosphere of pride and -scorn, of values based upon material possessions preserved for two -generations or more, and the longer the better. I do not know why I came -to hate it, but I know that I did hate it from my earliest days. And -everything in my later life confirmed my resolve never to “sell out” to -that class.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span></p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>Nor were the members of my father’s family content to remain upon a diet -of cold bread and dried herring. My father’s older sister had lovely -daughters, and one of them married a landed estate in Maryland. In 1906, -in the days of <i>The Jungle</i>, when I went to Washington to see Theodore -Roosevelt, I visited this cousin, who was now a charming widow and was -being unsuccessfully wooed by Senator Albert J. Beveridge of Indiana. -Later she became the wife of General George Barnett, who commanded the -United States Marine Corps in France. This marriage gave rise much later -to a comic sequence, which required no change to be fitted into one of -my novels. I will tell it here—even though it requires skipping thirty -years ahead of my story.</p> - -<p>It was at the height of the White Terror, after World War I, and one of -the cities of which the American Legion had assumed control was Santa -Barbara, California. I was so unwise as to accept an invitation to -address some kind of public-ownership convention in that city, and my -wife and I motored up with several friends, and learned upon our arrival -that the Legion chiefs had decreed that I was not to be heard in Santa -Barbara.</p> - -<p>In the effort to protect ourselves as far as possible, we registered at -the most fashionable hotel, the Arlington—shortly afterward destroyed -by an earthquake. Upon entering the lobby, the first spectacle that met -our anxious eyes was a military gentleman in full regalia: shiny leather -boots, Sam Browne belt, shoulder straps and decorations—I don’t know -the technical names for these things, but there was everything to -impress and terrify. “He is watching you!” whispered my wife, and so he -was; there could be no doubt of it, the stern military eye was riveted -upon my shrinking figure. There has always been a dispute in the family -as to whether I did actually try to hide behind one of the big pillars -of the hotel lobby. My wife said it was so, and I was never permitted to -spoil her marital stories.</p> - -<p>The military gentleman disappeared, and a few minutes later came a -bellboy. “Are you Mr. Sinclair?” I pleaded guilty, and was told: “There -is a lady who wishes to speak to you in the reception room.” “Is it an -ambush?” I thought. I had been warned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> not to go anywhere alone; there -were rumors that the Ku Klux Klan was after me, as well as the Legion. -(This proved not to be true; I was shortly afterward invited to join the -Klan!)</p> - -<p>In the reception room sat a lady, none other than my cousin Lelia, -somewhat plump, but as lovely as any lady can be with the help of both -nature and art. How glad we were to see each other! And how much gossip -we had to exchange after sixteen years! “You must meet my hubby,” she -said, and led me into the lobby—and who should “hubby” be but the -stern-eyed general! Whatever displeasure he may have felt at having a -revolutionary cousin-in-law he politely concealed, and we discussed the -weather of southern California in the most correct booster spirit.</p> - -<p>Presently the general reminded his wife that the military machine of the -United States Government was awaiting his arrival in San Francisco; they -had some three hundred and fifty miles to drive that night. But the -Southern beauty shook her proud head (you see I know the language of -chivalry) and said, “I haven’t seen my cousin for sixteen years.” So the -general paced the lobby in fierce impatience for two hours, while Lelia -chatted with my wife and my socialist bodyguard—a millionaire woman -friend of my wife, about whom I shall have much to tell later on. Did I -remember the time when I was romping with Kate, and put a pillow on -Kate’s head and sat on it, and when they pulled me off she was black in -the face? Yes, I remembered it Kate was married to a civil engineer, -Walter was ill—and so on.</p> - -<p>At last I saw my childhood playmate off in a high-powered military car, -with a chauffeur in khaki and a guard to ride at his side, both with -holsters at their belts; most imposing. It was fine local color for a -novelist—and incidentally it was a knockout for the American Legion -chiefs of Santa Barbara. Since I was cousin-in-law to the commander in -chief of this military district, it was impossible to prevent my -speaking in favor of the public ownership of water power in California!</p> - -<h3>VII</h3> - -<p>To return to childhood days: my summers were spent at the country home -of the Bland family or with my mother at summer resorts in Virginia. My -father would be “on the road,” and I re<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span>member his letters, from which I -learned the names of all the towns in Texas and the merits of the -leading hotels. If my father was “drinking,” we stayed in some -low-priced boardinghouse—in the city in winter and in the country in -summer. On the other hand, if my father was keeping his pledges, we -stayed at one of the springs hotels. My earliest memory of these hotels -is of a fancy-dress ball, for which my mother fixed me up as a baker, -with a white coat and long trousers and a round cap. That was all right, -except that I was supposed to carry a wooden tray with rolls on it, -which interfered with my play. Another story was told to me by one of -the victims, whom I happened to meet. I had whooping cough, and the -other children were forbidden to play with me; this seemed to me -injustice, so I chased them and coughed into their faces, after which I -had companions in misery. I should add that this early venture in -“direct action” is not in accordance with my present philosophy.</p> - -<p>I remember one of the Virginia boardinghouses. I would ask for a second -helping of fried chicken, and the little Negro who waited table would -come back and report, “<span class="lftspc">’</span>Tisn’ any mo’.” No amount of hungry protest -could extract any words except, “<span class="lftspc">’</span>Tisn’ any mo’, Mista Upton, ’tisn’ any -mo’.” At another place the formula ran, “Will you have ham or an egg?” I -went fishing and had good luck, and brought home the fish, thinking I -would surely get enough to eat that day; but my fish was cooked and -served to the whole boardinghouse. I recall a terrible place known as -Jett’s, to which we rode all day in a bumpy stagecoach. The members of -that household were pale ghosts, and we discovered that they were users -of drugs. There was an idiot boy who worked in the yard, and gobbled his -food out of a tin plate, like a dog.</p> - -<p>My Aunt Lucy was with us that summer, and the young squires of the -country came calling on Sunday afternoons, vainly hoping that this -Baltimore charmer with the long golden hair might consent to remain in -rural Virginia. They hitched their prancing steeds to a rail in the -yard, and I, an adventurer of eight or ten years, would unhitch them one -by one and try them out. I rode a mare to the creek, her colt following, -and let them both drink; then I rode back, and can see at this hour the -expedition that met me—the owner of the mare, my mother and my aunt, -many visitors and guests, and farmhands armed with pitchforks<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span> and -ropes. There must have been a dozen persons, all looking for a -tragedy—the mare being reputed to be extremely dangerous. But I had no -fear, and neither had the mare. From this and other experiences I -believe that it is safer to go through life without fear. You may get -killed suddenly, but meantime it is easier on your nerves.</p> - -<h3>VIII</h3> - -<p>When I was eight or nine, my father was employed by a New York firm, so -we moved north for the winter, and I joined the tribe of city nomads, a -product of the new age, whose formula runs: “Cheaper to move than to pay -rent.” I remember a dingy lodginghouse on Irving Place, a derelict hotel -on East Twelfth Street, housekeeping lodgings over on Second Avenue, a -small “flat” on West 65th Street, one on West 92nd Street, one on West -126th Street. Each place in turn was home, each neighborhood full of -wonder and excitement. Second Avenue was especially thrilling, because -the “gangs” came out from Avenue A and Avenue B like Sioux or Pawnees in -war paint, and well-dressed little boys had to fly for their lives.</p> - -<p>Our longest stay—several winters, broken by moves to Baltimore—was at -a “family hotel” called the Weisiger House, on West 19th Street. The -hotel had been made by connecting four brownstone dwellings. The parlor -of one was the office. The name sounds like Jerusalem; but it was really -Virginia, pronounced Wizziger. Colonel Weisiger was a Civil War veteran -and had half the broken-down aristocracy of the Old South as his guests; -he must have had a sore time collecting his weekly dues.</p> - -<p>I learned much about human nature at the Weisiger House, observing -comedies and tragedies, jealousies and greeds and spites. There was the -lean Colonel Paul of South Carolina, and the short Colonel Cardoza of -Virginia, and the stout Major Waterman of Kentucky. Generals I do not -remember, but we had Count Mickiewicz from Poland, a large, expansive -gentleman with red beard and booming voice. What has become of little -Ralph Mickiewicz, whom I chased up and down the four flights of stairs -of each of those four buildings—sixteen flights in all, quite a hunting -ground! We killed flies on the bald heads<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> of the colonels and majors, -we wheedled teacakes in the kitchen, we pulled the pigtails of the -little girls playing dolls in the parlor. One of these little girls, -with whom I quarreled most of the time, was destined to grow up and -become my first wife; and our married life resembled our childhood.</p> - -<p>Colonel Weisiger was large and ample, with a red nose, like Santa Claus; -he was the judge and ultimate authority in all disputes. His son was six -feet two, quiet and reserved. Mrs. Weisiger was placid and kindly, and -had a sister, Miss Tee, who made the teacakes—this pun is of God’s -making, not of mine. Completing the family was Taylor Tibbs, a large -black man, who went to the saloon around the corner twice every day to -fetch the Colonel’s pail of beer. In New York parlance this was known as -“rushing the growler,” and you will find Taylor Tibbs and his activities -all duly recorded in my novel <i>The Wet Parade</i>. Later in life I would go -over to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer to see him in the “talkie” they were making -of the novel.</p> - -<h3>IX</h3> - -<p>In those days at the Weisiger House I was one of Nature’s miracles, such -as she produces by the millions in tenement streets—romping, shouting, -and triumphant, entirely unaware that their lot is a miserable one. I -was a perpetual explosion of energy, and I cannot see how anybody in the -place tolerated me; yet they all liked me, all but one or two who were -“mean.” I have a photograph of myself, dressed in kilts; and my mother -tells me a story. Some young man, teasing me, said: “You wear dresses; -you are a girl.” Said I: “No, I am a boy.” “But how do you know you are -a boy?” “Because my mother says so.”</p> - -<p>My young mother would go to the theater, leaving me snugly tucked in -bed, in care of some old ladies. I would lie still until I heard a -whistle, and then forth I would bound. Clad in a pair of snow-white -canton-flannel nighties, I would slide down the banisters into the arms -of the young men of the house. What romps I would have, racing on bare -feet, or borne aloft on sturdy shoulders! We never got tired of pranks; -they would set me up in the office and tell me jokes and conundrums, -teach me songs—it was the year of McGinty, hero of hilarity:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Down went McGinty to the bottom of the sea;<br /></span> -<span class="i3">He must be very wet,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">For they haven’t found him yet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dressed in his best suit of clothes.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>These young men would take me to see the circus parade, which went up -Broadway on the evening prior to the opening of Barnum and Bailey’s. -Young Mr. Lee would hold me on his shoulder a whole evening for the sake -of hearing my whoops of delight at the elephants and the gorgeous ladies -in spangles and tights. I remember a trick they played on one of these -parade evenings. Just after dinner they offered me a quarter if I would -keep still for five minutes by the watch, and they sat me on the big -table in the office for all the world to witness the test. A couple of -minutes passed, and I was still as any mouse; until one of the young men -came running in at the front door, crying, “The parade is passing!” I -leaped up with a wail of despair.</p> - -<p>As a foil to this, let me narrate the most humiliating experience of my -entire life. Grown-up people do not realize how intensely children feel, -and what enduring impressions are made upon their tender minds. The -story I am about to tell is as real to me as if it had happened last -night.</p> - -<p>My parents had a guest at dinner, and I was moved to another table, -being placed with old Major Waterman and two young ladies. The venerable -warrior started telling of an incident that had taken place that day. “I -was walking along the street and I met Jones. ‘Come in and have a -drink,’ said he, and I replied, ‘No, thank you’—”</p> - -<p>What was to be the end of that story I shall never know in this world. -“Oh, Major Waterman!” I burst out, and there followed an appalled -silence. Terror gripped my soul as the old gentleman turned his bleary -eyes upon me. “What do you mean, sir? Tell me what you mean.”</p> - -<p>Now, if this had been a world in which men and women spoke the truth to -one another, I could have told exactly what I meant. I would have said, -“I mean that your cheeks are inflamed and your nose has purple veins in -it, and it is difficult to believe that you ever declined anyone’s -invitation to drink.” But it was not a world in which one could say such -words; all I could do was to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span> sit like a hypnotized rabbit, while the -old gentleman bored me through. “I wish to have an answer, sir! What did -you mean by that remark?” I still have, as one of my weaknesses, the -tendency to speak first and think afterwards; but the memory of Major -Waterman has helped me on the way to reform.</p> - -<h3>X</h3> - -<p>The pageant of America gradually revealed itself to my awakening mind. I -saw political processions—I remember the year when Harrison defeated -Cleveland, and our torchlight paraders, who had been hoping to celebrate -a Democratic triumph, had to change their marching slogan at the last -minute. “Four, four, four years more!” they had expected to shout; but -they had to make it four months instead. The year was 1888, and my age -was ten.</p> - -<p>Another date that can be fixed: I remember the excitement when Corbett -defeated the people’s idol, John L. Sullivan. Corbett was known as -Gentleman Jim, and I told my mother about the new hero. “Of course,” -said the haughty Southern lady, “it means that he is a gentleman for a -prize-fighter.” But I assured her, “No, no, he is a real gentleman. The -papers all say so.” This was in 1892, and I was fourteen, and still -believed the papers.</p> - -<p>There was a Spanish dancer called Carmencita and a music hall, Koster -and Bial’s; I never went to such places, but I heard the talk. There was -a book by the name of <i>Trilby</i>, which the ladies blushed to hear spoken -of. I did not read it until later, but I knew it had something to do -with feet, because thereafter my father always called them “trilbies.” -There were clergymen denouncing vice in New York, and editors denouncing -the clergymen. I heard Tammany ardently defended by my father, whose -politics were summed up in a formula: “I’d rather vote for a nigger than -for a Republican.”</p> - -<p>I recall another of his sayings—I must have heard it a hundred -times—that Inspector Byrnes was the greatest detective chief in the -world. I now know that Inspector Byrnes ran the detective bureau of New -York upon this plan: local pickpockets and burglars and confidence men -were permitted to operate upon two conditions—that they would keep out -of the Wall Street and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> Fifth Avenue districts, and would report to -Byrnes all outside crooks who attempted to invade the city. Another of -my father’s opinions—this one based upon knowledge—was that you should -never argue with a New York policeman, because of the danger of getting -your skull cracked.</p> - -<p>What was the size and flavor of Blue Point oysters as compared with -Lynnhaven Bay’s? Why was it impossible to obtain properly cooked food -north of Baltimore? What was the wearing quality of patent-leather shoes -as compared with calfskin? Wherein lay the superiority of Robert E. Lee -over all other generals of history? Was there any fusel oil in whisky -that was aged in the wood? Were the straw hats of next season to have a -higher or a lower brim? Where had the Vanderbilts obtained the -fifty-thousand-dollar slab of stone that formed the pavement in front of -their Fifth Avenue palace? Questions such as these occupied the mind of -my little, fat, kindhearted father and his friends. He was a fastidious -dresser, as well as eater, and especially proud of his small hands and -feet—they were aristocratic; he would gaze down rapturously at his -tight little shoes, over his well-padded vest. He had many words to -describe the right kind of shoes and vests and hats and gloves; they -were “nobby,” they were “natty,” they were “neat”—such were the phrases -by which he sold them to buyers.</p> - -<p>I heard much of these last-named essential persons, but cannot recall -ever seeing one. They were Jews, or countrymen, and the social lines -were tightly drawn; never would my father, even in the midst of drink -and degradation, have dreamed of using his aristocratic Southern wife to -impress his customers. Nor would he use his little son, who was expected -to grow up to be a naval officer like his ancestors. “The social -position of a naval officer is the highest in the world,” pronounced my -father. “He can go anywhere, absolutely anywhere; he can meet crowned -heads as their equals.” And meantime the little son was reaching out -into a strange world of books; reading things of which the father had -never heard. “What are you reading?” he would ask, and the son would -reply, none too generously, “A book.” The father got used to this -answer. “Reading a book!” he would say, with pathetic futility. The -chasm between the two was widening, never to be closed in this world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span></p> - -<h3>XI</h3> - -<p>I was ten years old before I went to school. The reason was that some -doctor told my mother that my mind was outgrowing my body, and I should -not be taught anything. When finally I was taken to a public school, I -presented the teachers with a peculiar problem; I knew everything but -arithmetic. This branch of learning, so essential to a commercial -civilization, had shared the fate of alcohol and tobacco, tea and -coffee; my mother did not use it, so neither did I.</p> - -<p>The teachers put me in the first primary grade, to learn long division; -promising that as soon as I caught up in the subject, I would be moved -on. I was humiliated at being in a class with children younger than -myself, so I fell to work and got into the grammar school in less than a -month, and performed the unusual feat of going through the eight grammar -grades in less than two years. Thus at the age of twelve I was ready for -the City College—it was called a college, but I hasten to explain that -it was in reality only a high school.</p> - -<p>Unfortunately the college was not ready for me. No one was admitted -younger than fourteen; so there was nothing for me to do but to take the -last year of grammar school all over again. I did this at old Number 40, -on East 23rd Street; my classmates were the little “toughs” of the East -Side tenements. An alarming experience for a fastidious young -Southerner, destined for the highest social circles—but I count it a -blessing hardly to be exaggerated. That year among the “toughs” helped -to save me from the ridiculous snobbery that would otherwise have been -my destiny in life. Since then I have been able to meet all kinds of -humans and never see much difference; also, I have been able to keep my -own ideals and convictions, and “stand the gaff,” according to the New -York phrase.</p> - -<p>To these little East Side “toughs” I was, of course, fully as strange a -phenomenon as they were to me. I spoke a language that they associated -with Fifth Avenue “dudes” wearing silk hats and kid gloves. The Virginia -element in my brogue was entirely beyond their comprehension; the first -time I spoke of a “street-cyar,” the whole class broke into laughter. -They named me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> Chappie, and initiated me into the secrets of a dreadful -game called “hop, skip, and a lepp,” which you ended, not on your feet, -but on your buttocks; throwing your legs up in the air and coming down -with a terrific bang on the hard pavement. The surgeons must now be -performing operations for floating kidney upon many who played that game -in boyhood.</p> - -<p>The teacher of the class was a jolly old Irishman, Mr. Furey; he later -became principal of a school, and I would have voted for his promotion -without any reservation. He was a disciplinarian with a homemade method; -if he observed a boy whispering or idling during class, he would let fly -a piece of chalk at the offender’s head. The class would roar with -laughter; the offender would grin, pick up the chalk, and bring it to -the teacher, and get his knuckles smartly cracked as he delivered it, -and then go back to his seat and pay attention. From this procedure I -learned that pomposity is no part of either brains or achievement, and I -have never in my life tried to impress anyone by being anything but what -I am.</p> - -<p>One feature of our school was the assembly room, into which we marched -by classes to the music of a piano, thumped by a large dark lady with a -budding mustache. We sang patriotic songs and listened to recitations in -the East Side dialect, a fearful and wonderful thing. This dialect tried -to break into the White House in the year 1928, and the rest of America -heard it for the first time. Graduates of New York public schools who -had made millions out of paving and contracting jobs put up the money to -pay for radio “hookups,” and the voice of Fulton Fish Market came -speaking to the farmers of the corn belt and the fundamentalists of the -bible belt. “Ladies and genn’lmun, the foist thing I wanna say is that -the findin’s of this here kimittee proves that we have the woist of -kinditions in our kimmunity.” I sat in my California study and listened -to Al Smith speaking in St. Louis and Denver, and it took me straight -back to old Number 40, and the little desperados throwing their buttocks -into the air and coming down with a thump on the hard pavement.</p> - -<p>As I read the proofs of this book I have returned from a visit to New -York after thirty years. The old “El” roads are gone, and many of the -slum tenements have been replaced by sixty-story buildings. The “micks” -and the “dagos” have been replaced by Negroes and Puerto Ricans, who -have taken possession of Harlem.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span></p> - -<h3>XII</h3> - -<p>Behold me now, a duly enrolled “subfreshman” of the College of the City -of New York; a part of the city’s free educational system, not very -good, but convenient for the son of a straw-hat salesman addicted to -periodical “sprees.” It was a combination of high school and college, -awarding a bachelor’s degree after a five-year course. I passed my -entrance examinations in the spring of 1892, and I was only thirteen, -but my public-school teacher and principal entered me as fourteen. The -college work did not begin until September 15, and five days later I -would be of the required age, so really it was but a wee little lie.</p> - -<p>The college was situated in an old brick building on the corner of -Lexington Avenue and 23rd Street. It was a firetrap, but I did not know -it, and fortunately never had to learn it. There were about a thousand -students in its four or five stories, and we trooped from one classroom -to another and learned by rote what our bored instructors laid out for -us. I began Latin, algebra, and solid geometry, physics, drawing, and a -course called English, which was the most dreadful ordeal I ever had to -endure. We had a list of sentences containing errors, which we were -supposed to correct. The course was necessary for most of the class -because they were immigrants or the sons of immigrants. For me it was -unnecessary, but the wretched teacher was affronted in his dignity, and -would set traps for me by calling on me when my mind had wandered.</p> - -<p>The professor of chemistry and physics was R. Ogden Doremus, a name well -known to the public because he testified as an expert in murder trials. -He had snowy white mustaches, one arm, and a peppery temper. His -assistant was his son, whom he persisted in referring to as Charlie, -which amused us, because Charlie was a big man with a flourishing black -beard. I managed early in the course to get on the elderly scientist’s -nerves by my tendency to take the physical phenomena of the universe -without due reverence. The old gentleman would explain to us that -scientific caution required us to accept nothing on his authority, but -to insist upon proving everything for ourselves. Soon afterward he -produced a little vial of white powder, remarking, “Now,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> gentlemen, -this vial contains arsenic, and a little pinch of it would be sufficient -to kill all the members of this class.” Said I, “<i>You</i> try that, -Professor!”</p> - -<p>Really, he might have joined in the laugh. But what he did was to call -me an “insolent young puppy,” and to predict that I was going to “flunk” -his course, in which event he would see to it that I did not get -promoted to the next class. This roused my sporting spirit, and I -decided to “flunk” his course and get such high marks in all the other -courses that I could not be held back. This I did.</p> - -<p>The top floor of our building was a big auditorium, where we met every -morning for chapel. Our “prexy” read a passage from the Bible, and three -of us produced efforts in English composition, directed and staged by a -teacher of elocution, who had marked our manuscripts in the margin with -three mystic symbols: <i>rg</i>, <i>lg</i>, and <i>gbh</i>. The first meant a gesture -with the right hand, the second a gesture with the left hand, and the -third a gesture with both hands—imploring the audience, or in extreme -emergencies lifted into the air, imploring the deity. In a row, upstage, -facing the assembled students, sat our honorable faculty, elderly -gentlemen with whiskers, doing their best not to show signs of boredom. -Our “prexy” was a white-bearded Civil War veteran, General Webb; and -when it was my turn to prepare a composition, I made my debut as a -revolutionary agitator with an encomium of my fathers favorite hero, -Robert E. Lee. My bombshell proved a dud, because General Webb, who had -commanded a brigade at Gettysburg, remarked mildly that it was a good -paper, and Lee had been a great man. Soldiers, I learned, take a -professional attitude to their jobs, and confine their fighting to the -field of battle.</p> - -<h3>XIII</h3> - -<p>The year I started at this college, we lived in a three-or four-room -flat on West 65th Street. Mother did the cooking, and father would put -an apron over his little round paunch and wash the dishes; there was -much family laughter when father kissed the cook. When the weather was -fair, I rode to college on a bicycle; when the weather was stormy, I -rode on the Sixth Avenue Elevated and walked across town. I took my -lunch in a little tin<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> box with a strap: a couple of sandwiches, a piece -of cake, and an apple or banana. The honorific circumstances of college -life were missing. In fact, so little did I know about these higher -matters that when I was sounded out for a “frat,” I actually didn’t know -what it was, and could make nothing of the high-sounding attempts at -explanation. If the haughty upperclassman with the correct clothes and -the Anglo-Saxon features had said to me in plain words, “We want to keep -ourselves apart from the kikes and wops who make up the greater part of -our student body,” I would have told him that some of the kikes and wops -interested me, whereas he did not.</p> - -<p>About two thirds of the members of my class were Jews. I had never known -any Jews before, but here were so many that one took them as a matter of -course. I am not sure if I realized they were Jews; I seldom realize it -now about the people I meet. The Jews have lived in Central Europe for -so long, and have been so mixed with the population, that the border -line is hard to draw. Since I became a socialist writer, half my friends -and half my readers have been Jews. I sum up my impression of them in -the verse about the little girl who had a little curl right in the -middle of her forehead, and when she was good she was very, very good, -and when she was bad she was horrid.</p> - -<p>About this time, I threw away another chance for advancement. My uncle, -Terry Sinclair, who was an “old beau” in New York and therefore met the -rich and had some influence, brought to his bright young nephew the -offer of an appointment to the Annapolis Naval Academy. This was -regarded as my birthright, but I declined it. I had made up my mind that -I wanted to be a lawyer, having come to the naïve conclusion that the -law offered a way to combine an honorable living with devotion to books. -This idea I carried through college and until I went up to Columbia -University, where I had an opportunity to observe the law-school -students.</p> - -<h3>XIV</h3> - -<p>My Saturdays and holidays I spent racing about the streets and in my -playground, Central Park. In the course of these years I came to know -this park so well that afterward, when I walked in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> it, every slope and -turn of the winding paths had a story for me. I learned to play tennis -on its grass courts; I roller-skated on its walks and ice-skated on its -lakes—when the flag with the red ball went up on top of the “castle,” -thrilling the souls of young folks for miles around. I played hare and -hounds, marking up the asphalt walks with chalk; we thought nothing of -running all the way around the park, a distance of seven miles.</p> - -<p>The Upper West Side was mostly empty lots, with shanties of “squatters” -and goats browsing on tin cans—if one could believe the comic papers. -Blasting and building were going on, and the Italian laborers who did -this hard and dangerous work were the natural prey of us young -aborigines. We snowballed them from the roofs of the apartment houses, -and when there was no snow, we used clothespins. When they cursed us we -yelled with glee. I can still remember the phrases—or at any rate what -we imagined the phrases to be. “Aberragotz!” and “Chingasol!”—do those -sounds mean anything to an Italian? If they do, it may be something -shocking, perhaps not fit to print. When these “dagos” chased us, we -fled in terror most delightful.</p> - -<p>Sometimes we would raid grocery stores on the avenue and grab a couple -of potatoes, and roast them in bonfires on the vacant lots. I was a -little shocked at this idea, but the other boys explained to me that it -was not stealing, it was only “swiping,” and the grocers took it for -granted. So it has been easy for me to understand how young criminals -are made in our great cities. We manufacture crime wholesale, just as -certainly and as definitely as we manufacture alcohol in a mash of -grain. And just as we can stop getting alcohol by not mixing a mash, so -we can stop crime by not permitting exploitation and economic -inequality.</p> - -<p>But that is propaganda, and I have sworn to leave it out of this book. -So instead, let me tell a story that illustrates the police attitude -toward these budding criminals. In my mature days when I was collecting -material about New York, I was strolling on the East Side with an -elderly police captain. It was during a reform administration, and the -movement for uplift had taken the form of a public playground, with -swings and parallel bars. The young men of the tenements were developing -their muscles after a day’s work loading trucks, and I said to the -captain, what a fine thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span> they should have this recreation. The -elderly cynic snorted wrathfully: “Porch climbers! Second-story work!”</p> - -<p>The Nietzscheans advise us to live dangerously, and this advice I took -without having heard it. The motorcar had not yet come in, but there -were electric cars and big two-horse trucks, and my memory is full of -dreadful moments. Riding down Broadway to college, the wheel of my -bicycle slipped into the wet trolley slot, and I was thrown directly in -front of an oncoming car. Quick as a cat, I rolled out of the way, but -the car ran over my hat, and a woman bystander fainted. Again, skating -on an asphalt street, I fell in the space between the front and rear -wheels of a fast-moving express wagon, and had to whisk my legs out -before the rear wheels caught them. When I was seventeen, I came to the -conclusion that Providence must have some special purpose in keeping me -in the world, for I was able to reckon up fourteen times that I had -missed death by a hairbreadth. I had fallen off a pier during a storm; I -had been swept out to sea by a rip tide; I had been carried down from -the third story of the Weisiger House by a fireman with a scaling -ladder.</p> - -<p>I do not know so much about the purposes of Providence now as I did at -the age of seventeen, and the best I can make of the matter is this: -that several hundred thousand little brats are bred in the great -metropolis every year and turned out into the streets to develop their -bodies and their wits, and in a rough, general way, those who get caught -by streetcars and motorcars and trucks are those who are not quite so -quick in their reactions. But when it comes to genius, to beauty, -dignity, and true power of mind, I cannot see that there is any chance -for them to survive in the insane hurly-burly of metropolitan life. If I -wanted qualities such as these in human beings, I would surely transfer -them to a different environment. And maybe that is what Providence was -planning for me to understand and to do in the world. At any rate, it is -what I am trying to do, and is my final reaction to the great metropolis -of Mammon.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a><i>2</i><br /><br /> -<i>Youth</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Childhood lasted long, and youth came late in my life. I was taught to -avoid the subject of sex in every possible way; the teaching being done, -for the most part, in Victorian fashion, by deft avoidance and anxious -evasion. Apparently my mother taught me even too well; for once when I -was being bathed, I persisted in holding a towel in front of myself. -Said my mother: “If you don’t keep that towel out of the way, I’ll give -you a spank.” Said I: “Mamma, would you rather have me disobedient, or -immodest?”</p> - -<p>The first time I ever heard of the subject of sex, I was four or five -years old, playing on the street with a little white boy and a Negro -girl, the child of a janitor. They were whispering about something -mysterious and exciting; there were two people living across the street -who had just been married, and something they did was a subject of -snickers. I, who wanted to know about everything, tried to find out -about this; but I am not sure my companions knew what they were -whispering about; at any rate, they did not tell me. But I got the -powerful impression of something strange.</p> - -<p>It was several years later that I found out the essential facts. I spent -a summer in the country with a boy cousin a year or two younger than I, -and we watched the animals and questioned the farmhands. But never did I -get one word of information or advice from either father or mother on -this subject; only the motion of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> shrinking away from something -dreadful. I recollect how the signs of puberty began to show themselves -in me, to my great bewilderment; my mother and grandmother stood -helplessly by, like the hens that hatch ducklings and see them go into -the water.</p> - -<p>Incredible as it may seem, I had been at least two years in college -before I understood about prostitution. So different from my friend Sam -De Witt, socialist poet, who told me that he was raised in a tenement -containing a house of prostitution, and that at the age of five he and -other little boys and girls played brothel as other children play dolls, -and quarrelled as to whose turn it was to be the “madam”! I can remember -speculating at the age of sixteen whether it could be true that women -did actually sell their bodies. I decided in the negative and held to -that idea until I summoned the courage to question one of my classmates -in college.</p> - -<p>The truth, finally made clear, shocked me deeply, and played a great -part in the making of my political revolt. Between the ages of sixteen -and twenty I explored the situation in New York City, and made -discoveries that for me were epoch-making. The saloonkeeper, who had -been the villain of my childhood melodrama, was merely a tool and victim -of the big liquor interests and politicians and police. The twin bases -of the political power of Tammany Hall were saloon graft and the sale of -women. So it was that, in my young soul, love for my father and love for -my mother were transmuted into political rage, and I sallied forth at -the age of twenty, a young reformer armed for battle. It would be a -longer battle than I realized, alas!</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Another factor in my life that requires mentioning is the Protestant -Episcopal Church of America. The Sinclairs had always belonged to that -church; my father was named after an Episcopal clergyman, the Reverend -Upton Beall. My mother’s father was a Methodist and took the <i>Christian -Herald</i>, and as a little fellow I read all the stories and studied all -the pictures of the conflicts with the evil one; but my mother and aunts -had apparently decided that the Episcopal Church was more suited to -their social standing, and therefore my spiritual life had always been -one of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> elegance. Not long ago, seeking local color, I attended a -service in Trinity Church; it was my first service in more than thirty -years, yet I could recite every prayer and sing every hymn and could -even have preached the sermon.</p> - -<p>In New York, no matter how poor and wretched the rooms in which we -lived, we never failed to go to the most fashionable church; it was our -way of clinging to social status. When we lived at the Weisiger House, -we walked to St. Thomas’ on Fifth Avenue. When we lived on Second -Avenue, we went to St. George’s. When we moved uptown, we went to St. -Agnes’. Now and then we would make a special trip to the Church of St. -Mary the Virgin, which was “high” and had masses and many candles and -jeweled robes and processions and genuflections and gyrations. Always I -wore tight new shoes and tight gloves and a neatly brushed little derby -hat—supreme discomfort to the glory of God. I became devout, and my -mother, determined upon making something special of me, decided that I -was to become a bishop. I myself talked of driving a hook-and-ladder -truck.</p> - -<p>We moved back to the Weisiger House, and I was confirmed at the Church -of the Holy Communion, just around the corner; the rector, Doctor -Mottet, lived to a great age. His assistant was the Reverend William -Wilmerding Moir, son of a wealthy old Scotch merchant; the young -clergyman had, I think, more influence upon me than any other man. My -irreverent memory brings up the first time I was invited to his home and -met his mother, who looked and dressed exactly like Queen Victoria, and -his testy old father, who had a large purple nose, filled, I fear, with -Scotch whisky. The son took me aside. “Upton,” he said, “we are going to -have chicken for dinner, and Father carves, and when he asks you if you -prefer white meat or dark, please express a preference, because if you -say that it doesn’t matter, he will answer that you can wait till you -make up your mind.”</p> - -<p>Will Moir was a young man of fashion, but he had gone into the church -because of genuine devoutness and love of his fellowmen. Spirituality is -out of fashion at the moment and open to dangerous suspicion, so I -hasten to say that he was a thoroughly wholesome person; not brilliant -intellectually, but warm-hearted, loyal, and devoted. He became a foster -father to me, and despite all my teasing of the Episcopal Church in <i>The -Profits of Religion</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span> and elsewhere, I have never forgotten this loving -soul and what he meant at the critical time of my life. My quarrel with -the churches is a lover’s quarrel; I do not want to destroy them, but to -put them on a rational basis, and especially to drive out the money -changers from the front pews.</p> - -<p>Moir specialized in training young boys in the Episcopal virtues, with -special emphasis upon chastity. He had fifty or so under his wing all -the time. We met at his home once a month and discussed moral problems; -we were pledged to write him a letter once a month and tell him all our -troubles. If we were poor, he helped us to find a job; if we were -tempted sexually, we would go to see him and talk it over. The advice we -got was always straightforward and sound. The procedure is out of -harmony with this modern age, and my sophisticated friends smile when -they hear about it. The problem of self-discipline versus -self-development is a complicated one, and I can see virtues in both -courses and perils in either extreme. I am glad that I did not waste my -time and vision “chasing chippies,” as the sport was called; but I am -sorry that I did not get advice and aid in the task of finding a girl -with whom I might have lived wisely and joyfully.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>I became a devout little Episcopalian, and at the age of fourteen went -to church every day during Lent. I taught a Sunday-school class for a -year. But I lost interest because I could not discover how these little -ragamuffins from the tenements were being made better by learning about -Jonah and the whale and Joshua blowing down the walls of Jericho. I was -beginning to use my brains on the Episcopalian map of the universe, and -a chill was creeping over my fervor. Could it possibly be that the -things I had been taught were merely the Hebrew mythology instead of the -Greek or the German? Could it be that I would be damned for asking such -a question? And would I have the courage to go ahead and believe the -truth, even though I were damned for it?</p> - -<p>I took these agonies to my friend Mr. Moir, who was not too much -troubled; it appeared that clergymen were used to such crises in the -young. He told me that the fairy tales did not really matter, he was not -sure that he believed them himself; the only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> thing of importance was -the resurrection of Jesus Christ and the redemption by his blood. So I -was all right for a time—until I began to find myself doubting the -resurrection of Jesus Christ. After all, what did we know about it? Were -there not a score of other martyred redeemers in the mythologies? And -how could Jesus have been both man and God at the same time? As a -psychological proposition, it meant knowing everything and not knowing -everything, and was not that plain nonsense?</p> - -<p>I took this also to Mr. Moir, and he loaded me up with tomes of -Episcopalian apologetics. I remember the Bampton Lectures, an annual -volume of foundation lectures delivered at Oxford. I read several -volumes, and it was the worst thing that ever happened to me; these -devout lectures, stating the position of the opposition, suggested so -many new doubts that I was completely bowled over. Literally, I was -turned into an agnostic by reading the official defenses of -Christianity. I remind myself of this when I have a tendency to worry -over the barrage of attacks on socialism in the capitalist press. Truth -is as mighty now as it was then.</p> - -<p>I told my friend Mr. Moir what had happened, but still he refused to -worry; it was a common experience, and I would come back. I felt certain -that I never would, but I was willing for him to keep himself happy. I -no longer taught Sunday school, but I remained under my friend’s -sheltering wing, and told him my troubles—up to the time when I was -married. Marriage was apparently regarded as a kind of graduation from -the school of chastity. My friend did not live to see me as a socialist -agitator; he succumbed to an attack of appendicitis—due, no doubt, to -his habit of talking Christianity all through dinner and, just before -the butler came to remove his plate, bolting his food in a minute or -two.</p> - -<p>For a time my interest was transferred to the Unitarian Church. I met -Minot J. Savage of the Church of the Messiah, now the Community Church; -his arguments seemed to me to possess that reasonableness that I had -missed in the Bampton Lectures. I never joined his church, and have -never again felt the need of formal worship; from the age of sixteen it -has been true with me that “to labor is to pray.” I have prayed hard in -this fashion and have found it the great secret of happiness.</p> - -<p>An interesting detail about Dr. Savage: he was the first in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span>tellectual -man I ever met who claimed to have seen a ghost. Not merely had he seen -one, he had sat up and chatted with it. I found this an interesting -idea, and find it so still. I am the despair of my orthodox -materialistic friends because I insist upon believing in the possibility -of so many strange things. My materialistic friends know that these -things are <i>a priori</i> impossible; whereas I assert that nothing is <i>a -priori</i> impossible. It is a question of evidence, and I am willing to -hear the evidence about anything whatever.</p> - -<p>The story as I recall it is this. Savage had a friend who set out for -Ireland in the days before the cable; at midnight Savage awakened and -saw his friend standing by his bedside. The friend stated that he was -dead, but Savage was not to think that he had known the pangs of -drowning; the steamer had been wrecked on the coast of Ireland, and the -friend had been killed when a beam struck him on the left side of his -head as he was trying to get off the ship. Savage wrote this out and had -it signed by witnesses, and two or three weeks later came the news that -the ship had been wrecked and the friend’s body found with the left side -of his head crushed.</p> - -<p>If such a case stood alone, it would of course be nothing. But in Edmund -Gurney’s two volumes, <i>Phantasms of the Living</i>, are a thousand or so -cases, carefully documented. There is another set of cases, collected by -Dr. Walker Franklin Prince, of the Boston Society for Psychical Research -in Bulletin XIV of that society. I no longer find these phenomena so -difficult of belief, because my second wife and I demonstrated -long-range telepathy in our personal lives. Later on, I shall be telling -about our book, <i>Mental Radio</i>.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>In my class in college there was a Jewish boy by the name of Simon -Stern, whom I came to know well because we lived in the same -neighborhood and often went home together. Simon wrote a short story, -and one day came to class in triumph, announcing that this story had -been accepted by a monthly magazine published by a Hebrew orphans’ home. -Straightway I was stirred to emulation. If Simon could write a story, -why could not I? Such<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> was the little acorn that grew into an oak, with -so many branches that it threatens to become top-heavy.</p> - -<p>I wrote a story about a pet bird. For years it had been my custom every -summer to take young birds from the nest and raise them. They would know -me as their only parent, and were charming pets. Now I put one of these -birds into an adventure, making it serve to prove the innocence of a -colored boy accused of arson. I mailed the story to the <i>Argosy</i>, one of -the two Munsey publications in those early days, and the story was -accepted, price twenty-five dollars. You can imagine that I was an -insufferable youngster on the day that letter arrived; especially to my -friend Simon Stern, who had not been paid for his story.</p> - -<p>Our family fortunes happened to be at a low ebb just then, so I fell to -digging in this new gold mine. I found several papers that bought -children s stories at low prices; also, before long, I discovered -another gold mine—writing jokes for the comic papers. At seventeen, -jokes were my entire means of support. My mother and I spent that winter -on West 23rd Street, near the river. My weekly budget was this: for a -top-story hallroom in a lodginghouse, one dollar twenty-five; for two -meals a day at an eating house, three dollars; and for a clean collar -and other luxuries, twenty-five cents. It seems a slender allowance, but -you must remember that I had infinite riches in the little room of the -college library.</p> - -<p>The quantity production of jokes is an odd industry, and for the aid of -young aspirants I will tell how it is done. Jokes are made up hind end -forward, so to speak; you don’t think of the joke, but of what it is to -be about. There are tramp jokes, mother-in-law jokes, plumber jokes, -Irishman jokes, and so on. You decide to write tramp jokes this morning; -well, there are many things about tramps that are jokable; they do not -like to work, they do not like to bathe, they do not like bulldogs, and -so on. You decide to write about tramps not liking to bathe; very well, -you think of all the words and phrases having to do with water, soaps, -tubs, streams, rain, etc., and of puns or quirks by which these words -can be applied to tramps.</p> - -<p>I have a scrapbook in which my mother treasured many of the jokes for -which I was paid one dollar apiece, and from this book, my biographer, -Floyd Dell, selected one, in which a tramp calls<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> attention to a sign, -“Cleaning and Dyeing,” and says he always knew those two things went -together. Out of this grew a joke more amusing than the one for which I -was paid. My enterprising German publishers prepared a pamphlet about my -books, to be sent to critics and reviewers in Germany, and they quoted -this joke as a sample of my early humor. The Germans didn’t think it was -very good. And no wonder. The phrase in translation appeared as -“<i>Waescherei und Faeberei</i>,” which, alas, entirely destroys the double -meaning of “Dyeing.” It makes me think of the Irishman on a railroad -handcar who said that he had just been taking the superintendent for a -ride, and had heard a fine conundrum. “What is the difference between a -railroad spike and a thief in the baggage room? One grips the steel and -the other steals the satchels.”</p> - -<p>My jokes became an obsession. While other youths were thinking about -“dates,” I was pondering jokes about Scotchmen, Irishmen, Negroes, Jews. -I would take my mother to church, and make up jokes on the phrases in -the prayer book and hymnbook. I kept my little notebook before me at -meals, while walking, while dressing, and in classes if the professor -was a bore. I wrote out my jokes on slips of paper, with a number in the -corner, and sent them in batches of ten to the different editors; when -the pack came back with one missing, I had earned a dollar. I had a -bookkeeping system, showing where each batch had been sent; jokes number -321 to 330 had been sent to <i>Life</i>, <i>Judge</i>, and <i>Puck</i>, and were now at -the <i>Evening Journal</i>.</p> - -<p>I began taking jokes to artists who did illustrating. They would pay for -ideas—if you could catch them right after they had collected the money. -It was a New York bohemia entirely unknown to fame. Dissolute and -harum-scarum but good-natured young fellows, they were, inhabiting -crudely furnished “studios” in the neighborhood of East 14th Street. I -will give one glimpse of this artist utopia: I entered a room with a -platform in the center and saw a tall lanky Irishman standing on it, -bare-armed and bare-legged, a sheet wrapped around him, and an umbrella -in his hand, the ferule held to his mouth. “What is this?” I asked, and -the young artist replied, “I am doing a set of illustrations of the -Bible. This is Joshua with the trumpet blowing down the walls of -Jericho.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span>”</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>The editor of <i>Argosy</i> who accepted my first story was Matthew White, -Jr., a genial little gentleman, who had been the great Munsey’s -associate from the earliest days, when that future master of magazine -merchandising and chain grocery stores had sat in a one-room office in -his shirt sleeves and kept his own accounts. White invited me to call on -him, and I went, and we had a delightful chat; at any rate, I found it -so. Finally the editor asked me if I would not like to see the “plant,” -whereupon he led me through two or three rooms full of bookkeepers and -office girls stamping envelopes, and then paused casually at the -elevator and rang the bell. So I learned that an author is not so great -a novelty to an editor as an editor is to an author. The device of -“showing the plant” is one which I have employed many times with callers -who fail to realize that I am more of a novelty to them than they are to -me.</p> - -<p>I wrote other stories for the <i>Argosy</i>, and also odds and ends for -<i>Munsey’s</i>. They had a department called “Fads,” and I racked my -imagination for new ones that could be humorously written up; each one -would be a meal ticket for a week. In the summer—1895, I think it -was—my mother and I went to a hotel up in a village called Pawlet, -Vermont, and Matthew White, a bachelor, came to join us for his -vacation. My experience at that hotel requires considerable courage to -tell.</p> - -<p>My father was drinking, and we were stranded. Rather than be dependent -upon our relatives, I had answered an advertisement for a hotel clerk, -and there I was, the newly arrived employee of this moderately decent -country establishment. I was supposed to do part-time work to earn the -board of my mother and myself, and the very first night of my arrival, I -discovered that one of the duties of the so-called clerk was to carry up -pitchers of ice water to the guests. I refused the duty, and the outcome -of the clash of wills was that the proprietor did it instead. I can see -in my mind’s eye this stoop-shouldered, elderly man, with a long brown -beard turning gray; he was kindhearted, and doubtless saw the kind of -decayed gentlefolk he had got on his hands. He was sorry for my mother, -and did not turn us away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span></p> - -<p>I performed such duties as were consistent with my notion of my own -dignity, but they were not many. Among them was copying out the dinner -menus every day; that brought me into clash with the cooks of the -establishment—they were husband and wife, and had a notion of their -importance fully equal to my own. I would sometimes fail to copy all the -fancy French phrases whereby they sought to glorify their performances. -Ever since then, I lose my appetite when I hear of “prime ribs of beef -au jus.”</p> - -<p>I remember that among the guests was the painter, J. G. Brown, famous -for depicting newsboys and village types. I took long walks with him and -learned his notion of art, which was that one must paint only beautiful -and cheerful things, never anything ugly or depressing. His children -were not so democratic as their father and refused to overlook my status -as an employee. His oldest daughter was named Mabel, and all the young -people called her that. I, quite innocently, did the same—until she -turned upon me in a fury and informed me that she was “Miss Brown.”</p> - -<p>Yet my status as a college student apparently kept me in the amateur -class, for I was on the tennis team that played matches with other -hotels in the neighborhood. I remember a trip we made, in which I -received a lesson in table manners as practiced in this remote land of -the Yankees. It was the custom to serve vegetables in little bird -bathtubs, which were ranged in a semicircle about each plate, five or -six of them. The guests finished eating, and I also finished; all the -other plates were cleared away, but mine remained untouched, and I did -not know why. The waitress was standing behind me, and I remarked -gently, “I am through”—the very precise language that my mother had -taught me to use; never “I am done,” but always, “I am through.” But -this waitress taught me something new. Said she, in a voice of icy -scorn: “<i>Stack your dishes!</i>”</p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>The venerable faculty of the College of the City of New York, who had -charge of my intellectual life for five years, were nearly all of them -Tammany appointees, and therefore Catholics. It was the first time I had -ever met Catholics, and I found them kindly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span> but set in dogma, and as -much given to propaganda as I myself was destined to become.</p> - -<p>For example, there was “Herby.” Several hours a week for several years I -had “Herby,” the eminent Professor Charles George Herbermann, editor of -the <i>Catholic Encyclopedia</i> and leading light of the Jesuits. He was a -stout, irascible old gentleman with a bushy reddish beard. “Mr. -Sinclair,” he would roar, “it is so because I <i>say</i> it is so!” But that -did not go with me at all; I would say, “But, Professor, how <i>can</i> it be -so?” We would have a wrangle, pleasing to other members of the class, -who had not prepared their lessons and were afraid of being called upon. -(We learned quickly to know each professor’s hobbies, and whenever we -were not prepared to recite, we would start a discussion.)</p> - -<p>“Herby” taught me Latin, “Tizzy” taught me Greek, and Professor George -Hardy taught me English. He was a little round man of the Catholic -faith, and his way of promoting the faith was to set a class that was -sixty per cent Jewish to learning Catholic sentimentality disguised as -poetry. I remember we had to recite Dobson’s “The Missal,” and avenged -ourselves by learning it to the tune of a popular music-hall ditty of -the hour, “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay.” Hardy was a good teacher, except when -the Pope came in. He told us that Milton was a dangerous disturber of -the peace of Europe, and that it was a libel to say that Chaucer was a -Wycliffite. What a Wycliffite was nobody ever mentioned.</p> - -<p>Our professor of history had no dogma, so I was permitted to learn -English and European history according to the facts. I was interested, -but could not see why it was necessary for me to learn the names of so -many kings and dukes and generals, and the dates when they had -slaughtered so many human beings. In the effort to keep them in my mind -until examination day, I evolved a memory system, and once it tripped me -in a comical way. “Who was Lord Cobden?” inquired the professor; and my -memory system replied: “He passed the corncob laws.”</p> - -<p>But the prize laugh of my history class had to do with a lively witted -youngster by the name of Fred Schwed, who afterward became a curb -broker. Fred never prepared anything and never paid attention, but -trusted to his gift of the gab. He was suddenly called upon to explain -the origin of the title, Prince of Wales. Said the grave Professor -Johnston: “Mr. Schwed, how did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> it happen that an English prince, the -son of an English king, was born on Welsh soil?” Fred, called suddenly -out of a daydream or perhaps a game of crap shooting, gazed with a wild -look and stammered: “Why—er—why, you see, Professor—his mother was -there.”</p> - -<h3>VII</h3> - -<p>Also, I remember vividly Professor Hunt, who taught us freehand drawing, -mechanical drawing, and perspective. A lean gentleman with a black -mustache and a fierce tongue, he suffered agonies from bores. You may -believe that in our class we had many; and foreigners struggling with -English were also a trial to him. I recall a dumb Russian by the name of -Vilkomirsson; he would gaze long and yearningly, and at last blurt out -some question that would cause the class to titter. In perspective it is -customary to indicate certain points by their initials; the only one I -recall now is “V.P.,” which means “vanishing point.” The poor foreigner -could never get these abbreviations straight, and he would take a seat -right in front of the professor in the hope of being able to ask help -without disturbing the rest of the class. “Professor, I don’t understand -what you mean when you say that the V.P. is six inches away.” “Mr. -Vilkomirsson,” demanded the exasperated teacher, “if I were to tell you -that the D.F. is six feet away, what would you understand me to mean?”</p> - -<p>Our freehand drawing was done in a large studio with plaster casts all -around the room. We took a drawing board and fastened a sheet of paper -to it, and with a piece of charcoal proceeded to make the best possible -representation of one of the casts; Professor Hunt in the meantime -roamed about the room like a tiger at large, taking a swipe with his -sharp claws at this or that helpless victim. That our efforts at “free” -art were not uniformly successful you may judge from verses that I -contributed to our college paper portraying the agony of mind of a -subfreshman who, forgetting what he was drawing, took his partly -completed work from the rack and wandered up and down in front of a row -of plaster casts, exclaiming: “Good gracious, is it Juno, or King Henry -of Navarre?”</p> - -<p>I contributed a number of verses and jokes to this college paper<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> and to -a class annual that we got up. I have some of them still in my head, and -will set down the sad story of “an imaginative poet” who</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Came to C.C.N.Y.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dreaming of nature’s beauty<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the glories of the sky.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He learned that stars are hydrogen,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The comets made of gas;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That Jupiter and Venus<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In elliptic orbits pass.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He learned that the painted rainbow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">God’s promise, as poets feign,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is transverse oscillations<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Turning somersaults in rain.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">And so on to the sorrowful climax:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">His poetry now is ruined,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His metaphors, of course;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’s trying to square the circle<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And to find the five-toed horse.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>I will relate one other incident of these early days, in which you may -see how the child is father to the man. The crowding in our ramshackle -old school building had become a scandal, and an effort was under way to -persuade the legislature to vote funds for new buildings uptown. No easy -matter to persuade politicians to take an interest in anything so remote -as higher education! We students were asked to circulate petitions, to -be signed by voters; and I, in an excess of loyalty to my alma mater, -gave my afternoons and Saturdays to the task for a month or two, and -went the rounds of department stores and business houses. Not many of -the persons invited to sign had ever heard of the matter, but it cost -them nothing, and they were willing to take the word of a nice jolly lad -that a free college was a good thing. I brought in some six or eight -hundred signatures, and got my name in the college paper for my zeal. -You see here the future socialist, distributing leaflets and making -soapbox speeches—to the same ill-informed and indifferent crowd.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span></p> - -<h3>VIII</h3> - -<p>Simon Stern and I went into partnership and wrote a novel of many -adventures about which I don’t remember a thing. Together we visited the -office of Street and Smith, publishers of “thrillers” for boys, and met -one of the editors, who was amused to hear two boys in short trousers -announce themselves as joint authors of a novel. He read it, and did not -accept it, but held out hopes and suggested that we write another novel, -according to his needs. We agreed to do so and went away, and to the -consternation of the editor came back in a week with the novel complete. -I have since learned that you must never do that. Make the editor think -you are taking a lot of time because that is one of his tests of -excellence—despite the examples of Dumas and Balzac and Dickens and -Dostoevski and other masters.</p> - -<p>I am not sure what became of that story. All I remember is that during -the ensuing summer I was working at a full-length novel of adventure, -which I am ashamed to realize bore a striking resemblance to <i>Treasure -Island</i>. The difference was that it happened on land, having to do with -an effort to find buried gold hidden by some returning forty-niners -before they were killed by Indians. <i>The Prairie Pirates</i> was the title, -and I don’t know if the manuscript survives; but I recall having read it -at some later date and being impressed by my idea of “sex appeal” at the -age of seventeen. The hero had accompanied the beautiful heroine all the -way from California and rescued her many times from Indian marauders and -treacherous half-breeds. At the end he told her blushingly that he loved -her, and then, having obtained permission, “he placed upon her forehead -a holy kiss.”</p> - -<p>I was working on that novel in some country boardinghouse in New Jersey, -and I mounted my bicycle with a bundle of manuscript strapped upon it, -and rode to New York and up the Hudson into the Adirondack mountains, to -a farmhouse on Brant Lake. At this retreat I enjoyed the companionship -of a girl who was later to be my wife; her mother and my mother had -become intimate friends, and we summered together several times for that -reason. She was a year and a half younger than I, and we gazed at each -other across a chasm of misunderstanding. She was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> a quiet, undeveloped, -and unhappy girl, while I was a self-confident and aggressive youth, -completely wrapped up in my own affairs. To neither of us did fate give -the slightest hint of the trick it meant to play upon us four years -later.</p> - -<p>That fall I was invited to visit my clergyman friend, William Moir, in -his brother’s camp at Saranac Lake. I got on my bicycle at four o’clock -one morning and set out upon a mighty feat—something that was the goal -in life of all cycling enthusiasts in those far off eighteen-nineties. -“Have you done a century?” we would ask one another, and it was like -flying across the Atlantic later on. All day I pedaled, through sand and -dust and heat. I remember ten miles or so up the Schroon River—no doubt -it is a paved boulevard now, but in 1896 it was a ribbon of deep sand, -and I had to plod for two or three hours. I remember coming down through -a pass into Keene Valley—on a “corduroy road” made of logs, over which -I bumped madly. In those days you used your foot on the front tire for a -brake, and the sole of my shoe became so hot that I had to dip it into -the mountain stream. I remember the climb out of Keene Valley, eight -miles or so, pushing the wheel uphill; there was Cascade Lake at sunset, -a beautiful spot, and I heard Tennyson’s bugles blowing—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The long light shakes across the lakes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the wild cataract leaps in glory.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>I came into the home of my friend at half past ten at night, and was -disappointed of my hopes because the total had been only ninety-six -miles. I had not yet “done a century.” I took the same ride back a -couple of weeks later, and was so bent upon achievement that it was all -my mother could do to dissuade me from taking an extra night ride from -the farmhouse to the village and back so as to complete the hundred -miles. From this you may see that I was soundly built at that age and -looking for something to cut my teeth upon. If it should ever happen -that a “researcher” wants something to practice on, he may consult the -files of the New York <i>Evening Post</i> for the autumn of 1896 and find a -column article describing the ride. I am not sure it was signed, but I -remember that Mr. Moir, job-maker extraordinary, had given me a letter -to the city editor of the <i>Evening Post</i>, and I had become a reporter -for a week. I gave it up because the staff was too<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span> crowded, and all -there was for this bright kid just out of knickerbockers was a few -obituary notices, an inch or two each.</p> - -<p>It was the <i>Post</i> I read in the afternoon, and the <i>Sun</i> in the morning, -and in my social ideas I was the haughtiest little snob that ever looked -down upon mankind from the lofty turrets of an imitation-Gothic college. -I can recollect as if it were yesterday my poor father—he was showing -some signs of evolving into a radical, having been reading editorials by -Brisbane in the <i>Evening Journal</i>, a sort of steam calliope with which -Willie Hearst had just broken loose on Park Row. Oh, the lofty scorn -with which I spurned my father! I would literally put my fingers into my -ears in order that my soul might not be sullied by the offensive sounds -of the Hearst calliope. I do not think my father ever succeeded in -making me hear a word of Brisbane’s assaults upon the great and -noble-minded McKinley, then engaged in having the presidency purchased -for him by Mark Hanna.</p> - -<h3>IX</h3> - -<p>My poor father was no longer in position to qualify as an educator of -youth. Every year he was gripped more tightly in the claws of his demon. -He would disappear for days, and it would be my task to go and seek him -in the barrooms that he frequented. I would find him, and there would be -a moral battle. I would argue and plead and threaten; he would weep, or -try to assert his authority—though I cannot recall that he ever even -pretended to be angry with me. I would lead him up the street, and every -corner saloon would be a new contest. “I must have just one more drink, -son. I can’t go home without one more. If you only knew what I am -suffering!” I would get him to bed and hide his trousers so that he -could not escape, and mother would make cups of strong black coffee, or -perhaps a drink of warm water and mustard.</p> - -<p>Later on, things grew worse yet. My father was no longer to be found in -his old haunts; he was ashamed to have his friends see him and would -wander away. Then I had to seek him in the dives on the Bowery—the -Highway of Lost Men, as I called it in <i>Love’s Pilgrimage</i>. I would walk -for hours, peering into scores of places, and at last I would find him, -sunk into a chair or sleeping with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> his arms on a beer-soaked table. -Once I found him literally in the gutter—no uncommon sight in those -days.</p> - -<p>I would get a cab and take him—no longer home, for we could not handle -him; he would be delirious, and there would be need of strong-armed -attendants and leather straps and iron bars. I would take him to St. -Vincent’s Hospital, and there, with crucified saviors looking down on -us, I would pay twenty-five dollars to a silent, black-clad nun, and my -father would be entered in the books and led away, quaking with terror, -by a young Irish husky in white ducks. A week or two later he would -emerge, weak and unsteady, pasty of complexion but full of moral fervor. -He would join the church, sign pledges, vote for Sunday closing, weep on -my shoulder and tell me how he loved me. For a week or a month or -possibly several months he would struggle to build up his lost business -and pay his debts.</p> - -<h3>X</h3> - -<p>My liberal friends who read <i>The Wet Parade</i> found it sentimental and -out of the spirit of the time. To them I made answer that the -experiences of my childhood were “reality,” quite as much so as the -blood and guts of the Chicago stockyards or the birth scene in <i>Love’s -Pilgrimage</i>. It is a fact that I have been all my life gathering -material on the subject of the liquor problem. I know it with greater -intimacy than any other theme I have ever handled. The list of drunkards -I have wrestled with is longer than the list of coal miners, oil -magnates, politicians, or any other group I have known and portrayed in -my books.</p> - -<p>My experiences with my father lasted thirty years; during this period -several uncles and cousins, and numerous friends of the family, Southern -gentlemen, Northern businessmen, and even one or two of their wives were -stumbling down the same road of misery. Later on, I ran into the same -problem in the literary and socialist worlds: George Sterling, Jack -London, Ambrose Bierce, W. M. Reedy, O. Henry, Eugene Debs—a long list. -I have a photograph of Jack and George and the latter’s wife, Carrie, -taken on Jack’s sailboat on San Francisco Bay; three beautiful people, -young, happy, brilliant—and all three took poison to escape the claws -of John Barleycorn. And then came a new generation,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span> many of whom I knew -well: Sinclair Lewis, Edna Millay, Eugene O’Neill, Dylan Thomas, Scott -Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Theodore Dreiser, William Faulkner.</p> - -<p>The experience with my father of course made me prematurely serious. I -began questioning the world, trying to make out how such evils came to -be. I soon traced the saloon to Tammany and blamed my troubles on the -high chieftains of this organization. I remember writing of Richard -Croker that “I would be willing with my own hands to spear him on a -pitchfork and thrust him into the fires of hell.” A sound evangelical -sentiment! I had not yet found out “big business”—and of course I would -not, until I had outgrown E. L. Godkin of the <i>Evening Post</i> and Charles -A. Dana of the <i>Sun</i>.</p> - -<p>It was my idea at this time that the human race was to be saved by -poetry. Men and women were going to be taught noble thoughts, and then -they would abandon their base ways of living. I had made the -acquaintance of Shelley and conceived a passionate friendship for him. -Then I became intimate with Hamlet, Prince of Denmark; he came to the -library of my Uncle Bland, in Baltimore, where I spent the Christmas -holidays, and we had much precious converse. I too was a prince, in -conflict with a sordid and malignant world; at least, so I saw myself, -and lived entirely in that fantasy, very snobbish, scornful, and -superior. Any psychiatrist would have diagnosed me as an advanced case -of delusion of grandeur, messianic complex, paranoia, narcissism, and so -to the end of his list.</p> - -<h3>XI</h3> - -<p>Along with extreme idealism, and perhaps complementary to it, went a -tormenting struggle with sexual desire. I never had relations with any -woman until my marriage at the age of twenty-two; but I came close to -it, and the effort to refrain was more than I would have been equal to -without the help of my clergyman friend. For a period of five years or -more I was subject to storms of craving; I would become restless and -miserable and wandering out on the street, look at every woman and girl -I passed and dream an adventure that might be a little less than sordid. -Many of the daughters of the poor, and more than once a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> daughter of the -rich, indicated a “coming-on disposition”; there would begin a -flirtation, with caresses and approaches to intimacy. But then would -come another storm—of shame and fear; the memory of the pledge I had -given; the dream of a noble and beautiful love, which I cherished; also, -of course, the idea of venereal disease, of which my friend Moir kept me -informed. I would shrink back and turn cold; two or three times, with my -reformer’s impulse, I told the girl about it, and the petting party -turned into a moral discourse. I have pictured such a scene in <i>Love’s -Pilgrimage</i>, and it affords amusement to my “emancipated” radical -friends.</p> - -<p>What do I think about these experiences after sixty-five years of -reflection? The first fact—an interesting one—is that I am still -embarrassed to talk about them. My ego craves to be dignified and -impressive and is humiliated to see itself behaving like a young puppy. -I have to take the grown-up puppy by the back of the neck and make him -face the facts—there being so many young ones in the world who have the -same troubles. Frankness about sex must not be left to the cynical and -morally irresponsible.</p> - -<p>There are dangers in puritanism, and there are compensations. My -chastity was preserved at the cost of much emotional effort, plus the -limitation of my interests in certain fields. For example, I could not -prosecute the study of art. In the splendid library of Columbia -University were treasures of beauty, costly volumes of engravings; and -in my usual greedy fashion I went at these, intending to learn all there -was to know about Renaissance art in a week or two. But I found myself -overwhelmed by this mass of nakedness; my senses reeled, and I had to -quit. I might have gone back when I was mature; but alas, I was by then -too busy trying to save the world from poverty and war. This confession -resembles Darwin’s—that his concentration upon the details of natural -science had the effect of atrophying his interest in music and other -arts.</p> - -<p>What did I get in return for this? I got intensity and power of -concentration; these elements in my make-up were the product of my -efforts to resist the tempter. I learned to work fourteen hours a day at -study and creative effort because it was only by being thus occupied -that the craving for woman could be kept<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> out of my soul. I told myself -the legend of Hercules and recited the wisdom attributed to Solomon: “He -that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.”</p> - -<p>For years now we have heard a great deal about mental troubles caused by -sex repression; we have heard little about the complexes that may be -caused by sex indulgence. But my observation has been that those who -permit themselves to follow every sexual impulse are quite as miserable -as those who repress them. I remember saying to a classmate in college, -“Did it ever occur to you to stop and look at your own mind? Everything -that comes to you is turned into sex.” He looked surprised, and I saw -that it was a new idea to him; he thought it over and said, “I guess you -are right.”</p> - -<p>This problem of the happy mean in sex matters would require a volume for -a proper discussion. As it happens, I have written such a volume, <i>The -Book of Life</i>, and it is available to those who are interested. So I -pass on.</p> - -<h3>XII</h3> - -<p>I was becoming less and less satisfied with college. It had become an -agony for me to sit and listen to the slow recitation of matters that I -either knew already or did not care to know. I was enraged by professors -whose idea of teaching was to catch me being inattentive to their -dullness. At the same time, I had to have my degree because I was still -planning to study law. I fretted and finally evolved a scheme; I made -application to the faculty for two months’ leave of absence, on the -ground that I had to earn some money—which was true. They gave me the -leave, and I earned the money writing stories, and spent the rest of my -time in a hall bedroom reading Shelley, Carlyle, and Emerson. I forced -myself to read until one or two in the morning, and many a time I would -wake at daybreak and find that I had sunk back on my pillow and slept -with my book still open and the gaslight burning—not a very hygienic -procedure.</p> - -<p>It was the lodginghouse on West 23rd Street, kept by a Mrs. Carmichael, -whose son also was a would-be genius—only he was a religious mystic and -found his thrills in church music. We used to compare notes, each -patronizing the other, of course—two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> young stags in the forest, trying -out their horns. I remember that Bert went up to display his musical -skill to a great composer, Edward MacDowell, of whom I thus heard for -the first time. The youth came back in excitement to report that the -composer had praised him highly and offered him free instruction. But -after the first lesson, Bert was less elated, for his idol had spoken as -follows: “Mr. Carmichael, before you come again, please have your hair -cut and wash your neck. The day of long-haired and greasy musicians is -past.”</p> - -<p>I went back to college, made up my missing studies in a week or two, and -was graduated without distinction, exactly in the middle of my class. I -remember the name of the man who carried off all the honors, and I look -for that name in <i>Who’s Who</i>, but do not find it. I won some sort of -prize in differential calculus, but that was all; nothing in literature, -nothing in oratory, philosophy, history. Such talents as I had were not -valued by my alma mater, nor would they have been by any other alma -mater then existing in America so far as I could learn. I was so little -interested in the college regime that I did not wait for commencement, -but went off to the country and received my diploma by mail.</p> - -<p>I had sold some jokes and stories, and I now spent a summer writing -more, while drifting about in a skiff among the Thousand Islands in the -upper St. Lawrence River. I caught many black bass and ate them; read -the poems of Walter Scott and the novels of Thackeray and George Eliot, -made available in the Seaside Library, which I purchased wholesale for -eight cents a copy. The life I got from those classics is one reason why -I believe in cheap books and have spent tens of thousands of dollars -trying to keep my own books available to students.</p> - -<h3>XIII</h3> - -<p>I still meant to be a lawyer, but first I wanted a year of literature -and philosophy at Columbia University. “If you do that, you’ll never be -a lawyer,” said some shrewd person to me—and he was right. But to -Columbia I would go, and how was I to live meantime? I went back to New -York to solve this problem and called upon the Street and Smith editor -who had once suggested<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> a serial story to Simon Stern and myself. Now I -reaped the reward of persistence, obtaining a meal ticket for the next -three years of my life.</p> - -<p>The name of this editor was Henry Harrison Lewis, and he later became -editor of one of the fighting organs of the openshop movement. I -remember expounding to him my views of life and my destiny therein, and -how he protested that it was not normal for a youth to be so apocalyptic -and messianic. My evil career was assuredly not Mr. Lewis’ fault.</p> - -<p>He showed me proofs of the <i>Army and Navy Weekly</i>, a five-cent -publication with bright red and blue and green and yellow covers, which -the firm was just starting. The editor himself was to write every other -week a story of life at the Annapolis Naval Academy and wanted someone -to write in alternate weeks, a companion story of life at the West Point -Military Academy. Would I like to try that job? My heart leaped with -excitement.</p> - -<p>My first experience in the gathering of local color! I got from Mr. Moir -a letter of introduction to an army officer at West Point, and went up -and stayed at a cheap hotel in the village. I roamed about the grounds -and watched the cadets, and made copious notes as to every detail of -their regimen. I recollect being introduced to a stern and noble-looking -upperclassman. I revealed to him what I was there for, and said that I -needed a hero. “Well, why not use me?” inquired this cadet. “I am -president of the senior class, I am captain of the football team, and I -have made the highest records in this and that,” and so on. I looked -into the man’s face for any trace of a smile, but there was none. He -stays in my memory as a type of the military mind. Doubtless he is a -great general by now.</p> - -<p>I went back to New York, and under the pen name of Lieutenant Frederick -Garrison, USA, produced a manuscript of some twenty-five or thirty -thousand words, a rollicking tale of a group of “candidates” who made -their appearance at the academy to start their military career. The Mark -Mallory stories they were called, and they were successful, so I was -definitely launched upon a literary career. I was paid, I believe, forty -dollars per story; it was a fortune, enough to take care of both my -mother and myself. The local color was found satisfactory. Lewis told me -that Smith, head of the firm, asked if that new writer had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> been through -West Point. “Yes,” replied Lewis, “he went through in three days.”</p> - -<h3>XIV</h3> - -<p>This episode of my hack writing I find always interests people, so I may -as well finish it here, even though it involves running ahead of my -story. After I had been doing the work for a while, the firm needed Mr. -Lewis’ services for more editing, and he asked me if I could do his -stint as well as my own. I always thought I could do everything, so I -paid a visit to Annapolis, haunted by the ghosts of my grandfathers. I -went through this place also in three days. Thereafter I was Ensign -Clarke Fitch, USN, as well as Lieutenant Frederick Garrison, USA. I now -wrote a novelette of close to thirty thousand words every week, and -received forty dollars a week.</p> - -<p>Shortly after that, Willie Hearst with his New York <i>Evening Journal</i> -succeeded in carrying the United States into a war with Spain. (“You -make the pictures, and I’ll make the war,” cabled Willie to Frederick -Remington in Cuba.) So my editor sent for me and explained that the -newsboys and messenger boys who followed the adventures of Mark Mallory -and Clif Faraday would take it ill if these cadets idled away their time -in West Point and Annapolis while their country was bleeding; I must -hurry up and graduate them, and send them to the battlefield.</p> - -<p>No sooner said than done. I read a book of Cuban local color and looked -up several expletives for Spanish villains to exclaim. I remember one of -them, “Carramba!” I have never learned what it means, but hope it is not -too serious, for I taught it to all the newsboys and messenger boys of -the eastern United States. When I hear people lamenting the foolishness -of the movies, I remember the stuff I ground out every week, which was -printed in large editions.</p> - -<p>From that time on my occupation was killing Spaniards. “What are you -going to do today?” my mother would ask, and the answer would be, “I -have to kill Spaniards.” I thought nothing of sinking a whole fleet of -Spanish torpedo boats to make a denouement, and the vessels I sank -during that small war would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> have replaced all the navies of the world. -I remember that I had my hero explode a bomb on a Spanish vessel and go -to the bottom with her; in the next story I blandly explained how he had -opened a porthole and swum up again. Once or twice I killed a Spanish -villain, and then forgot and brought him to life again. When that -occurred, I behaved like President Coolidge and Governor Fuller and -President Lowell, and the other great ones of Massachusetts—I treated -my critics with silent contempt.</p> - -<p>I was never told how my product was selling; that was the affair of my -masters. But they must have been satisfied, for presently came another -proposition. There was a boom in war literature, and they were going to -start another publication—I think the title was the <i>Columbia -Library</i>—to be issued monthly and contain fifty-six thousand words. -Could I add this to my other tasks? I was a young shark, ready to devour -everything in sight. So for some months I performed the feat of turning -out eight thousand words every day, Sunday included. I tell this to -literary men, and they say it could not be done; but I actually did it, -at least until the end of the Spanish-American War. I kept two -stenographers working all the time, taking dictation one day and -transcribing the next. In the afternoon I would dictate for about three -hours, as fast as I could talk; in the evening I would revise the copy -that had been brought in from the previous day, and then take a long -walk and think up the incidents of my next day’s stunt. That left me -mornings to attend lectures at Columbia University and to practice the -violin. I figured out that by the time I finished this potboiling I had -published an output equal in volume to the works of Walter Scott.</p> - -<p>What was the effect of all this upon me as a writer? It both helped and -hurt. It taught me to shape a story and to hold in mind what I had -thought up; so it fostered facility. On the other hand, it taught me to -use exaggerated phrases and clichés, and this is something I have fought -against, not always successfully. Strange as it may seem, I actually -enjoyed the work while I was doing it. Not merely was I earning a living -and putting away a little money; I had a sense of fun, and these -adventures were a romp. It is significant that the stories pleased their -public only so long as they pleased their author. When, at the age of -twenty-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span>one, I became obsessed with the desire to write a serious novel, -I came to loathe this hackwork, and from that time on I was never able -to do it with success, even though, driven by desperate need, I several -times made the effort. It was the end of my youth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a><i>3</i><br /><br /> -<i>Genius</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Was it really genius? That I cannot say. I only know it seemed like it, -and I took it at its face value. I tell the story here as objectively as -possible, and if the hero seems a young egotist, do not blame me, -because that youth is long since dead.</p> - -<p>The thing I believed was genius came to me first during one of those -Christmas holidays I spent in Baltimore, at the home of my Uncle Bland. -I had always enjoyed these holidays, having a normal boy’s fondness for -turkey and plum pudding and other Christmas delights. I used to say that -anybody might wake me at three o’clock in the morning to eat ice cream; -my Aunt Lelia Montague, mother of the general’s wife, declared that the -way to my heart was through a bag of gingersnaps.</p> - -<p>But on this particular Christmas my uncle’s home meant to me a shelf of -books. I read Shakespeare straight through during that holiday and, -though it sounds preposterous, I read all of Milton’s poetry in those -same two weeks. Literature had become a frenzy. I read while I was -eating, lying down, sitting, standing, and walking; I read everywhere I -went—and I went nowhere except to the park to read on sunshiny days. I -averaged fourteen hours a day, and it was a routine matter to read all -of Shakespeare’s comedies in two or three days, and all his tragedies in -the next two or three, and the historical plays over the weekend. In my -uncle’s library reposed beautiful volumes, untouched except by the hand -of the parlormaid; now I drew them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> forth, with love and rapture, and -gave them a reason for being. Some poet said to a rich man, “You own the -land and I own the landscape.” To my kind uncle I said, “You own the -books and I own the literature.”</p> - -<p>My mind on fire with high poetry, I went out for a walk one night. A -winter night, with hard crunching snow on the ground and great bright -lights in the sky; the tree branches black and naked, crackling now and -then in the breeze, but between times silence, quite magical -silence—and I walking in Druid Hill Park, mile on mile, lost to the -world, drinking in beauty, marveling at the mystery of life. Suddenly -this thing came to me, startling and wonderful beyond any power of words -to tell; the opening of gates in the soul, the pouring in of music, of -light, of joy that was unlike anything else and therefore not to be -conveyed in metaphors. I stood riveted to one spot, and a trembling -seized me, a dizziness, a happiness so intense that the distinction -between pleasure and pain was lost.</p> - -<p>If I had been a religious person at this time, no doubt I would have had -visions of saints and holy martyrs, and perhaps developed stigmata on -hands and feet. But I had no sort of superstition, so the vision took a -literary form. There was a campfire by a mountain road, to which came -travelers who hailed one another and made high revelry there without -alcohol. Yes, even Falstaff and Prince Hal were purified and refined, -according to my teetotal sentiments! There came the melancholy Prince of -Denmark, and Don Quixote—I must have been reading him at this time. -Also Shelley—real persons mixed with imaginary ones, but all equal in -this realm of fantasy. They held conversation, each in his own -character, yet glorified, more so than in the books. I was laughing, -singing with the delight of their company; in short, a perfect picture -of a madman, talking to myself, making incoherent exclamations. Yet I -knew what I was doing, I knew what was happening, I knew that this was -literature, and that if I could remember the tenth part of it and set it -down on paper, it would be read.</p> - -<p>The strangest part about this ecstasy is the multifarious forms it -assumes, the manifold states of consciousness it involves, all at one -time. It is possible to be bowed with grief and transported with -delight; it is possible to love and to hate, to be naïve and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> -calculating, to be hot and cold, timid and daring—all contradictions -reconciled. But the most striking thing is the conviction that you are -in the hands of a force outside yourself. Without trace of a -preconception, and regarding the thing as objectively as you know how, -the feeling is that something is taking hold of you, pushing you along, -sweeping you away. To walk in a windstorm and feel it beating upon you -is a sensation of the body no more definite and unmistakable than this -windstorm of the spirit, which has come to me perhaps a hundred times in -my life. I search for a metaphor and picture a child running, with an -older and swifter person by his side taking his hand and lifting him off -the ground, so that his little leaps become great leaps, almost like -flying.</p> - -<p>You may call this force your own subconscious mind, or God, or cosmic -consciousness—I care not what fancy name you give; the point is that it -is there, and always there. If you ask whether it is intelligent, I can -only say that you appear to be the intelligence, and “it” appears to be -the cause of intelligence in you. How anything unintelligent can be the -cause of intelligence is a riddle I pass by. Life is built upon such -antinomies.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>This experience occurred in unexpected places and at unpredictable -times. It was associated with music and poetry, but still more -frequently with natural beauty. I remember winter nights in Central -Park, New York, and tree branches white with snow, magical in the -moonlight; I remember springtime mornings in several places; a summer -night in the Adirondacks, with moonlight strewn upon a lake; a summer -twilight in the far wilds of Ontario, when I came over a ridge and into -a valley full of clover, incredibly sweet of scent—one has to go into -the North in summer to appreciate how deep and thick a field of red -clover can grow and what overpowering perfume it throws upon the air at -twilight.</p> - -<p>This experience, repeated, made me more of a solitary than ever. I -wanted to be free to behave like a lunatic, and yet not have anybody -think me one. I remember a highly embarrassing moment when I was walking -down a lane bordered with wild<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> roses in June, and two little girls -seated on a fence, unnoticed by me, suddenly broke into giggles at the -strange sight of a man laughing and talking to himself. I became a -haunter of mountaintops and of deep forests, the only safe places. I had -something that other people did not have and could not -understand—otherwise, how could they behave as they were doing? Imagine -anyone wanting a lot of money, or houses and servants, or fine raiment -and jewels, if he knew how to be happy as I did! Imagine anyone becoming -drunk on whisky when he might become drunk on poetry and music, sunsets, -and valleys full of clover!</p> - -<p>For a time it seemed to me that music was the only medium in which my -emotions could be expressed. I longed to play some instrument, and began -very humbly with a mandolin. But that was not enough, and presently I -took the plunge and paid seventy-five of my hard-earned dollars for a -violin. In my class at college had been Martin Birnbaum, a Bohemian lad, -pupil of a really great teacher, Leopold Lichtenberg. Martin played the -violin with an ease and grace that were then, and have remained ever -since, my life’s great envy. Each of us wants to do what he cannot.</p> - -<p>With all my potboiling and my work at Columbia University, I could find -only limited time for practice in the winter. But in the summer I was -free—except for three or four days in each fortnight, when I wrote my -stories and earned my living. I took myself away to a summer hotel, near -Keeseville, New York, on the east edge of the Adirondacks, and I must -have seemed one of the oddest freaks ever seen outside of an asylum. -Every morning I got up at five o’clock and went out upon a hillside to -see the sunrise; then I came back for breakfast, and immediately -thereafter got my violin and a book of music and a stand and went out -into the forest and set up my stand and fiddled until noontime; I came -back to dinner, and then sallied out again and practiced another four -hours; then I came in and had supper, and went out on the hillside to -sit and watch the sunset; finally I went upstairs and shut myself in a -little room and practiced the violin by the light of an oil lamp; or, if -it was too hot in the room, I went down to the lake to watch the moon -rise behind the mountains.</p> - -<p>The wild things of the forest got used to this odd invasion. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> -squirrels would sit on the pine-tree branches and cock their heads and -chatter furiously when I made a false note. The partridges would feed on -huckleberries all about me, apparently understanding clearly the -difference between a fiddlebow and a gun. Foxes took an interest, and -raccoons and porcupines—and even humans.</p> - -<p>The guests from the cities arrived on an early morning train and were -driven to the hotel in a big four-horse stage. One morning, one of these -guests arrived, and at breakfast narrated a curious experience. The -stage had been toiling up a long hill, the horses walking, and alongside -was an old Italian woman with a couple of pails, on her way to a day of -berry picking. She was whistling cheerily, and the tune was the -<i>Tannhäuser</i> march. The new arrival, impressed by this evidence of -culture in the vicinity, inquired through the open window, “Where did -you learn that music?” The reply was, “Dey ees a crazy feller in de -woods, he play it all day long for t’ree weeks!”</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>I have got ahead of my story and must go back to the fall of 1897, when -I registered at Columbia University as a special student. This meant -that I was free to take any courses I preferred. As at the City College, -I speedily found that some of the teachers were tiresome, and that the -rules allowed me to drop their courses and begin others without extra -charge. Upon my declaring my intention to take a master’s degree, all -the tuition fees I paid were lumped together until they totaled a -hundred and fifty dollars, after which I had to pay no more. Until I had -completed one major and two minors, I was at liberty to go on taking -courses and dropping them with no extra expense.</p> - -<p>The completing of a course consisted of taking an examination, and as -that was the last thing in the world I ever wanted to do, I never did -it; instead, I would flee to the country, and come back the next fall -and start a new set of courses. Then I would get the professors’ points -of view and the list of books to be read—and that was all there was to -the course. Four years in succession I did this, and figured that I had -sampled more than forty courses; but no one ever objected to my singular -procedure. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span> great university was run on the assumption that the -countless thousands of young men and women came there to get degrees. -That anyone might come merely to get knowledge had apparently not -occurred to the governing authorities.</p> - -<p>In the first year I remember Professor George Rice Carpenter setting out -to teach me to write English. It was the customary process of writing -“themes” upon trivial subjects; and the dominating fact in my life has -been that I have to be emotionally interested before I can write at all. -When I went to the professor to tell him that I didn’t think I was -getting anything out of the course, his feelings were hurt, and he said, -“I can assure you that you don’t know anything about writing English.” I -answered that this was no doubt true, but the question was, could I -learn by his method. Four or five years later, as a reader for -Macmillan, Professor Carpenter got hold of some of my manuscripts; I -paid several visits to his home, and he was so gracious as to ask how I -thought the writing of English might be taught in colleges. My formula -was simple—find something the student is interested in. But Carpenter -said that was no solution—it would limit the themes to football and -fraternities.</p> - -<p>Professor W. P. Trent, a famous scholar, undertook to teach me about -poetry, and this effort ended in an odd way. Something came up in the -class about grammatical errors in literature, and the professor referred -to Byron’s famous line, “There let him lay.” Said the professor: “I have -the impression that there is a similar error in Shelley, and some day I -am going to run through his poetry and find it.” To my fastidious young -soul that seemed <i>lèse-majesté</i>; I pictured a man reading Shelley in -such a mood, and I dropped the course.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>Since we are dealing with the phenomena of genius, I will tell about the -one authentic man of genius I met at Columbia. Edward MacDowell was the -head of the department of music, and he was struggling valiantly to -create a vital music center in America; he was against heavy odds of -philistinism, embodied in the banker trustees of the great university. -MacDowell gave two courses in general musical culture. These I took in -successive<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> years, and they were not among the courses I dropped. The -composer was a man of wide culture and full of a salty humor, a -delightful teacher. There were fewer than a dozen students taking the -course—such was the amount of interest in genius at Columbia.</p> - -<p>Early in the course I noted that MacDowell suffered in his efforts to -say in words something that could only be said in music, and I suggested -to him that instead of trying to describe musical ideas, he should play -them for us. This suggestion he at once accepted, and thereafter the -course consisted in a piano rendition of the great music of the world, -with incidental running comments. MacDowell was a first-rate concert -pianist, and truly noble were the sounds that rumbled from that large -piano in the small classroom.</p> - -<p>Since I was going in for the genius business myself, I was interested in -every smallest detail of this great man’s behavior and appearance. Here -was one who shared my secret of ecstasy; and this set him apart from all -the other teachers, the dull plodding ones who dealt with the bones and -dust of inspirations. Almost thirty years afterward I wrote about him in -an article published in the <i>American Mercury</i> (January 1928), and so -vivid were my recollections I was able to quote what I felt certain were -the exact words of MacDowell’s comments on this and that item of music -and literature. Shortly afterward I met the composer’s widow, who told -me that she recognized many of the phrases, and that all of them sounded -authentic to her.</p> - -<p>Here was a man who had the true fire and glory, yet at the same time was -perfectly controlled; it was only now and then, when some bit of -philistinism roused his anger, that I saw the sparks fly. He found it -possible to display a gracious courtesy; in fact, he might have been -that little boy in my nursery poem, “who would not even sneeze unless he -asked you if he might.” I remember that he apologized to the young -ladies of the class for telling a story that involved the mention of a -monkey; this surprised me, for I thought my very proper mother had -warned me against all possible social improprieties. Some of his pupils -had sent the composer flowers on his birthday and put in a card with the -inscription from <i>Das Rheingold</i>: “<i>O, singe fort, so suess und fein</i>”; -a very charming thing to say to a musician. Mac<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span>Dowell’s story was that -on opening the box he had started to read the inscription as French -instead of as German, and had found himself hailed: “O, powerful -monkey!”</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>Shortly after I left Columbia, MacDowell left on account of -disagreements with Nicholas Murray Butler, the newly elected president -of the great university. I had taken a course in Kantian philosophy with -Butler and had come to know him well; an aggressive and capable mind, a -cold and self-centered heart. In his class I had expressed my surprise -that Kant, after demonstrating the impossibility of metaphysical -knowledge, should have turned around and swallowed the system of -Prussian church orthodoxy at one gulp. I asked the professor whether -this might be accounted for by the fact that the founder of modern -critical philosophy had had a job at a Prussian state university. I do -not remember Butler’s reply to this, but you may be sure I thought of it -when Butler declared himself a member of the Episcopal Church—this -being a required preliminary to becoming president of Columbia. I am -prepared to testify before the Throne of Grace—if the fact has not -already been noted by the recording angel—that Butler in his course on -Kant made perfectly plain that he believed no shred of Christian dogma.</p> - -<p>I divided my Columbia courses into two kinds, those that were worth -while and I completed, and those that were not worth while and I -dropped. In the years that followed I made note of a singular -phenomenon—all of the teachers of the second group of courses prospered -at Columbia, while all teachers of the first group were forced out, or -resigned in disgust. It seemed as if I had been used as a litmus paper, -and everybody who had committed the offense of interesting me was <i>ipso -facto</i> condemned. This fate befell MacDowell and George Edward -Woodberry, who gave me two never-to-be-forgotten courses in comparative -literature; and Harry Thurston Peck, who gave a vivid course on Roman -civilization—poor devil, I shall have a story to tell about him; and -James Harvey Robinson—I took a course with him on the culture of the -Renaissance and Reformation that was a revelation of what history -teaching might be. Also poor James Hyslop,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> kindly but eccentric, who -taught me applied ethics; later on he took to spooks and learned that no -form of eccentricity would be tolerated at the “University of Morgan.”</p> - -<p>On the other hand, Butler himself throve, and Brander Matthews -throve—he had made me acquainted with a new type, the academic “man of -the world” I did not want to be. W. P. Trent throve—perhaps to find -that grammatical error in Shelley’s poetry. George Rice Carpenter throve -while he lived, and so did the professors of German and Italian and the -instructor of French. I have forgotten their names, but I later met the -French gentleman, and he remembered me, and we had a laugh over our -failure to get together. The reason was plain enough—I wanted to learn -to read French in six weeks, while the Columbia machine was geared to -lower speeds.</p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>My experience with the college teaching of foreign languages became the -subject of two magazine articles in the <i>Independent</i>, which attracted -some attention. Professor William Lyon Phelps once recalled them in his -department in <i>Scribner’s Magazine</i>, acknowledging this as one service I -had performed for him. I can perhaps repeat the service here for a new -generation.</p> - -<p>For five years at the City College I had patiently studied Latin, Greek, -and German the way my teachers taught me. I looked up the words in the -dictionary and made a translation of some passage. The next day I made a -translation of another passage, looking up the words for that; and if -some of the words were the same ones I had looked up the day before, -that made no difference, I looked them up again—and never in the entire -five years did anyone point out to me that by learning the meaning of -the word once and for all, I might save the trouble of looking it up -hundreds of times in the course of my college career.</p> - -<p>Of course it did happen that, involuntarily, my mind retained the -meanings of many words. At the end of five years I could read very -simple Latin prose at sight; but I could not read the simplest Greek or -German prose without a dictionary, and it was the literal truth that I -had spent thousands of hours looking up words in the dictionary. -Thousands of words were as familiar to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> sight and sound as English -words—and yet I did not know what they meant!</p> - -<p>At Columbia I really wanted to read German, for the sake of the -literature it opened up; so I hit upon the revolutionary idea of -learning the meaning of a word the first time I looked it up. Instead of -writing it into a translation, I wrote it into a notebook; and each day -I made it my task to fix that day’s list of words in my mind. I carried -my notebook about with me and studied it while I was eating, while I was -dressing and shaving, while I was on my way to college. I took long -walks, during which I reviewed my lists, making sure I knew the meanings -of all the words I had looked up in the course of recent readings. By -this means I eliminated the drudgery of dictionary hunting, and in two -or three weeks was beginning to read German with pleasure.</p> - -<p>In my usual one-track fashion, I concentrated on German literature and -for a year or so read nothing else. I went through Goethe as I had once -gone through Shakespeare, in a glow of delight. I read everything of -Schiller and Heine, Lessing and Herder, Wagner’s operas and prose -writings. I read the Golden Treasury collection of German poetry so many -times that I knew it nearly by heart—as I do the English one to this -day. I read the novelists down to Freitag and even tried my teeth on -Kant, reading the <i>Critique of Pure Reason</i> more than once in the -original.</p> - -<h3>VII</h3> - -<p>Next I wanted French and Italian. I am not sure which I took first, but -I remember a little round Italian professor and a grammar called -<i>Grandgent’s</i>, and I remember reading Gerolamo Rovetta’s novel, <i>Mater -Dolorosa</i>, and getting the author’s permission to translate it into -English, but I could not interest a publisher in the project. I read <i>I -Promessi Sposi</i>, a long novel, and also, oddly enough, an Italian -translation of Sienkiewicz’s <i>Quo Vadis</i>. But a few years later I ruined -my Italian by studying Esperanto; the two are so much alike that -thereafter I never knew which one I was trying to speak, and when I -stepped off a steamer in Naples, in the year 1912, and tried to -communicate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> my wants to the natives, they gazed at me as if I were the -man from Mars.</p> - -<p>With French I began an elementary course, along with a class of Columbia -freshmen or sophomores, and stayed with it just long enough to get the -pronunciation and the elements of grammar; after which I went my own -way, with a text of the novel <i>L’Abbé Constantin</i> and a little notebook -to be filled with all the words in that pretty, sentimental story. In -six weeks I was reading French with reasonable fluency; and then, -according to my custom, I moved to Paris in spirit. I read all the -classics that are known to Americans by reputation; all of Corneille, -Racine, and Molière; some of Rousseau and Voltaire; a sampling of -Bossuet and Chateaubriand; the whole of Musset and Daudet, Hugo and -Flaubert; about half of Balzac and Zola; and enough of Maupassant and -Gautier to be thankful that I had not come upon this kind of literature -until I was to some extent mature, with a good hard shell of puritanism -to protect me against the black magic of the modern Babylon.</p> - -<p>Since then, such depraved literature has been poured in a flood over -America, and our bright young intellectuals are thoroughly initiated; -they have no shells of puritanism, but try fancy liquors and drugs, and -play with the esoteric forms of heterosexuality and homosexuality, and -commit suicide in the most elegant continental style. Those who prefer -to remain alive are set down as old fogies. I must be one of the oldest.</p> - -<h3>VIII</h3> - -<p>My Uncle Bland was in the habit of coming to New York every now and -then, and I always went to the old Holland House or the Waldorf-Astoria -to have lunch or dinner with him and my aunt. One of these visits is -fixed in my mind, because I was proud of my achievement in learning to -read French in six weeks and told my uncle about it. It was then that he -made me a business offer; he was going soon to have a Paris branch of -his company, and if I would come to Baltimore and learn the business, he -would put me in charge of his Paris branch, starting at six thousand a -year. I thanked my good uncle, but I never considered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> the offer, for I -felt sure of one thing, that I would never engage in any form of -business. Little did I dream that fate had in store for me the job of -buying book paper by the carload, and making and selling several million -books; to say nothing of a magazine, and a socialist colony, and a -moving picture by Eisenstein!</p> - -<p>At this time, or a little later, my uncle was occupied in establishing -the New York office of his bonding company; this played an important -part in my education. To his favorite nephew the president of the great -concern talked freely, and he gave me my first real knowledge of the -relationship between government and big business in America. This -Baltimore company, desiring to break into the lucrative New York field, -proceeded as follows: one of the leaders of Tammany Hall, a man by the -name of O’Sullivan, became manager of the New York office; Richard -Croker, the “big chief,” received a considerable block of stock, and -other prominent Tammany men also received stock. My uncle explained -that, as a result of this procedure, word would go forth that his -company was to receive the bonding business of the city and all its -employees.</p> - -<p>It was the system that came to be known as “honest graft.” You can see -that it was no crime for a Tammany leader to become manager of a bonding -company; and yet his profits would be many times as great as if he were -to steal money from the city treasury. Some time afterward my uncle told -me that he planned to open an office in Albany, and was going to get the -business of the state machine also; he had just named the man who was to -be elected state treasurer on the Democratic ticket—and when I asked -him what this meant, he smiled over the luncheon table and said, “We -businessmen have our little ways of getting what we want.”</p> - -<p>So there I was on the inside of America, watching our invisible -government at work. The pattern that my uncle revealed to me in youth -served for the arranging of all the facts I later amassed. I have never -found anything different, in any part of America; it is thus that big -business deals with government at every point where the two come into -contact. Every government official in America knows it, likewise every -big businessman knows it; talking in private, they joke about it; in -public they deny it with great indignation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span></p> - -<p>The fact that the man from whom I learned this secret was one of the -kindest and most generous persons I have ever known ought to have made -me merciful in my judgments. With the wisdom of later years, I know that -the businessmen who finance political parties and pull the strings of -government cannot help what they do; they either have to run their -business that way or give place to somebody who will run it no -differently. The blame lies with the system, in which government for -public service is competing day by day with business for private profit. -But in those early days I did not understand any of this; I thought that -graft was due to grafters, and I hated them with all my puritanical -fervor.</p> - -<p>Also, I thought that the tired businessman ought to be an idealist like -myself, reading Shakespeare and Goethe all day. When my uncle, thinking -to do me a kindness, would buy expensive theater tickets and take my -mother and myself to a musical comedy, I would listen to the silly -thumping and strumming and the vulgar jests of the comedians, and my -heart would almost burst with rage. This was where the world’s money was -going—while I had to live in a hall bedroom and slave at potboilers to -earn my bread!</p> - -<p>It happened that at this time I was taking a course in “Practical -Ethics” under Professor James Hyslop at Columbia. The second half of -this course consisted of an elaborate system that the professor had -worked out, a set of laws and constitutional changes that would enable -the voters to outwit the politicians and the big businessmen. From the -very first hour it was apparent to me that the good professor’s -elaborate system was a joke. Before any law or constitutional change -could be made, it would have to be explained to the public, which -included the politicians and their paymasters. These men were quite as -shrewd as any college professor and would have their plans worked out to -circumvent the new laws a long time before those laws came into -operation.</p> - -<h3>IX</h3> - -<p>At this time the graft of Tammany Hall was only in process of becoming -“honest”; the main sources of revenue of Richard<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span> Croker and his -henchmen were still the saloonkeeper and the “madam.” There came forth a -knight-at-arms to wage war upon this infamy, a lawyer by the name of -William Travers Jerome. He made speeches, telling what he had seen and -learned about prostitution in New York; and I went to some of these -meetings and listened with horrified soul. No longer could I doubt that -women did actually sell their bodies; I heard Jerome tell about the -brass check that you purchased at the counter downstairs and paid to the -victim of your lust. I heard about a roomful of naked women exhibited -for sale.</p> - -<p>Like many others in the audience, I took fire, and turned out to help -elect Jerome. I went about among everybody I knew and raised a sum of -money and took it to the candidate at the dinner hour at his club. He -thanked me cordially and took the money; but my feelings were a trifle -hurt because he did not stay to chat with me while his dinner got cold. -Having since run for office myself, and had admirers swarm about to -shake my hand, I can appreciate the desire of a public man to have his -dinner hour free.</p> - -<p>At this election I was one of a group of Columbia students who -volunteered as watchers in the interests of the reform ticket. I was -assigned to a polling place over on the East Side, a strong Tammany -district; all day I watched to prevent the stuffing of the ballot box, -and after the closing hour I saw to an honest count of the votes that -had been cast. I had against me a whole set of Tammany officials, one or -two Tammany policemen, and several volunteers who joined in as the -quarrel grew hot. I remember especially a red-faced old police -magistrate, apparently summoned for the purpose of overawing this -presumptuous kid who was delaying the count. But the great man failed of -his effort, because I knew the law and he didn’t; my headquarters had -provided me with a little book of instructions, and I would read out the -text of the law and insist upon my right to forbid the counting of -improperly marked ballots.</p> - -<p>I was probably never in greater danger in my life, for it was a common -enough thing for an election watcher to be knocked over the head and -dumped into the gutter. What saved me was the fact that the returns -coming in from the rest of the city convinced the Tammany heelers that -they had lost the fight anyhow, so a few extra votes did not matter. The -ballots to which I ob<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span>jected were held for the decision of an election -board, as the law required, and everybody went home. The Tammany police -magistrate, to my great surprise, shook hands with me and offered me a -cigar, telling me I would be all right when I had learned about -practical politics.</p> - -<p>I learned very quickly, for my hero-knight, Jerome, was elected -triumphantly and did absolutely nothing, and all forms of graft in New -York City went on just as they always had. They still went on when the -speakeasy was substituted for the saloon, and the night club for the -brothel. The naked women are now on the stage instead of in private -rooms; and the drinking is out in the open.</p> - -<p>There is one story connected with this campaign that I ought to tell, as -it came home to me in a peculiar way. It was known during the campaign -as “Jerome’s lemon story.” Said the candidate on the stump to his -cheering audience: “Now, just to show you what chances there are for -graft in a city like New York, let us suppose that there is a shortage -of lemons in the city, and two ships loaded with lemons come into port. -Whichever ship can get its cargo first to the market can make a fortune. -Under the law, the city fruit inspectors are required to examine every -box of lemons. But suppose that one of them accepts a bribe, and lets -one cargo be landed ahead of the other—you can see what graft there -would be for somebody.” Such was the example, made up out of his head, -so Jerome declared; the story appeared in the morning papers, and during -the day Jerome chanced to meet a city inspector of fruit whom he knew -intimately. “Say, Bill,” demanded this official, “how the hell did you -find out about those lemons?”</p> - -<p>The story impressed me especially for the reason that I happened to know -this particular inspector of fruit; he was the brother of an intimate -friend of my mother’s. We knew all the family gossip about “Jonesy,” as -we called him; we heard not merely the lemon story but many others, and -knew that Jonesy was keeping a wife in one expensive apartment and a -mistress in another—all on a salary of two thousand dollars a year. -Bear this gentleman in mind, for when we come to the days of <i>The -Jungle</i>, I shall tell a still funnier story. In a serious emergency I -had to get Jonesy on the telephone late at night, before the morning -pa<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span>pers went to press; the only way this could be managed was to call up -his wife and ask her for the telephone number of his mistress. Let no -one say that romance is dead in the modern world!</p> - -<h3>X</h3> - -<p>It was at this time that I was writing the half-dime novels, or killing -Spaniards. I spent the summer in the home of an old sea captain, in the -little town of Gananoque, Ontario, on the St. Lawrence River. The old -captain was ill of tuberculosis, and his wife fed me doughnuts for -breakfast and ice cream left over from the night before, and whenever I -caught a big pike, we had cold baked fish for three days.</p> - -<p>I did my writing late at night, when everything was quiet; and one night -I was writing a vivid description of a fire, in which the hero was to -rescue the heroine. I went into detail about the starting of the fire, -portraying a mouse chewing on a box of matches. Just why a mouse should -chew matches I do not know; I had heard of it somehow, and no guarantee -went with my stories in those days. I described the tongues of flame -starting in the box and spreading to some papers, and then licking their -way up a stairway. I described the flames bursting from a window; then I -laid down my pencil—and suddenly the silence of the night outside was -broken by a yell of “Fire!”</p> - -<p>For a moment I wasn’t sure whether I was still in my story or outside -it. I looked out of the window and sure enough, there was a cottage in -flames. I helped to rouse the people in it, and watched, with the amused -superiority of a New Yorker, the efforts of village firemen to put out -the blaze. I remember how they squirted the hose in at one window, and -the jet came out at the opposite window. I will leave it for specialists -in the occult to explain whether the fire was caused by the excessive -vividness of my writing, or whether it was a case of clairvoyance, or -possibly telepathy from the mind of a mouse. (Perhaps I ought to explain -that the above is meant as humor, lest someone cite it as one more -example of my credulity.)</p> - -<p>Early that spring I had taken a fishing trip to the far north of -Ontario, traveling on several railroads and then on a bicycle, and -staying in a pioneer cabin near a tiny jewel of a lake. I did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span> get -many fish, for the reason that I absent-mindedly left my tackle behind -in a railroad station along the way, and it did not arrive until the day -I departed; but I saw wild geese and a bear, which was a grand thrill; -also I saw mosquitoes in clouds that darkened the sky and made me run -through the swamps for my very life. On my way back to the railroad I -came upon that field of deep clover in the twilight, and experienced the -ecstasy I have described.</p> - -<p>It was a good thing for a youth to see how our pioneer ancestors lived -on this continent. The family with which I stayed lived on flour and -bacon; they didn’t even have a cow. Once or twice a year, when they -traveled to a store, they traded skins for salt and cartridges. Later -that summer, on a canoe trip, I stayed with some old people who had a -cow, and lived on skimmed milk and potatoes, trading butter at the store -for tea and sugar. On another trip I met a French-Canadian settler, with -a swarm of half-nourished babies, who did not even have a rifle to keep -the bears out of his pigsty.</p> - -<h3>XI</h3> - -<p>Having arranged to meet my mother and some friends at Charleston Lake, -which lies at the head of the little Gananoque River, I bought a canoe, -bundled my stuff into the bow, and set off—so eager for the adventure -that I couldn’t wait until morning. I paddled most of the night up the -misty river, with bullfrogs and muskrats for company, and now and then a -deer—all delightfully mysterious and thrilling to a city youth. I got -lost in the marshes—but the mosquitoes found me, rest assured. After -midnight I came to a dam, roused the miller, and went to sleep in his -garret—until the miller’s bedbugs found me! Then I got out, watched the -sunrise up the river gorge, and stood on the dam and threw flies for -black bass that jumped half a dozen at a time.</p> - -<p>I paddled all that day, and stayed a while at a lonely farmhouse, and -asked a hundred questions about how pioneer farmers lived. I remember -coming out onto Charleston Lake, very tired from paddling and from -carrying my canoe over the dams; the wind was blowing up the lake, so -after getting the canoe started, I lay down and fell asleep. When I -woke, my frail craft<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> was grating on the rocks at the far end of the -long lake. I paddled to the hotel; there was a dock, and summer guests -watching the new arrival. I had made the whole journey without mishap; -but now I put out my hand to touch the dock, a sudden gust of wind -carried me out of reach—and over I went into the water with everything -I owned!</p> - -<p>This lake was a famous fishing resort, and there were rich men from the -cities amusing themselves with deep-water trolling for large lake trout. -They had expensive tackle, and reclined at ease while guides at four -dollars a day rowed them about. I paddled my own canoe, so I did not -catch so many trout, but I got the muscular development, which was more -important. Doubtless it was my Christian duty to love all the rich -persons I watched at this and other pleasure resorts; but here is one -incident that speaks for itself. The son of a wealthy merchant from -Syracuse, New York, borrowed a shotgun from me, stuck the muzzle into -the sand, and then fired the gun and blew off the end of the barrel. I -had rented this gun in the village and now had to pay for the damage out -of my slender earnings; the wealthy father refused to reimburse me, -saying that his son had had no authority to borrow the gun.</p> - -<p>You may notice that here again I was meeting rich and poor; going back -and forth between French-Canadian settlers and city sportsmen.</p> - -<h3>XII</h3> - -<p>By the beginning of the year 1900, the burden of my spirit had become -greater than I could carry. The vision of life that had come to me must -be made known to the rest of the world, in order that men and women -might be won from their stupid and wasteful ways of life. It is easy to -smile over the “messianic delusion”; but in spite of all smiles, I still -have it. Long ago my friend Mike Gold wrote me a letter, scolding me -severely for what he called my “Jesus complex”; I answered, as humbly as -I could, that the world needs a Jesus more than it needs anything else, -and volunteers should be called for daily.</p> - -<p>I was no longer any good at potboiling and could not endure the work. I -had a couple of hundred dollars saved, and it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span> my purpose to write -the much talked-of “great American novel.” I counted the days until -spring would be far enough advanced so that I could go to the country. I -had in mind Lake Massawippi in Quebec, just over the New York border; I -was so impatient that I set out in the middle of April, and when I -emerged upon the platform of the sleeping car and looked at the lake, I -found it covered with ice and snow; the train was creeping along at -three or four miles an hour, over tracks a foot under water.</p> - -<p>My one desire was to be alone; far away, somewhere in a forest, where -the winds of ecstasy might sweep through my spirit. I made inquiries of -real-estate agents, who had no poetry in their souls and showed me -ordinary cottages. At last I set out in a snowstorm, and walked many -miles down the lake shore, and discovered a little slab-sided cabin—a -dream cottage all alone in a place called Fairy Glen. It belonged to a -woman in Baltimore and could be rented for May, June, and July for -twenty-five dollars. With the snow still falling, I moved in my -belongings. The place had one large room, a tiny bedroom, and a kitchen, -everything a would-be poet could desire.</p> - -<p>I built a fire in the open fireplace, and warmed my face while my back -stayed cold; that first night I fiddled vigorously to keep my courage -up, while creatures unknown made noises in the forest outside and -smelled at my bacon hanging on the back porch. Next day I walked to town -to do some purchasing. Snow was still falling. I met a farmer driving a -load of straw or something to town, and he pulled up his horses and -stared at the unexpected stranger. “Hello! Be you a summer boarder?” -“Yes,” I confessed. “Well”—and the old fellow looked about at the -snowflakes in the air—“which summer?”</p> - -<p>I had fires of the heart to warm me, and I began to write my wonderful -novel—the story of a woman’s soul redeemed by high and noble love. -<i>Springtime and Harvest</i> I called it, and it was made out of the life -story of a woman I had known, a girl of great beauty who had married a -crippled man for his money, and had come to understand his really fine -mind. At least that is what I imagined had happened; I didn’t really -know either the woman or the man—I didn’t know anything in those days -except music and books and my own emotions.</p> - -<p>I would, I fear, be embarrassed to read <i>Springtime and Har<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span>vest</i> now; -not even loyalty to this present task has caused me to open its pages. -But at that time I was sure it was the most wonderful novel ever -written. I always do think that about every book I write; the blurb the -publisher puts on the jacket—“This is Upton Sinclair’s best work”—is -perfectly sincere so far as the author is concerned. I write in a fine -glow, expecting to convert my last hostile critic; and when I fail, the -shock of disappointment is always as severe as ever.</p> - -<h3>XIII</h3> - -<p>Springtime came at last, and the Fairy Glen was carpeted with flowers. -The little brook in front of the door sang songs to me, and I to it:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I ask you where in your journey<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You see so fair a sight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That you have joy and singing<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All through the winter night.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">The sunrise over the lake was a daily miracle, and the great winds that -lashed the forest trees were brothers to my soul. Again and again that -ecstasy came to me—no one to interfere with it now—and I labored days -and nights on end to catch it and imprison it in words.</p> - -<p>There were comical incidents in my hermithood, of course. Wild things -came to steal the butter that I kept in the spring; I set a trap, and -behold, it was nothing more romantic than a skunk. The little devil -ruined a pair of trousers for me—I not knowing his ways. I left the -trousers to soak in the stream for a week, but all in vain. Worse yet, -my drinking place was ruined for the entire summer.</p> - -<p>Also, I must mention the French-Canadian family that lived up on the -mountain side and sent me fresh milk and eggs and butter by a little -ragged boy. I tried out my homemade French on them, and the <i>mère</i> of -the household paid me a high compliment. “Oh, you speak <i>French</i> -French!” Now and then she would write me notes, in homemade spelling, -and one of these deserves a wider audience. She explained that she would -not be able to send milk on the morrow because she was going to the -town—“<i>il<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> me faut faire arracher dedans</i>.” The vision of the poor -woman having herself “pulled out inside” disturbed me greatly, until I -realized that she meant <i>some teeth</i> (<i>des dents</i>).</p> - -<p>Summer came, and the city boarders. Halfway to town was a golf links—a -new game, then coming in. I saw able-bodied men driving a little white -ball about a field all day, and it seemed to me more than ever necessary -that they should have a new ideal. I was impatient of every form of -human vanity and stupidity, and if I have become less so with the -passage of the years, it has been merely to spare my digestion.</p> - -<p>The summer brought my mother and some friends, including the girl with -whom I was to fall in love. But that is a story I’ll save for the next -chapter; here, I am dealing with the book. I labored over it, sometimes -five or six hours without moving from my seat, and for days at a time -without seeing a soul or thinking about anything else. The human -organism is not made to stand such strain, and I began to notice stomach -trouble. It grew worse and plagued me for years—until I humbled my -stubborn pride and learned mother nature’s lesson—to limit the number -of hours of brainwork, and get some exercise and recreation every day. -Many years later I came upon a saying of old John Burroughs, which came -home to me as truth immortal and ultimate. “This writing is an unnatural -business; it makes your head hot and your feet cold, and it stops the -digestion of your food.”</p> - -<p>On the first of August the owner of my fairy cabin took it for her own -use, and I moved up to a lonely farmhouse on the mountainside, where I -became the sole and solitary boarder. I would go out into the -woods—sugar-maple trees they were, and for breakfast I had their juice -in a thick dark syrup, freshly melted. I always have to have a place to -walk up and down while I am working out my stories, and in that -sugar-maple forest I wore a path six inches deep—back and forth, back -and forth, for hours on end every day.</p> - -<p>There were mosquitoes, almost as annoying to me as human beings, and -when they found me, I would go out and sit in the middle of a field of -clover hay and do my writing. The crickets hopped over my manuscript, -and the fieldmice nibbled at my shoes; and then came the mowers to -destroy my hiding place. I remember one little French-Canadian whom I -engaged in con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span>versation, and how he rolled up his sleeves and boasted -of the power of his stringy muscles. “You want to mow avec me, il you -faut très strong bras!” I remember also walking miles down the road in -the morning to meet the mail carrier; I had sent the first part of my -great novel to a publisher and was hoping for a reply, but none came. It -was the beginning of an agony that lasted many weary years. My curses -upon those publishers who let manuscripts pile up on their desks unread!</p> - -<p>September came, and an invitation from my clergyman friend, Mr. Moir, -who now had a camp at Lake Placid. He asked me to visit him for a couple -of weeks. I was so near the end of my story, I ventured out of hiding; -but I found it was a mistake, because I could do no work at all when I -had to fit myself to the meal hours and other habits of the world. I -tried in vain for a week or two; I remember that I read the letters of -Robert Louis Stevenson in this interval—and very thin and poor they -seemed in comparison with what filled my soul.</p> - -<p>At last, in desperation, because cold weather was coming fast, I went -out on one of the islands of Lake Placid and found a little “cook -house”—a tiny cabin with no windows and no furniture but a stove. I -rented it for the sum of five dollars, and spread a couple of blankets; -and with the brown leaves falling in showers about me, and the cries of -blue jays and the drumming of partridges in the air, I wrote the closing -scenes of my tragedy. I later used that little cook house in <i>The -Journal of Arthur Stirling</i>. Also I used the siege of the publishers -that was still to come. But of that I had no vision as I bundled up my -belongings and returned to New York, a conquering hero in my own -fantasy. I was carrying in my suitcase the great American novel for -which all the critics of those days were waiting on tiptoe!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a><i>4</i><br /><br /> -<i>Marriage</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>I believe that marriage can be studied as a science, and practiced as an -art; that like every other natural phenomenon, it has its laws, -psychological, moral, and economic. At present it would seem that many -others hold this belief. We have seen the rise of marriage counselors, -and I have heard that marriage is even the subject of courses in -college. But when I was young, it was generally taken for granted that -marriages had to be ill-assorted and that married couples had to quarrel -and deceive each other. Here is a case record, an example of what -happens when marriage is entered into in utter ignorance of all its -practical problems.</p> - -<p>The story was told in <i>Love’s Pilgrimage</i>, with the variation of a few -details. In ancient Greek pastorals, Corydon and Thyrsis were two -shepherds; but the lines in Milton’s “L’Allegro” caught my fancy:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Where Corydon and Thyrsis met<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are at their savory supper set,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of herbs and other country messes.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">And so I said, “For purposes of this tale let Corydon be a girl.”</p> - -<p>In writing the book, I told the story as the girl wanted it told. If it -seemed to her that the manuscript failed to give a sufficiently vivid -account of the hardheadedness and unreasonableness of Thyrsis, I would -say, “You write it the way it ought to be.” So Corydon would write a -paragraph, or maybe a page or a scene,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span> and in it would go. I was so -sorry for the fate of women that I found it hard to contend with them.</p> - -<p>The marriage of Corydon and Thyrsis was dominated by the most pitiful -ignorance. Both parties had been taught very little, and most of that -was wrong. Corydon had lived the solitary life of a child of the city -nomads; her father had been a newspaper reporter, then deputy clerk of a -court, and she had been moved about from boardinghouses to apartments; -and in the course of twenty years of life she had picked up one intimate -girl friend, a poor stenographer dying of tuberculosis, and no men -friends whatever. As for Thyrsis, he had, besides Corydon, one girl -friend.</p> - -<p>Let not Laura Stedman fail of her due place in this story: little Laura, -golden-haired and pretty, prim and precise. She was the granddaughter of -Edmund Clarence Stedman, the poet, and happened to live in the apartment -house next to me for two or three years. We had our childish “scrap,” -and I vaguely remember pulling her pigtail, or something brutal like -that. Later, at the age of fifteen or so, I would go to call upon her, -and experience tumultuous thrills; I recall one occasion when I -purchased a new hat, of a seductive pearl gray, and went walking with -Laura in this regalia, so excited that my knees would hardly hold me up.</p> - -<p>We discoursed learnedly about the books we were reading, among these -<i>Romola</i>, a “classic.” First there is a Greek seducer named Tito Melema, -and I remarked sapiently that I considered him “magnificent.” Laura -flushed and exclaimed, “I think he is a perfect beast!” I had to explain -that I was speaking from the technical point of view; the character was -well drawn. So then the little lady from New England consented to -forgive me.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Between Corydon and Thyrsis the determining factor, as in nine tenths of -marriages, was propinquity. Corydon came to the place where Thyrsis was -writing his great novel; she visited the romantic cabin in the Fairy -Glen; and since someone had to read the manuscript, she carried it off, -and came back flushed with the discovery that this hateful, egotistical, -self-centered youth whom she had known and disliked for ten years or -more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span> was a hothearted dreamer, engaged in pouring out a highly romantic -love story destined soon to be recognized as the great American novel. -“Oh, it is wonderful!” she exclaimed; and the rest of the scene tells -itself. Literary feelings turned quickly into personal ones, and the -solitary poet had a companion and supporter.</p> - -<p>But, oh, the grief of the parents on both sides of this ill-assorted -match! Quite literally, if a bomb had exploded in the midst of their -summer vacation, it could not have discommoded them more. A clamor of -horrified protests broke out. “But you are crazy! You are nothing but -children! And you have no money! How can people get married without a -cent in the world!” The two mothers fell to disagreeing as to which of -their offspring was the more to blame, and so an old-time friendship -passed into temporary eclipse. Corydon was hastily spirited away to -another summer resort; but not until she had taken a solemn vow—to -learn the German language more rapidly than Thyrsis had learned it!</p> - -<p>At the end of October the poet returned to New York with an invisible -crown on his brow and inaudible trumpets pealing in his ears. He and -Corydon proceeded to spend all day and half the night reading Goethe’s -<i>Iphigenia in Tauris</i> and practicing Mozart’s sonatas for violin and -piano. But there developed grave obstacles to this program. Corydon’s -family was inconvenienced if Thyrsis arrived at the apartment before -breakfast; also, the mother of Thyrsis adhered stubbornly to the idea -that Corydon ought not to play the piano later than eleven in the -evening, and should be taken home before her family went to bed. There -was only one way in the world to escape such fetters—by means of a -marriage license.</p> - -<p>Thyrsis had only ten or fifteen dollars, but was wealthy in the certain -future of his masterpiece. So the young couple went to the study of the -Reverend Minot J. Savage at the Church of the Messiah and were -pronounced man and wife. By this step, as Thyrsis quickly discovered, he -had deprived himself of the last chance of getting help in his literary -career. With one accord, all relatives and friends now agreed that he -must “go to work.” And by this phrase they did not mean eight hours a -day of Goethe plus six of Mozart; they did not mean even the writing of -great American<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span> novels; they meant getting a job with a newspaper, or -perhaps with a bonding company.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Something happened that the author of <i>Springtime and Harvest</i> had not -dreamed of in his most pessimistic moment; a publisher rejected the -novel. Several publishers rejected it, one after another! The Macmillans -were first, and Scribner’s second; Brander Matthews kindly read the -manuscript and passed it on to W. C. Brownell, literary adviser of -Scribner’s, and I went to see this soft-spoken, gray-bearded critic, who -explained his opinion that the book was not one that would sell. What -that had to do with the matter was not clear to me. Again and again -those in authority had to explain that they were representing -businessmen who had capital invested in the publishing of books and who -desired to receive dividends on that capital. I could understand such a -business fact; what I couldn’t understand was how men employed for such -a purpose could consider themselves critics, and be solemnly discussed -as critics by other critics like themselves.</p> - -<p>Professor Matthews saw me at his home—very fashionable, on West End -Avenue, the walls of the study lined with rare editions and autographed -pictures and such literary trophies. He was sorry, he said, but he had -no further suggestions to offer. When I asked about the possibility of -publishing the book myself, he advised strongly against it; there would -be no way to market the book. When I suggested that I might market it to -everybody I knew, a chill settled over the conversational atmosphere. -“Of course, if you are willing to do anything like <i>that</i>—” When I -persisted in talking about it, I completely lost caste with my “man of -the world” professor, and never regained it.</p> - -<p>I wrote a potboiler, and earned a couple of hundred dollars, and -borrowed another two hundred from my uncle, and went downtown and -shopped among printers until I found one who would make a thousand -copies of a cheap and unattractive-looking little red volume, such as my -ascetic notions required. The book contained a preface, telling how it -had been written and what a wonderful book it was. This preface was made -into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span> a pamphlet and sent to everybody I knew—not so very many, but by -dint of including my father’s friends and my mother’s, there were -several hundred names. The price of the book was one dollar; about two -hundred copies were sold, just enough to pay back the debt to my uncle.</p> - -<p>The pitiful little book with its pitiful little preface was sent to all -the New York newspapers; two of them, the <i>Times</i> and the <i>American</i>, -sent a reporter to see the author. Hopes mounted high, but next morning -they dropped with a thud. All the picturesque details about the young -poet and his wife were there, but not one word of the wonderful message -he hoped to deliver to mankind. Incidentally, the author learned the -value of personal publicity in the marketing of literature. As a result -of a column apiece in the two largest morning papers of New York, he -sold two copies of <i>Springtime and Harvest</i>. He knew—because they were -the only two copies sold to strangers.</p> - -<p>Corydon and Thyrsis were now fast in the “trap” of marriage; living in -one crowded room, opening on an airshaft, in a flat belonging to the -mother and father of Thyrsis. The would-be creative artist was writing -potboilers in order to pay the board of his wife and himself; -incidentally, he was learning the grim reality behind those -mother-in-law jokes he had written so blithely a few years back! The -mother of Thyrsis did not like Corydon; she would not have liked a -female angel who had come down to earth and taken away her darling son, -until recently destined to become an admiral, or else a bishop, or else -a Supreme Court judge. Neither did the mother of Corydon like Thyrsis; -she would not have liked a male angel who had taken a daughter without -having money to take proper care of her.</p> - -<p>The idea of a marriage that involved no more than the reading of German -and the playing of violin and piano duets had been broken up by an old -family doctor, who insisted that it was not in accordance with the laws -of physiology. He made Thyrsis acquainted with the practice of birth -control; but alas, it turned out that his knowledge had not been -adequate; and now suddenly the terrified poet discovered the purpose of -the trap into which mother nature had lured him. Corydon was going to -have a baby; and so the reading of German and the playing of violin and -piano duets gave place to visiting other doctors, who pro<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span>fessed to know -how to thwart the ways of nature; then rambling about in the park on -chilly spring days, debating the problem of “to be or not to be” for -that incipient baby.</p> - -<p>These experiences were harrowing and made indelible scars upon two young -and oversensitive souls. Aspects of life that should have been full of -beauty and dignity became freighted with a burden of terror and death. -Under the law, what the young couple contemplated was a state-prison -offense, and the fact that it is committed by a million American women -every year does not make it any the less ghastly. Thyrsis saw himself -prisoned in a cage, the bars being made not of steel but of human -beings; everybody he knew was a bar, and he hurled himself against one -after another, and found them harder than steel.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p><i>Springtime and Harvest</i> had been sent to the leading book reviews, and -now came a letter from Edward J. Wheeler, editor of the <i>Literary -Digest</i>. His attention had been caught by the preface; he had read the -novel, and, strange to say, agreed with the author’s high opinion of it. -Would the author come to see him? The outcome was a proposition from -Funk and Wagnalls to take over the book, put it into type again, and -issue it under a new title, with illustrations and advertisements and -blurbs and other appurtenances of the great American novel.</p> - -<p>So once more Thyrsis was swept up to the skies, and it became possible -for a baby to be born into the world. All the editors and readers and -salesmen and officeboys of a great publishing firm were sure that <i>King -Midas</i> would be a best seller; and anyhow it did not matter, since a new -novel, still more brilliant, was gestating in the writer’s brain. It was -springtime again, and the apron of mother nature was spilling flowers. -Corydon and Thyrsis boarded a train for the Thousand Islands, and on one -of the loveliest and most remote of these they built a wooden platform, -and set up a small tent, and began the back-to-nature life.</p> - -<p>This canvas home contained two tables and two sets of shelves built of -boards by an amateur carpenter, who could saw straight if he kept his -mind upon it, but seldom did. It contained two canvas cots, a bundle of -bedding, a little round drum of a stove, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> frying pan, a couple of -saucepans, and a half a dozen dishes. Outside there swung two hammocks, -one close to the tent for the young expectant novelist. The tent stood -on an exposed point, for the sake of the scenery and the avoidance of -mosquitoes; it commanded an uninterrupted sweep of Lake Erie, and the -gales would seize the little structure and shake it as with a giant’s -hand, a raging and tireless fury that lasted for days at a time.</p> - -<p>The regime of this literary household was of primordial simplicity. -Drinking water was dipped from the mighty St. Lawrence. Waste was thrown -into the stream a little farther down. Soiled dishes were not washed in -hot water but taken to the shore and filled with sand and scrubbed round -and round. Black bass and yellow perch could be caught from the rocky -point, and now and then, when strange cravings of pregnancy manifested -themselves, a pine squirrel or a yellowhammer could be shot in the -interior of the island. There may have been game laws, but Thyrsis did -not ask about them; this Leek Island was on the Canadian side, the -nearest town many miles away, and the long arm of Queen Victoria did not -reach these campers.</p> - -<p>The post office was on Grindstone Island, on the American side, and -thither the young author sailed in a leaky little skiff, purchased for -fifteen dollars. He bought groceries, and from a nearby farmhouse, milk -and butter. The farmer’s wife quickly made note of Corydon’s condition -and was full of sympathy and anecdotes. An odd freak this gypsy camper -must have seemed, wearing a big straw hat, such as are made for -haymakers, with a bit of mosquito netting wound about it for decoration.</p> - -<p>It was a place of sudden and terrific thunderstorms, and the sight of -scores of lightning flashes playing about the wide bay and the pine-tree -covered islands was inspiring or terrifying according to one’s -temperament. Thyrsis was standing by the opening of the tent watching -the spectacle, his arm upraised, holding onto the tentpole, when there -came a sudden flash, an all-enveloping mass of light, and an -all-enveloping crash of sound; the upraised hand was shaken as by some -huge vibrating machine and fell numb to the side. Lightning had struck -one of the pine trees to which the tent was anchored, and the tree -crashed to the ground.</p> - -<p>After the storm there was found in the tree a nest of the red-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span>eyed -vireo, a silent little forest bird that you see bending under twigs and -picking tiny green worms from the undersides. Two of the young birds -were alive, and the campers took them in and raised them by hand—most -charming pets. They would gulp down big horny grasshoppers and then -regurgitate the hard shells in solid lumps; on this rather harsh diet -they throve, and it was amusing to see them refuse to heed their own -proper parents and fly to their fosterparents instead. At sundown they -would be taken into the tent, and flying swiftly about, they would clean -from the walls every fly, mosquito, spider, and daddy longlegs. They -would sit on the boom of the skiff during the crossing of the channel, -and on the heads of their fosterparents during the trip to the post -office—something that greatly interested the village loungers, also the -village cats. Now and then fishing parties would land on the island, and -be surprised to have two full-grown birds of the forest fly down and -alight on their hats.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>The product of that summer’s activities was the novel <i>Prince Hagen</i>, -story of a Nibelung, grandson of the dwarf Alberich, who brings his -golden treasures up to Wall Street and Fifth Avenue, and proves the -identity between our Christian civilization and his own dark realm. The -tale was born of the playing of the score of <i>Das Rheingold</i> to so many -squirrels and partridges in the forests of the Adirondacks and in the -Fairy Glen on the Quebec lake. The opening chapter was sent to Bliss -Perry, editor of the <i>Atlantic Monthly</i>, who wrote that he was delighted -with it and wished to consider the completed work as a serial. The hopes -of the little family rose again; but alas, when the completed work was -read, it was adjudged too bitter and extreme. “We have a very -conservative, fastidious, and sophisticated constituency,” wrote the -great editor, and the disappointed young author remarked sarcastically -that one could have that kind of thing in Boston. The truth was that the -story was not good enough; the writer was strong on emotions but weak on -facts.</p> - -<p><i>King Midas</i> had failed wholly to produce the hoped-for effect; it had -sold about two thousand copies and brought its author two or three -hundred dollars. So now the publishers were not inter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span>ested in <i>Prince -Hagen</i>, and no other publishers were interested; they would take the -manuscript and promise to read it, and then manifest annoyance when a -hungry young writer came back after two or three weeks to ask for a -decision.</p> - -<p>Thus occurred the painful incident of Professor Harry Thurston Peck, -told with much detail in <i>The Journal of Arthur Stirling</i>. Besides being -professor of Latin at Columbia, Peck was editor of the <i>Bookman</i> and -literary adviser to Dodd, Mead and Company. He read <i>Prince Hagen</i> for -his former pupil and called it a brilliant and original work, which he -would recommend to the firm. Then began a long siege—six weeks or -more—the culmination of which was the discovery that the firm had never -seen the manuscript they were supposed to be reading.</p> - -<p>The cries of rage and despair of the young author will not be repeated -here. Poor Harry Peck has long been in a suicide’s grave; President -Butler kicked him out of Columbia after some widow had sued him for -breach of promise and given his sweetish love letters to the press. -Perhaps the reason he neglected the young author’s manuscript was that -he was busy with that widow, or with some other one. Harry was a devotee -of decadent literature, and he broke the one law that is sacred—he got -caught.</p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>That dreadful winter Corydon went back to her parents, while Thyrsis -lived in a garret room, and haunted publishers and editors, and wrote -potboilers that he could not sell. He did sell a few jokes and a few -sketches, book reviews for the <i>Literary Digest</i>, and articles for the -<i>Independent</i>. He wrote a blank-verse narrative called <i>Caradrion</i>, -portions of which are in <i>Love’s Pilgrimage</i>; also a novelette, <i>The -Overman</i>, an attempt to portray ecstasy and speculate as to its source. -Many critics have quarreled with Thyrsis because of so much “propaganda” -in his books; but here was a work with no trace of this evil, and the -critics never heard of it, and it existed only in the Haldeman-Julius -five-cent books.</p> - -<p>The literary editor of the <i>Independent</i>, who had the saying of thumbs -up or thumbs down on book reviews, was Paul Elmer More, of whom Thyrsis -saw a great deal before the days of Mor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span>e’s repute. A man of very -definite viewpoint—as oddly different from his young contributor as the -fates could have contrived. Thyrsis, always eager to understand the -other side, was moved to a deep respect for his cold, calm intelligence, -akin to godhead, subsequently revealed to the world in the series of -<i>Shelburne Essays</i>. More never made propaganda, nor carried on -controversy; he spoke once, and it was the voice of authority. The -hothearted young novelist would go off and ponder and wish he could be -like that; but there were too many interesting things in the world, and -too many vested evils.</p> - -<p>There are two factors in the process of growth that we call life; the -expanding impulse and the consolidating and organizing impulse. In the -literary world these impulses have come to be known, somewhat absurdly, -as romanticism and classicism. Both impulses are necessary, both must be -present in every artist, and either without the other is futile. Paul -Elmer More spoke for the classical tradition and carried it to the -extreme of condemning everything in his own time that had real vitality. -Many times I pointed out to him that his favorite classical authors had -all been rebels and romantics in their own day; but that meant nothing -to him. He had understood and mastered these writers, so to him they -meant order and established tradition; whereas the new things were -uncomprehended and therefore disturbing. It was amusing to see More -publish essays in appreciation of writers like Thoreau and Whitman, the -revolutionists of their time. What would he say about the same sort of -writers of our own day? The answer was, he never mentioned them, he -never read them, or even heard of them.</p> - -<p>The young wife had her baby, and the young husband sat by and held her -hand during the fourteen-hour ordeal. Soon afterward he converted the -experience into seven thousand words of horrifying prose. He took these -to Paul Elmer More, and the cold Olympian intelligence spoke briefly. -“It is well done, supposing one wants to do that kind of thing. But it -seems to me one shouldn’t. Anyhow, it is unpublishable, so there is no -use saying any more.” Said the young writer: “It will be published, if I -have to do it myself.” Eight or nine years later this material appeared -as the birth scene in <i>Love’s Pilgrimage</i>, and for some rea<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span>son the -censors did not find out about it. Now, being half a century old, it is -presumably a “classic,” and safe.</p> - -<p>More gave the <i>congé</i> to his tempestuous young contributor; after that I -saw him only once, an accidental encounter in the subway at the height -of the excitement over <i>The Jungle</i>. I asked, “May I send you a copy?” -The reply was, “Some time ago I made up my mind I was through with the -realists.” So there was no more to say. Later, the stern critic was -forced to return to the realists; in his book, <i>The Demon of the -Absolute</i>, I found him condemning Sinclair Lewis and Theodore Dreiser. -Myself he did not condescend to mention.</p> - -<p>The <i>Independent</i> published my paper on “Teaching of Languages” -(February 27, 1902) and a follow-up article, “Language Study: Some -Facts” (June 19, 1902). I sent a questionnaire to a thousand college -graduates, and discovered that among those who had been out ten years, -practically none could read the languages they had studied in college. -Another article was called “A Review of Reviewers” (February 6, 1902), -occasioned by the odd contrast between the reviews of <i>Springtime and -Harvest</i>, a pitiful, unattractive little volume published by the author, -and the reviews of the same novel when it was issued under the name of -<i>King Midas</i>, in conventional costume by an established publishing -house. It was, quite unintentionally, a test of book reviewers and their -independence of judgment. <i>Springtime and Harvest</i> had a preface, which -had crudity and inexperience written all over it; accordingly, the -thirteen reviewers of the United States who found the little book worth -mentioning employed such phrases as: “proofs of immaturity” ... “this -tumult of young blood” ... “a crude one, showing the youth, the -inexperience of the writer” ... “betrays the fact that he is a novice in -literature” ... “considering his youth,” etc.</p> - -<p>But then came <i>King Midas</i>, a stately volume illustrated by a popular -artist and bearing the imprint of Funk and Wagnalls. It carried the -endorsement of Edwin Markham, Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Barrett -Wendell, and George Santayana; also a rousing publisher’s blurb: “Full -of power and beauty; an American story of today by a brilliant writer; -no novel we have ever published equals this in the wonderful reception -accorded to it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> in advance of publication, in commendations from the -critics and in advance orders from the trade.”</p> - -<p>In the face of this barrage, what became of the crudity and -inexperience? In the first eight weeks after publication, fifty reviews -appeared; and setting aside half a dozen that connected the book with -<i>Springtime and Harvest</i>, only one critic noted crudity and -inexperience! The “novice in literature” had come to display “the mind -of a master”; the “tumult of young blood” had become “musical and poetic -fervor, at times bordering on the inspired”; the “crude work” had become -“a novel of tremendous power”; “the youth, the inexperience of the -writer” had developed, according to the <i>Outlook</i>, into “workmanship -that may be called brilliant ... sincerity as well as knowledge are -apparent on every page”—and so on through a long string of encomiums. -The article made amusing reading for the public but cannot have been -very pleasing to the critics upon whom a young writer’s future depended.</p> - -<h3>VII</h3> - -<p>Corydon went to spend the summer with her parents in the Catskills, and -Thyrsis went back alone to Leek Island, which seemed home to him because -it was full of memories of the previous summer. He put up the tent on -the same spot, and sailed the same little skiff, older and still -leakier, across the stormy channel. He had gone too early, because of a -new book that was clamoring to be written, and the icy gales blowing -through the tent almost froze him in his chair. He built the fire too -hot in the little round drum of a stove, and set fire to his tent, and -had to put it out with the contents of his water pail. For several days -the channel could not be crossed at all, and the author lived on dried -apples and saltine crackers. The fish would not bite, and the author -went hunting, but all he could get was a crow, which proved to have a -flesh of deep purple, as strong in texture as in flavor.</p> - -<p>From the library of Columbia University, the author had taken a strange -German book called <i>Also Sprach Zarathustra</i>. While waiting for the muse -to thaw out, the author lay wrapped in blankets reading this volume. He -put an account of it into his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span> new work, <i>The Journal of Arthur -Stirling</i>, which helped to launch the Nietzsche cult in America. The -vision revealed in Zarathustra is close to the central doctrine of all -the seers, and in a chapter on Nietzsche in <i>Mammonart</i> I pointed out -its curious resemblance to the beatitudes. My friend Mencken, reviewing -the book, declared that nothing could be more absurd than to compare -Jesus and Nietzsche. My friend Emanuel Haldeman-Julius took up the -cudgels, declaring that Mencken was an authority on Nietzsche to whom I -should bow—overlooking the fact that <i>Arthur Stirling</i> was published in -1903, and Mencken’s book on Nietzsche in 1908. I could not induce either -Mencken or his champion to publish the words from <i>Zarathustra</i> that are -so curiously close to the beatitudes.</p> - -<p><i>Arthur Stirling</i> was written in six weeks of intense and concentrated -labor; that harrowing, fourteen-hour-a-day labor that is destroying to -both mind and body. Of course, my stomach went on strike; and I went to -consult a country doctor, who explained a new scientific discovery -whereby I could have my food digested for me by the contents of the -stomach of a pig. This appealed to me as an advanced idea, and for -several weeks I took after each meal a spoonful of pink liquid -containing pig pepsin. But gradually its magic wore off, and I was back -where I was before. So began a long siege, at the end of which I found -it necessary to become my own doctor and another kind of “crank.”</p> - -<p><i>Arthur Stirling</i> was sent to a publisher, and I went into the -Adirondacks, on the Raquette River, and spent several weeks in the -company of hunters and lumbermen. I was a reasonably good hunter for the -first ten minutes of any hunt; after that, I would forget what I was -doing and be a thousand miles away in thought; a deer would spring up in -front of me, and I would see a flash of white tail over the top of the -bushes. The reader, having been promised laughter, is invited to -contemplate the spectacle of a young author lying on the edge of a -mountain meadow in November, watching for deer at sunset, wrapped in a -heavy blanket against the cutting frost—and reading a book until the -deer should arrive! The deer must have come up and smelled the back of -my neck; anyhow, there was a crash five or ten feet behind me, and a -deer going twenty feet at a leap, and me pulling the trigger of an -uncocked gun!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span></p> - -<h3>VIII</h3> - -<p>For months I had been living in fancy with Arthur Stirling, and this -poet had become as real to me as myself. Why not let this poet’s diary -pass as a true story—as in the spiritual sense it was? In New York was -a stenographer who had worked for me for several years, and he inserted -in the New York papers a notice of the death by suicide of the poet -Arthur Stirling. The reporters took it up, and published many -biographical details about the unfortunate young man.</p> - -<p>So now the firm of D. Appleton and Company was interested in the diary -of this suicide. Their literary adviser was Ripley Hitchcock. He -happened to be in the Adirondacks and we had a meeting. I told him the -facts, and he made no objection to the hoax. It has always seemed to me -a harmless one; but a few solemn persons, such as my old teacher, -Brander Matthews, and my old employer, the New York <i>Evening Post</i>, held -it a high crime against literature. The book appeared in February of -1903 and created a tremendous furor. Practically everybody accepted it -as true—which did not surprise me at all, because, as I have said, it -was true in the inner sense.</p> - -<p>The papers had long articles about the book, and some of them were -deeply felt. The best was written by Richard LeGallienne. Having nobody -to advise me about the customs of the world, I debated anxiously whether -it would be proper for me to write a letter of thanks to a man who had -praised my book. I decided that it would seem egotistical, tending to -make personal something that was purely a matter of art.</p> - -<p>The hoax did not last very long. A shrewd critic pointed out the -resemblances in style between <i>King Midas</i> and <i>Arthur Stirling</i>, and -that was the end of it. I wrote a manifesto on the subject of starving -poets and their wrongs, and how I was going to make it my life task to -save them from ignominy in the future. “I, Upton Sinclair, would-be -singer and penniless rat”—so began this war whoop published in the -<i>Independent</i>, May 14, 1903. I looked this up, intending to quote some -of it, but I found that I could not even read it without pain.</p> - -<p>My friend and biographer, Floyd Dell, read the manuscript<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> of <i>Arthur -Stirling</i> in 1927, and complained that “it fails to do justice to a very -interesting person.” He explained his feeling: “It is too unsympathetic -to its hero—strange as that may seem! It is only in spots that you lend -complete imaginative sympathy to the younger Upton Sinclair.” Later in -his letter, he remarked: “I suspect that I am more interested in Upton -Sinclair as a human being than you are.” So here I give my friend a -chance to discuss this unusual essay and what it meant to him. He says:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>Reading your MS., I came upon a few words from one of your youthful -manifestoes—“I, Upton Sinclair, would-be singer and penniless -rat”—and it made me remember what that article meant to me when I -was sixteen. I too was a would-be singer and penniless rat—and -your manifesto stirred me like a trumpet call. It sang itself into -my heart. I really think it is one of America’s great poems. I -think that in that prose poem you achieved the greatness as a poet -which you missed in your rhymes. I think it is a pity that it is -not in all the anthologies. I do not know how many other youths it -affected as it did me. Perhaps many of them have forgotten, as I -did till I re-read it just now. But that prose poem gave me the -courage to face an ugly and evil world; it gave me courage in my -loneliness; it made me spiritually equal to the burden of being a -dreamer in an alien world. It is no small thing to give strength to -youth. Perhaps it is the greatest thing that literature can do.</p> - -<p>I think it was in the following year that I found you again, in the -<i>Appeal to Reason</i>; in the meantime, like you, I had found it -impossible to wage war on the world alone, and I had identified my -cause with that of the workers of the world. It is true that there -are not in America at present many young people who can as readily -identify their own hurts and aims with yours as I could; but there -are many all through the world, and there will be more. And to all -these you will be a person of great importance for that deeply -personal reason. If you will not think I am mocking you, I will say -that you will be in a true sense their saint. A saint, you know, in -the true sense, is one who has suffered as we have suffered, and -triumphed as we hope to triumph. One man’s saint is often no use to -the next man; each of us must have a saint of his own. And the real -difficulty with a good deal of your fiction is that your heroes do -not suffer enough nor sin at all. That is why your life is more -edifying in some respects than your novels.</p> - -<p>But you are not yet in the frame of mind to confess your sins—you -are still self-defensively persuaded that some of the worst of them -were virtues. That is why many people don’t like you—who, indeed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span> -could possibly like anybody who was half as good as you have always -been persuaded that you were? But in <i>The Journal of Arthur -Stirling</i> and <i>Love’s Pilgrimage</i>, you gave yourself away. It is no -wooden doll who walks through those pages—it is a living, -suffering bundle of conceit, cruelty, selfishness and folly, such -as we know ourselves to be. And you make us feel the nobility and -generosity that lies behind all that conceit, cruelty, selfishness -and folly—you make us feel that we, too, may, with all our faults, -achieve something for mankind. I do not value greatly your present -wisdom, which suits you better than it would me—I have a wisdom -that I shouldn’t trade for yours if you threw that of the Seven -Wise Men of Greece in with it. I do value your power as an -imaginative artist, as you know, greatly. But just as Keats’ life -has for us a value in addition to his poetry, so has yours.</p> - -<p>To put it in the simplest terms, all over the world there are young -people who wish sincerely to devote their lives to revolutionary -betterment of the world; and those same young people will probably -fall in love with the wrong people, and suffer like hell, and -believe this and that mistaken idea about themselves and the other -sex and love; and while Upton Sinclair cannot prevent that, nor -tell them what to do about it when it happens (or be believed when -he tells them), he can do them good by letting them know that he -went through some of the same things. Among these “same things” I -include asceticism—a commoner youthful sin than you seem to think. -Many grown people are horribly ashamed of their youthful -asceticism. It would do them good to have you confess yours, -admitting all you lost by it (and knowing really just what you -lost), but explaining the apparently frightful terms upon which -“freedom” was offered to youth, and the impossibility of accepting -it upon such terms; and explaining the way in which the ascetic -life came to be associated with everything that was good—and again -with a full recognition of the deceitfulness of the combination, -and the years of pain and struggle ahead before the tangle of -falsehood could be unraveled.</p></div> - -<h3>IX</h3> - -<p>The manifesto in the <i>Independent</i> had proclaimed my personal -independence—“I having consummated a victory,” and so on. I really -thought it meant something that the literary world had hailed my book -with such fervor. But in the course of time the publishers reported less -than two thousand copies sold, and called my attention to a tricky -clause in the contract whereby<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> they did not have to pay any royalties -until the book had earned its expenses—which, of course, it never did. -This was before the authors of America had formed a league, and learned -how contracts should be drawn.</p> - -<p>So there were Corydon and Thyrsis, more fast in the trap than ever. -Corydon and her baby were staying with her parents; while Thyrsis lived -in a lodginghouse, this time up in Harlem. He was not permitted to see -his wife whom he could not support. He had not seen his son for six -months, and was naturally, anxious to know what that son looked like. It -was arranged between the young parents that the Negro maid who took care -of the child should wheel the baby carriage to a certain spot in Central -Park at a certain hour of the afternoon, and Thyrsis would be there and -watch the little one go by. The father kept the appointed tryst, and -there came a Negro nursemaid, wheeling a baby carriage, and the father -gazed therein and beheld a horrifying spectacle—a red-headed infant -with a flat nose and a pimply skin. The father went away, sick at -soul—until he had the inspiration to send a telegram, and received an -answer informing him that the nursemaid had been prevented from coming.</p> - -<p>The lodginghouse where Thyrsis had a room was kept by an elderly widow -who had invested her little property in United States Steel common and -had seen it go down to six dollars. As fellow lodgers, there was the -father of Thyrsis, who was drinking more and more; and that Uncle Harry -who had almost reached the stage where he put a bullet through his -brain. Meanwhile, the uncle considered it his duty to give worldly-wise -advice to a haggard young author who refused to “go to work.” The mother -of Thyrsis, distracted, kept repeating the same formula; half a dozen -other occupants of the lodginghouse, broker’s clerks, and other -commercial persons, took an interest in the problem and said their say.</p> - -<p>Such was the life of a would-be prophet in a business world! So that -winter I wrote the most ferocious of my stories, <i>A Captain of -Industry</i>, which became a popular item in the list of the State -Publishing House of Soviet Russia. The manuscript was submitted to the -Macmillans, and the president of that concern was kind enough to let me -see the opinion of one of his readers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> “What is the matter with this -young author?” was the opening sentence. The answer of course was that -the young author was unable to get enough to eat.</p> - -<p>Critics of <i>Arthur Stirling</i> and of <i>Love’s Pilgrimage</i> complain of the -too-idealistic characters portrayed, the lack of redeeming weaknesses in -the hero. Let the deficiency be supplied by one detail—that during that -dreadful winter I discovered my vice. Living in these sordid -surroundings, desperate, and utterly without companionship, I was now -and then invited to play cards with some of my fellow lodgers. I had -played cards as a boy, but never for money; now I would “sit in” at a -poker game with the young broker’s clerks and other commercial persons -with whom fate had thrown me.</p> - -<p>So I discovered a devastating emotion; I was gripped by a dull, blind -frenzy of greed and anxiety, and was powerless to break its hold. The -game was what is called penny ante, and the stakes were pitifully small, -yet they represented food for that week. I cannot recall that I ever -won, but I lost a dollar or two on several occasions. I remember that on -Christmas Eve I started playing after dinner, and sat at a table in a -half-warmed room gray with tobacco smoke until two or three in the -morning; the following afternoon I began playing again and played all -night. So it appeared that I was an orthodox Southern gentleman, born to -be a gambler! After that Christmas experience I took a vow, and have -never played cards for money since that time.</p> - -<h3>X</h3> - -<p>Not all the humiliation, rage, and despair could keep new literary plans -from forming themselves, colossal and compelling. Now it was to be a -trilogy of novels, nothing less. Ecstasy was taking the form of battles, -marches, and sieges, titanic efforts of the collective soul of America. -<i>Manassas</i>, <i>Gettysburg</i>, and <i>Appomattox</i> were to be the titles of -these mighty works, and by contemplation of the heroism and glory of the -past, America was to be redeemed from the sordidness and shame of the -present. The problem was to find some one capable of appreciating such a -literary service, and willing to make it possible.</p> - -<p>I went up to Boston, headquarters of the culture that I meant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> to -glorify. I stayed with my cousin, Howard Bland, then a student at -Harvard, and devoted myself to the double task of getting local color -and an endowment. I succeeded in the first part only. Thomas Wentworth -Higginson had read <i>Springtime and Harvest</i>, and he introduced me to -what was left of the old guard of the abolitionists; I remember several -visits to Frank B. Sanborn and one to Julia Ward Howe. I went to a -reunion of a Grand Army post and heard stories from the veterans—though -not much of this was needed, as the Civil War has been so completely -recorded in books, magazines, and newspapers. I inspected reverently the -Old Boston landmarks and shrines; for I had exchanged my Virginia ideals -for those of Massachusetts and was intending to portray the Civil War -from the Yankee point of view.</p> - -<p>I thought Boston ought to be interested and warm-hearted. Why was Boston -so cold? Perfectly polite, of course, and willing to invite a young -novelist to tea and listen to his account of the great work he was -planning; but when the question was broached, would anyone advance five -hundred dollars to make possible the first volume of such a trilogy, -they all with one accord began to make excuses. Among those interviewed -I remember Edwin D. Mead, the pacifist, and Edwin Ginn, the schoolbook -publisher, a famous philanthropist. Mr. Ginn explained that he had -ruined the character of a nephew by giving him money, and had decided -that it was the worst thing one could do for the young. In vain I sought -to persuade him that there might be differences among the young.</p> - -<p>It was in New York that a man was found, able to realize that a writer -has to eat while writing. George D. Herron was his name, and he happened -to be a socialist, a detail of great significance in the young writer’s -life. But that belongs to the next chapter; this one has to do with the -fate of Corydon and Thyrsis, and what poverty and failure did to their -love. Suffice it for the moment to say that the new friend advanced a -couple of hundred dollars and promised thirty dollars a month, this -being Thyrsis’ estimate of what he would need to keep himself and wife -and baby in back-to-nature fashion during the year it would take to -write <i>Manassas</i>. The place selected was Princeton, New Jersey, because -that university possessed the second-largest Civil War collection in the -country—the largest being in the Library of Congress. So in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> May 1903 -the migration took place, and for three years and a half Princeton was -home.</p> - -<h3>XI</h3> - -<p>On the far side of a ridge three miles north of the town, a patch of -woods was found whose owner was willing to rent it as a literary -encampment. The tent had been shipped from Canada, and a platform was -built, and an outfit of wooden shelves and tables. Also there was a -smaller tent, eight feet square, for the secret sessions with Clio, muse -of history. Both canvas structures were provided with screen doors, -against the inroads of the far-famed Jersey mosquito. Water was brought -in pails from a farmer’s well, and once a week a horse and buggy were -hired for a drive to town—to purchase supplies, and exchange one load -of books about the Civil War for another load.</p> - -<p><i>Manassas: A Novel of the War</i>—so ran the title; the dedication said: -“That the men of this land may know the heritage that is come down to -them.” The young historian found himself a stamping ground in the woods, -a place where he could pace back and forth for hours undisturbed, and -there the scenes of the dreadful “new birth of freedom” lived themselves -over in his mind. The men of that time came to him and spoke in their -own persons, and with trembling and awe he wrote down their actions and -words.</p> - -<p>His method of working had evolved itself into this: he would go through -a scene in his imagination, over and over again, until he knew it by -heart, before setting down a word of it on paper. An episode like the -battle scene of <i>Manassas</i>, some ten thousand words in length, took -three weeks in gestation; the characters and incidents were hardly out -of the writer’s mind for a waking moment during that time, nor did the -emotional tension of their presence relax. And in between these bouts of -writing there was reading and research in the literature of sixty years -past: newspapers, magazines, pamphlets, works of biography and -reminiscence. The writing of <i>Manassas</i> must have entailed the reading -of five hundred volumes, and the consulting of as many more.</p> - -<p>In the meantime Corydon took care of the baby, a youngster<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> of a year -and a half, who seemed to know exactly what he wanted and would yell -himself purple in the face to get it; the inexperienced young parents -sometimes wondered whether he would kill himself by such efforts. During -his incarceration in the city the child had suffered from rickets, and -now a “child specialist” had outlined an extremely elaborate diet, which -took hours of the young mother’s time to prepare. Under it the infant -throve and became yet more aggressive.</p> - -<p>Corydon and Thyrsis had wanted nothing but to be together; and now they -had what they wanted—almost too much of it. Now and then they met the -farmer and his wife, a gentle old couple; when they drove to Princeton, -they met the clerks in the stores and in the college library; they met -no one else. Possibly some women could have stood this long ordeal, but -Corydon was not of that tough fiber. While her husband went apart to -wrestle with his angel, she stayed in the tent to wrestle with demons. -She suffered from depression and melancholy, and it was impossible to -know whether the trouble was of the mind or of the body.</p> - -<p>Nowadays, every disciple of Freud in Greenwich Village would know what -to tell her. But this was in the days before the invention of the -Freudian demonology. Birth control, as explained by a family doctor, had -failed, and could not be trusted; since another pregnancy would have -meant the death of the young writer’s hopes, there was no safety but in -returning to the original idea of brother and sister. Since caressing -led to sexual impulse, and therefore to discontent, it was necessary -that caressing should be omitted from the daily program, and love-making -be confined to noble words and the reading aloud of Civil War -literature. Thyrsis could do that, being completely absorbed in his -vision. Whether Corydon could do it or not was a superfluous -question—since Corydon <i>had</i> to do it. This was, of course, a cruelty, -and prepared the way for a tragedy.</p> - -<h3>XII</h3> - -<p><i>Prince Hagen</i>, after having been declined by seventeen magazines and -twenty-two publishing houses, had been brought out by a firm in Boston -and, as usual, disappointed its author’s hopes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> But there came one or -two hundred dollars in royalties, almost enough to pay for the building -of a house. An old carpenter and his son drove from the village, and -Thyrsis worked with them and learned a trade. In two or three weeks they -built a cabin on the edge of the woods, sixteen feet by eighteen, with a -living room across the front and a tiny bedroom and kitchen in the back. -It was roofed with tar paper, and the total cost was two hundred and -fifty-six dollars. Ten per cent of this price was earned by the device -of writing an article about the homemade dwelling and selling it to the -<i>World’s Work</i>, for the benefit of other young authors contemplating -escape from civilization. The baby, now two years old, watched the -mighty men at work, and thereafter the problem of his upbringing was -solved; all that was necessary was to put him out of doors with a block -of wood, a hammer, and a supply of nails, and he would bang nails into -the wood with perfect contentment for hours.</p> - -<p>But the problem of the young mother was less easy of solution. Winter -came howling from the north and smote the little cabin on the exposed -ridge. Snow blocked the roads, and walking became impossible for a woman -tired by housework. She could get to town in a sleigh, but there was no -place to stay in town with a baby; and what became of the woman’s -diversion of shopping, when the family had only thirty dollars a month -to live on? There occurred the episode of the turkey-red table cover. It -was discovered as a bargain in a notion store, price thirty cents, and -Corydon craved it as one pitiful trace of decoration in their home of -bare lumber. She bought it, but Thyrsis was grim and implacable, -insisting that it be folded up and taken back. Thirty cents was a day’s -food for a family, and if they ran up bills at the stores, how would the -soul of America be saved?</p> - -<p>Sickness came, of course. Whether you were rich or poor in America in -those days, you were subject to colds and sore throats, because you knew -nothing about diet, and ate denatured foods out of packages and cans. -Corydon had obscure pains, and doctors gave obscure opinions about “womb -trouble.” She paid a dollar a bottle for Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable -Compound, which was supposed to remedy “female complaints,” and did -so—by the method of dulling the victim’s sensations with opium. The -time came when Thyrsis awakened one winter night<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> and heard his wife -sobbing, and found her sitting up in bed in the moonlight, with a -revolver in her hand, something she kept for protection while her -husband was working in the college library. She had been trying for -hours to get up courage to put a bullet into her head, but did not have -that courage.</p> - -<h3>XIII</h3> - -<p>The grip of dreadful winter was broken, and it was possible to walk once -more. Flowers blossomed in the woods, and also in the two tormented -souls. For the great novel had been completed, and this time it was -promptly accepted. The great firm of Macmillan called it a distinguished -piece of fiction, paid five hundred dollars advance upon it, and agreed -to publish it in the autumn. So it was possible for the little family to -buy a turkey-red table cover, and also a vase to fill with woodland -flowers, and to get the horse and buggy more frequently—one dollar per -afternoon—and drive to town and ramble about the campus and listen to -the students singing their songs at twilight.</p> - -<p>A town full of handsome young college men was a not disagreeable place -of residence for the girl-wife of a solitary genius, condemned by grim -fate to celibacy. It was not long before Corydon had met a young -instructor of science who lived only a mile or two away on the ridge. He -came to call; having horse and buggy, he took Corydon driving, and she -would come back from these drives refreshed and enlivened. Life became -still more promising.</p> - -<p>Presently the time came when she told her preoccupied husband a quaint -and naïve story of what had happened. The young instructor had admitted, -shyly and humbly, that he was falling somewhat in love with her. It was -innocent and idyllic, quite touching; and Thyrsis was moved—he could -understand easily how anyone might fall in love with Corydon, for he had -done so himself. He was glad it was so noble and high-minded; but he -suggested, very gently, that it would be the part of wisdom not to go -driving with the young man any more. Corydon was surprised and pained by -this; but after a few more drives she admitted that it might indeed be -wiser.</p> - -<p>So again she was lonely for a while; until it happened that in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span> the -course of her search for health, she encountered a high-minded and -handsome young surgeon, a Scotchman. Strangely enough, the same thing -happened again; the surgeon admitted, shyly and humbly, that he was -falling somewhat in love with his patient; this time he himself -suggested that it would be wiser if he did not see her any more. Corydon -told Thyrsis all about it, and it was excellent material for a would-be -novelist who lived a retired life and had few experiences of romantic -emotions. But in the end, the novelty wore off—it happened too many -times.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a><i>5</i><br /><br /> -<i>Revolt</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Floyd Dell, contemplating his biography of myself, which was published -in 1927, asked me to explain the appearance of a social rebel in a -conventional Southern family. I thought the problem over and reported my -psychology as that of a “poor relation.” It had been my fate from -earliest childhood to live in the presence of wealth that belonged to -others.</p> - -<p>Let me say at once that I have no idea of blaming my relatives. They -were always kind to me; their homes were open to me, and when I came, I -was a member of the family. Nor do I mean that I was troubled by -jealousy. I mean merely that all my life I was faced by the contrast -between riches and poverty, and thereby impelled to think and to ask -questions. “Mamma, why are some children poor and others rich? How can -that be fair?” I plagued my mother’s mind with the problem, and never -got any answer. Since then I have plagued the ruling-class apologists of -the world with it, and still have no answer.</p> - -<p>The other factor in my revolt—odd as it may seem—was the Protestant -Episcopal Church. I really took the words of Jesus seriously, and when I -carried the train of Bishop Potter in a confirmation ceremony in the -Church of the Holy Communion, I thought I was helping to glorify the -rebel carpenter, the friend of the poor and lowly, the symbol of human -brotherhood. Later, I read in the papers that the bishop’s wife had had -fifty thousand dollars’ worth of jewels stolen, and had set the police -to hunting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> for the thief. I couldn’t understand how a bishop’s wife -could own fifty thousand dollars’ worth of jewels, and the fact stuck in -my mind, and had a good deal to do with the fading away of my churchly -ardor.</p> - -<p>From the age of perhaps seventeen to twenty-two, I faced our -civilization of class privilege absolutely alone in my own mind; that is -to say, whatever I found wrong with this civilization, I thought that I -alone knew it, and the burden of changing it rested upon my spirit. Such -was the miracle that capitalist education had been able to perform upon -my young mind during the eleven or twelve years that it had charge of -me. It could not keep me from realizing that the rule of society by -organized greed was an evil thing; but it managed to keep me from -knowing that there was anybody else in the world who thought as I did; -it managed to make me regard the current movements, Bryanism and -Populism, which sought to remedy this evil, as vulgar, noisy, and -beneath my cultured contempt.</p> - -<p>I knew, of course, that there had been a socialist movement in Europe; I -had heard vaguely about Bismarck persecuting these malcontents. Also, I -knew there had been dreamers and cranks who had gone off and lived in -colonies, and that they “busted up” when they faced the practical -problems of life. While emotionally in revolt against Mammon worship, I -was intellectually a perfect little snob and tory. I despised modern -books without having read them, and I expected social evils to be -remedied by cultured and well-mannered gentlemen who had been to college -and acquired noble ideals. That is as near as I can come to describing -the jumble of notions I had acquired by combining John Ruskin with -Godkin of the New York <i>Evening Post</i>, and Shelley with Dana of the New -York <i>Sun</i>.</p> - -<p>It happened that I knew about anarchists because of the execution of the -Haymarket martyrs when I was ten years old. In the “chamber of horrors” -of the Eden Musée, a place of waxworks, I saw a group representing these -desperados sitting round a table making bombs. I swallowed these bombs -whole, and shuddered at the thought of depraved persons who inhabited -the back rooms of saloons, jeered at God, practiced free love, and -conspired to blow up the government. In short, I believed in 1889 what -ninety-five per cent of America believes in 1962.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span></p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Upon my return to New York in the autumn of 1902, after the writing of -<i>Arthur Stirling</i>, I met in the office of the <i>Literary Digest</i> a tall, -soft-voiced, and gentle-souled youth by the name of Leonard D. Abbott; -he was a socialist, so he told me, and he thought I might be interested -to know something about that movement. He gave me a couple of pamphlets -and a copy of <i>Wilshire’s Magazine</i>.</p> - -<p>It was like the falling down of prison walls about my mind; the amazing -discovery, after all those years, that I did not have to carry the whole -burden of humanity’s future upon my two frail shoulders! There were -actually others who understood; who saw what had gradually become dear -to me, that the heart and center of the evil lay in leaving the social -treasure, which nature had created and which every man has to have in -order to live, to become the object of a scramble in the market place, a -delirium of speculation. The principal fact the socialists had to teach -me was that they themselves existed.</p> - -<p>One of the pamphlets I read was by George D. Herron; it moved me to deep -admiration, and when I took it to my editor and critic, Paul Elmer More, -it moved him to the warmest abhorrence. I wrote to Herron, telling him -about myself, and the result was an invitation to dinner and a very -curious and amusing experience.</p> - -<p>I was in no condition to dine out, for my shoes were down at the heel, -and my only pair of detachable cuffs were badly frayed; but I supposed -that a socialist dinner would be different, so I went to the address -given, a hotel on West Forty-fourth Street. I found myself in an -apartment of extreme elegance, with marble statuary and fine paintings; -I was received by a black-bearded gentleman in evening dress and Windsor -tie—a combination I had never heard of before—and by an elegant lady -in a green velvet Empire gown with a train. One other guest appeared, a -small man with a black beard and mustache trimmed to sharp points, and -twinkling mischievous eyes—for all the world the incarnation of -Mephistopheles, but without the tail I had seen him wearing at the -Metropolitan Opera House. “Comrade Wilshire,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span>” said my host, and I -realized that this was the editor of the magazine I had been reading.</p> - -<p>We four went down into the dining room of the hotel, and I noted that -everybody in the room turned to stare at us, and did not desist even -after we were seated. Dinner was ordered, and presently occurred a -little domestic comedy that I, the son of an extremely proper mother, -was able to comprehend. The waiter served our meat, set the vegetables -on the table, and went away to fetch something else. I saw my host look -longingly at a platter of peas that lay before him; I saw his hand start -to move, and then he glanced at his wife, and the wife frowned; so the -hand drew back, and we waited until the waiter came and served us our -peas in proper fashion.</p> - -<p>Before long I learned the tragic story of my new friend. A -Congregational clergyman of Grinnell, Iowa, he had converted a rich -woman to socialism, and she had endowed a chair in Grinnell College for -him. Being an unhappily married man, he had fallen in love with the rich -woman’s daughter, and had refused to behave as clergymen were supposed -to behave in such a crisis. Instead, he had behaved like a resident of -Fifth Avenue and Newport; that is to say, he had proposed to his wife -that she divorce him and let him marry the woman he loved. There ensued -a frightful scandal, fanned red hot by the gutter press, and Herron had -to give up his professorship. Here he was in New York, with his new wife -and her mother, preaching to the labor movement instead of to the -churches and the colleges.</p> - -<p>An abnormally sensitive man, he had been all but killed by the fury of -the assault upon him, and before long I persuaded him to go abroad and -live and do his writing. He went, but not much writing materialized. -During World War I he swallowed the British propaganda as I did, and -became a confidential agent of Woodrow Wilson in Switzerland, and made -promises to the Germans that Wilson did not keep; so poor Herron died -another death. His book, <i>The Defeat in the Victory</i>, told the story of -his despair for mankind.</p> - -<p>He was a strange combination of moral sublimity and human frailty. I -won’t stop for details here, but will merely pay the personal tribute -that is due. I owe to George D. Herron my survival as a writer. At the -moment when I was completely exhausted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span> and blocked in every direction, -I appealed to him; I gave him <i>Arthur Stirling</i> and the manuscript of -<i>Prince Hagen</i>, and told him about <i>Manassas</i>, which I wanted to write. -I had tried the public and got no response; I had tried the leading -colleges and universities, to see if they would give a fellowship to a -creative writer; I had tried eminent philanthropists—all in vain. Now I -tried a socialist, and for the first time found a comrade. Herron -promised me money and kept the promise—altogether about eight hundred -dollars. How I could have lived and written <i>Manassas</i> without that -money I am entirely unable to imagine.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>The other guest at the dinner was likewise a person worth hearing about. -Gaylord Wilshire had made a fortune in billboard advertising in Los -Angeles (Wilshire Boulevard is named after him). Then out of a clear sky -he announced his conversion to socialism, made a speech in one of the -city parks, and was sent to jail for it. He started a weekly; he then -brought it to New York and turned it into a monthly. He was spending his -money fast, offering prizes such as grand pianos and trips around the -world for the greatest number of new subscribers. He had a standing -offer of ten thousand dollars to William Jennings Bryan to debate -socialism with him, but the canny “boy orator” never took that easy -money; he knew nothing about socialism, and the quick-witted editor -would have made a monkey of him.</p> - -<p>Wilshire always insisted that his conversion was purely a matter of -intellect; he had become convinced that capitalism was self-eliminating, -and that its breakdown was near. But as a matter of fact, a sense of -justice and a kind heart had much to do with his crusade. To hear him -talk, you would think him a cynical man of the world, a veritable -Mephisto; but his greatest faults were generosity, which made it -impossible for him to keep money, and a sort of “Colonel Sellers” -optimism, which made him sure he was going to get a lot more at once. -The advertising men in New York had assured him that the problem of a -monthly magazine was solved when it got four hundred thousand -subscribers, because at that mark the advertising made any magazine -self-sustaining. Hence the prizes; but alas, when the four<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> hundred -thousand mark was reached, it was discovered that the big national -advertisers would not patronize a magazine that in its reading columns -threatened their privileges. So Wilshire was “stuck,” and went into the -business of mining gold in order to keep his magazine going in spite of -the advertisers. That is a tale I shall tell later.</p> - -<p>The editor took me uptown and introduced me to two sisters, of whom the -older soon became his wife. The couple came to Princeton on their -honeymoon and became our intimate friends. Mary Wilshire was a sort of -older sister to me—though as a matter of fact I believe she was -younger. “Gay” printed my picture in his magazine, and introduced me to -the socialist movement as a coming novelist. I wrote for his columns—I -remember “The Toy and the Man,” wherein I poked fun at the desire of -grown-up Americans to accumulate quantities of unnecessary material -things. If you look about you at the America of sixty years later, you -will see that my sermon failed entirely of its effect.</p> - -<p>It was either that summer or the next that the Wilshires took us with -them for a two-week trip to Halifax, the editor having got -transportation in exchange for advertising. We drove about and saw the -Nova Scotia country, at its loveliest in early summer, and went swimming -by moonlight in an inland lake. Incidentally, I discovered some -cousins—it seems that a branch of the Sinclairs had left Virginia after -the Civil War; so here was a surgeon at this British Army station. -Somehow I got the impression that he was not entirely proud of his young -genius relative, with an unmodish wife who took care of her own baby. He -did not invite us to meet the wealth and fashion of the British Army, -and we had time to ramble alone on the beach, where the baby filled his -chubby fists with masses of squashy starfish.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p><i>Manassas</i> was completed in the spring of 1904 and published in August. -Meanwhile I was reading the socialist weekly, <i>Appeal to Reason</i>, which -was published in Girard, Kansas; it then had a circulation of half a -million, and doubled it in the next few years. At that time two Western -Miners’ officials, Moyer and Haywood, were being tried for a murder that -they probably did not com<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span>mit. The <i>Appeal</i> was sure of their innocence. -I was too, and in general I was becoming a red-hot “radical.” When the -twenty thousand workers in the Chicago stockyards had their strike -smashed in a most shocking way, I wrote a manifesto addressed to them: -“You have lost the strike, and now what are you going to do about it?” -This was just the sort of thing the <i>Appeal</i> wanted, and they made it -into a shouting first-page broadside and distributed hundreds of -thousands of copies. I wrote a second broadside, “Farmers of America, -Unite!” The <i>Appeal</i> paid me for this by sending me twenty or thirty -thousand copies, which was like a present of a herd of white elephants! -I had to hire a boy and a horse and buggy for a couple of weeks to -distribute them over the countryside around Princeton. Two years later I -ran for Congress on the socialist ticket in that district, and maybe my -propaganda got me half a dozen extra votes.</p> - -<p>I learned something about the American small farming community during my -three and a half years near Princeton. What their fathers had done, they -did; as their fathers had voted, so voted they, and thought it was for -Lincoln, or perhaps Tilden. They lived in pitiful ignorance and under -the shadow of degeneracy. I often thought of writing a book about -them—but you would not have believed me, because the facts fitted so -perfectly into my socialist thesis that you would have been sure I was -making them to order.</p> - -<p>In a neighborhood two miles square, which I knew by personal contact and -the gossip of neighbors, the only decent families were half a dozen that -lived on farms of a hundred acres or more. The families that lived on -ten or twenty-acre farms contained drunkards, degenerates, mental or -physical defectives, semi-idiots, victims of tuberculosis or of venereal -disease, and now and then a petty criminal. You could descend in the -scale, according to the size of the farm, until you came to the Jukes—I -don’t recall their real name, but students of eugenics will accept that -substitute. The Jukes had no farm at all, but squatted in an old barn, -and had six half-naked brats, and got drunk on vinegar, and beat each -other, and howled and screamed and rioted, and stole poultry and apples -from the neighbors.</p> - -<p>These small farmers of New Jersey and other eastern states represented -what had been left behind from wave after wave of mi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span>gration—either to -the West or to the cities. The capable and active ones escaped, while -the weak ones stayed behind and constituted our “farm problem.” -Prohibition did not touch them because they made their own “applejack,” -with sixty per cent alcohol. Politics touched them only once a year, -when they were paid from two to five dollars for each vote the family -could produce. They worked their children sixteen hours a day and sent -them to school three or four months in winter, where they learned enough -to figure a list of groceries, and to read a local weekly containing -reports of church “sociables” and a few canned items supplied by the -power trust; also a Methodist or Baptist paper, with praises of the -“blood of the Lamb” and of patent medicines containing opium and -coal-tar poisons. Such was agricultural New Jersey almost sixty years -ago. The farms still go on voting for Lincoln and McKinley, and hating -the labor unions that force up the prices of the things farmers have to -buy.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>A play called <i>Candida</i> by a new British dramatist had been produced in -New York. I had no money to see plays, but I borrowed the book, and it -was like meeting Shelley face to face, a rapturous experience. Then came -<i>Man and Superman</i>—I remember reading it in the summertime, lying in a -hammock by my woodland cabin and kicking my heels in the air with -delight over the picture of the British aristocracy in heaven—not -understanding the music, and being bored to death, but staying because -they considered that their social position required it.</p> - -<p>I was supporting my wife now, after a fashion, and so was in better -standing with my father-in-law. He had a six-week vacation in the latter -half of the summer, and invited me to accompany him on a canoe trip in -northern Ontario. My father-in-law was a city-bred man with a passion -for the primitive; he wanted to get to some place where no man had ever -been before, and then he would explode with delight and exclaim, “Wild -as hell!” We went up to the head of Lake Temeskaming, made a long -portage, and paddled over a chain of lakes some two or three hundred -miles, coming out by the Sturgeon River to Lake Winnipeg. We took two -canoes, and lugged them heroically on our<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> shoulders, and learned to use -a “tumpline,” and ran dangerous rapids with many thrills, and killed a -dozen great pike in a day, and paddled up to a dozen moose so close that -we could have touched them with our paddles. This country, which is full -of cobalt and copper, is now a great mining region, but at that time -there were not even trails, and the only white man we saw in several -weeks was the keeper of a Hudson’s Bay Company post.</p> - -<p>Here were Indians living in their primitive condition, and this -interested me greatly. I asked many questions, and the trader at the -post told me how in wintertime these Indians would kill a moose, and -then move to the moose, and camp there until they had picked the bones. -When I was writing <i>Oil!</i> I remembered this; I told about “Dad,” my -oilman, who would drill a well, and move his family to the well; I -compared him to the Indians who moved their families to a moose. Later -in the book I remarked, “Dad had moved to another moose”; and this got -me into trouble with printers and proofreaders, who would insist upon -making “moose” into “house.” I changed it back two or three times—until -finally I received a letter from one of the executives of the firm, -calling my attention to the difficulty; surely I could not be meaning to -say that Dad had moved to a <i>moose</i>!</p> - -<p>Going back home, I found <i>Manassas</i> about to appear, and this was the -psychological moment to make a killing with the magazines. Gertrude -Atherton had published in the <i>North American Review</i> an article -speculating as to why American literature, with so many opportunities to -be robust, should be so bourgeois. I wrote a reply, interpreting -American literature in terms of economics; but the <i>Review</i> turned me -down. I took the article to <i>Colliers</i>, then edited by Norman Hapgood, -and he published it. The article was one of the strongest I have ever -written, but there was not a line about it in the capitalist newspapers. -I could not comprehend this; but now, after it has happened to me so -many times, I know what to think.</p> - -<p><i>Collier’s</i> published another article of mine, telling the American -people what socialists believed and aimed at. But that was the last. The -editors accepted an open letter to Lincoln Steffens about his series of -articles on “The Shame of the Cities,” which was appearing in -<i>McClure’s</i>. I had written a criticism of his arti<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span>cles, pointing out -that the corruption he reported came about because big business bought -the politicians or elected them; and that there could never be an end to -it until the government owned businesses, especially the public -utilities. I sent the article to Steffens. He wrote me that it was the -best criticism of his work that he had seen; he wanted <i>McClure’s</i> to -publish it, but they didn’t dare to. So I turned it into an open letter -and sent it to <i>Collier’s</i>. I have told in <i>The Brass Check</i> how I was -invited to Robbie Collier’s for dinner, and how old Peter Collier, -ex-packpeddler, announced to me that he would not permit my articles to -appear in his paper and “scare away” his half-million subscribers. The -greater part of the letter to Steffens was published in my book, <i>The -Industrial Republic</i>, long since out of print. It contained a remarkable -prophecy of our successive world crises.</p> - -<p>Steffens and I became friends at that time. He remained always one of my -closest and dearest friends, and we met whenever we were in the same -neighborhood. In 1914, I remember, he came out to Croton, near New York, -where we had rented a little house, and spent several weekends with us. -Once I took him for a tramp in the snow before he had had his coffee. He -appealed to my wife never to let that happen again, and she promised.</p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p><i>Manassas</i> appeared, and won critical praise, but sold less than two -thousand copies. The “men of this land” did not care about the heritage -that was come down to them; or, at any rate, they did not care to hear -about it from me. The five-hundred-dollar advance on this book was about -all I got for my labors. I had written in the course of four and one -half years a total of six novels or novelettes, published four of them, -and the sum of my receipts therefrom was less than one thousand dollars.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, <i>Manassas</i> was the means of leading me out of the woods. -The editor of the <i>Appeal to Reason</i> read it and wrote me with -enthusiasm; I had portrayed the struggle over chattel slavery in -America, and now, why not do the same thing for wage slavery? I answered -that I would do it, provided he would stake me. The editor, Fred D. -Warren, agreed to advance five hun<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span>dred dollars for the serial rights of -the novel, and I selected the Chicago stockyards as its scene. The -recent strike had brought the subject to my thoughts; and my manifesto, -“You have lost the strike,” had put me in touch with socialists among -the stockyard workers.</p> - -<p>So, in October 1904 I set out for Chicago, and for seven weeks lived -among the wage slaves of the Beef Trust, as we called it in those days. -People used to ask me afterward if I had not spent my life in Chicago, -and I answered that if I had done so, I could never have written <i>The -Jungle</i>; I would have taken for granted things that now hit me a sudden -violent blow. I went about, white-faced and thin, partly from -undernourishment, partly from horror. It seemed to me I was confronting -a veritable fortress of oppression. How to breach those walls, or to -scale them, was a military problem.</p> - -<p>I sat at night in the homes of the workers, foreign-born and native, and -they told me their stories, one after one, and I made notes of -everything. In the daytime I would wander about the yards, and my -friends would risk their jobs to show me what I wanted to see. I was not -much better dressed than the workers, and found that by the simple -device of carrying a dinner pail I could go anywhere. So long as I kept -moving, no one would heed me. When I wanted to make careful -observations, I would pass again and again through the same room.</p> - -<p>I went about the district, talking with lawyers, doctors, dentists, -nurses, policemen, politicians, real-estate agents—every sort of -person. I got my meals at the University Settlement, where I could check -my data with the men and women who were giving their lives to this -neighborhood. When the book appeared, they were a little shocked to find -how bad it seemed to the outside world; but Mary MacDowell and her group -stood by me pretty bravely—considering that the packers had given them -the cots on which the strike breakers had slept during their sojourn -inside the packing plants in violation of city laws!</p> - -<p>I remember being invited to Hull House to dinner and sitting next to the -saintly Jane Addams. I got into an argument with her consecrated band, -and upheld my contention that the one useful purpose of settlements was -the making of settlement workers into socialists. Afterward Jane Addams -remarked to a friend that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> I was a young man who had a great deal to -learn. Both she and I went on diligently learning, so that when we met -again, we did not have so much to argue over.</p> - -<p>One stroke of good fortune for me was the presence in Chicago of Adolphe -Smith, correspondent of the <i>Lancet</i>, the leading medical paper of Great -Britain. Smith was one of the founders of the Social-Democratic -Federation in England, and at the same time an authority on abattoirs, -having studied the packing plants of the world for the <i>Lancet</i>. -Whenever I was in doubt about the significance of my facts—when I -wondered if possibly my horror might be the oversensitiveness of a young -idealist—I would fortify myself by Smith’s expert, professional horror. -“These are not packing plants at all,” he declared; “these are packing -boxes crammed with wage slaves.”</p> - -<p>At the end of a month or more, I had my data and knew the story I meant -to tell, but I had no characters. Wandering about “back of the yards” -one Sunday afternoon I saw a wedding party going into the rear room of a -saloon. There were several carriages full of people. I stopped to watch, -and as they seemed hospitable, I slipped into the room and stood against -the wall. There the opening chapter of <i>The Jungle</i> began to take form. -There were my characters—the bride, the groom, the old mother and -father, the boisterous cousin, the children, the three musicians, -everybody. I watched them one after another, fitted them into my story, -and began to write the scene in my mind, going over it and over, as was -my custom, fixing it fast. I went away to supper, and came back again, -and stayed until late at night, sitting in a chair against the wall, not -talking to anyone, just watching, imagining, and engraving the details -on my mind. It was two months before I got settled at home and first put -pen to paper; but the story stayed, and I wrote down whole paragraphs, -whole pages, exactly as I had memorized them.</p> - -<h3>VII</h3> - -<p>Our life in the little sixteen-by-eighteen cabin had been wretched, and -we had set our hearts upon getting a regular farmhouse. We had gone -riding about the neighborhood, imagining<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> ourselves in this house and -that—I looking for economy, and Corydon looking for beauty, and both of -us having the “blues” because the two never came together. Finally -Corydon had her way—in imagination at any rate; we chose a farm with a -good eight-room house that could be bought for $2,600, one thousand cash -and the rest on mortgage. There were sixty acres to the place, with good -barns, a wood lot, and three orchards; we imagined a cow, some chickens, -a horse and buggy—and persuaded ourselves that all this would pay for -itself.</p> - -<p>Now, before starting on <i>The Jungle</i>, I went to call upon Dr. Savage, -who had married us; I poured out my woes upon his devoted head. I told -him how Corydon had come close to suicide the previous winter and how I -dreaded another siege in our crowded quarters. I so worked upon his -feelings that he agreed to lend me a thousand dollars, and take another -mortgage on the farm as security. Poor, kind soul, he must have listened -to many a painful story in that big church study of his! He assured me -he was not a rich man, and I was glad when I was able to repay the money -at the end of a year.</p> - -<p>We moved into the new, palatial quarters, elegantly furnished with odds -and ends picked up at the “vendues” that were held here and there over -the countryside whenever some one died or moved away. You stood around -in the snow and stamped your feet, and waited for a chance to bid on a -lot of three kitchen chairs, with one seat and two rungs missing, or a -dozen dishes piled in a cracked washbasin. You paid cash and had -twenty-four hours in which to fetch your goods. I purchased a cow at -such a sale, also a horse and buggy.</p> - -<p>For my previous winters writing I had built with my own hands a little -cabin, eight feet wide and ten feet long, roofed with tar paper, and -supplied with one door and one window. In it stood a table, a chair, a -homemade shelf for books, and a little round potbellied stove that -burned coal—since the urgencies of inspiration were incompatible with -keeping up a wood fire. This little cabin was now loaded onto a farmer’s -wagon and transported to the new place, and set up on an exposed ridge; -in those days I valued view more than shelter, but nowadays I am less -romantic, and keep out of the wind. To this retreat I repaired on -Christmas Day, and started the first chapter of <i>The Jungle</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span></p> - -<p>For three months I worked incessantly. I wrote with tears and anguish, -pouring into the pages all the pain that life had meant to me. -Externally, the story had to do with a family of stockyard workers, but -internally it was the story of my own family. Did I wish to know how the -poor suffered in wintertime in Chicago? I had only to recall the -previous winter in the cabin, when we had had only cotton blankets, and -had put rugs on top of us, and cowered shivering in our separate beds. -It was the same with hunger, with illness, with fear. Ona was Corydon, -speaking Lithuanian but otherwise unchanged. Our little boy was down -with pneumonia that winter, and nearly died, and the grief of that went -into the book.</p> - -<h3>VIII</h3> - -<p>Three months of incessant work and little exercise put my stomach nearly -out of commission. A relative offered me some kind of pass on a steamer -to Savannah, and I took this trip, and went on to Florida, and spent a -couple of weeks roaming the beaches and fishing in the surf; I came back -refreshed, and put in the spring and summer on my task. The story had -begun in the <i>Appeal to Reason</i>—circulation half a million—and I was -getting letters from readers; I realized that this time I had something -that would be read. “I am afraid to trust myself to tell you how it -affects me,” wrote David Graham Phillips.</p> - -<p>Of course I had some human life during that year. There were times when -the country was beautiful; when the first snow fell, and again when the -peach orchard turned pink, the pear orchard white, and the apple orchard -pink and white. We had a vegetable garden, and had not yet discovered -that it cost us more than buying the vegetables. We bought some goose -eggs, hatched a flock of eight or ten, and chased them all over the -countryside until one day they disappeared into the stomachs of the -foxes or the Jukeses. I worked on the place all my spare time in summer -and became a jack-of-all-trades. I drove a hayrake, which was -picturesque and romantic—except that the clouds of pollen dust set me -to sneezing my head off. I was continually catching cold in those days, -and was still at the stage where I went to doc<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span>tors, and let them give -me pills and powders, and pump my nose full of red and blue and green -and yellow-colored liquids, which never had the slightest effect that I -could discover.</p> - -<p>Shortly before the completion of the book, I set to work at the -launching of the Intercollegiate Socialist Society. I had reflected much -upon my education in college and university, and made sure that my -ignorance of the modern revolutionary movement had not been an accident. -Since the professors refused to teach the students about modern life, it -was up to the students to teach themselves; so I sent a circular letter -to all the college socialists I knew of and invited them to organize. On -September 12, 1905, we had a dinner at Peck’s Restaurant on Fulton -Street in New York, and chose Jack London as our president. The -newspapers gave three or four inches to the doings of this peculiar set -of cranks. I remember calling up the secretary of some university club -to ask for the membership list, and I could not make him understand the -strange name of our organization. “Intercollegiate <i>Socialist</i> Society, -you say?” The Catholic Anarchist League, the Royal Communist Club, the -Association of Baptist Bolsheviks!</p> - -<p>We had no income, of course, and everything was done by volunteer labor. -Many times I sat up until two or three in the morning, wrapping packages -of literature to be mailed to persons who did not always want them and -sometimes wrote to say so. One who attended our first meeting was a -young student at Wesleyan by the name of Harry Laidler, and for several -years it was my dream that some day we might have an income of eighteen -dollars per week so that Harry could be our full-time secretary. The -organization, now known as the League for Industrial Democracy, has not -merely Harry W. Laidler but Norman Thomas also, and has raised about -fifty thousand dollars a year. Not so much, compared with the resources -of the power trust, but we have interested and trained two generations -of socialists, progressives, and liberals. The league has been at the -same address, 112 East 19th Street, New York, for some fifty-five -years—in itself an achievement; if you want to know about it, send a -postcard.</p> - -<p>Soon after our start, we organized a mass meeting at Carnegie Hall at -which the principal speaker was to be Jack London. I had corresponded -with him from the time of his first novel. At<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> this time he had had his -great success with <i>The Sea Wolf</i>. He was on the crest of the wave of -glory and a hero in the movement of social protest. He was traveling -from California to Florida by sea, then by train to New York, and he was -due to arrive on the very evening of the meeting. His train was late, -and I had been asked to keep the crowd entertained until he arrived. The -hall was packed. I was in something of a panic because I didn’t think -that I was equal to the assignment. But just as I started for the -platform, a roar of cheers broke out—our hero and his wife were walking -down the aisle.</p> - -<p>Jack was not much taller than I, but he was broadly built—the picture -of an athlete. That night he gave us the substance of his famous -discourse, “Revolution,” later published in a little red paper pamphlet. -The crowd that listened so raptly was not, I must admit, very -collegiate. A few students came, but most of the audience was from the -Lower East Side; the ushers were Jewish boys and girls wearing red -badges. The socialist fervor of that evening now seems like even more -ancient history than it is. A good part of it went into the communist -movement, of course, and my friend Scott Nearing used to ask me how I -could continue to belong to the Socialist Party, made up of lawyers and -retired real-estate speculators!</p> - -<h3>IX</h3> - -<p>The first chapters of <i>The Jungle</i> had been read by George P. Brett of -the Macmillan Company, who was impressed by the book, and gave me an -advance of five hundred dollars. The last chapters were not up to -standard, because both my health and my money were gone, and a second -trip to Chicago, which I had hoped to make, was out of the question. I -did the best I could—and those critics who didn’t like the ending ought -to have seen it as it was in manuscript! I ran wild at the end, -attempting to solve all the problems of America; I put in the -Moyer-Haywood case, everything I knew and thought my readers ought to -know. I submitted these chapters to a test and got a cruel verdict; the -editor of the <i>Appeal</i> came to visit me, and sat in my little living -room one evening to hear the story—and fell sound asleep! The polite<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span> -author went on reading for an hour or so, hoping that his guest would -wake up and be spared the embarrassment of being “caught!” (I cut the -material out.)</p> - -<p>I was called to New York for an interview with Mr. Brett. He wanted me -to cut out some of the “blood and guts” from the book; nothing so -horrible had ever been published in America—at least not by a -respectable concern. Brett had been a discerning but somewhat reserved -critic of my manuscripts so far; if I had taken his advice, I would have -had an easier time in life—but I would have had to be a different -person. Out of his vast publishing experience he now assured me that he -could sell three times as many copies of my book if I would only consent -to remove the objectionable passages; if I were unwilling to do this, -his firm would be compelled to decline the book. I remember taking the -problem to Lincoln Steffens, an older muckraker than I. Said he: “It is -useless to tell things that are incredible, even though they may be -true.” But I could not take his advice; I had to tell the truth, and let -people make of it what they could.</p> - -<p>I forget who were the other publishers that turned down <i>The Jungle</i>. -There were five in all; and by that time I was raging and determined to -publish it myself. The editor of the <i>Appeal</i> generously consented to -give space to a statement of my troubles. Jack London wrote a rousing -manifesto, calling on the socialist movement to rally to the book, which -he called “the <i>Uncle Tom’s Cabin</i> of wage slavery. It is alive and -warm. It is brutal with life. It is written of sweat and blood, and -groans and tears.” I offered a “Sustainer’s Edition,” price $1.20, -postpaid, and in a month or two I took in four thousand dollars—more -money than I had been able to earn in all the past five years. Success -always went to my head, and I became drunk, thinking it was going to be -like that the rest of my life; and so I could found a colony, or start a -magazine, or produce a play, or win a strike—whatever might be -necessary to change the world into what it ought to be.</p> - -<p>In this case the first thing I did was to buy a saddle horse for a -hundred and twenty-five dollars. It wasn’t as reckless as it sounds -because the horse could also be driven to the buggy, and I had to have -some form of exercise to help the poor stomach that apparently was not -equal to keeping up with the head. Also I had to have some way to get -into town quickly, because I now<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> had a business on my hands and had to -be sending telegrams and mailing proofs. I had a printing firm in New -York at work putting <i>The Jungle</i> into type. Then, just as the work was -completed, someone suggested that I offer the book to Doubleday, Page -and Company. So I found myself in New York again, for a series of -conferences with Walter H. Page and his young assistants.</p> - -<p>This publisher and editor played an important part in American history, -so I will tell what I saw of him. He was extremely kind and extremely -naïve; being good himself, he believed that other people were good; and -just as he was swallowed alive by Balfour and other British Tories -during World War I, so he was very nearly swallowed by the Chicago -packers. Anxious not to do anybody harm in such a good and beautiful -world, he submitted the proofs of <i>The Jungle</i> to James Keeley, managing -editor of the Chicago <i>Tribune</i> and a highly honorable gentleman, who -sent back a thirty-two page report on the book, prepared, so Keeley -avowed, by one of his reporters, a disinterested and competent man. I -sat down to a luncheon with the firm, at which this report was produced, -and I talked for two or three hours, exposing its rascalities. I -persuaded the firm to make an investigation of their own, and so they -sent out a young lawyer, and the first person this lawyer met in the -yards was a publicity agent of the packers. The lawyer mentioned <i>The -Jungle</i>, and the agent said, “Oh, yes, I know that book. I read the -proofs of it and prepared a thirty-two page report for James Keeley of -the <i>Tribune</i>.”</p> - -<h3>X</h3> - -<p>The young lawyer’s report upheld me, so Doubleday, Page agreed to bring -out the book, allowing me to have a simultaneous edition of my own to -supply my “sustainers.” The book was published in February 1906, and the -controversy started at once. The answer of the packers appeared in a -series of articles by J. Ogden Armour in the <i>Saturday Evening Post</i>, -whose editor was Armour’s former secretary, George Horace Lorimer. The -great packer did not condescend to name any book, but he referred in -dignified fashion to the unscrupulous attacks upon his great business, -which was noble in all its motives and turned out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span> products free from -every blemish. I remember reading this canned literature in Princeton, -and thinking it over as I rode my new saddle horse back to the farm. I -was boiling, and automatically my material began to sort itself out in -my mind. By the time I got home, I had a reply complete, and sat down -and wrote all through the night; the next morning I had an -eight-thousand-word magazine article, “The Condemned Meat Industry.”</p> - -<p>I took the first train for New York, and went to <i>Everybody’s Magazine</i>, -which had just electrified the country with Thomas W. Lawson’s exposure -of Wall Street methods. I figured they would be looking for something -new, and I asked to see the publisher of the magazine—realizing that -this was a matter too important to be decided by a mere editor. I saw E. -J. Ridgway and told him what I had, and he called in his staff of -editors. I read them the article straight through and it was accepted on -the spot, price eight hundred dollars. They stopped the presses on which -the May issue of the magazine was being printed, and took out a story to -make room for mine. Two lawyers were summoned, and once more I had to go -over my material line by line, and justify my statements.</p> - -<p>It was dynamite, no mistake. Bob Davis, of <i>Munsey’s Magazine</i>—how I -blessed him for it!—had introduced me to a wild, one-eyed Irishman who -had been a foreman on Armour’s killing beds and had told under oath the -story of how the condemned carcasses, thrown into the tanks to be -destroyed, were taken out at the bottom of the tanks and sold in the -city for meat. The Armours had come to him, and offered him five -thousand dollars to retract his story; by advice of a lawyer he accepted -the money and put it in the bank for his little daughter, and then made -another affidavit, telling how he had been bribed and why. I had both -these affidavits; also I had the court records of many pleas of guilty -that Mr. Armour and his associates had entered in various states to the -charge of selling adulterated meat products. It made a marvelous -companion piece to Mr. Armour’s canned literature in the <i>Saturday -Evening Post</i>.</p> - -<p>The article in <i>Everybody’s</i> was expected to blow off the roof. But -alas, it appeared on the newsstands on April 20, and April 19 was the -date selected by the Maker of History for the destruc<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span>tion of San -Francisco by earthquake and fire. So the capitalist news agencies had an -excuse for not sending out any stories about “The Condemned Meat -Industry!” I have met with that sort of misfortune several times in the -course of my efforts to reach the public. In 1927 I traveled all the way -across the continent in order to make war on the city of Boston for the -suppression of my novel, <i>Oil!</i>; and just as I set to work, Lindbergh -landed in America after his flight to France! For a couple of weeks -there was nothing in the American newspapers but the “lone eagle” and -the advertisements.</p> - -<h3>XI</h3> - -<p>However, <i>The Jungle</i> made the front page a little later, thanks to the -efforts of the greatest publicity man of that time, Theodore Roosevelt. -For the utilizing of Roosevelt in our campaign, credit was claimed by -Isaac F. Marcosson, press agent for Doubleday, Page and Company, in his -book, <i>Adventures in Interviewing</i>. If I dispute his exclusive claim, it -is because both of us sent copies of the book to the President, and both -got letters saying that he was investigating the charges. (Roosevelt’s -secretary later told me that he had been getting a hundred letters a day -about <i>The Jungle</i>.) The President wrote to me that he was having the -Department of Agriculture investigate the matter, and I replied that -that was like asking a burglar to determine his own guilt. If Roosevelt -really wanted to know anything about conditions in the yards, he would -have to make a secret and confidential investigation.</p> - -<p>The result was a request for me to come to Washington. I was invited to -luncheon at the White House, where I met James R. Garfield, Francis E. -Leupp, and one or two other members of the “tennis cabinet.” We talked -about the packers for a while; said “Teddy”: “Mr. Sinclair, I bear no -love for those gentlemen, for I ate the meat they canned for the army in -Cuba.” Presently he fell to discussing the political situation in -Washington. At this time <i>Cosmopolitan</i> was publishing a series of -articles called “The Treason of the Senate,” by the novelist David -Graham Phillips, which revealed the financial connections and the -reactionary activities of various Senators. (The articles were basically -sound,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> though I had the impression that Phillips, whom I knew rather -well, was longer on adjectives than on facts.) The President called the -roll of these traitors, and told me what he knew about each one. I sat -appalled—what, after all, did Theodore Roosevelt know about me? I was a -stranger, a young socialist agitator, from whom discretion was hardly to -be expected; yet here was the President of the United States discussing -his plans and policies, and pouring out his rage against his -enemies—not even troubling to warn me that our talk was confidential.</p> - -<p>I was so much amused by his language that when I left the White House, -the first thing I did was to write out, while I remembered it, his words -about Senator Hale of Maine, whom he called “the Senator from the -Shipbuilding Trust.” If you want to get the full effect of it, sit at a -table, clench your fist, and hit the table at every accented syllable: -“The most in-<i>nate</i>-ly and es-<i>sen</i>-tial-ly mal-<i>e</i>-vo-lent <i>scoun</i>-drel -that <i>God</i> <i>Almight</i>-<i>y</i> <i>ev</i>-er <i>put</i> on <i>earth</i>!” I perceived after -this session the origin of what the newspapermen of Washington called -“the Ananias Club.” I was assumed to know that the President’s words -were not meant to be quoted; and if I broke the rule, “Teddy” would say -I was a liar, and the club would have a new member.</p> - -<p>A curious aspect of this matter: it was only a few weeks later that -Roosevelt made his famous speech denouncing the “muckrakers.” The speech -named no names but was generally taken to refer to David Graham Phillips -on account of his “Treason of the Senate” articles; and this gave great -comfort to the reactionaries. Yet Phillips in his wildest moment never -said anything against the Old Guard senators more extreme than I had -heard Roosevelt say with his own lips at his own luncheon table. -Needless to say, this experience did not increase my respect for the -game of politics as played in America.</p> - -<p>I was sent to see Charles P. Neill, labor commissioner, and James -Bronson Reynolds, a settlement worker, the two men who had been selected -to make the “secret and confidential” investigation. I talked matters -out with them, promised silence, and kept the promise. But when I got -back to Princeton, I found a letter from Chicago telling me it was known -that the President was preparing an investigation of the yards and that -the packers had men working in three shifts, day and night, cleaning -things<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span> up. I found also waiting for me a business gentleman with dollar -signs written all over him, trying to interest me in a proposition to -establish an independent packing company and market my name and -reputation to the world. This gentleman haunted my life for a month, and -before he got through he had raised his bid to three hundred thousand -dollars in stock. I have never been sure whether it was a real offer, or -a well-disguised attempt to buy me. If it was the latter, it would be -the only time in my life this had happened; I suppose I could consider -that I had been complimented.</p> - -<h3>XII</h3> - -<p>Roosevelt’s commissioners asked me to go to Chicago with them; but I -have never cared to repeat any work once completed. I offered to send a -representative to put the commissioners in touch with the workers in the -yards. For this I selected two socialists whom I had come to know in the -“local” in Trenton, Ella Reeve Bloor and her husband. Mrs. Bloor had -five small children, but that never kept her from sallying forth on -behalf of the cause. She was a little woman, as tireless as a cat; the -war converted her to Bolshevism, and her five children became active -communist workers, and she herself became “Mother Bloor,” gray-haired, -but hardy, and familiar with the insides of a hundred city jails. I paid -the expenses of her and her husband for several weeks, a matter of a -thousand dollars. You will find me dropping a thousand here and a -thousand there, all through the rest of this story; I can figure up -seventy-five of them, all spent on causes—and often spent before I got -them.</p> - -<p>The commissioners obtained evidence of practically everything charged in -<i>The Jungle</i>, except that I was not able to produce legal proof of men -falling into vats and being rendered into pure leaf lard. There had been -several cases, but always the packers had seen to it that the widows -were returned to the old country. Even so, there was enough to make a -terrific story if it got into the newspapers. It had been Roosevelt’s -idea to reform the meat-inspection service, and put the bill through -Congress without any fuss. But the packers themselves prevented this by -their intrigues against the bill. Finally, with the tacit consent of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> -the commission, I put the New York <i>Times</i> onto the track of Mr. and -Mrs. Bloor, and the whole story was on the front page next day. So -Roosevelt had to publish the report, and the truth was out.</p> - -<p>I moved up to New York and opened an amateur publicity office in a -couple of hotel rooms, with two secretaries working overtime. I gave -interviews and wrote statements for the press until I was dizzy, and -when I lay down to sleep at two o’clock in the morning, my brain would -go on working. It seemed to me that the walls of the mighty fortress of -greed were on the point of cracking; it needed only one push, and then -another, and another. In the end, of course, they stood without a dent; -the packers had lost a few millions, but they quickly made that up by -advertising that their products were now guaranteed pure by the new -government inspection service. A year later Mrs. Bloor went back, this -time with a reporter from the New York <i>Herald</i>. They worked in the -yards for many weeks and found all the old forms of graft untouched. -Their story was killed by James Gordon Bennett, as I have related in -<i>The Brass Check.</i></p> - -<p>In the midst of all this there came to my aid a powerful voice from -abroad. The Honorable Winston Churchill, thirty-two years of age, was a -member of Parliament and a journalist with a large following. He -published a highly favorable two-part article on <i>The Jungle</i> in an -English weekly with the odd name of P.T.O.—the initials, with the first -two reversed, of the editor and publisher, T. P. O’Connor. (Because -O’Connor was an Irishman, you say it “Tay Pay O.”) I quote the first and -last paragraphs of Churchill’s articles, which ran to more than five -thousand words.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>When I promised to write a few notes on this book for the first -number of Mr. O’Connor’s new paper, I had an object—I hoped to -make it better known. In the weeks that have passed that object has -disappeared. The book has become famous. It has arrested the eye of -a warm-hearted autocrat; it has agitated the machinery of a State -department; and having passed out of the sedate columns of the -reviewer into leading articles and “latest intelligence,” has -disturbed in the Old World and the New the digestions, and perhaps -the consciences, of mankind....</p> - -<p>It is possible that this remarkable book may come to be considered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span> -a factor in far-reaching events. The indignation of millions of -Americans has been aroused. That is a fire which has more than once -burnt with a consuming flame. There are in the Great Republic in -plentiful abundance all the moral forces necessary to such a -purging process. The issue between Capital and Labour is far more -cleanly cut to-day in the United States than in other communities -or in any other age. It may be that in the next few years we shall -be furnished with Transatlantic answers to many of the outstanding -questions of economics and sociology upon whose verge British -political parties stand in perplexity and hesitation. And that is, -after all, an additional reason why English readers should not -shrink from the malodorous recesses of Mr. Upton Sinclair’s -“Jungle.”</p></div> - -<p>In the fifty-six years that have passed, Winston Churchill has become -one of the most famous names in history. I am pleased by what he said -about my book. But I cannot help wondering if he would have written as -freely if I had dealt with the horrors I saw in the slums of London -seven years later, or of conditions in the mining towns of which I -learned from John Burns, who represented the miners in Parliament.</p> - -<p>I had now “arrived.” The New York <i>Evening World</i> said, “Not since Byron -awoke one morning to find himself famous has there been such an example -of world-wide celebrity won in a day by a book as has come to Upton -Sinclair.” <i>The Jungle</i> was being translated into seventeen languages, -and was a best seller in America and in Great Britain for six months. -Photographers and reporters journeyed to Princeton, hired hacks and -drove out to my farm, and the neighbors who had been selling me rusty -machinery and broken-down mules suddenly discovered that I had “put them -on the map.” Editors wrote or telegraphed commissions, and I was free to -name my own price. My friend William Dinwiddie, sent by the New York -<i>Evening World</i> to get me to write something for them, first got me to -sign a contract at five cents a word, and then said: “Sinclair, the -first thing you need to learn is to charge.” So I doubled my price to -the next paper—and might just as well have quadrupled it.</p> - -<p>How did it feel to be famous? I can truly say that it meant little to me -personally. I got few thrills. I had suffered too much and overstrained -whatever it is that experiences thrills. If I had been thinking about my -own desires, I would have taken the first<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span> train to the wilderness and -never come back to crowds and excitement; but I stayed, because “fame” -meant that newspapers and magazines would print a little bit of what I -wanted to say, and by this means the wage slaves in the giant industries -of America would hear some words in their own interest.</p> - -<h3>XIII</h3> - -<p>In the third chapter of this narrative, I mentioned one “Jonesy,” a city -inspector of fruit who was the hero of “Jerome’s lemon story.” I -promised to tell another tale about this Jonesy, and here is the place -where it comes in.</p> - -<p>I had made some examination of the slaughterhouses in and near New York, -and stated in a newspaper article that conditions in them were no better -than in Chicago. This aroused the head of New York City’s health -department, who denounced me as a “muckraker,” and challenged me to -produce evidence of my charges. The reporters came on the run; and to -one of them, who happened to be a friend, I made a laughing remark: “It -happens that I know a certain inspector of fruit, a subordinate of the -health commissioner’s, who manages to keep a motorcar and a mistress on -a salary of a couple of thousand dollars a year. How do you suppose he -does it?” The remark was not meant for publication, but it appeared in -next morning’s paper.</p> - -<p>At about ten o’clock that evening, a reporter called me on the phone at -my hotel. Said he: “I want to give you a tip. The commissioner is taking -you up on that statement about the city fruit inspector who keeps a -motorcar and a mistress. He knows who the man is, of course, but he -figures that you won’t dare to name him because he’s a friend of your -family’s. So he is writing you a letter, calling you a liar, and daring -you to name the man. He has sent the letter to the papers, and I have a -copy of it.”</p> - -<p>There was a pretty kettle of fish! As matters actually stood, I had no -legal evidence of Jonesy’s graft—only the word of Jonesy s family, the -frequent family jokes. It would have been awkward to name him—but still -more awkward to let a Tammany politician, who happened to be Jonesy’s -boon companion, destroy the work I was trying to do.</p> - -<p>I called Jonesy’s home on the phone, and his wife—whom I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> knew—told me -he was out. I tried his club, and several other places, and finally -called the wife again. I explained that it was a matter of the greatest -urgency and that I could think of only one thing to do: would she please -give me the telephone number of her husband’s mistress?</p> - -<p>So at last I got my victim on the phone and spoke as follows: “The -commissioner has sent to the newspapers a letter challenging me to name -the fruit inspector who is a grafter. I didn’t intend for this to be -published, and I’m sorry it happened, but I refuse to let the -commissioner brand me before the public and destroy my work. If his -challenge is published, I shall name you.”</p> - -<p>The tones of Jonesy were what in my dime novels I had been wont to -describe as “icy.” Said he: “I suppose you know there are libel laws in -this country.” Said I: “That’s my lookout. I think I know where I can -get the proofs if I have to. I’m telling you in advance so that you may -stop the commissioner. Call him at once and tell him that if that letter -is published, I shall name you, and name him as your friend and crony.”</p> - -<p>What happened after that I never heard. I only know that the letter did -not appear in any New York newspaper.</p> - -<h3>XIV</h3> - -<p>Roosevelt sent me a message by Frank Doubleday: “Tell Sinclair to go -home and let me run the country for a while.” But I did not accept the -advice. I broached to <i>Everybody’s Magazine</i> the idea of a series of -articles exposing the conditions under which children worked in -industry. They thought this a promising idea and agreed to use a series -of eight or ten such articles. Alas, being new at the game, I omitted to -tie them down with a contract. I took Mrs. Bloor and went down to the -glass factories of southern New Jersey in the heat of midsummer, and I -spent my time watching little boys of ten and twelve working all night -in front of red-hot furnaces. One story I remember: an exhausted child -staggering home at daybreak, falling asleep on the railroad tracks, and -being run over by a train. I lived in the homes of these workers, I -talked with them and ate their food, and in later years I put some of -them into my books. Always the critics say<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span>—without knowing anything -about it—that I “idealize” these characters. I can only say that if -there is any finer type in the world than the humble workingman who has -adopted brotherhood as his religion and sacrifices his time and money -and often his job for his faith, I have not encountered it.</p> - -<p>I went next to the Allegheny steel country, the real headquarters of -American wage slavery in those old days. What I wrote horrified -<i>Everybody’s</i>, and they changed their minds about my series. So I had to -rest, whether I would or not.</p> - -<p>It was high time; for one of my teeth became ulcerated, and I had a -painful time, wandering about the city of Trenton on a Sunday, trying in -vain to find a dentist. After two nights of suffering I went to a -dentist in New York, had the tooth drilled through, and for the first -time in my life nearly fainted. Afterward I staggered out, went into the -first hotel I saw, and got a room and fell on the bed. It happened to be -a fashionable hotel, and this gave great glee to the newspapers, which -were pleased to discover signs of leisure-class follies in a socialist.</p> - -<p>There is a saying among women that every child costs a tooth. With me it -read: every crusade costs a tooth. Of course this wasn’t necessary; it -was not merely overwork but ignorance of diet, the eating of white flour -and sugar and other denatured foods, and pouring into the drain pipe the -mineral salts from fruits and vegetables. But I did not know anything -about all this; my college education, which had left out socialism, and -money, and love and marriage, had also left out diet and health. Instead -of such things, I had learned what a <i>hapax legomenon</i> is, and a <i>pons -asinorum</i>, and a <i>glyptocrinus decadactylus</i>—and was proud of -possessing such wisdom.</p> - -<p>Another activity during that summer and autumn of 1906 was an effort to -turn <i>The Jungle</i> into a play. Arch and Edgar Selwyn were playbrokers at -this time and suggested Edgar’s wife as my collaborator. Margaret Mayo -afterward wrote a highly successful farce-comedy, <i>Baby Mine</i>, but <i>The -Jungle</i> was something different, and I fear we made a poor -dramatization. We had a manager who was thinking of nothing but making -money, and some slapstick comedians put in dubious jokes that I, in my -innocence, did not recognize until I heard the gallery tittering. The -play came to New York for six weeks and lost money—or so I was told<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> by -the managers, with whom I had invested three thousand dollars.</p> - -<p>Concerning <i>The Jungle</i> I wrote that “I aimed at the public’s heart, and -by accident I hit it in the stomach.” I helped to clean up the yards and -improve the country’s meat supply. Now the workers have strong unions -and, I hope, are able to look out for themselves.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a><i>6</i><br /><br /> -<i>Utopia</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Three winters spent upon an isolated farm had taken all the romance out -of the back-to-nature life for a young author. The roads were either -deep with mud or cut with the tracks of sleighs, so that the only place -to walk was up and down in a field, along the lee side of a fence. Also, -four summers had taken the romance out of agriculture as an avocation -for a literary man. The cows broke into the pear orchard and stuffed -themselves and died; the farmhands who were brought from the city got -drunk and sold the farm produce for their own benefit. “Away from -nature!” became the slogan.</p> - -<p>The young writer, who had been close to starving for the past five or -six years, now had thirty thousand dollars, in hand or on the way, and -it was burning holes in all his pockets. He had never heard of such a -thing as investing money, and would have considered it an immoral thing -to contemplate. He wanted to spend his money for the uplifting of -mankind, and it was characteristic of him that even in the matter of -getting a home he tried to combine it with the solving of a social -problem, and with setting an example to his fellowmen.</p> - -<p>As a socialist Thyrsis of course believed in co-operation, and regarded -the home as the most ancient relic of individualism. Every person had, -or sought to have, his own home, and there lived his own little selfish -life, wasteful, extravagant, and reactionary. It did not occur to -Thyrsis that not every home might be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> as unhappy as his own; if anyone -had suggested the idea to him, he would have said that no one should be -happy in a backward way of life, and he would have tried to make them -unhappy by his arguments.</p> - -<p>His plan was to establish a co-operative home, to demonstrate its -practicability and the wider opportunities it would bring. There was -nothing revolutionary about this idea; it was being practiced in many -parts of America—only people were doing it without realizing what they -were doing. Up in the Adirondacks were clubs where people owned the land -in common and built individual cabins, or rented them from the club, and -had a common kitchen and dining room; they ran their affairs, as all -clubs are run, on a basis of equality and democracy. Only the members -didn’t use these radical phrases and made no stir in the newspapers.</p> - -<p>Thyrsis, for his part, had to make a stir in the papers, else how could -he find anybody to go into a club with him? He knew but few persons, and -only two or three of these were ready for the experiment. How could -others be found? It might have been done by personal inquiry, but that -would have been a slow process; when Thyrsis wanted anything, he wanted -it at once. Being a modern, up-to-date American, he shared the idea that -the way to get something was to advertise. So he wrote an article for -the <i>Independent</i> (June 4, 1906), outlining his plan for a “home colony” -and asking to hear from all persons who were interested. Soon afterward -he rented a hall, and announced in the newspapers that a series of -discussion and organization meetings would be held.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Many persons came; some of them serious, some of them cranks, some of -them both. The process of sorting them out was a difficult one, and was -not accomplished without heart-burning. There is no standard test for -cranks, and there were some with whom Thyrsis could have got along well -enough but who were not acceptable to the rest of the group. There were -some who quietly withdrew—having perhaps decided that Thyrsis was a -crank.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span></p> - -<p>Anyhow, the new organization came into being. A company was formed, -stock issued, and the world was invited to invest. In this, as in other -reform schemes, Thyrsis found that it was possible to raise about one -tenth of the money, and necessary to put up the rest out of one’s own -pocket. A search was begun for a suitable building; and real-estate -agents came swarming, and broken-down hotels were inspected and found -unsuitable. Finally there came better tidings; some members of the -committee had stumbled upon a place with the poetical name of Helicon -Hall.</p> - -<p>It stood on the heights behind the Palisades, overlooking Englewood, New -Jersey, just above the Fort Lee ferry from New York. It had been a boys’ -school, and there was a beautiful building planned by an -aesthetic-minded pedagogue who hoped that boys could be civilized by -living in dignified surroundings and by wearing dress suits every -evening for dinner. There were two or three acres of land, and the price -was $36,000, all but ten thousand on mortgage. Thyrsis, of course, knew -nothing about real estate, what it was worth, or how one bought it; but -the sellers were willing to teach him, and in a day or two the deal was -made.</p> - -<p>So, from November 1, 1906, to March 7, 1907 (at three o’clock in the -morning, to be precise), the young dreamer of Utopia lived according to -his dreams. Not exactly, of course, for nothing ever turns out as one -plans. There were troubles, as in all human affairs. There was a time -when the co-operative mothers of the Helicon Home Colony charged that -the head of the children’s department had permitted the toothbrushes to -get mixed up; there was a time when the manager in charge of supplies -forgot the lemons, and it was necessary for Thyrsis to drive to town and -get some in a hurry. But in what home can a writer escape such problems?</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>The most obvious success was with the children. There were fourteen in -the colony, and the care they received proved not merely the economics -of co-operation but also its morals; our children lived a social life -and learned to respect the rights of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> others, which does not always -happen in an individual home. There was a good-sized theater in the -building, and this became the children’s separate world. They did most -of their own work and enjoyed it; they had their meals in a dining room -of their own, with chairs and tables that fitted them, food that agreed -with them and was served at proper hours. Now and then they assembled in -a children’s parliament and discussed their problems, deciding what was -right and what wrong for them. There was a story of a three-year-old -popping up with “All in favor say aye!”</p> - -<p>There was one full-time employee in this children’s department, the rest -of the time being contributed by the various mothers at an agreed rate -of compensation. Many persons had laughed at the idea that mothers could -co-operate in the care of children, but as a matter of fact our mothers -did it without serious trouble. There were different ideas; we had some -believers in “libertarian” education, but when it came to the actual -working out of theories from day to day, we found that everyone wanted -the children to have no more freedom than was consistent with the -happiness and peace of others.</p> - -<p>I recall only one parent who was permanently dissatisfied. This was a -completely respectable and antisocialistic lady from Tennessee, the wife -of a surgeon, who was sure that her darlings had to have hot bread every -day. So she exercised her right to take them to an individual home. She -also took her husband, and the husband, in departing, tried to take our -dining room maid as his mistress, but without success. This, needless to -say, occasioned sarcastic remarks among our colonists as to socialist -versus capitalist “free love.”</p> - -<p>It was generally taken for granted among the newspapermen of New York -that the purpose for which I had started this colony was to have plenty -of mistresses handy. They wrote us up on that basis—not in plain words, -for that would have been libel—but by innuendo easily understood. So it -was with our socialist colony as with the old-time New England -colonies—there were Indians hiding in the bushes, seeking to pierce us -with sharp arrows of wit. Reporters came in disguise, and went off and -wrote false reports; others came as guests, and went off and ridiculed -us because we had beans for lunch.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span></p> - -<p>I do not know of any assemblage of forty adult persons where a higher -standard of sexual morals prevailed than at Helicon Hall. Our colonists -were for the most part young literary couples who had one or two -children and did not know how to fit them into the literary life; in -short, they were persons with the same problem as myself. Professor W. -P. Montague, of Columbia, had two boys, and his wife was studying to be -a doctor of medicine. Maybe, as the old-fashioned moralists argued, she -ought to have stayed at home and taken care of her children; but the -fact was that she wouldn’t, and found it better to leave the children in -care of her fellow colonists than with an ignorant servant.</p> - -<p>But it was hard on Montague when persons came as guests, attended our -Saturday-night dances, and went off and described him dancing with the -dining-room girl. It happened that this was a perfectly respectable girl -from Ireland who had been a servant at our farm for a year or two; she -was quiet and friendly and liked by everybody. Since none of the colony -workers were treated as social inferiors, Minnie danced with everybody -else and had a good time; but it didn’t look so harmless in the New York -gutter press, and when Montague went to Barnard to lecture the young -ladies on philosophy, he was conscious of stern watchfulness on the part -of the lady dean of that exclusive institution. Minnie, now many times a -grandmother, lives in Berkeley, California, and writes to me now and -then.</p> - -<p>Montague came to us innocent of social theories and even of knowledge. -But presently he found himself backed up against our four-sided -fireplace, assailed by ferocious bands of socialists, anarchists, -syndicalists, and single taxers. We could not discover that we made any -dent in his armor; but presently came rumors that in the Faculty Club of -Columbia, where he ate his lunch, he was being denounced as a “red” and -finding himself backed up against the wall by ferocious bands of -Republicans, Democrats, and Goo-goos (members of the Good Government -League). Of course the palest pink in Helicon Hall would have seemed -flaming red in Columbia.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span></p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>There were Professor William Noyes, of Teacher’s College, and his wife, -Anna, who afterward conducted a private school. There were Edwin -Björkman, critic, and translator of Strindberg, and his wife, Frances -Maule, a suffrage worker. There were Alice MacGowan and Grace MacGowan -Cooke, novelists. There was Michael Williams, a young writer, who became -editor of the <i>Commonweal</i>, the Catholic weekly. I count a total of a -dozen colonists who were, or afterward became, well-known writers.</p> - -<p>There came to tend our furnaces and do odd jobs two runaway students -from Yale named Sinclair Lewis and Allan Updegraff; we educated them a -lot better than Yale would have done you may be sure. “Hal” and “Up” -both wrote novels, but Up was better known as a poet. Hal became the -most successful novelist of his time. When he came to Helicon Hall, he -was very young, eager, bursting with energy and hope. He later married -my secretary at the colony, Edith Summers, a golden-haired and shrewdly -observant young person whose gentle voice and unassuming ways gave us no -idea of her talent. She eventually became Mrs. Edith Summers Kelly, -author of the novel <i>Weeds</i>; and after the tumult and shouting have -died, this is one of the books that students will be told to read as -they are now told to read <i>Evangeline</i> and <i>Hermonn and Dorothea</i>. I -corresponded with Hal Lewis to the end of his life, but I saw him only -once in his later years—sad ones, ruined by alcohol.</p> - -<p>We had a rule among our busy workers that nobody came to any other -person’s room except by invitation; so everyone had all the privacy he -wanted. When your work was done, and you felt like conversation, there -was always someone by the four-sided fireplace or in the billiard room. -In the evenings there were visitors, interesting persons from many parts -of the world. John Dewey came occasionally, as the guest of Montague. -Dewey was perhaps the best-known professor at Columbia in my time, and -he exercised tremendous influence upon American education, though his -ideas have often been misunderstood to the point of caricature. -Personally, he was a most kind and gracious gentleman. Another visitor -was William James, who was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span> perhaps the greatest of American -psychologists and certainly the ablest of that time. He was open-minded -and eager in the investigation of psychic phenomena, and I remember -vividly sitting with him at a table watching an old lady with a ouija -board. I had never seen this object before, but the old lady held it for -a good and trusted friend. She held a pencil or pen in her hand and went -into a sort of trance, while some force moved her hand over the board -from letter to letter. In Dewey’s presence her hand moved and spelled -out the sentence “Providence child has been carried to bed.” We took -this sentence to our faithful member named Randall, who owned a small -business in Providence, Rhode Island, and had a wife and child there. He -went to the telephone immediately and was told that the child was ill -with pneumonia.</p> - -<p>Another guest I remember was John Coryell, an anarchist, who earned his -living in the strangest way—he was Bertha M. Clay, author of the -sentimental romances that all servant maids then read, and may still -read. Sadakichi Hartmann, the art critic came and was one of the few who -were not welcome; he sent a postcard in advance, “Sadakichi Hartmann -will arrive at six <small>P.M.</small>” and there he was, on time, but unfortunately -drunk, and his companion, Jo Davidson, the sculptor, was not able to -control him. When the time came for departure, he didn’t want to depart -but insisted on sleeping on the cushioned seats in front of our -fireplace. We had to turn him out in the snow, and the next day he wrote -a letter to the papers about us, and there was quite a furor.</p> - -<p>During these months at the colony I wrote <i>The Industrial Republic</i>, a -prophecy of socialism in America. I have never reprinted this book -because of the embarrassing fact that I had prophesied Hearst as a -radical president of the United States. He really looked like a radical -then, and I was too naïve to imagine the depths of his cynicism and -depravity. When in the effort to become governor of New York he made a -deal with Tom Murphy, the boss of Tammany, whom he had previously -cartooned in prison stripes, I wanted to tear up my book. Incidentally, -I had prophesied socialism in America in the year 1913; instead we had -two world wars and the Russian Revolution—and I fear that more world -wars and more revolutions stand between us and a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> truly democratic and -free society. The world is even worse than I was able to realize; but I -still cling to my faith in the methods of democracy.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>The Helicon Home Colony came to an end abruptly, at three o’clock on a -Sunday morning. The first warning I received of its doom was a sound as -of enormous hammers smashing in the doors of the building. I was told -afterward that it was super-heated air in plastered walls, blowing out -sections of the walls. I smelled smoke and leaped out of bed.</p> - -<p>My sleeping room was in a tower, and I had to go down a ladder to my -study below; there was a door, leading to a balcony, which ran all the -way around the inside of a court, three stories above the ground. I -opened the door, and a mass of black smoke hit me—it seemed really -solid, with heavy black flakes of soot. I shouted fire, and ran out on -the balcony and up to the front, where there was a studio made over into -sleeping quarters for eight or ten of our colony workers. I ran through -this place, shouting to awaken the sleepers, but got no response; -apparently everybody had got out—without stopping to warn me! The next -day, I learned that one man had been left behind—a stranger who had -been working for us as a carpenter; he had been drinking the night -before and paid for it with his life.</p> - -<p>When I came back from the studio to the balcony, the flames were -sweeping over it in a furious blast. If I live to be a hundred, I shall -never forget that sensation; it was like a demon hand sweeping over -me—it took all the hair from one side of my head and a part of my -nightshirt. I escaped by crouching against the wall, stooping low, and -running fast. Fortunately the stairs were not yet in flames, so I got -down into the central court, which was full of broken glass and burning -brands, not very kind to my bare feet. I ran to the children’s quarters -and made sure they were all out; then I ran outside, and tried to stop -the fall of two ladies who had to jump from windows of the second story. -Harder to stop the fall of human bodies than I would have imagined!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span></p> - -<p>We stood in the snow and watched our beautiful utopia flame and roar, -until it crashed in and died away to a dull glow. Then we went into the -homes of our fashionable neighbors, who hadn’t known quite what to make -of us in our success but were kind to us in our failure. They fitted us -out with their old clothes—for hardly anyone had saved a stitch. I had -the soles of my feet cleaned out by a surgeon, and was driven to New -York to stay with my friends, the Wilshires, for a couple of days. An -odd sensation, to realize that you do not own even a comb or a -tooth-brush—only half a nightshirt! Some manuscripts were in the hands -of publishers, so I was more fortunate than others of my friends.</p> - -<p>Two or three days later I was driven back to Englewood to attend, on -crutches, the sessions of the coroner’s jury. So I learned what the -outside world had been thinking about our little utopia. They not only -thought it a “free-love nest,” but the village horse doctor on the jury -thought we had set fire to it ourselves, to get the insurance. Also, and -worse yet, they thought we had arranged our affairs in such a way that -we could beat the local tradesmen out of the money we owed them. It was -a matter for suspicion that we had got ropes, to serve as fire escapes, -shortly before the fire; they blamed us for this, and at the same time -they blamed us because we had made insufficient preparations—although -they had made no objection to the same conditions existing in a boys’ -school for many years. In short, we did not please them in any way, and -everything they said or insinuated went on to the front pages of the -yellow newspapers of the country.</p> - -<p>Every dollar of the debts of the Helicon Home Colony was paid as soon as -my feet got well, which was in a week or two. Likewise all those persons -who were left destitute were aided. I bought myself new clothes and -looked around to decide what to do next. If I had had the cash on hand, -I would have started the rebuilding of Helicon Hall at once; but we had -long negotiations with insurance companies before us, and in the -meantime I wanted to write another novel. I took my family to Point -Pleasant, New Jersey, rented a little cottage, and went back to the -single-family mode of life. It was like leaving modern civilization<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> and -returning to the dark ages. I felt that way about it for a long time, -and made efforts at another colony in spite of a constantly increasing -load of handicaps.</p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>We employed an honest lawyer and made an honest statement of the value -of our property. The insurance companies then cut it by one third and -told us that if we were not satisfied, we could sue, which would mean -waiting several years for our money. I learned too late that this is -their regular practice; to meet it, you double the value of your claim. -You must have a <i>dis</i>honest lawyer.</p> - -<p>We could not afford to wait, for many persons were in distress, and I -was unwilling to see them suffer even though they had no legal claim -upon me or the company. We settled the insurance matters and sold the -land for what it would bring; after the mortgage holders were paid, I -had a few thousand dollars left from the thirty thousand <i>The Jungle</i> -had earned. My friend Wilshire was in trouble with his gold mine just -then, and as he had loaned me money several times, I now loaned some to -him; that is, I invested it in his mine, and he wrote me a letter -agreeing to return it on demand. But his affairs thereafter were in such -shape that I never did demand it. And that was the end of my first -“fortune.”</p> - -<p>However, I did not worry; I was going to make another at once—so I -thought. Having portrayed the workers of America and how they lived, I -was now going to the opposite end of the scale—to portray the rich, and -how they lived. There had come many invitations to meet these rich; -there were intelligent ones among them, like “Robbie” Collier, Mrs. -“Clarrie” Mackay, and Mrs. “Ollie” Belmont; there were some who were -moved by curiosity and boredom, and some even with a touch of mischief. -The suggestion that I should write <i>The Metropolis</i> came first from a -lady whose social position was impregnable; she offered me help and kept -her promise, and all I had to do in return was to promise never to -mention her name.</p> - -<p>I refer to this matter because, in the storm of denouncement that -greeted <i>The Metropolis</i>, the critics declared that it was less<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> easy to -find out about “society” than about the stockyards. But the truth is -that I had not the slightest trouble in going among New York’s smart set -at this time. Many authors had stepped up the golden ladder, and my feet -were on it. My radical talk didn’t hurt me seriously; it was a novelty, -and the rich—especially the young ones—object to nothing but boredom. -Also there are some of the rich who have social consciences, and are -aware that they have not earned what they are consuming. You will meet a -number of such persons in the course of this story.</p> - -<p>The reason why <i>The Metropolis</i> is a poor book is not that I did not -have the material but that I had too much. Also, I wrote it in a hurry, -under most unhappy circumstances. The career of a novelist is enough for -one man, and founding colonies and starting reform organizations and -conducting political campaigns had better be left to persons of tougher -fiber. It took me thirty years to learn that lesson thoroughly; meantime -I lost the reading public that <i>The Jungle</i> had brought me.</p> - -<p>I did my writing about smart society in a shack that had walls full of -bedbugs. I made cyanogen gas, a procedure almost as perilous to me as to -the bugs. I worked through the spring and summer, and when the New York -<i>Herald</i> offered me my own price to make another investigation of the -stockyards, I resisted the temptation and turned the job over to Ella -Reeve Bloor. The result was a great story “killed,” as I have previously -mentioned.</p> - -<p>I was having my customary indigestion and headaches, the symptoms of -overwork that I would not heed. Also, in the middle of the summer, -Corydon suffered an attack of appendicitis that very nearly ended the -troubles between us. A country doctor diagnosed her illness as -menstrual, and when, after several days, I called a surgeon from New -York, he said it was too late to operate. So there lay my youthful dream -of happiness, at the gates of death for a week or two. I had then an -experience that taught me something about the powers of suggestion, -which are so close to magical; I saved Corydon’s life, and she knew it, -and told me so afterward.</p> - -<p>I literally pulled her back through those gates of death. She was lying -in a semistupor, completely worn out by pain that had lasted more than a -week; she had given up, when she heard my voice. I did not pray for -her—I did not know how to do <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span>that—but I prayed to her, urging her to -live, to keep holding on; and that voice came to her as something -commanding, stirring new energies in her soul. When modern -psychotherapists state that we die because we want to die, I understand -exactly what they mean.</p> - -<p>Corydon was taken to the Battle Creek Sanitarium to recuperate, -accompanied by her mother and an elderly surgeon friend. How easy it is -for human beings to accumulate needs! Four summers back Corydon and -Thyrsis had lived with their baby in a tent in the woods and had thought -themselves fortunate to have an income of thirty dollars a month assured -them; but now Corydon needed sixty dollars a week to stay at a -leisure-class health resort, and half as much for her mother’s board, -and a private physician into the bargain. The child had to have a -nursemaid, and a relative to take care of him in the Point Pleasant -cottage; while the father had to flee to the Adirondack wilderness to -get away from the worry and strain of it all! Such is success in -America, the land of unlimited possibilities.</p> - -<h3>VII</h3> - -<p>To one of the most remote lakes in the Adirondacks I portaged a canoe, -found a deserted open camp, stowed my duffle, and set to work to finish -<i>The Metropolis</i>. My only companions were bluejays and squirrels by day, -and a large stout porcupine by night. I lived on rice, beans, prunes, -bacon, and fish—no fresh fruit or vegetables—and wondered why I -suffered from constipation and headaches. I was beginning to grope -around in the field of diet reform and decided that beans, rice, and -prunes were not the solution to my problem!</p> - -<p>To the lake came a party of young people, a dozen of them, evidently -wealthy, with guides and expensive paraphernalia. They had a campfire -down the shore and sang songs at night, and the lonely writer would -paddle by and listen in the darkness, and think about his sick wife, who -also sang. Then one afternoon several of the young men came calling; one -of the party had got into a bee’s nest and was badly stung. Did I have -anything to help? They invited me to join them at their campfire. I did -so,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> and met a jolly party, and chatted with several pretty girls. One -of them, sitting next to me, asked what I did, and I admitted that I -wrote books. That always interests people; they think it is romantic to -be a writer—not knowing about the constipation and the headaches.</p> - -<p>I always tried to avoid giving my name, because I had come to know all -possible things that people would say to the author of <i>The Jungle</i>. But -these people asked the name, and when I gave it, I became aware of some -kind of situation; there was laughing and teasing, and finally I learned -what I had blundered into—the girl at my side was a daughter of the -head of J. Ogden Armour’s legal staff!</p> - -<p>We fought our battles over again, and I learned, either from this girl -or from someone in the party, that Mr. Armour had been shut up with his -lawyers for the greater part of three days and nights, insisting upon -having me indicted for criminal libel, and hearing the lawyers argue -that he could not “stand the gaff.” I suppose that must have happened in -more than one office since I started my attack on American big business. -The secret is this: you must be sure that the criminal has committed -worse crimes than the ones you reveal. I have been sued for libel only -once in my life, and that was when an eccentric lady pacifist named -Rosika Schwimmer took exception to my playful account of her activities; -this incident I will tell about later.</p> - -<p><i>The Metropolis</i> was done, and the manuscript shipped off to Doubleday, -Page and Company. Meantime I went over into Keene Valley and paid a -visit of a week or two to Prestonia Mann Martin, wealthy utopian, who -for many years had turned her Adirondack camp into a place of summer -discussions—incidentally making her guests practice co-operation in -kitchen and laundry. Her husband was an Englishman, one of the founders -of the Fabian Society. When I met them, they were both on the way toward -reaction; Prestonia was writing a book to prove that we had made no -progress in civilization since the Greeks.</p> - -<p>Both she and her husband became good, old-fashioned tories; the last -time I met him was just before World War I, and we got into an argument -over the results to be expected from woman suffrage. “Anyhow,” said he, -“it’s not worth bothering about, because neither you nor I will ever see -it.” I offered to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span> wager that he would see it in New York State within -ten years, and John Martin thought that was the funniest idea he had -ever heard. But he saw it in about five years.</p> - -<p>At this camp was James Graham Stokes, then president of our -Intercollegiate Socialist Society. World War I came, and he began -drilling a regiment in one of the New York armories, preparing to kill -any of his former comrades who might attempt an uprising. His wife, Rose -Pastor, at one time a cigar worker in New York, had tried with gentle -patience to fit herself into the leisure-class world. When the war came, -she gave it up and became a Bolshevik, and her marriage went to wreck.</p> - -<p>Also at the camp was Harriet Stanton Blatch, suffragist, and Edward E. -Slosson, whom I had met as one of the editors of the <i>Independent</i>. He -became a well-known popularizer of science and started the Science -Service. We had much to argue about.</p> - -<h3>VIII</h3> - -<p>Doubleday, Page and Company declined <i>The Metropolis</i>. They said it -wasn’t a novel at all and urged me to take a year to rewrite it. I had -further sessions with Walter H. Page and observed that amiable gentleman -again believing what other people told him. The bright young men in his -business office were certain that New York society wasn’t as bad as I -portrayed it; when I told them what I knew, I observed a certain chill. -I attributed it to the fact that their magazine, the <i>World’s Work</i>, was -edited and published in New York, and its revenue came from the -advertising of banks and trust companies that I exposed in my book. It -was one thing to tell about graft in Chicago, a thousand miles away, and -another to tell about it in one’s own financial family. Doubleday, Page -had made a fortune out of <i>The Jungle</i> and used it to become rich and -reactionary. I bade them a sad farewell.</p> - -<p>The <i>American Magazine</i>, then owned and run by reformers, read the -manuscript and agreed to feature parts of it as a serial. I left the -book manuscript with Moffat, Yard and Company, and went out to join my -wife at the Battle Creek Sanitarium. I stayed there for three weeks or -so and tried their cure. I listened to Dr. W. K. Kellogg set forth the -horrors of a carnivorous diet, and as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> a result I tried vegetarianism -for the next three years. I felt better while I was taking treatments at -the “San,” so I thought I had solved my problem of how to overwork with -impunity.</p> - -<p>Michael Williams, one of our Helicon Hall colonists, now out of a job, -came out to the “San” to write it up for some magazine, and he and I saw -a great deal of each other at this time. Mike was a Canadian of Welsh -descent who had had a hard life, beginning as porter in a big department -store, and contracting both tuberculosis and the drink habit. He had -cured himself of the latter and was trying to cure himself of the former -by Battle Creek methods. Incidentally, he was an ardent socialist, and a -writer of no little talent; I thought he would serve the cause and was -glad to help him. We devised a brilliant scheme for a vacation and a -book combined; we would get a couple of covered wagons and take our two -families across the continent on a tour, living the outdoor life and -seeing America close at hand. A “literary caravan” we would call it, -“Utopia on the Trek.” The <i>American Magazine</i> fell violently for the -idea and promised to make a serial out of our adventures.</p> - -<p>But that was a summer plan, and it was now November. We decided to take -our families to Bermuda for the winter, and there write a book about our -health experiences. Moffat, Yard were very keen about <i>The Metropolis</i> -and its prospects; I, remembering the advice of my newspaper friend that -I should “learn to charge,” extracted an advance of five thousand -dollars on royalty account. So the path of life stretched rosy before -Mike and me. We would have a two-family utopia amid the coral reefs of -Bermuda; I would pay the bills, and Mike would repay me out of his -future earnings. “It will be a debt of honor,” he said, proudly, and -repeated it every now and then.</p> - -<p>We went to New York, the first stage of our journey, just in the wake of -a great event. Wall Street had been in the midst of a frenzy of -speculation, but “somebody asked for a dollar,” and there was the panic -of 1907. I have told in <i>The Brass Check</i> the peculiar circumstances -under which I came to get the inside story of this event. Suffice it -here to say that I had the biggest news story ever sprung in America, -certainly at any rate in my time. I was able not merely to charge but to -prove that the elder Morgan had deliberately brought on that panic as a -means of putting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span> the independent trust companies out of business. The -<i>American Magazine</i> editors wanted the story and signed a contract for -it, but in the course of two or three weeks they got cold feet and -begged me to let them off, which I did.</p> - -<h3>IX</h3> - -<p>Behold Mike and me in a fairyland set with jewels, in the remotest part -of the Bermudas, far from the maddening crowd of tourists. The house is -white limestone, set upon a rocky shore overlooking a little bay, behind -which the sun sets every evening. Out on a point in front of us stands -an old ruin of a mansion, deserted, but having a marvelous mahogany -staircase inside so that we can assure the children it was once the home -of a pirate chief. The water is brilliant azure, shading to emerald in -the shallows; over it flies the man-o’-war bird, snow-white, with a long -white feather trailing like a pennant. The sun shines nearly always. -There is a tennis court, surrounded by a towering hedge of oleanders in -perpetual blossom. There are roses, and a garden in which a colored boy -raises our vegetarian vegetables. The house is wide and rambling, with -enough verandas so that both halves of this two-family utopia can sleep -outdoors.</p> - -<p>Mike is working on his autobiographical novel—it was published under -the title of <i>The High Romance</i>. I am writing <i>The Millennium</i>, a play, -and we write our health book together—I won’t tell you the name of -that, having changed my ideas to some extent. I have brought a secretary -with me, and Mike has half her time, the salary being added to that -“debt of honor” of which we keep a careful account. There is a Swedish -governess who takes care of my son and the two Williams children -impartially; also Mike’s wife has an elderly friend to assist her. There -is Minnie to do the housework for all of us—Irish Minnie who danced -with the college professors at Helicon Hall. Our utopia contains a total -of twelve persons, and my five thousand dollars exactly suffices for the -fares and the six months’ expenses.</p> - -<p>Then <i>The Metropolis</i> is published and sells eighteen thousand copies, -barely justifying the advance; so there are no more royalties, and I am -stuck in a strange land, without money to get the family home! Mike -volunteers to go to New York and find a pub<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span>lisher for the health book, -our common property; he will get an advance and remit me half. He goes, -and places the book with the Frederick A. Stokes Company; he collects an -advance and puts it all into his own pocket—and I am stuck again!</p> - -<p>I borrow money from somebody and come home. Mike and his family go to -California, and he takes up his old drinking habits and gets another -hemorrhage; the next thing I hear, he has sought refuge in the religion -of his childhood. He told all that in <i>The High Romance</i>; Saint Theresa -came to him, and proved her presence by making him smell a rose as he -was walking down the street. That was a miracle, and by it Mike knew he -was one of the elect. That any hypnotist could have worked a hundred -such miracles—could have caused Mike to smell all the flowers that -bloom in the spring, tra-la-la—that had nothing to do with the case.</p> - -<h3>X</h3> - -<p>So ended my attempt to raise up and train a new socialist writer. It is -an ugly story to tell on a man—the only mean story in this amiable -book, you may note. Nothing could hire me to tell it—except for a later -development, which you have still to hear.</p> - -<p>Ten years passed, and Mike was all but forgotten. I started a magazine -and in it published <i>The Profits of Religion</i>, dealing with the churches -by the method of economic interpretation. Mike, being now a champion of -Roman Catholicism—his publishers were introducing him as “one of the -most influential lay Catholics of America”—sallied forth to destroy my -book. That was all right; I grant every man a right to disagree with -me—the more the merrier, it is all advertising. But Mike found his task -difficult, for the reason that my statements in <i>The Profits of -Religion</i> are derived from Catholic sources—devotional works, papal -decrees, pastoral letters, editorials in church papers—everything with -the holy imprimatur, <i>nihil obstat</i>.</p> - -<p>So, instead of attacking the book, Mike chose to attack its author. He -accused me of being a writer for gain, and headed his review with the -title “A Prophet for Profit”! I have heard that charge many times, but -it did seem to me there was one person in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span> America who was barred from -making it—and that was my old friend and pensioner, Michael Williams. -Since he made it, and published it, it seems to me that the consequences -are upon his own head. And that is why I tell the story here. I never -saw him again, and never will—for he is dead.</p> - -<h3>XI</h3> - -<p>The satiric comedy <i>The Millennium</i>, which I had in my suitcase, made a -hit with the leading stage impresario of that time, David Belasco. He -agreed to produce it on an elaborate scale in the course of the coming -winter. He was fighting the “trust” and had two big theaters in New -York, where he put on two big productions every year. But after keeping -me waiting for a year, and making many promises, he suddenly made peace -with his enemies; he then wanted small shows that could be put on the -road, so he threw over <i>The Millennium</i> and produced <i>The Easiest Way</i>, -by Eugene Walter, which had only eight characters. So vanished one more -of those dreams that haunted me for ten years or more—earning a lot of -money and starting another colony.</p> - -<p>I got an advance from a publisher, and took my family to Lake Placid in -the Adirondacks, rented a little camp, and settled down to the task of -weaving into a novel my story of how the elder J. P. Morgan had caused -the panic of the previous autumn. <i>The Moneychangers</i> was the title. It -was to be a sequel to <i>The Metropolis</i>. I was planning a trilogy to -replace the one that had died with <i>Manassas</i>. My plans were still -grandiloquent.</p> - -<p>When I was gathering material for the book, Lincoln Steffens introduced -me to two of my most valuable informants: Samuel Untermyer and James B. -Dill. Dill had been the most highly paid corporation lawyer in Wall -Street, and had recently been appointed Chief Justice of the Supreme -Court in New Jersey. So he was free and could talk; and the stories he -told me you wouldn’t believe. I will tell only one. He took me out to -his home in New Jersey to spend the night, and when we came into the -dining room, he said, “Make a note of this table and that window with -the double French doors, I will tell you a story about them.”</p> - -<p>This was the story. There was a lawsuit involving several million -dollars, and Dill came into possession of a document that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> would decide -the case. He wanted to make certain that this document could not be -stolen. He was certain that a desperate attempt would be made to steal -it, so he put two or three typists to work all day, and they made a -total of twenty-one copies; he sent his office employees out to rent -safe-deposit boxes in various banks in and around Wall Street. He sealed -the copies in twenty-one envelopes, and one of them contained the -original document. He alone knew which bank got the original. He took -one of the copies out to his home that evening and said to his butler, -“The house will be burglarized tonight, but don’t pay any attention to -it. I want them to get what they come for.”</p> - -<p>He set the sealed envelope on the corner of his dining-room table; sure -enough, the next morning he found that the French windows had been -opened and the envelope taken.</p> - -<p>When he reached his office in the morning he called up the firm of the -other side in the case and said, “By now you know what we have; our -terms are two and one-half million dollars”—or whatever the amount -was—and they settled on that basis. I used the story in one of my -novels and, of course, everybody said it was preposterous; but it was -told to me by James B. Dill.</p> - -<p><i>The Moneychangers</i> did not come up to my hopes, mainly because of the -unhappy situation in which I was living. My health made continuous -application impossible. I beg the reader’s pardon for referring to these -matters, but they are a factor in the lives of authors. I am fortunate -in being able to promise a happy ending to the story—I mean that I have -solved the problem of doing my work and keeping entirely well. I will -tell the secrets in due course—so read on!</p> - -<p>For recreation I climbed the mountains, played tennis, and swam in the -lake. I slept in an open camp under the pine trees and conformed to all -the health laws I knew. We had Irish Minnie with us, and also a woman -friend of Corydon’s, a young student whom she had met at Battle Creek, -very religious, a Seventh-day Adventist. Corydon was trying various -kinds of mental healing, and I was hoping for anything to keep her happy -while I went on solving the problems of the world.</p> - -<p>For myself I had good company that summer; a man whom I had met two -years before, at the time <i>The Jungle</i> was published. An Englishman -twelve years older than I, he had come to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> New York and sent me a letter -of introduction from Lady Warwick, our socialist countess. H. G. Wells -was the traveler’s name, and I had been obliged to tell him that I had -never heard of him. He sent me his <i>Modern Utopia</i>, inscribing it -charmingly, “To the most hopeful of Socialists, from the next most -hopeful.” I found it a peerless book, and wrote him a letter that he -accepted as “a coronation.” I had him with me that summer in the -Adirondacks by the magic of eight or ten of his early romances, the most -delightful books ever made for a vacation. <i>Thirty Strange Stories</i> was -one title, and I smiled patronizingly, saying that a man could write one -strange story or maybe half a dozen—but thirty! Yet there they were, -and every one was strange, and I knew that I had met a great imaginative -talent. Since then I have heard the highbrow critics belittle H. G. -Wells; but I know that with Bernard Shaw he constituted a major period -in British letters.</p> - -<p><i>The Moneychangers</i> was published, and my revelations made a sensation -for a week or two. The book sold about as well as <i>The Metropolis</i>, so I -was ahead again—just long enough to write another book. But it seemed -as if my writing days were at an end; I was close to a nervous -breakdown, and had to get away from a most unhappy domestic situation -and take a complete rest. Corydon wanted to have an apartment of her own -in New York, and solve her own problems. My friend Gaylord Wilshire now -had a gold mine, high up in the eastern slope of the Sierra mountains; -also George Sterling, the poet, was begging me to come to Carmel and -visit him; so I set out over the pathway of the argonauts in a Pullman -car.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a><i>7</i><br /><br /> -<i>Wandering</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>It was my first trip across the American continent; and I stopped first -in Chicago, to visit the stockyards after four years. There was a big -hall, and a cheering crowd—the socialists having got up a mass meeting. -In front of the platform sat a row of newspaper reporters, and I told -them of the New York <i>Herald</i>’s investigation of conditions in the -presumably reformed yards. The investigation had been made a year -before, and nothing about it had appeared in the Chicago press. A good -story, was it not?—I asked the reporters at the press tables, and they -nodded and grinned. Yes, it was a good story; but not a line about -either story or meeting appeared in any capitalist paper of Chicago next -morning.</p> - -<p>The next stop was Lawrence, Kansas, to meet the coming poet of America, -as I considered him. He was a student at the state university, and I had -discovered his verses in the magazines and had written to him; he had -sent me batches of manuscript and poured out his heart. A real genius -this time—one who wrote all day and all night, in a frenzy, just as I -had done. He had gone to the university a bare-footed tramp, and now -slept in an attic over a stable, wrapped in a horse blanket. He was so -eager to meet me that he borrowed money, bought a railroad ticket, and -boarded my train a couple of hours before it reached Lawrence; we had -lunch in the diner—the first time in the poet’s life, he assured me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span></p> - -<p>When we got to town, I was escorted about and shown off, and begged to -talk to a group of the students and even a professor or two. It was a -great hour for the “box-car poet”; I being an object of curiosity, and -he being host and impresario. We went for a walk in the country, and he -told me his troubles. He had never had anything to do with a woman, but -here the girls flirted with him—none of them in earnest, because he was -a poor devil, and poetry was a joke compared with money. Now and then he -was on the verge of suicide, but he’d be damned if he’d give them that -much satisfaction. Such was Harry Kemp in his far-off day of glory; I -was thirty, and he twenty-five, and the future was veiled to us both. So -eager was he for my time that he borrowed more money and rode another -two or three hours on the train with me.</p> - -<p>Denver, and Ben Lindsey, judge of the Children’s Court; a new idea and a -new man. I watched the court at work and sat in at a session of the -Judge’s friends in the YMCA. He was in the midst of one of those -political fights that came every year or two, until finally the “beast” -got him. He revealed to me that he had written an account of his war -with the organized corruption of Denver. I took the manuscript, read it -on the train, and telegraphed <i>Everybody’s Magazine</i> about it; they sent -out Harvey O’Higgins and so got another big serial, “The Beast and the -Jungle.”</p> - -<p>The book was afterward published by Doubleday, Page and Company, and -withheld from circulation—the same trick they played upon Theodore -Dreiser, but never upon Upton Sinclair, you can wager! If there should -ever be another crop of muckrakers in America, here is a tip they will -find useful: put a clause into your contract to the effect that if at -any time the publisher fails to keep the book in print and sell it to -all who care to buy it, the author may have the right to the use of the -plates, and print and sell an edition of his own. That makes it -impossible for the publisher to “sell you out”; the would-be buyer, when -he reads that clause, will realize that he is buying nothing.</p> - -<p>A day in Ogden, Utah, with a horseback ride up the canyon; and one in -Reno, Nevada, walking for hours among the irrigation ditches in the -hills, and then, in the evening, watching the gambling—it was a -wide-open town even in those days. A curious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> two-faced little city, -with a fine state university, and a fashionable tone set by several -hundred temporary residents from the East, seeking divorces. The -Catholics and the fundamentalists of America have combined to force men -and women to live together when they want to part; so here were the -lawyers and the politicians of this little mining town getting rich, by -selling deliverance to the lucky few who could afford a few weeks’ -holiday. Corydon was talking of joining this divorce colony, so I looked -the ground over with personal interest.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>A day’s journey on the little railroad that runs behind the Sierras, -through the red deserts of Nevada. In the little town of Bishop, -California, the Wilshires met me, and we rode saddle horses up to the -mine, eighteen miles in the mountains. A high valley with Bishop Creek -running through, towering peaks all about, and cold, clear lakes—the -first snows of the year were falling, and trout had quit biting, but I -climbed the peaks, and ate large meals in the dining room with the -miners. The camp was run on a basis of comradeship, with high wages and -plenty of socialist propaganda; we slept in a rough shack and in the -evenings discussed the mine with the superintendent and foreman and -assayer. These were old-time mining men, and they were of one accord -that here was the greatest gold mine in America. You could see the vein, -all the way up the mountainside, and down in the workings you could -knock pieces off the face and bring them up and have them assayed before -your eyes.</p> - -<p>But alas, there were complications in quartz mining beyond my -understanding. Most of the vein was low-grade, and it could only be made -to pay if worked on a large scale. Wilshire did not have the capital to -work it in that way, and in the effort to get the money, he bled himself -and thousands of readers of his magazine who had been brought to share -his rosy hopes. I stood by him through that long ordeal, and know that -he did everything—except to turn the mine over to some of the big -capitalist groups that sought to buy it and freeze out the old -stockholders. Ultimately, of course, the big fellows got it.</p> - -<p>Socialists ought not to fool with money-making schemes in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> capitalist -society. I have heard that said a hundred times, and I guess it is -right; but there is something to be noted on the other side. The -socialists of America have never been able to maintain an organ of -propaganda upon a national scale; the country is too big, and the amount -of capital required is beyond their resources. The <i>Appeal to Reason</i> -was a gift to them from a real-estate speculator with a conscience, old -J. A. Wayland—may the managers of the next world be pitiful to him. -(His enemies set a trap for him, baited with a woman; he crossed a state -line in her company, which is a prison offense in our pious America, and -when he got caught, he blew out his brains.) <i>Wilshire’s Magazine</i> was a -gift from a billboard advertising man with a sense of humor. So long as -his money lasted, we all took his gift with thanks; if his gold-mining -gamble had succeeded, we would all have made money, and had a still -bigger magazine, and everything would have been lovely. But my old -friend Gay died in a hospital in New York, all crippled up with -arthritis. I missed his fertile mind and his sly, quiet smile.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>On to Carmel, a town that boasts more scenery to the square mile than -any other place I know; a broad beach, bordered by deep pine woods and -flanked by rocky headlands; at one side a valley, with farms, a river -running through it and mountains beyond. Fifty years ago the place was -owned by a real-estate speculator of the Bohemian Club type; that is to -say, a person with the art bug who would donate a lot to any celebrity -who would confer the honor of his presence. Needless to say, George -Sterling, the Bohemian Club’s poet laureate, had his pick of lots, and a -bungalow on a little knoll by the edge of a wood remote from traffic and -“boosting.”</p> - -<p>George was at this time forty, but showed no signs of age. He was tall -and spare, built like an Indian, with a face whose resemblance to Dante -had often been noted. When he was with the roistering San Francisco crew -he drank, but when he was alone he lived the life of an athlete in -training; he cut wood, hunted, walked miles in the mountains, and swam -miles in the sea. A charming companion, tenderhearted as a child, bitter -only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> against cruelty and greed; incidentally a fastidious poet, aloof -and dedicated.</p> - -<p>His friend Arnold Genthe gave me the use of a cottage, and there I lived -alone for two or three months of winter, in peace and happiness unknown -to me for a long time. I had been reading the literature of the health -cranks, and had resolved upon a drastic experiment; I would try the -raw-food diet, for which so much was promised. I ate two meals a day, of -nuts, fruits, olives, and salad vegetables; the only cooked food being -two or three shredded-wheat biscuits or some graham crackers. The diet -agreed with me marvelously, and for the entire period I never had an -ache or pain. So I was triumphant, entirely overlooking the fact that I -was doing none of the nerve-destroying labor of creative writing. I was -reading, walking, riding horseback, playing tennis, meeting with George -and other friends; if I had done that all my life I might never have had -an ache or pain.</p> - -<p>In Oakland was the Ruskin Club, an organization of socialist -intellectuals, who wanted to give a dinner and hear me make a speech. -George and I went up to town, and George stopped in the Bohemian Club, -and stood in front of the bar with his boon companions; I stood with him -and drank a glass of orange juice, as is my custom. Then we set out for -the ferry, George talking rapidly, and I listening in a strange state of -uncertainty. I couldn’t understand what George was saying, and I -couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t until we got to Oakland that I -realized what was the matter; my California Dante was drunk. When we got -to the dinner, someone who knew him better than I took him off and -walked him around the block and fed him bromo-seltzers; the socialist -poem he had written for the occasion had to be read by someone else.</p> - -<p>I went back to Carmel alone, feeling most sorrowful. I was used to my -poor old father getting drunk, and some of my other men relatives, but -this was the first time I had ever seen a great mind distorted by -alcohol. I wrote George a note, telling him that I was leaving Carmel -because I could not be happy there. George came running over to my place -at once, and with tears in his eyes pleaded forgiveness. He swore that -he had had only two drinks; it was because he had taken them on an empty -stomach. But I knew that sort of drinker’s talk, and it did not move<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span> -me. Then he swore that if I would stay, he would not touch another drop -while I was in California. That promise I accepted, and he kept it -religiously. Many a time I have thought my best service to letters might -have been to stay right there the rest of my days!</p> - -<p>That Ruskin Club dinner was a quaint affair. Frederick Irons Bamford, -assistant librarian of the Oakland Public Library, had organized the -group and ran it with a firm hand. I think he must have been a -Sunday-school superintendent before he came into the socialist movement; -he shepherded the guests in just that way, telling us exactly what to do -at each stage, and we did it with good-natured laughter. There were -songs printed for us to sing, each at the proper moment; there were -speeches, poems, announcements in due order. “And now,” said our -shepherd, “we will have ten minutes of humor. Will some one kindly tell -a funny story?”</p> - -<p>A man arose, and said, “I will tell you a story that nobody can -understand.” The two or three hundred banqueters pricked up their ears, -of course, and prepared to meet the challenge. I have tried out this -“story that nobody can understand” on several audiences, and it always -“goes,” so I give you a chance at it. Said the man at the banquet: “I -wish to explain that this is not one of those silly jokes where you look -for a point but there is no point. This is a really funny story, and you -would laugh heartily if you could understand it, but you can’t. I will -ask you, if you are able to see the point, to raise your hand, so that -we can count you.” He told the story, and a silence followed; all the -people craned their necks to see if there was any hand up. Finally -several did go up, I forget how many. We all had a good laugh, and it -was really ten minutes of humor. The story was as follows:</p> - -<p>Mrs. Jones goes into her grocer’s and asks for a dozen boxes of matches. -Says the grocer: “Why, Mrs. Jones, you had a dozen boxes of matches -yesterday!” Says Mrs. Jones: “Oh, yes, but you see, my husband is deaf -and dumb, and he talks in his sleep.”</p> - -<p>Raise your hand!</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>Tramping the hills and forests and beaches of Carmel, riding horseback -over the Seventeen Mile Drive, there began to haunt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> my brain a vision -of a blank-verse tragedy; the story of a child of the coal mines who is -adopted by rich people and educated, and finally becomes a leader of -social revolution. The first act was set in the depths of the mine, a -meeting between the rich child and the poor one, a fairy scene haunted -by the weird creatures who people the mine boy’s fancy as he sits all -day in the darkness, opening and closing a door to let the muleteams -through. The second act was to happen in utopia, being the young hero’s -vision of a world in which he played the part of a spiritual leader. The -third act was in the drawing room of a Fifth Avenue mansion, whose -windows looked out upon the street where the hero leads the mob to his -own death.</p> - -<p>The verses of this to me marvelous drama would come rolling through my -mind like breakers on the Carmel strand; but in the interest of health I -put off writing them, and soon they were gone forever. I suppose it is -natural that I should think of this drama as the greatest thing I ever -had hold of—on the principle that the biggest fish is the one that got -away. Curiously enough, the main feature of the second act was to be an -invention whereby the hero was to be heard by the whole world at once. -Such was my concept of utopia; and now, more than half a century later, -the people of my home town sit all evening and listen to the wonders of -the Hair-Again Hair Restorer, and the bargains in Two-Pants Suits at -Toots, the Friendly Tailor; every now and then there is a “hookup” of a -hundred or two stations, whereby all America sees and hears the -batterings of two bruisers; or maybe the Jazz-Boy Babies, singing; or -maybe the “message” of some politician seeking office.</p> - -<p>My rest came to an end, because a stock company in San Francisco -proposed to put on my dramatization of <i>Prince Hagen</i>, and the newspaper -reporters came and wrote up my “squirrel diet” and my views on love and -marriage, duly “pepped up”—though I don’t think we had that phrase yet. -I thought there ought to be a socialist drama in America, and I sat down -and wrote three little one-act plays, which required only three actors -and no scenery at all. Feeling so serene in my new-found health, I -resolved to organize a company and show how it could be done. I made a -deal with the head of a school of acting to train my company, going -halves with him on the profits; and for two or three<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span> weeks I had all -the comrades of the Bay cities distributing handbills, announcing our -world-beating dramatic sensation.</p> - -<p>One of these plays was <i>The Second-Story Man</i>. It was later published in -one of the Haldeman-Julius Little Blue Books; every now and then some -actor would write and tell me it was “a wonder,” and would I let him do -it in vaudeville? He would get it ready, and then the masters of the -circuit would say nix on that radical stuff. The second play was a -conversation between “John D” and “the Author” on a California beach, -having to do with socialism and John D’s part in bringing it nearer—by -putting all the little fellows out of business. The third play, <i>The -Indignant Subscriber</i>, told about a newspaper reader who lures the -editor of his morning newspaper out in a boat in the middle of a lake, -makes him listen for the first time in his life, and ends by dumping him -overboard and swimming away. In production, the “boat” was made by two -chairs tied at opposite ends of a board; the editor sat in one chair, -and the indignant subscriber in the other, and the oars were two brooms. -The comedy of rowing out into the middle of an imaginary lake while -admiring the imaginary scenery was enjoyed by the audience, and when the -editor was dumped overboard, a thousand social rebels whooped with -delight.</p> - -<p>The plays were given seven or eight times, and the theaters were packed; -the enterprise was, dramatically speaking, a success; but, alas, I had -failed to investigate the economics of my problem. The company had -engagements for only two or three nights in the week, whereas the actors -were getting full salaries. Distances were great, and the railway fares -ate up the receipts. If I had started this undertaking in the Middle -West where the company could have traveled short distances on trolley -cars, and if I had done the booking in advance so as to have a full -schedule, there is no doubt that we could have made a success. As it -was, the adventure cost me a couple of thousand dollars.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>Letters from Corydon informed me that our son had celebrated his winter -in New York by being laid up with tonsillitis; also, Corydon herself had -not found joy in freedom, and was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> ready to live according to her -husband’s ideas for a while. David Belasco was promising to produce <i>The -Millennium</i> in the following autumn, so I telegraphed Corydon to join me -in Miami, Florida. I took a train to Galveston, Texas, and from there a -steamer to Key West.</p> - -<p>My squirrel diet was difficult to obtain on trains, and perhaps I had -overworked on my dramatic enterprise—anyhow, on the steamer across the -Gulf of Mexico I developed a fever. I remember a hot night when it was -impossible to sleep in the stateroom. I went out on deck and tossed all -night in a steamer chair, having for company a member of the fashionable -set of one of our big cities—I forget which, but they are all alike. A -man somewhat older than I, he had just broken with his wife and was -traveling in order to get away from her; he had a bottle in his pocket, -and the contents of others inside him, enough to unlimber his tongue.</p> - -<p>He told me about his quarrel with his wife, every word that she had said -and every word that he had said; he told me every crime she had ever -committed, and some of his own; he poured out the grief of being rich -and fashionable in a big American city; he told me about the -fornications and adulteries of his friends—in short, I contemplated a -social delirium with my own half-delirious mind. The element of -phantasmagoria that you find in some of my books may be derived from -that night’s experience, in which fragments of fashionable horror -wavered and jiggled before my mind, vanished and flashed back again, -loomed colossal and exploded in star showers, like human faces, -locomotives, airplanes, and skyscrapers in a futurist moving-picture -film.</p> - -<p>At Key West I was taken off the steamer and deposited in a private -hospital, where I stayed for a week; then, somewhat tottery, I met -Corydon and our son at Miami, and we found ourselves a little cottage in -a remote settlement down the coast, Coconut Grove. It was April, and -hot, and I basked in the sunshine; I took long walks over a white shell -road that ran straight west into a flaming sunset, with a forest of tall -pine trees on each side. Incidentally, I slapped innumerable deer flies -on my face and hands and legs. I do not know if they call them that in -Florida—maybe they don’t admit their existence; but deer fly was the -name in the Adirondacks and Canada for those little flat<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> devils, having -half-black and half-white wings, and stinging you like a needle.</p> - -<p>We went swimming in a wide, shallow bay, warm as a bathtub; you had to -walk half a mile to get to deep water, and on the soft bottom lay great -round black creatures that scooted away when you came near. I wondered -if it would be possible to catch one, but fortunately I did not try, for -they were the disagreeable sting rays or stingarees. (Having become a -loyal Californian, it gives me pleasure to tell about the entomological -and piscatorial perils of Florida.) The owner of a big beach-front place -tried to sell it to us for five or six thousand dollars, and we talked -of buying it for quite a while. I suppose that during the postwar boom -the owner sold it for a million or two, and it is now the site of a -twenty-story office building full of tenants.</p> - -<p>In Coconut Grove, as in Carmel, there was a “literary colony.” I met -some of them, but remember only one: a figure who walked the white shell -roads with me, tall, athletic, brown, and handsome as a Greek -statue—Witter Bynner, the poet. Corydon, smiling, remarked, “Bynner is -a winner.” That compliment, from a qualified expert, I pass on to him, -in exchange for the many fine letters he has written to me about my -books. He is eighty now—and I am eighty-four.</p> - -<p>I think it was during these six weeks that I wrote <i>The Machine</i>, the -play that forms a sequel to <i>The Moneychangers</i>. An odd sort of -trilogy—two novels and a play! But it was the best I could do at the -time. I saw a vision of myself as a prosperous Broadway dramatist, a -licensed court jester of capitalism. But the vision proved to be a -mirage.</p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>For the summer of 1909 I rented a cottage on the shore at Cutchogue, -near the far end of Long Island; beautiful blue water in front of us, -and tall shade trees in the rear. I was carrying on with my raw-food -diet, and my family also was giving it a trial. To aid and abet us we -had a household assistant and secretary who was an even less usual -person than myself. Dave Howatt was his name. He was fair-haired and -rosy-cheeked and he nourished his great frame upon two handfuls of -pecans or al<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span>monds, two dishes of soaked raw prunes, and a definite -number of ripe bananas every day—it may have been a dozen or two, I -cannot remember. This blond Anglo-Saxon monkey romped with my son, -oversaw his upbringing, typed my letters, and washed and soaked the -family prunes. A youth after my own heart—vegetarian, teetotaler, -nonsmoker, pacifist, philosophical anarchist, conscientious objector to -capitalism, dreamer, and practitioner of brotherhood—Dave had been at -Bernarr Macfadden’s Physical Culture City, and had known Harry Kemp -since boyhood. Now Dave is living in Cuba, and at last report was loving -it.</p> - -<p>But alas for idealistic theories and hopes—the diet that had served me -so marvelously on the shore of the Pacific played the dickens with me on -the shore of the Atlantic. The difference was that now I was doing -creative writing, putting a continuous strain upon brain and nerves, and -apparently not having the energy to digest raw food. Dave Howatt, in his -role of guide and mentor, thought my indigestion was due to my evil -habit of including cooked breadstuff in the diet, so for a while I -changed from a squirrel to a monkey. Then he thought I ate too much, so -I cut the quantity in half, which reduced the size of the balloon inside -me; but it left me hungry all the time, so that when I played tennis, I -would have to stop in the middle and come home and get a prune.</p> - -<p>Under these trying conditions I wrote another book, endeavoring to put -the socialist argument into a simple story, which could carry it to -minds that otherwise would never get it. I aimed at the elemental and -naïve, something like <i>The Vicar of Wakefield</i> or <i>Pilgrims Progress</i>. -The border line between the naïve and the banal is difficult to draw, -and so authorities differ about <i>Samuel the Seeker</i>. Some of my friends -called it a wretched thing, and the public agreed with them. But on the -other hand, Frederik van Eeden, great novelist and poet in his own -language, wrote me a letter of rapture about <i>Samuel</i>, considering it my -best. Robert Whitaker, pacifist clergyman who committed the crime of -taking the sixth commandment literally and spent several months in a Los -Angeles jail during World War I, came on a copy of the book at that -time, and he also judged it a success. The publishing firm of Bauza in -Barce<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span>lona, desiring to issue an edition of my novels, saw fit to lead -off with <i>Samuel Busca la Verdad</i>. So perhaps in the days of the -co-operative commonwealth the pedagogues will discover a new classic, -suitable for required reading in high schools!</p> - -<h3>VII</h3> - -<p>By the end of the summer my health was too bad to tell about, and I had -got my thoughts centered on a new remedy, a fast cure. I had been -reading <i>Physical Culture</i> magazine, and I wrote to Bernarr Macfadden, -who was then running a rival institution to the Battle Creek Sanitarium. -He invited me to bring my family and let him have a try at my problem.</p> - -<p>Athlete, showman, lecturer, editor, publisher, and health -experimenter—I could make B. M. the subject of an entertaining essay, -but there is not space here. To the high-brows he was a symbol of the -vulgarity and cheapness of America. And it won’t help for me to defend -him, because I may also be on that list. I merely state what Macfadden -did for me—which was to teach me, free, gratis, and for nothing, more -about the true principles of keeping well and fit for my work than all -the orthodox and ordained physicians who charged me many thousands of -dollars for not doing it. Believe me, I went to the best there were in -every field, and while some of them had mercy on a writer, others -treated me like a millionaire. I number many doctors among my friends, -and the better they know me, the more freely they admit the -unsatisfactory state of their work. Leo Buerger, a college mate who -became a leading specialist in New York, summed the situation up when I -mentioned the osteopaths, and remarked that they sometimes made cures. -Said my eminent friend: “They cure without diagnosing, and we diagnose -without curing.”</p> - -<p>My visit to Macfadden took place in 1909—back in the dark ages, before -the words “preventive medicine” had ever been joined together. I had -asked doctor after doctor to advise me how to keep well, and not one of -them seemed to know what I was talking about; they attempted to cure my -sickness, and then they sent me away to go on doing the things that had -brought the sickness on. The secrets of natural living were the property -of a little group of adventurous persons known as “health cranks<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span>”; and -it has been my pleasure to watch the leading ideas of these “cranks” -being rediscovered one by one by medical authority, and so made known to -the newspapers and the public. It was not Dr. Auguste Rollier of -Switzerland who invented the sun cure; no indeed, the semilunatics of -Physical Culture City were going around in breechclouts, men and women -getting themselves arrested by rural constables, before ever the word -<i>Nacktkultur</i> was imported.</p> - -<p>The same thing is true of vitamins, and of the evils of denatured foods, -and the importance of bulk in the diet—we knew all that before Sir -Arbuthnot Lane ever addressed a medical congress. As to fasting, I stood -the ridicule of my medical friends for twenty years, and then in the -files of the <i>Journal of Metabolism</i> I found the records of laboratory -tests upon humans as well as dogs proving that the effect of a prolonged -fast is a permanent increase in the metabolic rate—which is the same -thing as rejuvenation, and exactly what we “health cranks” have claimed.</p> - -<h3>VIII</h3> - -<p>At Macfadden’s institution in Battle Creek were perhaps a hundred -patients, faithfully trying out these eccentricities. They fasted for -periods long or short; I met one man who went to fifty-five days, -attempting a cure for locomotor ataxia—he was beginning to walk, in -spite of all the dogmas. Later I met a man who weighed nearly three -hundred pounds, who fasted over ninety days, which is the record so far -as I know. This was before suffragettes and hunger strikes, and it was -the accepted idea that a human being would starve to death in three or -four days.</p> - -<p>After the fast we went on a thing known as a milk diet, absorbing a -glass of fresh milk every half hour, and sometimes every twenty minutes, -until we had got up to eight quarts a day. The fasters sat around, pale -and feeble in the sunshine, while the milk drinkers swarmed at the dairy -counter, and bloomed and expanded and swapped anecdotes—it was a -laboratory of ideas, and if you had a new one, no matter how queer, you -could find somebody who had tried it, or was ready to try it forthwith. -When you came off the milk diet, you might try some odd combination such -as sour milk and dates. In the big dining room you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span> were served every -sort of vegetarian food. There were dark rumors that the smell of -beefsteaks was coming from Macfadden’s private quarters. I asked him -about it, and he told me he was trying another experiment.</p> - -<p>I met him again when he was sixty; still of the same experimental -disposition, he wanted to know what I had learned in twenty years. He -then owned a string of magazines and newspapers, I don’t know how many, -and I would not venture to imagine how many millions they brought him -every year, or the number of his blooming daughters—I think there were -eight in a photograph on his desk. He still had his muscles of steel, -and would take two packs of cards, put them together, and tear them in -half before your eyes. He had been a weakling in his youth, had built up -that powerful frame, and would put on bathing trunks and come out on a -platform and show it to people; very vulgar, of course—no “ethical” -medico would dream of doing it. But it caused great numbers of men and -women to take an interest in their health, and it set up resistance to -those forces of modern civilization that were destroying the body.</p> - -<p>My personal experience has been told in a book, <i>The Fasting Cure</i>, so I -will merely say that I took a fast of ten or twelve days, and then a -milk diet of three weeks, and achieved a sense of marvelous well-being. -My wife did the same, and we became enthusiasts. I took a second fast of -a week or so, and when I left the place I had gained about twenty -pounds, which I needed. But I did not keep it, for as soon as I left the -sanitarium I started on a new book.</p> - -<h3>IX</h3> - -<p>Harry Kemp came to see us in Battle Creek; he was on his way back to -college after a summer’s work on the oreboats of the Great Lakes. He had -a suitcase full of manuscripts, an extra shirt, and a heart bubbling -over with literary excitements. He met Corydon for the first time and -found her interesting; Corydon, for her part, was maternal to a forlorn -poet.</p> - -<p>The fates wove their webs, unguessed by any of us. It happened that at -the Kellogg Institution, just down the street, there was a young lady -from the Delta district of Mississippi—she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> accompanied her mother -and a cousin who were undergoing treatment. Mary Craig Kimbrough was the -name of the young lady, and one day when she was walking with her -cousin, the cousin remarked, “Would you like to meet an author? There -goes Upton Sinclair with his wife.” Said the haughty young lady, “I -don’t think he would interest me.” But the cousin insisted. “Oh, come -on, I met him the other day, and he’s not so bad as he looks.”</p> - -<p>She called the author from across the street, introductions were -exchanged, and we chatted for a few minutes. The propagandist author, -being just then excited over fasting, and having no manners or tact or -taste or anything of that sort, informed an extremely proud young -Southern belle that she was far too thin and needed a fast and a milk -diet. It was the first time in her whole life that a man had ever -addressed her except in the Southern mode of compliment.</p> - -<p>I invited her and her cousin and her mother to come over to Macfadden’s -that evening, where I was to give an outdoor talk. They came; and I was -in a jovial mood, telling of the many queer ideas I had tried out in my -search for health. The audience rocked with laughter when I set forth -how, in the course of my first fast, I had walked down a hill from the -institution, and then didn’t have the strength to climb back. No one was -more amused than the young lady from Mississippi.</p> - -<p>I remember that we took a walk up and down the piazza of the sanitarium, -while this most sedate and dignified person—then twenty-five years of -age—confided to me that she was troubled in her mind and would -appreciate my advice. She revealed that she found herself unable to -believe what she had been taught about the Bible. This was a source of -great distress to her, and she didn’t know quite what to think of -herself. Had I ever heard of anyone similarly afflicted?</p> - -<p>I assured her with all necessary gravity that I had heard of such cases. -This was a relief to her; there were few such persons in the Mississippi -Delta, she declared. The development of her faithlessness had become a -cause of anguish to her family; her mother would assemble the ladies of -all the local churches in her drawing room, and the straying sheep would -be called in and compelled to kneel down with them, while one after -another<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span> they petitioned the Deity for the salvation of her soul. When -they had finished, they would look at the fair sheep, and wait to see -the effect of their labors; but so far the medicine had failed.</p> - -<p>I assured the young lady that I also was a lost soul, and gave her the -names of an assortment of books—T. H. Huxley’s essays among them. She -duly bought them all, and when she got home, a brother discovered her -reading them and took them away to his law office, where only men could -be corrupted by them. He himself soon gave up his faith.</p> - -<h3>X</h3> - -<p>For the winter I took my family to the single-tax colony at Fairhope, -Alabama, on Mobile Bay. Since I could not have a colony of my own, I -would try other people’s. Here were two or three hundred assorted -reformers who had organized their affairs according to the gospel of -Henry George. They were trying to eke out a living from poor soil and -felt certain they were setting an example to the rest of the world. The -climate permitted the outdoor life, and we found a cottage for rent on -the bay front, remote from the village. Dave Howatt was with us again; -having meantime found himself a raw-food wife, he lived apart from us -and came to his secretarial job daily.</p> - -<p>I was overworking again; and when my recalcitrant stomach made too much -trouble, I would fast for a day, three days, a week. I was trying the -raw-food diet, and failing as before. I was now a full-fledged physical -culturist, following a Spartan regime. In front of our house ran a long -pier, out to the deep water of the bay. Often the boards of this pier -were covered with frost, very stimulating to the bare feet, and whipped -by icy winds, stimulating to the skin; each morning I made a swim in -this bay a part of my law. (Says Zarathustra: “Canst thou hang thy will -above thee as thy law?”)</p> - -<p>Among the assorted philosophies expressed at Fairhope was the cult of -Dr. J. H. Salisbury, meat-diet advocate; I read his book. Let me remind -you again that this was before the days of any real knowledge about -diet. Salisbury was one of the first regular M.D.’s who tried -experiments upon himself and other human beings in order to find out how -particular foods actually affect<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> the human body. He assembled a “poison -squad” of healthy young men, fed them on various diets, and studied the -ailments they developed. By such methods he thought to prove that excess -of carbohydrates was the cause of tuberculosis in humans. His guess was -wrong—yet not so far wrong as it seems. It is my belief that denatured -forms of starch and sugar are the predisposing cause of the disease; -people live on white flour, sugar, and lard, and when the body has -become weakened, the inroads of bacteria begin.</p> - -<p>Anyhow, Salisbury would put his “poison squad” on a diet of lean beef, -chopped and lightly cooked, and cure them of their symptoms in a week or -two. He had a phrase by which he described the great health error, -“making a yeastpot of your stomach.” That was what I had been doing, and -now, to the horror of my friend Dave Howatt, I decided to try the -Salisbury system. I remember my emotions, walking up and down in front -of the local butchershop and getting up the courage to enter. To my -relief, I caused no sensation. Apparently the butcher took it quite as a -matter of course that a man should purchase a pound of sirloin.</p> - -<p>I had been a practicing vegetarian—and what was worse, a preaching -one—for a matter of three years; and now I was a backslider. My -socialist comrade, Eugene Wood, happened to be spending the winter in -Fairhope, and he wrote a jolly piece about “America’s leading raw-food -advocate who happens just now to be living upon a diet of stewed -beefsteaks.” I had to bow my head, and add crow to my menu!</p> - -<h3>XI</h3> - -<p>In Fairhope was the Organic School, invention of Mrs. Marietta Johnson. -It was then a rudimentary affair, conducted in a couple of shacks, but -has since become famous. Our son, David, then eight years old, attended -it. His education had been scattery, with his parents moving from a -winter resort to a summer resort. But he had always had the world’s best -literature and had done the rest for himself. Fairhope he found to his -taste; we had a back porch and a front porch to our isolated cottage, -and he would spread his quilt and pillow on the former, and I would -spread<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> mine on the latter, and sleep outdoors every night on the floor. -I asked if he minded the hard surface, and his reply belongs to the days -of the world’s divine simplicity. “Oh, Papa, it’s fine! I like to wake -up in the night and look at the moon, and listen to the owl, and pee!”</p> - -<p>I tried the experiment of fasting while doing my writing; a marvelous -idea, to have no stomach at all to interfere with creative activity! A -comedy sprang full-grown into my brain, and I wrote it in two days and a -half of continuous work—a three-act play, <i>The Naturewoman</i>. I record -the feat as a warning to my fellow writers—don’t try it! During a fast -you are living on your nerves and cannot stand the strain of creative -labor. When I finished, I could hardly digest a spoonful of orange -juice.</p> - -<p><i>The Naturewoman</i>, like all my plays, had no success. It was published -in the volume <i>Plays of Protest</i> a couple of years later, and had no -sale. Not long thereafter, the students of Smith College, studying drama -under Samuel Eliot, gave it in New York, and these emancipated young -ladies found it charmingly quaint and old-fashioned; they played it in a -vein of gentle farce. Apparently it never occurred to them that the -author might have meant it that way. I have frequently observed that an -advocate of new ideas is not permitted to have a sense of humor; that is -apparently reserved for persons who have no ideas at all. For fifty-six -years I have been ridiculed for a passage in <i>The Jungle</i> that deals -with the moral claims of dying hogs—which passage was intended as -hilarious farce. The New York <i>Evening Post</i> described it as “nauseous -hogwash”—and refused to publish my letter of explanation.</p> - -<p>Corydon had come to Fairhope for a while, and then had gone north on -affairs of her own; it had been arranged that she was to get a divorce -from me. I thought that a novel about modern marriage that would show -the possibility of a couple’s agreeing to part, and still remaining -friends, would be interesting and useful. So I began <i>Love’s -Pilgrimage</i>. In the spring I came north and took up my residence in -another single-tax colony, at Arden, Delaware, founded and run by Frank -Stephens, a sculptor of Philadelphia; a charming place about twenty -miles from the big city, with many little cabins and bungalows scattered -on the edge of the woods. Frank was glad to have me come—and alas,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span> a -year and a half later he was gladder to have me go! For the Philadelphia -newspapers found me out, and thereafter, in the stories that appeared -about Arden, socialism was more prominent than single tax, and I was -more prominent than the founder. This was my misfortune, not my fault. I -wanted nothing but to be let alone to write my book; but fate and the -editors ruled otherwise.</p> - -<h3>XII</h3> - -<p>No bungalows being available in the neighborhood, I rented a lot and -installed my ménage in three tents. Corydon, feeling it not yet -convenient to get her divorce, occupied one of the tents, on a strictly -literary basis. David had a troop of children to run all over the place -with, and I had the book in which I was absorbed. It was turning out to -be longer than I had planned—something that has frequently happened to -my books.</p> - -<p>The single-tax utopia, technically known as an enclave, had been founded -by a group of men who were sick of grime, greed and strain, and fled -away to a legend, the Forest of Arden. Some had a few dollars and could -stay all the time; others went up to Philadelphia and were slaves in the -daytime. On Saturday evenings they built a campfire in the woodland -theater, sang songs and recited, and now and then gave <i>Robin Hood</i> or -<i>Midsummer Night’s Dream</i>. On holidays they would get up a fancy pageant -and have a dance in the barn at night, and people would actually have a -good time without getting drunk. One anarchist shoemaker was the only -person who drank in Arden, so far as I know, and he has long since gone -the way of drinkers.</p> - -<p>Personally, I was never much for dressing up—not after the age of six -or so, when my mother had made me into a baker boy for a fancy-dress -party. But I liked to watch others more free of care; also I liked to -have young fellows who would play tennis in the afternoon. There was -Donald Stephens, son of the founder, and there were several of the -children of Ella Reeve Bloor. One of these, Hal Ware, was my opponent in -the finals of a tournament—I won’t say how it turned out! After the -Russian Revolution, Hal went over in charge of the first American -tractor unit; an odd turn of fate, that a dweller in the Forest of Arden -should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span> carry to the peasants of the steppes the dream of a utopia based -upon machinery! Don Stephens served a year in the Delaware state prison -as a conscientious objector to war, and then helped at the New York end -of the Russian tractor work.</p> - -<p>Also there was a young professor of the University of Pennsylvania, -Scott Nearing—a mild liberal, impatient with my socialistic theories. -Did my arguments make any impression on him? I never knew; but in time -he was kicked out of the university, and then he traveled beyond me and -called me the only revolutionist left in the Socialist Party. There was -Will Price, Philadelphia architect, genial and burly—what a glorious -Friar Tuck he made, or was it the Sheriff of Nottingham? No doubt he -sits now in the single taxers’ heaven, engaged in a spirited debate with -William Morris over the former’s theory of a railroad right of way owned -by the public, with anybody allowed to run trains over it! Will had the -misfortune to fall in love with my secretary, and she was in love with -someone else; a mixup that will happen even in utopia.</p> - -<p>Corydon was corresponding with the young lady from the Delta district of -Mississippi—who had fasted and gained weight, according to my -recommendation. She had then gone home, taking along a “health crank” -nurse; she had put her father and mother on a fast, and to the horror of -the local doctors, had cured them of “incurable” diseases. Now this Miss -Kimbrough was writing a book, <i>The Daughter of the Confederacy</i>, dealing -with the tragic life story of Winnie Davis, daughter of Jefferson Davis. -Winnie had fallen in love with a Yankee, had been forced to renounce -him, and had died of a broken heart. Judge Kimbrough had been Mrs. -Davis’ lawyer, and had fallen heir to the Davis heirlooms and letters. -Mary Craig Kimbrough now wrote that she needed someone to advise her -about the book, and Corydon went south to help her with the manuscript.</p> - -<p>David and I put a stove in our tents and prepared to hibernate in the -snowbound Forest of Arden. How many of the so-called necessities men can -dispense with when they have to! Once I was asked to drive a youthful -guest a couple of miles in a car, so that he might find a barber and get -a shave; I was too polite to tell this guest that I had never been -shaved by a barber in my life. In New York I heard another young man of -delicate rearing</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_001" style="width: 513px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_1-a.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_1-a.jpg" width="513" height="546" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>Priscilla Harden Sinclair</i></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_002" style="width: 488px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_1-b.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_1-b.jpg" width="488" height="451" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>Upton Beall Sinclair, Sr.</i></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_003" style="width: 488px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_2-a.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_2-a.jpg" width="488" height="546" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>Upton Sinclair at the age of eight</i></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_004" style="width: 485px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_2-b.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_2-b.jpg" width="485" height="539" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>Upton Sinclair at twenty-seven, when he was writing</i> The -Jungle</p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_005" style="width: 600px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_3-a.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_3-a.jpg" width="600" height="423" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>Winston Churchill reviews</i> The Jungle</p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_006" style="width: 600px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_3-b.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_3-b.jpg" width="600" height="459" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>George Bernard Shaw</i> at Ayot-St. Lawrence, about 1913</p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_007" style="width: 600px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_4-a.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_4-a.jpg" width="600" height="414" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>Mary Craig Sinclair and Upton Sinclair in Bermuda, -1913</i></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_008" style="width: 444px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_4-b.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_4-b.jpg" width="444" height="522" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>George Sterling, his wife, Carrie, and Jack London</i></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_009" style="width: 475px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_5-a.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_5-a.jpg" width="475" height="578" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>Mrs. Kate Crane-Gartz</i></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_010" style="width: 474px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_5-b.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_5-b.jpg" width="474" height="641" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>Sergei Eisenstein, about 1933</i></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_011" style="width: 600px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_6-a.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_6-a.jpg" width="600" height="307" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>Upton Sinclair during the EPIC campaign, 1934</i></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_012" style="width: 584px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_6-b.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_6-b.jpg" width="584" height="385" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>Upton Sinclair and Harry Hopkins, 1934</i></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_013" style="width: 578px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_6-c.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_6-c.jpg" width="578" height="364" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>Flivver King <i>in Detroit, 1937</i></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_014" style="width: 505px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_7-a.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_7-a.jpg" width="505" height="524" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>Upton Sinclair, about 1960, with autographed picture of -Albert Einstein</i></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_015" style="width: 488px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_7-b.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_7-b.jpg" width="488" height="545" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>Upton Sinclair standing before his home in Monrovia, California</i></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_016" style="width: 572px;"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_8-a.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_8-a.jpg" width="572" height="373" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>May Hard Sinclair and Upton Sinclair, 1962</i></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="ill_017"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_8--b.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_8--b.jpg" height="600" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><i>Upton Sinclair with seventy-nine of the books he has written</i></p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind">lament the fact that the servant did not always remember to draw the -water for his bath; I was tempted to narrate how I bathed every morning -of that winter in Arden with water in a tin washbasin and a newspaper -spread upon a tent floor. I remember our Christmas turkey, which we hung -up outside in the cold; we cooked it joint by joint, hung by a wire -inside the little round wood stove. Nobody’s turkey ever tasted better.</p> - -<p>When Mitchell Kennerley accepted <i>Love’s Pilgrimage</i>, and paid me an -advance of twelve hundred and fifty dollars, I decided to build a house -on my single-tax lot at the edge of the Forest of Arden. Frank Stephens -was the builder, and I didn’t hold it against him that, like all other -builders, he underestimated the cost. It came to twenty-six hundred -dollars and kept me scratching for quite a while. I was contributing -articles to <i>Physical Culture</i> at a hundred and fifty dollars a month, -which provided my living.</p> - -<p>The little two-story cottage was completed early in the spring of 1911. -It was painted brown on the outside, and stained on the inside. There -was a living room in front with an open fireplace and a chimney that -smoked. High on the wall, a shelf ran all the way round and held most of -my books. In the rear was one small bedroom, and a still smaller -kitchen, plus a bathroom without plumbing. Upstairs was an attic that I -planned some day to make into two rooms. We moved in, feeling most -luxurious after the tents. Next door was a one-room cabin belonging to -Scott Nearing; I rented it for a study, and so had everything of a -material nature that a man of letters could desire.</p> - -<p>The Forest of Arden turned green again, and put flower carpets on its -floor, and the tennis court was rolled and marked, and everything was -jolly. The young people were preparing <i>The Merchant of Venice</i>, and the -Esperantists of America held a convention in the big barn; I studied -that language for three weeks, and when I went to supper at the inn I -would say, <i>“Mi desiras lo puddingo”</i>—at least that is the way I recall -it after fifty years. I was writing a sequel to <i>Love’s Pilgrimage</i>, -which I completed but have never published.</p> - -<p>Unknown to me, the fates had been weaving a net about my life; and now -they were ready to draw it tight. Corydon wrote that Mary Craig -Kimbrough was coming to New York to talk<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span> with a publisher who had read -her life of Winnie Davis, and that she, Corydon, was coming with her. -Also there came a letter from Harry Kemp, saying that he was finishing -at the university, and was then going to “beat” his way east and visit -Arden. George Sterling was on his way from California to New York—he -too was to be tied up in that net!</p> - -<p>There was an odd development, which served as a sort of curtain raiser -to the main tragedy. A little discussion club got into a dispute with -George Brown, the anarchist shoemaker. The club members were accustomed -to hold meetings in the outdoor theater, and Brown would come and air -his opinions on the physiology of sex. The women and girls didn’t like -it. They asked him to shut up, but he stood on the elemental right of an -anarchist to say anything anywhere at any time. He broke up several -meetings—until finally the executives of the club went to Wilmington -and swore out a warrant for his arrest for disturbing the peace.</p> - -<p>That, of course, brought the newspaper reporters, and put my picture in -the papers again. I had had nothing to do with the discussion club or -with the arrest of Brown, but I lived in Arden and was part of the -scenery. The anarchist was sentenced to five days on the rockpile at the -state prison; he came back boiling with rage and plotting a dire -revenge: he would have all the members of the baseball team arrested for -playing on Sunday, and <i>they</i> would have a turn on the rockpile! He -would add Upton Sinclair, who had been playing tennis on Sunday, and -thus would punish Arden by putting it on the front page of every -newspaper in America. He carried out this scheme, and eleven of us were -summoned to court, and under a long-forgotten statute, dating from 1793, -were sentenced to eighteen hours on the rockpile. This made one of the -funniest newspaper stories ever telegraphed over the world—you may find -the details in <i>The Brass Check</i> if you are curious. What the anarchist -shoemaker did not realize, and what nobody else realized, was that he -was setting the stage and assembling the audience for the notorious -Sinclair-Kemp divorce scandal. The fates were against me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a><i>8</i><br /><br /> -<i>Exile</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>The story of Corydon and Thyrsis comes now to its painful climax. They -had been married for eleven years, and for the last seven or eight had -realized that they were mismated. They talked much of divorce, and -according to accepted conventions, Corydon was the one to get it. But -the world made divorce difficult and placed handicaps upon a divorced -woman; so Corydon kept hesitating, taking one step forward and two steps -back.</p> - -<p>If this story belonged to Thyrsis alone, he would tell it all, on the -theory that the past is past and never returns, and the only use we can -make of blunders is to help others in avoiding them. But the story is -Corydon’s also, and Corydon found herself a new husband and a new life, -and has long since retired from the limelight.</p> - -<p>Thyrsis, an unhappily married man, bore among his friends the reputation -of being “puritanical”; a onetime virtue that now ranks as a dangerous -disease. About the bedside of the patient gather the psychoanalysts and -up-to-the-minute “intellectuals”; they take his temperature, or lack of -it, and shake their heads anxiously over his subnormal condition. Jack -London was much worried about Thyrsis and wrote warning letters; but in -the course of time, Jack’s own theories brought him to a situation where -he could not have his wife and another woman at the same time, and so he -voluntarily removed himself from the world. Then Frank Harris took over -the case of Thyrsis and pre<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span>scribed for the patient a tempestuous love -affair. No man can become a great novelist without one, it seems, nor -can a modern autobiography be worthy of suppression by the police unless -it contains several adulteries per volume.</p> - -<p>Let the fact be recorded that Thyrsis was capable of falling in love, -and if he did not do it frequently, it was because he had so many other -matters on his mind. There is a story having to do with this period, -which ought to be told because of the satisfaction it will bring to the -lovers of love, and to those who dislike the puritanical Thyrsis and -will be pleased to see him “get his.”</p> - -<p>It was the winter of 1910-11, when Corydon had gone south, having once -more decided upon a divorce. Thyrsis was a free man, so he thought—and, -incidentally, a lonely and restless one. He was thirty-two at this time, -and went up to New York to attend a gathering in Carnegie Hall, where -the Intercollegiate Socialist Society was acting as host to Victor -Berger, socialist Congressman-elect. Thyrsis came early, and in one of -the aisles came face to face with a lovely young woman of twenty-one or -two, wearing the red badge of an usher. In those observant eyes and that -frank open countenance was revealed something he had been seeking for a -long time; there was a mental flash, and the two moved automatically -toward each other. Said she, without hesitation: “You are Thyrsis?” Said -he: “You are Inez Milholland?”</p> - -<p>A Vassar girl, with a wealthy father, Inez had joined the Socialist -Party and had become an active suffragette—all of which, of course, -made a sensation in the newspapers. That evening, after the meeting, -Thyrsis went with her to her hotel, and they sat in the lobby conversing -until three o’clock in the morning, when the place was deserted by all -but the night watchman. What did they not talk about, in the vast range -of the socialist and suffrage movements in America, and in England, -where Inez had been to school; the people they knew, the books they had -read, the events that the future held behind its veil!</p> - -<p>“I never met anyone I could talk to so easily,” said Thyrsis; and Inez -returned the compliment. “But don’t fall in love with me,” she added. -When he asked, “Why not?” she answered, “I am already in love, and you -would only make yourself unhappy.” Later, she told him that she too was -unhappy; it was a married man, and she would not break up another -woman’s home but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> would only eat her heart out. Again that old, old -story that Heine sings, and for which neither socialists nor suffragists -have any remedy!</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Es ist eine alte Geschichte</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Doch klingt sie immer neu.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Inez desired to meet Berger, and he came next morning. The three of us -went for a drive and had lunch at the Claremont. We spent the afternoon -walking in the park, then had dinner at the hotel, and spent the evening -together, solving all the problems of human society. It was another -intellectual explosion, this time <i>à trois</i>. Said the socialist -Congressman: “Thyrsis, if it wouldn’t be that I am a family man, I would -run away with that girl so quick you would never see her once again.” -Thyrsis repeated that to Inez, who smiled and said, “He is mistaken; it -is not like that.”</p> - -<p>Thyrsis disregarded the sisterly advice that had been given to him. He -fell in love—with such desperate and terrifying violence as he had -never conceived possible in his hard-working, sober life. He understood -for the first time the meaning of that ancient symbol of the little -archer with the bow and arrow. Commonplace as the metaphor seemed, there -was no other to be used; it was like being shot—a convulsive pain, a -sense of complete collapse, an anguish repeated, day after day, without -any respite or hope of it.</p> - -<p>He could not give up. It seemed to him that here was the woman who had -been made for him, and the thought that he had to lose her was not to be -borne. He would go back to Arden and write letters—such mad, wild, -pain-distracted letters as would satisfy the most exacting intellectual, -the most implacable hater of Puritans! Inez afterward assured him that -she had destroyed these letters, which was kind of her. She was always -kind, and straightforward, saying what she meant, as men and women will -do in utopia.</p> - -<p>The storm passed, as storms do, and new life came to Thyrsis. Four years -afterward he met Inez Milholland again. She was now married, and it -seemed to Thyrsis that the world had laid its paralyzing hand upon her; -she was no longer simple, in the manner of the early gods. Was it that -the spell was broken? Or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> was it that Thyrsis had an abnormal dislike -for fashionable costumes, large picture hats, and long jade earrings? -Another two years, and Inez, a suffrage politician, came out to -California and broke her heart trying to carry the state for Hughes, on -the theory that he would be more generous to the cause than Woodrow -Wilson. This was supposed to be strategy, but to Thyrsis it seemed -insanity. In any case, what a melancholy descent from the young ardors -of the Intercollegiate Socialist Society! She died of exhaustion.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>The story of Corydon and Thyrsis comes to an end in the year 1911. -George Sterling was coming from California, Harry Kemp from Kansas; Mary -Craig Kimbrough was in New York to consult with a publisher, and Corydon -had come with her.</p> - -<p>George Sterling, the day of his arrival, came to call upon Corydon in -her father’s home. There he met the young lady from Mississippi and -promptly fell upon his knees before her, after the fashion of romantic -poets, even after they are forty. She was pale from a winter’s labor -over manuscript, and George called her a “star in alabaster” and other -extravagant things that moved her to merry laughter. Later on, Thyrsis -met the couple walking on the street and stopped to greet them. Said -Thyrsis matter-of-factly: “You don’t look well, Craig. Really, you look -like a skull!” George raged, “I am going to kill that man some day!” But -Craig replied, “There is the first man in the world who ever told me the -truth.”</p> - -<p>George Sterling, an unhappily married man, wanted to marry Craig. She -told him, “I can never love any man.” When he demanded to know the -reason, she told him that her heart had been broken by an early love -affair at home; she knew she would never love again. But the poet could -not accept that statement; he began writing sonnets to her—more than a -hundred in the course of the next year. Eighteen years later it was my -sad duty to edit these <i>Sonnets to Craig</i> for publication, and they were -received by the high-brow literary world with some uncertainty. They -have a fatal defect—it is possible to understand what they mean. -Literary tastes move in cycles, and just now poetry lovers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span> are -impressed by eccentricities of language and punctuation. But the day -will come when they care about real feelings, expressed in musical -language, and then they will thrill to such lines as these:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All gracious things, and delicate and sweet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Within the spaces of thy beauty meet<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">And again:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sweet in this love are terrors that beguile<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And joys that make a hazard of my breath.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">And again:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Stand back from me! Have mercy for a space,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lest madness break thine image in my mind!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In connection with this unhappy love affair, there was another curious -tangle of circumstances. The girlhood sweetheart of Craig in the Far -South had brought to her a poem so sad that it had moved her to tears, -and she had carried it ever since in her memory. “The Man I Might Have -Been” was its title—the grief-stricken cry of those who fall into the -trap of John Barleycorn. Now here was the author of that poem, in love -with the same woman; and both the unhappy suitors—the Southern boy and -the crowned poet of California—were fated to end their lives by their -own hands, and those of John Barleycorn.</p> - -<p>Thyrsis was invited up to New York to give advice about the life of -Winnie Davis. It was April and happened to be warm, so he wore tennis -shoes because they were comfortable; to make up for this informality he -added kid gloves—which seemed to Mary Craig Kimbrough of Mississippi -the funniest combination ever heard of. She said nothing, being the soul -of politeness; but her lively red-brown eyes took in everything. She was -learning about these strange new creatures called radicals, and their -ideas, some of which appeared sensible and others crazy. Watching -Thyrsis, she thought, “The funny, funny man!” She watched him, thinking -the same thought for a matter of half a century; but she did not always -have to be polite about it.</p> - -<p>Corydon, Thyrsis, and Craig settled themselves in the little cottage on -the edge of the Forest of Arden. Springtime had come,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> and the Arden -folk were giving <i>Midsummer Night’s Dream</i>; Corydon was Titania, in -yellow tights and a golden crown. At this juncture came Harry Kemp, -having completed another year at the University of Kansas; he was -lugging two suitcases full of books and manuscripts, plus an extra blue -shirt and a pair of socks. There was a girl at Arden who was a lover of -poetry, and Thyrsis, fond matchmaker, had the idea that the poet might -become interested in this girl. But the fates had other plans, and were -not slow to reveal them. Corydon was interested in the poet.</p> - -<p>It was during this time that Harry Kemp wrote a sonnet to Thyrsis and -handed it to him with the words, “You may publish this some day.” It -will not be ranked as a great sonnet, but it is curious as a part of the -story; so, after Harry’s death, his permission is accepted.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Child, wandering down the great world for a day<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And with a child’s soul seeing thru and thru<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The passing prejudice to Truth’s own view.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Immortal spirit robed in mortal day,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Striving to find and follow the one way<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That is your way, none other’s—to be true<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To that which makes a sincere man of you!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Still be yourself, and let tongues say their say!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Still fling the seed with daring hand abroad,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And, then, mayhap, the Race to come will be<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gladdened, with ripened fruit and bursting pod<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of Love, and Brotherhood, and Liberty—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Open to Nature and Her Laws from God<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As spreading gulfs lie open to the Sea!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Corydon went to New York, to the apartment of her mother and father, -which was vacant in the summer. Harry followed her; and then came -Thyrsis, and the great divorce scandal burst upon the world. It was made -by the newspapers, so the story had to be told in <i>The Brass Check</i>. -There seems no good reason to repeat it here; suffice it to say that -Thyrsis found him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span>self presented in the capitalist press as having -taught his wife free love and then repudiated her when she took him at -his word. The newspapers invented statements, they set traps, and -betrayed confidences—and when they got through with their victim, they -had turned his hair gray.</p> - -<p>Corydon and Harry fled from the storm. But after a few days they came -back; and then there were interviews of many columns, and -Sunday-supplement pages with many pictures, in the course of which the -great American public learned all about Thyrsis’ dietetic eccentricities -and his objections to coffee and cigarettes. Corydon caused vast glee to -the New York smart set by describing her life partner as “an essential -monogamist”; those who read and laughed did not remember that only last -week they had read that he was a “free lover.” As a matter of fact, -neither the writers nor the readers knew what was meant by either term, -so the incongruity did not trouble them.</p> - -<p>Thyrsis filed suit for divorce in New York state, which is ruled by -Catholic laws, administered by Catholic judges. If in his writings you -find a certain acerbity toward the Catholic political machine, bear in -mind these experiences, which seared into a writer’s soul scars never to -be effaced. The Catholic judge appointed a “referee” to hear testimony -in the case, and this referee, moved by stupidity plus idle curiosity, -asked Thyrsis questions concerning his wife’s actions that under the New -York law the husband was not permitted to answer. But the referee -demanded that they be answered, and what was Thyrsis to do? He answered; -so the Catholic judge had a pretext upon which to reject the -recommendation of his referee.</p> - -<p>The court and the referee had between them several hundred dollars of -Thyrsis’ hard-earned money, which, under the law, they were permitted to -keep—even though Thyrsis got no divorce. He filed another suit and paid -more money, and waited another three or four months, in the midst of -journalistic excursions and alarms. Another referee took testimony, and -this time was careful to ask only the exactly prescribed questions; in -due course another decision was handed down by another Catholic judge, -who had also been “seen” by parties interested. This time the decision -was that Thyrsis had failed to beat up his wife, or to choke or stab or -poison her, or otherwise manifest masculine<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> resentment at her -unfaithfulness; therefore he was suspected of “collusion,” and the -application was again denied. Of course the judge did not literally say -that Thyrsis should have behaved in those violent ways; but that was the -only possible implication of his decision. When a husband was fair and -decent, desiring his dissatisfied wife to find happiness if she -could—that was a dangerous and unorthodox kind of behavior, suggestive -of “radical” ideas. Men and women suspected of harboring such ideas -should be punished by being tied together in the holy bonds of matrimony -and left to tear each other to pieces like the Kilkenny cats.</p> - -<p>In February 1912 Thyrsis took his son and departed for Europe, traveling -second-class in a third-class Italian steamer; sick in body and soul, -and not sure whether he was going to live or die, nor caring very much. -He had managed to borrow a little money for the trip, and he had a job, -writing monthly articles for <i>Physical Culture Magazine</i> for a hundred -and fifty dollars each. As a writer of books he was destroyed, and -nobody thought he would ever have a public again. Mitchell Kennerley, -publisher of <i>Love’s Pilgrimage</i>, remarked, “If people can read about -you for two cents, they are not going to pay a dollar and a half to do -it.” <i>Love’s Pilgrimage</i> had been published a month or two before the -divorce scandal broke and had started as a whirlwind success—selling a -thousand copies a week. The week after the scandal broke, it dropped -dead, and the publisher did not sell a hundred copies in a year.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>Springtime in Florence! “<i>Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluehn?</i>” -Could any man walk under Tuscan skies in March and fail to be happy? -George D. Herron had a villa on the slopes towards Fiesole, where he -lived in what peace he could find; Thyrsis spent a couple of weeks with -him, and talked over old times and the state of the world, with the -great cataclysm of World War I only two years and a half in the future. -Carrie Rand Herron played Schumann’s <i>Widmung</i> in the twilight—and for -her a death by cancer was even nearer than the war.</p> - -<p>Was Thyrsis happy? In truth, he hardly knew where he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span> or what he was -doing. Places and events went by as if in a dream, and nothing had -meaning unless it spoke of pain and enslavement, in America as in Italy. -The grim castle of Strozzi was an incarnation in stone of the Beef Trust -or the Steel Trust. Crowds of olive-skinned starving children with sore -eyes, peering out of doorways of tenements in the back streets of -Florence, were simply Mulberry Row in New York. Galleries full of -multiplied madonnas and crucified martyrs spoke of Tammany Hall and its -Catholic machine, with Catholic cops twisting the arms of socialist -working girls on the picket line; Catholic archbishops striding down the -aisle of a hall commanding the police to arrest women lecturers on birth -control; Catholic judges sitting on the bench in black silk robes, -punishing socialist muckrakers for being too decent to their erring -wives.</p> - -<p>Milan: a great city, with many sights, but for Thyrsis only one -attraction—a socialist paper in an obscure working-class quarter, with -an editor who was translating Thyrsis’ books. And then Switzerland, with -towering snow-clad mountains and clear blue lakes—and another socialist -editor. Then Germany, and one of the Lietz schools, a new experiment in -education, where Thyrsis had arranged to leave his son: a lovely spot on -the edge of the Harz Mountains, with a troop of merry youngsters living -the outdoor life. Nearby were miles of potatoes and sugar beets, with -Polish women working in gangs like Negro slaves. There was another -school in Schloss Bieberstein, for the older boys, fine strapping -fellows, bare-legged and bare-armed, hardened to the cold, and ready for -the slaughter pits; in three years most of them would be turned into -manure for potatoes and sugar beets.</p> - -<p>Then Holland, where Frederik van Eeden had undertaken to help Thyrsis -get the freedom that was not to be had in New York. A lawyer was -consulted and put the matter up to the startled judges of the Amsterdam -courts. Under the Dutch law, the husband was not required to prove that -he had beaten or choked or poisoned his wife; he might receive a divorce -on the basis of a signed statement by the wife, admitting infidelity. -But what about granting this privilege to a wandering author from -America? How long would he have to remain a resident of Holland in order -to be entitled to the benefit of civilized and en<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span>lightened law? The -judges finally agreed that they would admit this one American to their -clemency—but never again! Amsterdam was not going to be turned into -another Reno!</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>A visit to England. Gaylord Wilshire was living in Hampstead, -endeavoring to finance his gold mine in London. The great coal strike -was on, and Tom Mann, editor of a syndicalist newspaper, was sent to -jail for six months. Wilshire, who by now had come to despair of -political action for the workers, leaped into the breach, and he and -Thyrsis got out several issues of the paper—the contribution of the -latter consisting of a debate in which he opposed the leading idea of -the editor. Apparently that satisfied the London police, for the -eccentric Americans were allowed to argue without molestation. The -newspaper reporters came swarming, and it was a novel experience for -Thyrsis to give interviews and read next morning what he said, instead -of how he looked and what he ate and how his wife had run away with a -“box-car poet.”</p> - -<p>Some things he liked in England, and some not. A ghastly thing to see -the effect upon the human race of slow starvation continued through many -centuries! Here were creatures distorted out of human semblance; swarms -of them turning out on a bank holiday to play, having forgotten how to -run, almost how to walk; shambling like apes, drooping like baboons, -guffawing with loud noises, speaking a jabber hardly to be understood. -They lay around on Hampstead Heath, men and women in each others’ arms, -a sight new to an American. Whether they were drunk or sober was -difficult for a stranger to tell.</p> - -<p>The miners’ strike committee held its meetings in the Westminster Hotel; -and just across the way were the Parliament buildings, and labor members -to welcome a socialist author. John Burns took Thyrsis onto the floor of -the House to hear the debate on the settlement of the coal strike, a -full-dress affair reported all over the world; Asquith versus Balfour, -or rather both of them versus the working masses of Britain. This was -what capitalism considered statesmanship—this hodgepodge of cant and -cruelty, bundled in a gray fog of dullness. Thyrsis sat in a sacred<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> -seat, where no visitor was supposed to be, and gazed upon rows of -savages in silk hats, roaring for what little blood was left in the -veins of half-starved miners’ families. He clenched his hands until his -nails made holes in his skin.</p> - -<p>When the great lawyer Asquith was in the midst of his sophistries, the -young American could stand no more; he half rose from his seat, with his -mouth open to say what he thought of these starvers of British labor. -Half a dozen times he rose, with words starting from his throat, and -half a dozen times he sank back again. They would have arrested him, no -doubt, and his protest would have been heard. But it would also have -gone to Amsterdam, where the polite judges had still to decide the -problem of the custody of Thyrsis’ son!</p> - -<p>Thyrsis went out and visited Westminster Abbey, where he was swept by a -storm of horror and loathing; wandering among marble tombs and statues -of ruling-class killers and the poets and men of genius who had betrayed -the muse to Mammon. High-vaulting arches, lost in dimness; priests in -jeweled robes, and white-clad choirs chanting incessant subjection; a -blaze of candles, a haze of altar smoke, and mental slaves with heads -bowed in their arms—the very living presence of that giant Fear, in the -name of which the organized crimes of the ages have been committed. Here -was the explanation of those swarms on Hampstead Heath, deprived of -human semblance; here was the meaning of pettifogging lawyers and noble -earls and silk-hatted savages shouting for the lifeblood of starving -miners; here was the very body and blood of that Godhead of Capitalism—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Great Christus-Jingo, at whose feet<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Christian and Jew and Atheist meet!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>Miss Mary Craig Kimbrough came traveling. It was natural that a young -lady from Mississippi should desire to see art galleries and meet -celebrities in England; and if she came as the guest of an earl and a -countess, that would surely be respectable according to Mississippi -standards. It so happened that the noble earl was a bit of a radical and -had had his own marital<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> scandal. He had gone to Reno, Nevada, and got -himself divorced from an unsatisfactory marriage; then, upon his -remarriage in England, his peers had haled him before them, convicted -him of bigamy, and sentenced him to six months in jail.</p> - -<p>A tremendous uproar in its day, but it had been many days ago; the -English nobility are a numerous family, which Mississippi could hardly -be expected to keep straight. Craig’s father had the general impression, -held by every old-fashioned Southern gentleman, that the English -nobility are a depraved lot; but on the other hand, Craig’s mother knew -that they are socially irresistible. She proved it whenever, at a -gathering of the local chapter of the United Daughters of the -Confederacy, she was asked for news about her daughter who was visiting -the Countess Russell in London.</p> - -<p>“Aunt Molly” was a plump little Irish lady, the warmest hearted soul -that ever carried a heavy title. She had had her own divorce tragedy, -and her warm Irish heart was with Thyrsis. She had published two or -three novels, and for writing purposes had a retreat, an ancient cottage -on the edge of a village not far from Eton. It was so low that you had -to stoop to get through the doorway, and its chimney had smoked for at -least three hundred years; but it was newly plastered inside, and -furnished with antiques and bright chintzes. Here Aunt Molly brought her -protegée, and Thyrsis came from Holland to collect local color for the -new novel, <i>Sylvia</i>, which he was making out of Craig’s tales of her -girlhood in the Far South. In after years the heroine would stop in the -middle of an anecdote, look puzzled, and say, “Did that really happen to -me? Or is it one of the things we made up for <i>Sylvia</i>?”</p> - -<p>One glimpse of the British aristocracy at home. The novel Thyrsis was -writing dealt with a splendid young Harvard millionaire, one of whose -friends remarks that he deliberately cultivated the brutal manners of -the British upper classes toward their social inferiors. Craig was -distressed by this, insisting that it couldn’t be true; finally it was -agreed that Aunt Molly should be the arbitrator. The problem was -submitted, and this high authority laughed and said, “Well, look at -Frank!” She went on to tell anecdotes portraying the bad manners of his -lordship, her husband; also of his uncles and his cousins, Lord This and -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> Marquis of That and the Duke of Other. Craig subsided, and the -sentence stands as it was written.</p> - -<p>Thyrsis, himself, walking along the road in his everyday clothes, saw a -fancy equipage drive up and halt, while the occupants asked him the way -to a certain place; having been politely answered, the lady and -gentleman drove on without so much as a nod of thanks. On another -occasion, while walking, he attempted to ask the way of a gentleman out -for a constitutional, and this person stalked by without a sound or a -glance. Mentioning this experience to a conventional Englishman, Thyrsis -received the following explanation: “But if one entered into talk with -any stranger who hailed him on the road, one might meet all sorts of -undesirable persons!”</p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>To Aunt Molly’s home in London came H. G. Wells, and with the countess’ -half-dozen tiny white dogs dancing in their laps, the two social -philosophers compared their views on the state of the world. Wells had -now come to the conclusion it would take about three hundred years to -get socialism, which to Thyrsis seemed the same as being a die-hard -tory. Wells took him to lunch at the New Reform Club, and as they were -leaving the dining room, he stopped and whispered that Thyrsis now had -an opportunity to observe the Grand Khan of Anglo-American literature, -Henry James, eating a muttonchop. On the landing halfway down the stairs -they ran into Hilaire Belloc, who held them with half an hour of -brilliance. He exhibited an amazing familiarity with the medieval world -and its manifold futilities. It was like an exhibition of a million -dollars’ worth of skyrockets and pyrotechnical set pieces; when it was -over, you went away with nothing.</p> - -<p>Also Thyrsis met Frank Harris, possessor of a golden tongue. Harris -would talk about Jesus and Shakespeare in words so beautiful that only -those masters could have matched it; but in the midst of his eloquence -something would turn his thoughts to a person he disliked, and there -would pour from the same throat such a stream of abuse as might have -shocked a fallen archangel. Harris invited the young author to lunch at -an expen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span>sive hotel and spent four or five pounds on the occasion; -politeness forbade Thyrsis to hint his feelings of distress at such a -demonstration. He would not partake of the costly wines, and could have -lived for a couple of weeks on such an expenditure. Not long after this, -Harris published in a magazine his solution of all the problems of -health—which was to use a stomach pump, get rid of all you had eaten, -and start over again.</p> - -<p>Then Bernard Shaw. For eight or nine years Thyrsis had followed our -modern Voltaire with admiration, but also with some fear of his sharp -tongue. When he met him, he discovered the kindest and sweetest-tempered -of humans, the cleanest, also; he had bright blue eyes, a red-gold beard -turning gray, and the face of a mature angel. The modern Voltaire -motored Thyrsis out to his country place and gave him a muttonchop or -something for lunch, while he himself ate ascetic beans and salad, and -admitted sadly that his periodic headaches might possibly be due to -excess of starch, as Thyrsis suggested. To listen to G. B. S. at lunch -was exactly like hearing him at Albert Hall or reading one of his -prefaces; he would talk an endless stream of wit and laughter, with -never a pause or a dull moment.</p> - -<p>After lunch they walked to see the old church. Not even a modern -Voltaire could imagine a visitor from America failing to be interested -in looking at the ruins of an old church! On the way they came to a sign -warning motorists that they were passing a school. Thyrsis asked, “Where -is the school?” His host laughed and explained, “This is England. The -school was moved some years ago, but we haven’t got round to moving the -sign yet. The motorists slow up, and then, just after they have got up -speed again, they come to the school.”</p> - -<p>Years back, Thyrsis had met May Sinclair, then visiting in New York. -Those were the days of <i>The Divine Fire</i>—does anyone remember that -novel? Thyrsis had sent it to Jack London, who wrote that if he could -write one such story, he would be willing to die. Now in London, Thyrsis -went to see May Sinclair at her studio, and listened while she received -another visitor to tea and asked him questions. It was a shy youth, a -shop assistant in London, who had been invited because May Sinclair was -writing a book about such a person and wished to know what hours he -worked, what his duties were, and so on. One could guess<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> that the poor -youth had never been in such company before, and never would be again.</p> - -<p>The class lines are tightly drawn in that tight little island. May -Sinclair told me a little story about H. G. Wells, who had begun life as -a shop assistant; talking to Wells about the novel she was writing, she -asked him some question about the dialect of a shop assistant. Wells -flushed with annoyance and said: “How should <i>I</i> know?” Thyrsis thought -that was a dreadful story, so dreadful that he covered his face with his -hands when he heard it. May Sinclair was distressed, because she hadn’t -meant to gossip—she hadn’t realized how this anecdote would sound to an -American socialist.</p> - -<h3>VIII</h3> - -<p>Thyrsis went back to Holland, which was supposed to be his residence. He -was not deceiving the honorable judges of the Amsterdam courts—he -really did mean to live in Holland, where everybody was so polite and -where, alone of all places in Europe, they did not give you short -change, or coins made of lead. It was an unusually cold and rainy -summer—the peasants of France were reported to be gathering their hay -from boats. Thyrsis sat in a little room, doing his writing by a wood -stove, and waiting in vain for the sun to appear. His friend Van Eeden -took him walking and pointed out the beautiful effects of the tumbled -clouds on the horizon. “These are the clouds that our Dutch painters -have made so famous!” But Thyrsis did not want to paint clouds, he -wanted to get warm.</p> - -<p>Craig came to Holland, and Dr. Van Eeden and his wife introduced her to -staid burgomasters’ wives, who were as much thrilled to meet the -granddaughter of American slave owners as she was to meet Dutch -dignitaries. Because Van Eeden had been through a divorce scandal in his -own life, he could sympathize with the troubled pair. An odd fact, that -all the friends who helped him through these days of trial—the Herrons -in Italy, the Wilshires and Russells in England, the Van Eedens in -Holland—had been through the divorce mill.</p> - -<p>Frederick van Eeden was at this time in his fifties, the best-known -novelist and poet of his country. But the country was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span> too small, he -said—it was discouraging to write for only seven million people! He had -had a varied career—physician, pioneer psychotherapist, then labor -leader and founder of a colony like Thyrsis; he lived on the remains of -this colony, a small estate called Walden. His beard was turning gray, -but his mind was still omnivorous, and he and his young American friend -ranged the world in their arguments.</p> - -<p>Van Eeden s wife was a quiet woman, young in years but old in fashion, -the heroine of Van Eeden’s <i>Bride of Dreams</i>; she sat by and did her -sewing and seemed a trifle shocked when the young lady from Mississippi -ventured to poke fun at the ideas of her lord and master. Her two little -children were lacking altogether in American boisterousness; their -utmost limit of self-assertion was to stand by Thyrsis’ chair at -suppertime, and watch him with big round eyes while he ate a fig, and -whisper “Ik ok!”—that is, “Me, too!” Thyrsis found the Dutch language a -source of great amusement, and he evolved a rule for getting along; -first say it in German, and if that is not understood, say it in -English, and if that is not understood, say it halfway between.</p> - -<p>Van Eeden took Thyrsis to Berlin, where they visited a young German -poet, Erich Gutkind, who under the pen name of Volker had published an -ecstatic book that Van Eeden expected to outmode Nietzsche. A charming -young Jewish couple—Thyrsis called them the <i>Gute Kinder</i>, and -sometimes the <i>Sternengucker</i>, because of the big telescope they had on -the roof of their home. Van Eeden and Gutkind were on fire with a plan -to form a band of chosen spirits to lead mankind out of the wilderness -of materialism; Thyrsis brought tears into the young rhapsodist’s eyes -by the brutality of his insistence that the sacred band would have to -decide the problem of social revolution first.</p> - -<p>All three of these men saw the war coming, and the problem of what to do -about it occupied their thoughts. Thyrsis had written a manifesto -against war, calling on the socialist parties of the world to pledge -themselves to mass insurrection against it. He had found sympathy among -socialists in England and France, but very little in Germany. Karl -Kautsky had written that the agitation of such a program would be -illegal in Germany—which apparently settled it with him and his party. -Thyrsis now spent a day with Kautsky and his wife and son<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span>—<i>die heilige -Familie</i>, as their enemies dubbed them. He debated the problem with -Suedekum, with Fischer, with Ledebour and Liebknecht; the latter two -escorted him about the Reichstag and took him to lunch—in a separate -dining room where Social Democratic members were herded, apart from the -rest! Ledebour and Liebknecht were sympathetic to his program, but could -not promise any effective action, and what they told him had much to do -with Thyrsis’ decision to support the Allies in 1917.</p> - -<h3>IX</h3> - -<p>Yes, the war was not far away. Military men with bristling mustaches -were strutting about, jostling ordinary folk out of the way, staring -over the heads of the men, and into the faces of women. “Papa, why do -they twist their mustaches into points?” inquired David, eleven years -old, and the answer was, “It is to frighten you.” “But it doesn’t -frighten me,” said the little boy. However, it frightened his father, so -that he removed his son from the German school to one in England.</p> - -<p>The <i>Gute Kinder</i> took their guests driving to see the sights of Berlin, -including the monstrous statues of the Sieges Allee. Thyrsis thought he -had never seen anything so funny since the beginning of his life. He -found something funnier to say about each one—until his host leaned -over and signaled him to be quiet, pointing to the cab driver up in -front. More than once it had happened that a ribald foreigner, daring to -commit <i>lèse-majesté</i> in the hearing of a Prussian ex-soldier, had been -driven to the police station and placed under arrest.</p> - -<p>Thyrsis was invited to meet Walter Rathenau. He had never heard the -name, but his friends explained that this was the young heir of the -great German electrical trust; he went in for social reform and wrote -bold books. They were driven to the Kaiserlicher Automobil Klub, a -gorgeous establishment, with footmen in short pants and silk stockings. -There was a private dining room and an elaborate repast, including -plovers’ eggs, a dish of which Thyrsis had never heard and which proved -to be dangerous in practice, since you never knew what you were going to -find when you cracked a shell. Thereafter the irreverent strangers -always referred to Rathenau as <i>Kiebitzei</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span></p> - -<p>They united in finding him genial but a trifle overconfident—an -attitude that accompanies the possession of vast sums of money and the -necessity of making final decisions upon great issues. Van Eeden was a -much older man who had made himself a reputation in many different -fields—yet he did not feel so certain about anything as he found this -young master of electricity and finance. However, there is this to be -added: it is the men who know what they think who are capable of action. -Walter Rathenau would no doubt have made over German industry along more -social and human lines if the reactionaries had not murdered him.</p> - -<h3>X</h3> - -<p>The Dutch divorce was granted, in pleasant fashion, without Thyrsis -having to appear in court. Craig, who was back in England under the wing -of her earl and countess, now wished to return to Mississippi to -persuade her parents to let her marry a divorced man; Thyrsis also -wished to go, having a new novel to market. These were the happy days -before the passport curse, so it was possible to travel incognito and -land in New York without newspaper excitement. In the interest of -propriety, the pair traveled on separate steamers. Craig came on the -<i>Lusitania</i>, ship of ill fate for her as for others; in a stormy -December passage she was thrown and broke the bones at the base of the -spine, which caused her suffering for many years, and made a hard task -yet harder for her.</p> - -<p>The siege of the family began. The father was a judge and knew the -law—at least he knew his own kind, and took no stock in a piece of -engraved stationery from Amsterdam that he could not read. “Daughter, -you cannot marry a married man!” That was all he would say; and the -answer, “Papa, I have made up my mind to marry him!” meant nothing. She -would spend her nights weeping—an old story in her life. She was his -first child, and her portrait, a beautiful oil painting, hung in the -drawing room; when she went away to New York again, he put this portrait -up in the attic.</p> - -<p>Thyrsis, meantime, was interviewing publishers—an old story in <i>his</i> -life. Mitchell Kennerley had no use for <i>Sylvia—it</i> was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> in the -modern manner. Thyrsis’ fate was to wander from one publisher to -another—since he would not obey the rules of their game. Literary works -were turned out according to pattern, stamped with a trademark, and sold -to customers who wanted another exactly like the last. A new publisher -came forward, an old-fashioned one; but apparently the buyers of -old-fashioned novels distrusted the Thyrsis label. <i>Sylvia</i> sold only -moderately, and the sequel, <i>Sylvia’s Marriage</i>, hardly sold at all. Two -thousand copies in America and a hundred thousand in Great Britain—that -was a record for a prophet in his own country!</p> - -<p>It was a time of stirring among the foreign-born workers in America, and -Thyrsis and other young enthusiasts thought it was the beginning of the -change for which they prayed. There was a strike of silkworkers in -Paterson, New Jersey, and the intelligentsia of Greenwich Village made -weekend pilgrimages for strike relief and oratory. Leading the strike -were Bill Haywood, grim old one-eyed miners’ chief from the Rockies; -Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, who had begun her rebel career as a high-school -girl in New York; Carlo Tresca, his face and body scarred by the bullets -of his masters’ gunmen; Joe Ettor and Arthur Giovannitti, fresh from a -frame-up for murder in Massachusetts. Helping them, and at the same time -studying them for copy, were budding young novelists such as Leroy Scott -and Ernest Poole; a dramatist, Thompson Buchanan, who was later to -employ his knowledge in the concoction of anti-Bolshevik nightmares; and -John Reed, war correspondent, whose bones were destined to lie in the -Kremlin in less than ten years.</p> - -<p>They besought Thyrsis to join them; he yielded to the temptation, and -once more saw the busy pencils of the newspaper reporters flying. Did -they make up the false quotations themselves, or was their copy doctored -in the office? Impossible to say; but Thyrsis saw himself quoted as -advising violence, which he had never done in his life. He filed the -clippings away, and filed the rage in his heart. It was still six years -to the writing of <i>The Brass Check</i>.</p> - -<p>A terrible thing to see tens of thousands of human beings starved into -slavery, held down by policemen’s clubs and newspaper slanders. The -young sympathizers were desperate, and in the hope of moving the heart -of New York, they planned the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> “Paterson Pageant”—to bring two thousand -silkworkers to the stage of Madison Square Garden and give a mass -performance of the events of the strike, with special emphasis on -speeches and singing. Over this scheme a group of twenty or thirty men -and women slaved day and night for several weeks, and bled their -pocketbooks empty—and then saw the New York papers hinting that they -had stolen the money of the strikers! Two things out of that adventure -will never pass from memory: first, the old warehouse in which -rehearsals were held, and John Reed with his shirt sleeves rolled up, -shouting through a megaphone, drilling those who were to serve as -captains of the mass; and second, the arrival of that mass, two thousand -half-starved strikers in Madison Square Garden rushing for the -sandwiches and coffee!</p> - -<h3>XI</h3> - -<p>The elderly Judge in Mississippi would not change his decision once -given; but the ladies of the family were more pliable, and by springtime -it had become plain to them that they could not break the bonds that -held their daughter to the dreaded socialist muckraker. Two of them came -to New York on a pilgrimage to see what sort of man it might be that had -woven this evil spell. The mother was a lady who refrained from boasting -of being the seventh lineal descendant of that Lady Southworth who had -come to Massachusetts to marry the second colonial governor; but who -allowed herself a modest pride as founder of the Christian (Disciples) -church of her home town and sponsor of no one knew how many monuments to -Confederate heroes throughout the South. With her came a greataunt, one -of the few “strong-minded women” the state of Mississippi had produced; -she had gone to California, and become a schoolteacher, and married a -pioneer, General Green, who was known as the “father of irrigation” and -had left her a newspaper, the Colusa <i>Sun</i>, to manage.</p> - -<p>These two reached New York in a state of trepidation hardly to be -comprehended by irreverent intellectuals. Oh, fortunate chance that the -socialist muckraker had been born close to Mason and Dixon’s line, and -had so many Virginia ancestors<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> he could talk about! Actually, there -were cousins who were cousins of cousins! His mother had taught him -exactly how to use a knife and fork; his bride-to-be had taught him that -gloves do not go with tennis shoes! For these reasons, plus a lawyer’s -assurance that the divorce was valid in the United States, it was -decided that there should be a wedding.</p> - -<p>But surely not in New York, swarming place of reporters! Let it be in -some decent part of the world, where family and good breeding count! -Mississippi was impossible, because the Judge forbade it; but in -Virginia there were cousins who would lend the shelter of their name and -homestead. So the party took a night train—one amused but attentive -muckraker and three Southern ladies on the verge of a nervous crisis, -seeing a newspaper reporter in every sleeping-car berth. “Oh, the -reporters! What will the reporters say!” Thyrsis heard this for a week, -until he could stand it no more and suddenly exploded in a masculine -cry: “Oh, <i>damn</i> the reporters!” There followed an awe-stricken -silence—but in their secret hearts the two elderly ladies were -relieved. It was a real man, after all!</p> - -<p>Fredericksburg, scene of the slaughter of some fifteen thousand Yankees. -The old-maid cousins knew Craig, because she had been sent to them to -recuperate after dancing seasons; they now welcomed this romantic -expedition with open arms. There was a tremendous scurrying about, and -the respectable mother set out to persuade the pastor of her respectable -kind of church to officiate. But, alas, that dread stigma of a divorce! -Thyrsis had to seek out an Episcopal clergyman and persuade him. Having -been brought up in that church, he knew how to talk to such a clergyman; -having been the innocent party in the divorce, he had under the church -law the right to be remarried.</p> - -<p>But the clergyman required evidence that Thyrsis had been the innocent -party; so the would-be bridegroom came back to the hotel to get the -divorce certificate. As it happened, in the hurry of packing, the proper -document had been overlooked; instead, there was another and subsequent -document, giving Thyrsis the custody of his son. It was in the Dutch -language, and the author, who was no Dutchman, took it and translated -it, with the elderly clergyman looking over his shoulder. Somehow the -legal formulas became confused, and a certificate of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> custody underwent -a mysterious transmogrification—it became a certificate of divorce -based on the wife’s admitted infidelity.</p> - -<p>The Episcopal proprieties having thus been satisfied, the clergyman put -on his glad robes, and there was a ceremony in an ancient family garden -by the banks of the swiftly flowing Rappahannock, with the odor of -violets and crocuses in the air, and a mother and a greataunt and -several old-maid cousins standing by in a state of uncertain romance. As -for the bride and groom—the world had battered them too much, and they -could hardly squeeze out a tear or a smile. Thyrsis had even forgotten -the ring, and with sudden tears his mother-in-law slipped her own -wedding ring from her finger into his hand. Apart from this lapse, and -the single “damn,” he played his part perfectly. He promised to love, -honor, and obey—and did so for a total of forty-eight years thereafter.</p> - -<p>At home in Mississippi sat the elderly Judge, having been forewarned of -the event and waiting for the storm to break. The telephone rang: the -Memphis <i>Commercial Appeal</i>—or perhaps it was the New Orleans -<i>Times-Picayune</i>. “Judge Kimbrough, we have a dispatch from -Fredericksburg, Virginia, saying that your daughter has married Upton -Sinclair.” “Yes, so I understand.” “The dispatch says that the husband -is an advocate of socialism, feminism, and birth control. Does your -daughter share her husband’s ideas on these matters?” Said the Judge: -“My daughter does not share <i>any</i> of her husband’s ideas!” And so the -interview went out to the world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="IX" id="IX"></a><i>9</i><br /><br /> -<i>New Beginning</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>The fates who deal out marriages seldom chose two more different human -personalities for yoking together. Craig was all caution and I was all -venture. She was all reticence, and I wanted to tell of my mistakes so -that others could learn to avoid them. Craig would have died before she -let anyone know hers. When she got some money she wanted to hide it like -a squirrel; when I got some I wanted to start another crusade, to change -a world that seemed to me in such sad shape. Craig agreed about the -shape, but what she wanted to do was to hide us from it. This duel was -destined to last for forty-eight years.</p> - -<p>My mother and hers had proudly produced their family trees, and behold, -we were both descended from the same English king. We had traveled by -different routes: Craig’s ancestor, Lady Southworth, had come to -Massachusetts to be married to the colonial governor, William Bradford; -mine had come to Virginia and entered the Navy. One of my ancestors had -been a commander in the Battle of Lake Huron in the War of 1812, and his -son, Captain Arthur Sinclair, my grandfather, had commanded one of the -vessels with which Admiral Perry opened up Japan. That grandfather, -three uncles, and several cousins had fought in the Confederate States -Navy. Craig’s great-grandfather had been appointed by President -Jefferson the first surveyor general of the Territory of Mississippi. So -those two mothers had got along conversationally, and Mama Kimbrough had -good news to take back to Leflore County.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span></p> - -<p>The youngest Kimbrough daughter, Dolly, was at a school in Tarrytown, on -the Hudson, and I escorted Mama Kimbrough there. On the way she set out -to make a Christian out of me, and I was so attentive that we went an -hour past our station; we had to get out and wait for a train to take us -back. We found Dolly in bed, blooming in spite of an appendix operation. -By the time we returned to New York I had been able to persuade Mama -that my socialism was just Christian brotherhood brought up to date; -also Mama had decided that a trip to Europe with Craig and me would be -educational for Dolly.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>The first place we visited was Hellerau, in Germany, where the Dalcroze -School was holding its annual spring festival. Hellerau means “bright -meadow.” Rising from that meadow was a temple of art, and we witnessed a -performance of Gluck’s <i>Orpheus</i>, represented in dance as well as in -music. It was one of the loveliest things I had ever seen, and a quarter -of a century later I used it for the opening scene of <i>Worlds End</i>—the -world’s beginning of Lanny Budd. The young Lanny met on the bright -meadow—as we ourselves had met—Bernard Shaw with his golden beard -outshining any landscape. I had already had lunch at his home in London -and at his country home; he welcomed us, and our joy in the Dalcroze -festival was confirmed by Britain’s greatest stage critic. He was always -so kind, and the letters he wrote me about the Lanny Budd books helped -them to win translation into a score of foreign languages.</p> - -<p>We traveled to David’s school and collected him. We had lunch in a -restaurant in Dresden. I ordered an omelet in my most polished German, -and very carefully specified that I did not want pancakes. “<i>Kein -Mehl</i>,” I said several times, but they brought us pancakes; when we -refused to accept them and tried to leave the restaurant, they would not -let us out. Our train was due so we had to pay, and I bade an unloving -farewell to Germany—just a year before World War I.</p> - -<p>We went to Paris, and there rented an apartment for a couple of weeks. -When we were ready to pay our bill, the proprietress<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span> pulled a rug from -under the bed and accused us of having spilled grease on it. We had had -no grease, and hadn’t even seen the rug; but when we refused to pay for -the damage, the woman called in a policeman—I think he was the tallest -man I ever saw in uniform. He told us we would have to pay or we could -not leave. It was a “racket,” of course, but there was nothing we could -do; so to France also we bade an unloving farewell. When World War I -came, we weren’t quite sure which person we wanted most to have -punished—the German restaurant proprietor or the French virago and tall -policeman.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>We went to England, where nobody ever robbed us. We settled in the model -village of Letchworth, built by co-operatives. I had acquired from Mrs. -Bernard Shaw the right to make a novel out of a drama by the French -playwright Eugène Brieux, called <i>Damaged Goods</i>, dealing with venereal -disease. I wrote that novel and got an advance from the publisher, and -so we had a pleasant summer. I played tennis at the club, and in a -middle-aged bachelor girl found the first female antagonist who could -keep me busy. I have forgotten her name, but I remember that whenever I -got in a good shot she would exclaim, “Oh, <i>haught</i>!”</p> - -<p>Also I remember an outdoor socialist meeting at which I addressed an -audience of co-operators, speaking from the tail of a cart along with -dear, kind George Lansbury, member of Parliament and leader of the -left-wing socialists.</p> - -<p>We moved into London for a while, and there the lady from the -Mississippi Delta met more strange kinds of people—among them Mrs. -Pethick Lawrence, Sylvia Pankhurst, and other suffrage combatants. -Craig’s sister Dolly had met them too, and we learned, somewhat to our -dismay, that Dolly had carried into the National Art Gallery a hatchet -concealed under her skirt. Known suffragettes, when they tried to go in, -were searched; but the guards didn’t know Dolly, and it was a simple -matter for her to retire to the ladies’ room and pass the hatchet. What -would Chancellor Kimbrough, president of two banks in Missis<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span>sippi, have -said if a newspaper reporter had called him up and told him that his -youngest daughter had been arrested for passing a hatchet!</p> - -<p>While I renewed my acquaintance with my socialist friends, it was -Craig’s pleasure to go out on the streets and watch the people. At home -the servants had been black; here they had white skins but even so were -like another race. The educated classes were gracious and keen-minded; -but the poor seemed to be speaking a strange language. What did “Kew” -mean? Every shop assistant said it when you handed her money; and once -when Craig and I were going down into “the Tube,” two male creatures -rushed past us in the midst of a hot argument. We caught one shouted -sentence, “Ow, gow an’ be a Sowshalist!”</p> - -<p>I had a curious experience in London with Jessica Finch, who was the -owner and director of a fashionable American school for young ladies, -just off Fifth Avenue in New York. Her prices were staggering, and -admission had to be arranged years in advance. She was an ardent -suffragist and a socialist as determined as myself; she taught these two -doctrines to her pupils, and when they went home for Christmas vacation, -the Intercollegiate Socialist Society moved into her school to hold its -annual convention.</p> - -<p>When Craig had first met me in New York, I had taken her to one of these -conventions, and she had met a youth named Walter Lippmann, founder and -president of the Harvard chapter of that organization. Walter was -interested now to meet a young lady from the Far South, and began at -once to further his education. “What is the economic status of the Negro -in Mississippi?” Craig, with her red-brown eyes twinkling, replied, “I -didn’t know he had any.”</p> - -<p>Jessica was in the habit of taking a bevy of her pupils abroad at the -end of each school year, and they were all snugly ensconced in the -palatial home of London’s great department-store proprietor, Harry -Gordon Selfridge. Jessica laughingly assured me that she had a Rembrandt -in her bedroom and that every one of the girls had a hundred thousand -dollars’ worth of pictures on her walls. Jessica loved to talk, and -there was plenty to talk about; the suffragettes and the British -socialist movement and the prospect of a world war. It must have been -two or three<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> o’clock in the morning when we parted. Craig and I saw her -several years later in New York. She was married to J. O’Hara Cosgrave, -onetime editor of <i>Everybody’s Magazine</i> and later editor of the New -York <i>Sunday World</i>.</p> - -<p>The happy summer passed. <i>Damaged Goods</i> was coming out, and I had to be -in New York. Craig’s blessed mother, much against the judgment of the -Judge, allowed Dolly to stay in London to become a paying guest at the -Wilshires’ and attend the Dalcroze School of Eurythmics. My David was -placed in one of the progressive schools near the city.</p> - -<p>As I have already said, Craig had written some tales of her Southern -girlhood; and I had stolen them from her for a novel to be called -<i>Sylvia</i>. <i>Damaged Goods</i>, both the play and novel, had filled my mind -with the subject of venereal disease, something considered unmentionable -in those days. I now decided to use the material from <i>Sylvia</i> for a -novel on that theme, and we settled down in a little apartment to finish -it. We had long arguments of course. Craig was herself Sylvia, and she -thought she knew what Sylvia would do and say. I had to agree; but I -thought I knew what the public would want to read. If anybody had been -in the next room while we were arguing they would surely have thought -that World War I had already broken out.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>We decided to transfer the battleground to Bermuda for the winter. We -found one of those little white cottages built of blocks carved out from -coral. Craig had had enough of social life to last all her days, she -said; all she wanted was to sit in the shade of a palm tree and decide -what she believed about life. In the afternoon I would mount a bicycle -and ride down to the Princess Hotel and play tennis with a captain of -the British Army, stationed nearby.</p> - -<p>A former young woman secretary of mine had married a Bermuda planter, -and they would come for us in a carriage—no autos permitted in those -days—and take us to a home completely surrounded by onions and -potatoes. At night the planter took me out on Harrington Sound in a -flat-bottomed boat; holding a torch we would look into the clear water, -and there would be a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span> big green lobster waiting to be stabbed with a -two-pronged spear.</p> - -<p>It was in Bermuda that we had an experience Craig delighted to tell -about. Walking along the lovely white coral road, we stopped at a little -store to buy something to eat. Looking up, my eyes were caught by -familiar objects on shelves near the ceiling—flat cans covered with -dust but with the labels still visible: “Armour’s Roast Beef.” “What are -those cans doing up there?” I asked, and the proprietor replied, “Oh, -some years ago a fellow wrote a book about that stuff, and I haven’t -been able to sell a can since.”</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>In the spring of 1914 we came back to New York. The novel, which we -called <i>Sylvia’s Marriage</i>, was finished: the story of a Southern girl -who marries a wealthy Bostonian and Harvard man and bears a child -blinded by gonorrhea. A terrible story, of course, and an innovation in -the fiction of that time. I took the manuscript to Walter Lippmann, who -had himself graduated from Harvard and had founded a branch of the -Intercollegiate Socialist Society there. He read it, and invited me to -lunch at the Harvard Club.</p> - -<p>I remember vividly his reaction to my novel. I hadn’t thought of him as -an ardent partisan of Harvard, but perhaps he was already coming to a -more conservative attitude to life. He told me that my picture of a -Harvard man was utterly fantastic; no such pretentious snob had ever -been seen there, and my portrait was a travesty. I remember one -sentence: “It’s as preposterous as if you were to portray an orgy in -this place.” And Walter waved his hand to indicate that most decorous -dining room.</p> - -<p>I would have been embarrassed had I not known certain facts that, -unfortunately, I was not at liberty to mention to my old ISS friend. I -thanked him for his kindness, took my departure, and have not met him -since.</p> - -<p>It was Mary Craig who had provided me with the picture of that august -Harvard senior, named Van Tuiver in the novel. What had happened was -this. In my little cottage in the single-tax colony of Arden, Craig had -met a patron of the colony, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> leading paper manufacturer, Fiske Warren. -When I left Arden, my secretary, Ellen, had become one of the -secretaries to this extremely wealthy and important Bostonian. On his -country estate each of his secretaries had a separate cottage of her -own, and Ellen had invited Craig to pay her a visit in her cottage. -Craig had done so, and Fiske had dropped in now and then in the evening -to chat with Craig. He did not invite her to the mansion, and Craig was -shrewd enough to guess why and proud enough to be amused. Fiske’s wife, -Gretchen Warren, was the most august and haughty leader of Boston -society, and was not accustomed to receive secretaries socially—or -friends of secretaries.</p> - -<p>To spare too many details: Craig happened to mention that she was a -lineal descendant of that Lady Southworth who had come to Massachusetts -to marry Governor Bradford. Fiske went up into the air as if she had put -a torpedo under him. He hurried to confirm it in his genealogy books, -and then to tell Gretchen about it—with the result that Ellen lost her -guest and Craig was moved up to the “big house” (I use the phrase to -which Craig was accustomed in Mississippi).</p> - -<p>So it had come about that she had met “Van Tuiver”—only of course that -was not his real name. Gretchen had invited the top clubmen of eligible -age to meet this Southern belle, and Craig had listened to their -magnificence. Of course, she was no longer “eligible,” being engaged to -me, but she was not at liberty to reveal that fact; and she let them -spread their glory before her. She had never met this particular kind of -arrogance and self-importance, in Mississippi or anywhere else.</p> - -<p>So when she came back from the visit she gave me Van Tuiver as a -character for our book, with every detail of his appearance, his manner, -and his language. And so it was that I was not disturbed by the opinion -of Walter Lippmann. Walter’s chances of meeting such a man at Harvard -had been of the slimmest, for Walter suffered not merely from the -handicap of being Jewish but also from having declassed himself by -setting up a socialist society. (Never have I forgotten the tone of -voice in which the secretary of the Harvard Club answered me when I -asked if I could obtain a list of Harvard students in order to send them -a circular about the proposed Intercollegiate Socialist Society.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> -“<i>Socialist!</i>” he exclaimed, incredulously; and I got the list -elsewhere.)</p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>In New York we had found ourselves a ten-dollar-a-week apartment on -Morningside Heights. One evening I went to a meeting at Carnegie Hall -alone; Craig, being tired, preferred to sleep. I came back about -midnight; and after that she had little sleep, because I told her about -the meeting.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Laura Cannon, wife of the president of the Western Federation of -Miners, had told the story of what came to be known to the world as the -Ludlow massacre. In the lonely Rocky Mountains were coal camps fenced in -and guarded like medieval fortresses. No one could enter without a pass -or leave without another, and the miners and their families were in -effect white slaves. Rebelling against such conditions, they had gone on -strike and had been turned out of the camps. Down in the valley, with -the help of their unions, they had set up tent colonies; after they had -held out for several months, the gunmen of the company had come one -night, thrown kerosene on the tents, and set fire to them. Three women -and eleven children had been burned to death; but the newspapers of the -country, including those of New York, had given only an inch or two to -the event.</p> - -<p>The most important fact about the whole thing was that these coal camps -were owned by the Colorado Fuel and Iron Company, a Rockefeller concern. -I told my terrified wife what I had decided to do—to take Mrs. Cannon -to the office of John D. Rockefeller, Jr., in the morning and ask him to -hear her story. If he refused, we would charge him with murder before -the American public and organize a group of sympathizers who would put -mourning bands around their arms and walk up and down in front of the -Standard Oil Building in protest against the company’s crime.</p> - -<p>I won’t try to portray the dismay of my bride of just one year. We had -been so perfectly happy and so carefully respectable—and now this -horror! “You will all be arrested,” she exclaimed. I answered, “Maybe, -but they couldn’t do anything but fine us, and someone will put up the -money.” We didn’t have it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span></p> - -<p>Craig couldn’t bring herself to say no—not this time. In the morning I -set to work to call people who had been at the meeting, and put them to -work to call others to the Liberal Club that evening. And, of course, we -did not fail to notify the newspapers. Some thirty or forty people -assembled—having scented publicity, which “radicals” dearly love. I set -forth the proposal and called for the help of those who would agree to a -program of complete silence and complete nonresistance. One man, -overcome with indignation, called for a program of collecting arms, and -I invited him to go into the next room, shut the door, and collect all -the arms he wanted.</p> - -<p>Craig was willing to be one of the marchers but insisted that she had to -have a proper costume. She waited until the department stores opened, -and then she got herself an elegant long white cape. When I arrived at -nine in the morning, I found no men but four ladies, one of whom had -provided herself with a many-colored banner and a loud screaming voice. -I invited her to set the banner against the wall of the Standard Oil -Company and to stuff her handkerchief in her mouth; we then took up our -silent parade in front of the office of Mr. John D. Rockefeller, Jr. (We -never saw him, and I learned that he had taken up the practice of coming -in by a back door.)</p> - -<h3>VII</h3> - -<p>We walked for perhaps five minutes, and then policemen politely told us -to walk somewhere else; when we politely refused, they told us that we -were under arrest. One of them grabbed me by the arm and started to -hustle me, but I said to him very quietly, “Please behave like a -gentleman. I have no idea but to go with you.” So after that we had a -pleasant stroll to the police station, where we found a half-dozen -newspaper reporters with their pads of scratch paper and their busy -pens.</p> - -<p>To the sergeant at the desk I told the story of the Ludlow massacre all -over again. It wasn’t his business to listen, but it was the reporters’ -business, and all police sergeants are respectful to reporters. A little -later we were put into a patrol wagon and taken to the police court, and -again I told the story, this time to the judge. The policeman who had -arrested me testified that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span> my conduct had been “that of a perfect -gentleman”; whereupon the judge found me guilty of disorderly conduct -and fined me three dollars. I declined to pay the fine, and so did the -four ladies; so each of us got three days instead of three dollars, and -I was led over the “Bridge of Sighs” to a cell in the ancient prison -known as The Tombs.</p> - -<p>A most interesting experience, because I had as cellmate a young Jewish -fellow in for stealing. He was a lively talker and told me all about his -art; and of course every kind of knowledge is useful to a novelist -sooner or later. This young fellow stole because he loved to. It was a -sporting proposition—he pitted his wits against the owners of property -in the great metropolis, and he didn’t especially mind when he was -caught because the charge was always petty theft; apparently they never -bothered to compare his fingerprints with previous fingerprints, and he -was always a “first offender.” He trusted me—I suppose he thought of a -socialist as an intellectual and higher type of thief. Anyhow, we were -pals, and I was entertained for two days.</p> - -<p>I never left the cell, because I had learned about fasting, and when I -contemplated prison fare, I decided this was a good time to apply my -knowledge. At the end of the second day a message came to me that if I -wanted to appeal my sentence I would have to pay a fine; for, obviously, -if I served the whole three days I could not sue to get my time back. It -was my wife who had sent this information, and she set out to find the -court where the one dollar for the third day was to be paid. She has -told in <i>Southern Belle</i> the delightful story of how she got lost in the -several galleries of courtrooms and stopped a gentleman to ask the way -to the room where the fine should be paid. The gentleman asked, “What is -it for?” and Craig said, “Some idiot of a judge has sent my husband to -jail.” “Madam,” was the reply, “I am that judge.” But he told her where -to go to pay her dollar.</p> - -<p>We kept that demonstration going for a couple of weeks, and Craig met -such people as Judge Kimbrough’s daughter had never dreamed of meeting -in this world—lumberjacks from the mountains, sailors from the harbor, -and poor Jewish garment workers half-starved in a period of -unemployment.</p> - -<p>George Sterling, the poet, happened to be visiting in New York. He -marched on one side of Craig, with Craig holding his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span> arm to keep him -from making any move when the “slugs” muttered insults at her. (“Slugs” -was what Craig called them, groping for a word.) Clement Wood, -stenographer and also poet, marched on the other side. Irish-born -novelist Alexander Irvine and Irish-born suffragette Elizabeth Freeman -took charge while Craig rested, and some rich supporter put up money for -a rest room and feeding station. I went out to Colorado to make -publicity there, and to write it; meantime Craig kept things going on -lower Broadway. Clement told her that an agent of the Rockefellers had -come to him and offered him money for secret information about our plans -and purposes. Since we had no secrets of any sort, Craig told him to get -all the Rockefeller money that was available.</p> - -<h3>VIII</h3> - -<p>A group of students of the Ferrer School, an anarchist institution, came -down to march, and later decided to carry the demonstration to the -Rockefeller estate in Pocantico Hills. They did not ask our consent, and -we had nothing to do with it—until they were beaten up for trying to -hold a free-speech meeting in nearby Tarrytown. Then I went up to try to -persuade the board of directors of the town to let us hold a meeting; I -carried with me a letter from Georg Brandes, perhaps the most highly -respected literary critic in Europe—but I doubt if the trustees had -heard of him. They turned down our request.</p> - -<p>What should turn up then but an offer from a millionaire lady, whose -estate adjoined the Rockefellers’, to let us hold a free-speech meeting -in her open-air theater; I went there and made a speech and was not -beaten up. Let would-be reformers make a note of this item and always -have their free-speech meetings on the property of millionaires.</p> - -<p>The time came when all our money was gone, and we went back to our -little apartment on Morningside Heights. A day or two later our -telephone rang. It was the nearby police station calling to ask Craig if -she knew Arthur Caron and if she would come and identify his body. Caron -was a French-Canadian boy who had been in a strike in Rhode Island and -beaten there. After being beaten at Tarrytown, he and two of his -colleagues had set<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> to work in a tenement-house room to make a bomb, -doubtless to blow up the Rockefellers. Instead, they had blown out the -top floor of the tenement house, and two of them were killed.</p> - -<p>I have often thought what must have been the effect of that event upon -the Rockefeller family. There has been an enormous change in their -attitude to the public since that time. John D., Jr., went out to his -coal mines and danced with the miners’ wives and made friends with the -angry old Mother Jones; more important, he made a deal to recognize the -unions and reform conditions in all the camps of the Colorado Fuel and -Iron Company. If you look at the record that his son, the present Nelson -A. Rockefeller, is making as governor of New York State, you will see -that our lessons were indeed learned by that family.</p> - -<p>One curious outcome of that “civil war” of ours had to do with the -newspapers. Craig had made friends with some of the reporters, and they -had told her how their stories were being mutilated in the office. The -New York <i>Herald</i> gave us especially bad treatment, making many -statements about us that were pure invention. For example, they said -that the president of the board of trustees in Tarrytown had denounced -my conduct in an angry speech. I went up to see the gentleman, to whom I -had been perfectly courteous. He assured me he had made no such -statement to anyone—and he gave me a letter to that effect.</p> - -<p>That letter was shown to the <i>Herald</i>, but they refused publication and -even repeated the charge; so I told a lawyer friend to bring a libel -suit against them. Then I went back to my writing and forgot all about -it. The usual law’s delay occurred. Some three years later, to my -astonishment, I received a letter from my lawyer telling me that the -case had been settled, with the <i>Herald</i> paying three thousand dollars’ -damages!</p> - -<p>George Sterling and Clement Wood each got a fine poem out of this -experience. George wandered down to the battery and gazed at the Statue -of Liberty and asked,</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Say, is it bale-fire in thy brazen hand,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A traitor light set on betraying coast<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To lure to doom the mariner?...<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">And Clement Wood, after collecting his Rockefeller money, wrote a sonnet -beginning:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">White-handed lord of murderous events,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Well have you guarded what your father gained....<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">Both these poems are in my anthology, <i>The Cry for Justice</i>, which I set -out to compile as soon as the excitement of the “mourning parade” was -over.</p> - -<h3>IX</h3> - -<p>We were broke as usual, but the John C. Winston Company of Philadelphia -fell for my proposition of a book, <i>The Cry for Justice: An Anthology of -Social Protest</i>; they advanced a thousand dollars to make possible its -compilation. A good friend, Frederick C. Howe, then United States -Commissioner of Immigration, offered us the use of a cottage in the -hills above Croton-on-Hudson; so we moved out of our ten-dollar-a-week -apartment into a fifty-dollar-a-month cottage on the edge of woods that -sloped down to the Croton River. In summer the woods were green, and in -winter the ground was white, and George Sterling came and chopped down -dead trees for firewood. Clement Wood came to be my secretary and to -quarrel with me over all the poetry I put into <i>The Cry for Justice</i> and -all that I left out—including some of his. Vachel Lindsay had come to -see us in New York, and his book had set Clement on fire; we would hear -him roaring through the forest:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Poor dear Vachel! He had been sending me his stuff for two or three -years, and I had been praising it; but when I met him he suddenly burst -out, to my consternation, “<i>Oh, you don’t like me!</i>” I had to persuade -him that I liked him very much indeed. Clement liked him, and liked Walt -Whitman too, but he didn’t like Edward Carpenter for two cents. We had -fierce arguments, but in the end we got <i>The Cry for Justice</i> put -together, and it was published and widely reviewed.</p> - -<p>Edgar Selwyn and his wife, Margaret Mayo, lived within bicycling -distance, and so I had tennis. Isadora Duncan’s sister had her dancing -school nearby, and we met unusual characters<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span> there. Floyd Dell and -Robert Minor constituted a little radical colony, and we could go there -and solve all the problems of the world, each in his own special way.</p> - -<p>As usual, I was on the verge of making a fortune; <i>The Jungle</i> was being -made into a movie, and I went to watch the procedure in a big warehouse -in Yonkers. An odd confusion there—the show was being directed by A. E. -Thomas; I took this to be Augustus Thomas and named him as the director, -greatly to his surprise. It was a poor picture; the concern went into -bankruptcy, and so ended another dream. All I got was the film, and I -loaned it to some organization and never got it back. Whoever has it, -please let me know!</p> - -<p>One incident I remember on the opening night. In the lobby of the -theater I found myself being introduced to Richard Harding Davis. He had -come back from some expedition and was still wearing khaki. I had read -one or two of his books, and had an impression of him as a prince among -snobs; but when he heard my name, he held my hand and said, “Ah, now, -<i>you</i> are a <i>real</i> writer. I only write for money.” I never saw him -again.</p> - -<p>I saw the world war coming. I had a friend, J. G. Phelps Stokes, well -known in New York as the “millionaire socialist”—you didn’t have to be -more than moderately rich to receive that title. I learned that his -butler was in England and about to return, so I made arrangements for -the butler to bring back my son, David. I put the boy in the North -Carolina school of C. Hanford Henderson, whose wise and gracious book -about education I had read. That left Craig and me free, and at last -there came the long-awaited letter from the Judge, inviting us “home.”</p> - -<h3>X</h3> - -<p>That meant Ashton Hall, on the Mississippi Sound near Gulfport. The -family used it only in summer, and we were free to have it eight months -of the year. I have a vivid memory of getting off at a little railroad -stop in the backwoods: we were the only persons to descend, and there -was only one person to meet us—a boy of fourteen dressed in the uniform -of a military academy, a boy with gracious manners and a strong Southern -brogue.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> Such was my first meeting with Hunter Southworth Kimbrough, who -was to be our standby for almost half a century. I remember how he -insisted on carrying both bags; and today I have only to go to the -telephone and call him, and eight hours later he arrives from Phoenix, -Arizona, ready to lift all the contents of the house on his sturdy -shoulders.</p> - -<p>We walked a quarter of a mile or so to the Gulf of Mexico, and there -just beyond a sandy-beach drive stood the lovely old house, built of -sound timbers before the Civil War. The front stood high above the -ground, so there was room underneath to stow sailboats and even buggies. -(Jefferson Davis’ buggy and his daughter’s boat were there.) We went up -a wide flight of steps to what was called a gallery, which ran around -three sides of the house. On it were big screened cages in which you -could hide from the mosquitoes when the wind from the back marshes drove -them to the front.</p> - -<p>There was a dining room that could seat a score of persons, and two -reception rooms with doors that rolled back to make a big room for -dancing. Upstairs were four bedrooms, and above that a great attic with -a row of beds and cots to accommodate the beaux when they came from New -Orleans. That attic was haunted for Craig, because it was there the -Judge had hung bunches of bananas to ripen, and Craig’s five-year-old -sister had climbed up and eaten unripe bananas and died in Craig’s -arms—this when Craig herself was little more than a child. The mother -had been screaming to God while Craig was making the child vomit; but -neither effort helped.</p> - -<p>There was “Aunt” Catherine, whom I had been hearing about ever since I -had met Craig, a half-dozen years previously. Aunt Catherine—all the -older Negroes were “Aunt” or “Uncle”—was an ex-slave and happy to tell -about “dem days.” “Dey wormed us all,” she said, “wormed us all good.” -Which sounded alarming but merely meant the giving of worm medicine. -Aunt Catherine’s happiness was to fix elaborate meals, and her distress -was great when she discovered that I did not want them. She took to -wandering off down the beach, visiting the servants in other beach -homes. She was elegant in the castoff clothing of Craig’s mother and -sisters, and I remember her coming down the beach with the wind blowing -half-a-dozen colored scarves in front of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span> her. When Craig rebuked her -for neglecting her duties, the answer was, “But, Miss Ma’y, <i>somebody</i> -gotta keep up de repitation of de family—<i>you</i> won’t do it.”</p> - -<h3>XI</h3> - -<p>Hunter, in the course of his explorations in Gulfport, picked up a -sailor on liberty from one of the ships. He brought the man to the house -to cut firewood and perform other labors. He was a Norwegian, a good -fellow, and we put him up in one of the rooms in a back building, where -the cooking was done and where the Negroes slept on the second floor. -Gus, as his name was, quarreled with Catherine, who had contempt for any -white man in the position of servant. She neglected to prepare his -breakfast early, and Gus burst into her room to scold her. Catherine -came to Craig, weeping wildly, “Oh, Miss Ma’y, I done seed a naked white -man—never befo’ in my life I seed a naked white man!”</p> - -<p>The great thing in Craig’s life now was the impending visit of her -father. Her heart was in her mouth when I came up the steps after a -walk, and the Judge was there. We shook hands, he bade me welcome, and I -thanked him for the most precious gift I had ever received. He had hated -to give it, of course, but all the same I had it, and for keeps. After a -little talk I went into the house, and Craig said, “Well, Papa, what do -you think of him?” The answer was, “I guess I overspoke myself.” Craig -told me afterward it was the first time in her life she had heard him -make any sort of apology.</p> - -<p>He was six feet four, with a little white beard. He was a judge of the -Chancery Court, which means that he handled estates and was happy in his -duty of protecting the property of widows. Also, he traveled a “circuit” -and presided at court in four counties, where he was famous for his way -of handling the Negroes who got into trouble. He could be very stern, -but he also had a keen sense of humor and knew there was nothing the -Negroes dreaded more than to be laughed at. He would propose penalties -that would make the audience roar, such as making two husky men who had -been fighting kiss each other and make up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span></p> - -<p>But for good Negroes he had only kindness and understanding. He owned -plantations and lands, and some of his land was worked by trusted -Negroes on shares. They would come to see him and tell him their needs, -and he would sit on the back porch and chat with them, being interested -in their minds. He would tell funny stories about them, but he gave -serious advice and help when needed. On Christmas Day they all came to -have their “dram,” and in the evening when there were parties some would -play music and be as happy as the dancers.</p> - -<p>But don’t think that he couldn’t be stern, for he had to be. Dreadful -things happened. A Negro woman, furious with jealousy, poured boiling -grease into her sleeping husband’s ear; a woman nurse, jealous of a -rival for the position, set fire to the curtains on the balcony where -the white children were sleeping. Craig told the story of a Negro -meeting in the woods back of her Greenwood home. A fight broke out in -the night, and the Judge grabbed his shotgun and rushed out; Mama -Kimbrough grabbed his rifle and followed behind—to protect her big -six-foot-four husband. He didn’t want to shoot any of the Negroes -because they were “his.” He just waded in, using his shotgun as a club, -and scattered them and drove them to their cabins. Such was life on a -Mississippi plantation when Craig was a child, three quarters of a -century ago. The sight of bleeding Negroes was familiar to her from the -beginning of her life, and once she helped to sew on a torn ear.</p> - -<h3>XII</h3> - -<p>My aim that winter was to write a novel called <i>King Coal</i>, dealing with -those labor camps in the Rocky Mountains about which I had learned so -much. The first essential for my work was quiet, and the way to get it -was to have a tent at a corner of the property remote from the house. A -tent must have a platform, so I ordered the necessary lumber and set to -work. Nobody at Ashton Hall, white or black, had ever seen a white -“gentleman” doing such work, and I damaged my reputation thereby. A -colored boy helped me to get the tent up, since that couldn’t be done -alone. I built a little doorframe for the front and tacked on mosquito -netting.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span></p> - -<p>Thereafter, when the wind brought mosquitoes, my technique was as -follows: I would dart out from the big house, run as fast as my feet -could take me to the tent, brush off the mosquitoes that had already -attached themselves, dart inside and fasten the door, then with a -flyswat proceed to eliminate all the mosquitoes inside. The size of the -tent was eight by ten; so I had three steps east and then three steps -west while I thought up the next scene in my story. I would sit down and -write for a while on the typewriter, then get up and walk and think some -more. So, in the end I had <i>King Coal</i>.</p> - -<p>The Judge came from Greenwood now and then and took me fishing—always -with a Negro man to row the boat and bait our hooks. Brother Willie -Kimbrough came, a big laughing stout man, and took me to catch pompano -in what was called Back Bay, a sort of deep sound.</p> - -<p>Craig’s sister Dolly, back from England, came to stay with us; Craig, -who disapproved of idleness, assigned her a job. Behind the house stood -an enormous arbor of scuppernong grapes, loaded with ripe fruit that it -would be a shame to waste. So Dolly put two Negro boys to picking -grapes. When they had two big baskets full, they would take them to the -trolley, and Dolly would ride into town and arrange with a grocery to -buy them. Never before had an occupant of Ashton Hall engaged in trade, -and Dolly wept once or twice, then became interested in making pocket -money.</p> - -<p>Everything was going beautifully, and if it went wrong there was someone -to attend to it. I made the mistake of leaving my small possessions, -such as fountain pen and cuff links, on my bureau, and one by one these -objects disappeared. After searching everywhere I mentioned the matter -to the youthful Hunter, who knew exactly what to do. He called a Negro -boy, one of the house servants, and said with due sternness, “Empty your -pockets.” Sure enough, the boy proceeded to shell out all my -possessions. Hunter didn’t say, “I’ll call the police.” He said, “Now, -you keep out of Mr. Sinclair’s room; if I ever hear of you being in -there again, I’ll skin you alive.” Such was “gov’ment” on the -Mississippi Sound. I don’t know how it is now, but I am able to -understand both sides in the racial problem.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span></p> - -<h3>XIII</h3> - -<p>Visitors came to see us—among them Captain Jones. I don’t know that I -ever heard his first name, but that wasn’t necessary as there was only -one “Captain Jones” in that world. He had built the Gulfport harbor, -also the railroad that connected Gulfport with the North, and also the -trolley line that paralleled the road in front of Ashton Hall and -carried me into town when I wanted to play tennis at Captain Jones’s -Great Southern Hotel.</p> - -<p>The old gentleman and his wife came to Ashton Hall, and he poured out -his heart to us. He was probably the richest man in Mississippi; but -nobody loved him, nobody wanted anything but money from him, and some of -their ways were wicked and cruel. His railroad, which ran through the -desolate “piney woods” of southern Mississippi, was a blessing to -everybody along the way; but the miserable piney-woods people, -“clayeaters” as they were called, had only one thought—to plunder -Captain Jones’s railroad. They would cut the wire fence that protected -both sides of the track and turn some scrawny old cow onto the railroad -right of way; when the creature was struck and killed by a train, they -would demand the price of a prize bull in a cattle show.</p> - -<p>I was duly sympathetic, of course, and was somewhat embarrassed when a -strike of the dockworkers developed in Captain Jones’s Gulfport. He had -made all the prosperity of that town, and here was one more case of -ingratitude. It was embarrassing to me and to the Kimbrough family when -the strikers sent a deputation to ask me to speak at a meeting in the -largest hall in Gulfport. I had never refused an invitation from -strikers, and I wasn’t going to begin at the age of thirty-six. I told -them I couldn’t discuss their particular issues because I didn’t know -the circumstances and didn’t have time to investigate them; but I would -tell them my ideas of democracy in industry, otherwise known as -socialism, where strikes would be unnecessary because workers would be -striking against themselves.</p> - -<p>The meeting was duly announced, and the Kimbrough family were too polite -to tell me what they thought about the matter. What the wife of Captain -Jones thought about it surprised both Craig and me. She called us up and -said she would be glad to go<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> to the meeting with us; and would we come -to the Great Southern Hotel and have dinner with her before the meeting? -Of course we said we would be pleased.</p> - -<p>It was Craig’s practice to sit in the very back of a hall, where she -would be inconspicuous and if possible unrecognized. But Mrs. Jones -wouldn’t have it that way. She took me by an arm and Craig by an arm, -and marched us straight down the center aisle to the front seats in the -hall so that everybody would know who had brought us. I have had a -number of experiences like that with the very rich, and they have -encouraged me to realize that democracy is a real force in America.</p> - -<h3>XIV</h3> - -<p>So everything seemed lovely at Ashton Hall, until one tragic day when -the roof fell in on us—the moral and spiritual roof. My former wife saw -fit to come to Gulfport and bring a lawsuit for the custody of our son. -I cannot shirk the telling of this story because it played an enormous -part in my life and Craig’s; but I tell it as briefly and tactfully as -possible. I don’t think the lady actually wanted David, but the -grandmother did. My former wife is still living, has been married twice, -and has children and grandchildren whom I have no desire to hurt. -Suffice it to say that her coming created a scandal in Gulfport—one -that not even the wife of Captain Jones could mitigate.</p> - -<p>David was with us at the time, and I had a secretary, a young man from -the North, who considered it a great lark to carry the lad off into the -woods and hide him from the courts of Mississippi for a few days. There -was a trial with plenty of publicity; the court, presided over by a -Catholic judge, awarded six months’ custody to me and six months’ to his -mother. To make the painful story short, I took David to California for -the first six months; and when the time came for his mother to come and -get him, I heard nothing from her—then or afterward.</p> - -<p>Judge Kimbrough had made Craig an offer promising her Ashton Hall if she -would live there. It was said to be worth a hundred and fifty thousand -dollars, and with the development that has come in the past thirty or -forty years, the lot alone is prob<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span>ably worth that now. But we couldn’t -be happy there. A friend had told me about the wonders of southern -California, where there were no mosquitoes. I begged Craig to come, and -I went ahead to find a home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="X" id="X"></a><i>10</i><br /><br /> -<i>West to California</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>It was November of 1915. I wanted to be warm so I went as far south as -possible, to Coronado; but it proved not to be so warm. Cold winds blew -off the wide Pacific, and the little cottage I rented leaked both wind -and rain. I pasted newspapers inside to keep out the wind—which was not -very ornamental.</p> - -<p>Craig was wretchedly unhappy over the humiliation she had brought to her -family, and only time could heal that wound. She told me long afterward -that she hadn’t been sure she would follow me to California; but her -father, who had labored so hard to keep us apart, now kept us together. -He said, “Daughter, you must go to your husband.” She came, and we had a -hard time because George P. Brett of Macmillan rejected <i>King Coal</i>. It -was a painful, a terrible subject, and I had failed to make the -characters convincing. Craig, who agreed with him, wrote to him telling -him her ideas and offering to make me revise the manuscript accordingly. -Brett said he would read the manuscript again after she had finished.</p> - -<p>You can imagine what a hold that gave her in our family arguments. The -heroine of my story was a daughter of the mining camps named Mary Burke. -I had failed to describe what she looked like; Craig sought in vain to -find out from me, because I didn’t know. Likewise, Craig insisted that -Mary Burke was naked, and thereafter for the rest of our lives the -revision of my manuscripts was known as “putting the clothes on Mary -Burke.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Anybody who heard us in that little leaky cottage would have been quite -sure we were getting ready for a divorce; but we made an agreement about -all our quarrels—whenever one of us got too excited, the other would -say “Manuscript,” and the excitement would diminish.</p> - -<p>When the rains stopped, I would go out and meet the idle rich, playing -tennis on the courts of the immense and fashionable Coronado Hotel. -Craig would never go; she had met enough rich people to last her the -rest of her life. But I had to have characters as well as tennis, and I -watched the characters playing at polo and other expensive diversions. I -wrote a novel about some of these people that has never yet been -published—Craig never got around to putting clothes on the characters.</p> - -<p>As far as I can recall we had only one visitor that entire winter. Jane -Addams wrote that she wanted to see me, and I was surprised and pleased. -I had seen a good deal of her in Chicago because I had had my meals at -the University Settlement all the time I was getting material for <i>The -Jungle</i>. What she had come for now was to ask me about Emanuel Julius. -Her niece, Marcet Haldeman, had become engaged to marry him, and what -sort of man was he? He was editor of the <i>Appeal to Reason</i> and had been -the means of making <i>The Jungle</i> known to the American masses. I am not -sure whether I had met him at that time, but I could say that he had a -brilliant mind and was, like myself, an ardent socialist.</p> - -<p>I may as well complete the story here by saying that the marriage took -place; and that after the tragic death of J. A. Wayland, Emanuel -Haldeman-Julius bought the <i>Appeal to Reason</i> with his wife’s money and -built up a great publishing business, including many hundreds of titles -of the five-cent Little Blue Books that did so much to educate America. -But, alas, Julius took up with a secretary, and Marcet divorced him. -Julius drowned in his swimming pool, and no one knows whether it was a -suicide. The good Jane Addams did not live to see these painful events. -A son survives, a good friend.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>We decided that we wanted to get away from ocean winds; and I had met a -tennis professional who lived in Pasadena and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> who assured me I would -find plenty of tennis there. So we made the move and found ourselves a -brown-painted, two-story house on Sunset Avenue, a remote part of the -town. It was covered with a huge vine of red roses, and roses were as -important to Craig as tennis was to me.</p> - -<p>The house stood on the edge of a slope, with the valley of the Arroyo -Seco to the west. It was unfurnished, so Craig would walk several blocks -to the streetcar, ride a couple of miles downtown, and then wander about -looking for secondhand furniture shops. That way she got three chairs -with ragged upholstery for our living room, two beds for upstairs, and -packing boxes for tables and bureaus. We were able to do all those -things because Brett had accepted <i>King Coal</i> and paid a -five-hundred-dollar advance. After that magical achievement, Craig was -boss of the family.</p> - -<p>Pasadena in the year 1916 was a small town that called itself “City of -Roses” and was called by others “City of Millionaires.” These last -occupied the wide, elegant Orange Grove Avenue, with palaces on both -sides and two very elegant hotels for the winter visitors. We had no -thought of the rich, and never expected them to have any thought of us -in our humble brown cottage overlooking the sunset. The beautiful roses -and the sunsets were enough for Craig, and as for me, I had started <i>The -Coal War</i>, a sequel to <i>King Coal</i>, with more about Mary Burke and her -clothes. I had learned now!</p> - -<p>But wherever there are millionaires there are also socialists—they are -cause and effect. The socialists came to see me and invited me to speak -at a meeting in support of a proposed co-operative; of course I went. I -had found a woman secretary to type my manuscripts—another necessity of -my life—and in the course of the evening this lady came to my wife and -whispered a portentous sentence: “Mrs. Gartz wants to meet you.”</p> - -<p>“Who is Mrs. Gartz?” asked Craig; and the awe-stricken secretary -replied, “Oh, my dear, she is the richest woman in Pasadena.”</p> - -<p>Craig said, “Well, bring her here.”</p> - -<p>The secretary, dismayed, responded, “She said for you to come to her.”</p> - -<p>The secretary didn’t know Craig very well, but she learned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> about her -right there. “If she wants to meet me,” said Craig, “she will come to -me.” And that was that.</p> - -<p>When the meeting was over, the secretary came back, and with her was a -large, magnificent lady of the kind that Craig had known all through her -girlhood. The lady was introduced; and, of course, she knew another lady -when she met one. More especially, she knew a lovely Southern voice and -manner; so she asked if she might come to see us, and Craig said that -she might. Craig made no apology for her living room that had only three -ragged chairs in it—the biggest one for the large rich lady and the -other two for Craig and myself.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kate Crane-Gartz was the elder daughter of Charles R. Crane, -plumbing magnate of Chicago, dead then for several years. He had been a -newspaper celebrity, not only because he was one of the richest men in -America but because he differed from most rich men in being talkative -and in voicing original opinions. He was particularly down on college -education, insisting that it was all wasteful nonsense. He hadn’t had -one himself, and look where he had got!</p> - -<p>Mrs. Gartz was an elegant lady with a haughty manner and a tender heart. -She had had many sorrows, which we learned about in the course of time. -She had lost two of her children in a theater fire in Chicago. She still -had a son and a daughter, both of whom she adored, but they gave her -little happiness. She had a soft heart and an overfull purse, and she -was preyed upon freely—all that we learned soon. But there was one -person who would never prey upon her, and that was Mary Craig Sinclair.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>This new friend was the most curiously frank person we had ever known. -She looked around at our new establishment and said, “Why do you live -like this?” “We have to,” said Craig, and no more. “Don’t your husband’s -books sell?” demanded the visitor. “They have sold in the past,” said -Craig, “but he has spent all his money on the socialist movement. He -always does that, I’m sorry to say.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Gartz obtained our promise to come and see her, also<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> permission to -send her car for us. Then she got into a magnificent limousine and told -the uniformed chauffeur to drive her downtown to a furniture store. -Early the next morning came a van, and two men unloaded a set of parlor -furniture upholstered in blue velvet.</p> - -<p>Craig said, “What is this?” One of the men said, “It was ordered. We -don’t know anything about it.” Craig said, “I didn’t order it, and I -don’t want it. Take it back.”</p> - -<p>So it came about that there was one person in Pasadena whom Kate -Crane-Gartz could not merely respect but could even stand a bit in awe -of. There was one person she would never dare to humiliate, and one who -would come to her luncheon parties wearing unfashionable clothing. So it -came about that for something like a quarter of a century Mary Craig -Sinclair controlled the purse strings of the richest woman in Pasadena.</p> - -<p>The main factor in this, I think, was that for the first time in her -life Mrs. Gartz met someone whom she regarded as her social equal and -possibly her superior. Craig had not only the loveliest Southern voice, -but also had gracious manners, wit, and what is called charm. She could -keep a roomful of company in continuous laughter. Both men and women -would gather around to hear what she had to say. She had taste, and -could look lovely in clothes she found on a bargain counter. She had the -strangest imaginable combination of haughtiness and kindness. She had a -heart that bled for every kind of suffering except that which was -deserved. She was a judge of character, and no pretender could ever fool -her.</p> - -<p>Most important of all, she had come with my help to understand what was -wrong with the world—the social system that produces human misery -faster than all the charity in the world can relieve it. She had married -me partly because I had taught her that, and now she understood the -world better than any person whom Kate Crane-Gartz had ever known.</p> - -<p>For many years Craig would never take a cent from Mrs. Gartz for -herself. “Give it to the co-operative. Give it to the Socialist Party.” -For a while Mrs. Gartz was timid about doing that, so she would ask -Craig to pass it on, which Craig faithfully did.</p> - -<p>The “co-op” had been started by a devoted socialist woman named Tipton, -who took in washing while her husband drove a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> delivery wagon. You can -imagine that the first time Mrs. Kate Crane-Gartz showed up at one of -the monthly “co-op” bean suppers at the Tipton house it was an event in -the history of that City of Millionaires.</p> - -<p>Mr. Gartz, who handled his wife’s millions, was not long unaware of -these developments. He was beside himself with rage; and when for the -first time his wife invited us to a supper party at the fashionable -Maryland Hotel, he came into the dining room and stood behind my chair -and started muttering abuse in a low tone of voice.</p> - -<p>Craig had never had to handle a situation like that, but she was equal -to all situations. She got up and invited Mr. Gartz to come over to the -next table and speak to her. He obeyed, and she pointed out to him that -there was only one possible conclusion the public would draw if he -persisted in making a public scene with Upton Sinclair. With that -terrible threat she scared him; at the same time, with her lovely -Southern voice she calmed him down, and he went his way. Once or twice -he raved at me in his home, but I had promised not to answer him, and I -obeyed.</p> - -<p>That situation continued for a matter of twenty years. The daughter, -Gloria, sided with her father, and the son, Craney, sided with his -mother. Alas, Craney drank, and when he was drinking he was very -generous. To pacify him I would accept his gifts and then return them -when he was sober. I once returned a Buick car.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>I finished <i>The Coal War</i>, a story of the great strike through which I -had lived in spirit if not in physical presence; but I never published -it, for world war had come and no one was interested in labor problems -any more. Mrs. Gartz was a pacifist. A federal agent came to investigate -her, and Craig had the job of pacifying <i>him</i>. “What I want to know is,” -he said, “is she pro-German, or is she just a fool?” Craig assured him -that the latter was the case.</p> - -<p>Craney became an Air Force officer and traveled around in a blimp -looking for German submarines off the Atlantic coast. I resigned from -the Socialist Party in order to support the war; and Mrs. Gartz, a -pacifist on her son’s account, took a lot of persuad<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span>ing from -Craig—who, being a Southerner, had less objection to fighting. At any -rate, that was true when the fighting was against the German Kaiser.</p> - -<p>My socialist comrades called me bad names for a while, and Craig and -Mrs. Gartz argued every time they met. But by that time Craig’s -influence had become strong enough to keep Mrs. Gartz from getting into -jail. We had a lot of fun laughing over the idea of Kitty—as I had come -to call her—misbehaving in a jail. I think even Mr. Gartz appreciated -what I was doing, and he no longer growled when he saw me in his home.</p> - -<p>In 1918 I started the publication of a little socialist magazine to -support the American position in the world war. I called it <i>Upton -Sinclair’s: For a Clean Peace and the Internation</i>. (Later the slogan -became <i>For Social Justice, by Peaceful Means if Possible</i>.) For that, -Craig felt justified in letting Mrs. Gartz hand her several government -bonds. It was amusing the way the great lady argued with us about what -was in the magazine, and at the same time helped to keep it going. Some -of my socialist and other friends argued with me. They would write me -letters of protest against my supporting the war, and I would put the -letters in the magazine and reply to them. The more angry the letters -were, the more my readers were entertained. All my life I have had fun -in controversy.</p> - -<p>My position was, of course, to the left of the government. Indeed, -Woodrow Wilson was to the left of his own government, and many of his -officials didn’t understand his ideas—or disapproved of them when they -did understand. When the first issue of the magazine appeared, I applied -to the Post Office Department for second-class entry—which was -essential, for if I had to pay first-class postage I would be bankrupt -at the outset. I had sent copies of the magazine to a number of persons -in Washington whom I knew or knew about; and when I got notice that the -second-class entry had been refused, I telegraphed to Colonel House. He -told me that he was with the President when the telegram was delivered, -and he had told the President what was in the magazine and the President -approved of it.</p> - -<p>As it happened, John Sharp Williams, United States Senator from -Mississippi, was Craig’s cousin; in her girlhood she had driven him over -the shell roads of the Gulf Coast and learned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span> about politics from his -humorous stories. I had sent the magazine to him, of course; and now he -wrote that he had read it and had taken up the matter of the -second-class entry with Postmaster General Burleson, who was also a -Southerner. Burleson had a copy of the magazine with the passages that -he considered “subversive” marked. Williams said, “I’ll undertake to -read those passages to Woodrow Wilson, and I’ll agree to eat my hat if -he doesn’t approve every word of them.”</p> - -<p>So it all worked out very nicely. My little magazine got the -second-class entry, and Senator Williams of Mississippi went on wearing -his hat.</p> - -<p>I published, in all, ten issues of that little magazine. The first issue -was April 1918; then I had to skip a month because of the delay with -second-class entry. The last issue was February 1920. In all, I built up -a subscription list of ten thousand, paid for at one dollar per year. I -had five secretaries and office girls wrapping and mailing. Mrs. Gartz -would come down and argue with Craig and me—she being an out-and-out -pacifist. Her attitude was summed up by James Russell Lowell in two -lines of verse—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ez fer war, I call it murder—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">There you hev it plain an’ flat.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">—although I don’t think Mrs. Gartz had ever heard of <i>The Biglow -Papers</i>.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>Like all the other liberals, radicals, and socialists, I was bitterly -disappointed by the settlement to which President Wilson consented in -Paris. It seemed to us that our hopes had been betrayed, and it seemed -to Mrs. Gartz that her seditious opinions had been vindicated. But -nothing made any difference in our friendship, or interrupted the flow -of checks to help keep the magazine going.</p> - -<p>The checks brought one amusing development before long: the president of -Pasadena’s biggest bank invited Mrs. Gartz to remove her account from -his institution. Whether that had ever happened in the banking world -before I do not know. Checks<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> payable to Mary Craig Sinclair were -poisonous or incendiary. I might add that in the new bank Craig -deposited a thousand-dollar bond that Mrs. Gartz had brought to her -personally, in return for some writing Craig had done for her. “Don’t -let Mr. Sinclair get hold of it,” said Mrs. Gartz, “or he’ll spend it -all on the magazine. Go down to the bank and rent a safe-deposit box and -hide it away.”</p> - -<p>Since Craig could feel that she had earned this bond, she took Mrs. -Gartz’s advice. Some months later, she went down to the bank to get the -bond and discovered that the box was empty. In the normal course of -events she would have reported the matter to the head of the bank; but -she would have had to tell him where she had got the bond, and she did -not care to do that. She took the loss quietly and did not tell her -too-generous friend.</p> - -<p>While editing and publishing the magazine, I was also writing a new -novel based on my experiences in the Socialist Party, of which I had -been a member for a couple of decades. I had known all kinds of -picturesque characters and types, and heard stories of their adventures. -A Socialist Party candidate for vice president, Ben Hanford, had -invented the name “Jimmie Higgins” for the humble worker in the party -who makes no speeches and gets no honors but does the tiresome jobs of -addressing envelopes, distributing literature, and making house-to-house -calls to bring his fellow workers to meetings. I took this character for -my hero, and started the publication of <i>Jimmie Higgins</i> in the -magazine.</p> - -<p>When in 1919 our Army made its somewhat crazy landing on the shores of -the Archangel Peninsula, as a start to putting down the Bolshevik -movement in Russia, I decided to change the tone of my novel at the end. -So far Jimmie had been a socialist patriot and had loyally gone to war; -but now he turned into a malcontent, to be jailed and tortured. I recall -that some reviewer in the New York <i>Times</i> rebuked me severely for this -seditious invention; but it wasn’t long afterward that the New York -<i>Times</i> itself was reporting just such incidents as having happened in -the Army at Archangel. When I wrote to the <i>Times</i> pointing out these -details, my letter was ignored.</p> - -<p>In this magazine I had all kinds of fun. I got letters of praise and -letters of fury, and published them side by side. The more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span> bad names I -was called, the more amusing I found it; and my readers let me know that -they too enjoyed it. I sent the magazine to well-known persons, got -responses pro and con, and published them. H. G. Wells wrote a gay -letter. I published it in facsimile, and somebody wrote asking me please -to supply a translation. Socialists denounced me as a renegade; patriots -denounced me as a traitor—and I printed the letters along with those of -Colonel House, Senator John Sharp Williams, and other patriots of -repute.</p> - -<p>All this labor was wearing on my brain and my stomach, as well as my -purse. Then suddenly I thought of a solution. Emanuel Haldeman-Julius -had taken over the <i>Appeal of Reason</i> and changed its name to the -<i>Haldeman-Julius Weekly</i>. He had a circulation of something like half a -million, whereas <i>Upton Sinclair’s</i> had succeeded in getting only ten -thousand. I was always lured by a larger audience, and I made him a -proposition to merge my magazine with his. He would let me have one full -page called “Upton Sinclair’s,” in which I would say what I pleased. The -serial I was writing would fill part of the page, which was newspaper -size, and I could supply material similar to the contents of my magazine -to fill the rest of the page. So it was agreed, and instead of having a -monthly deficit I would have an income of fifty dollars a week. At least -it was enough to pay the secretary who was taking my dictation. Also, it -was a load off the mind of my overburdened wife; and if any of my -subscribers complained, I could remind them that they had never offered -to pay my printer’s bill.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XI" id="XI"></a><i>11</i><br /><br /> -<i>The Muckrake Man</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>For all my thinking lifetime I had been making tests of the big-business -press of America. Almost everywhere it was on the side of privilege and -exploitation, almost nowhere was it alert to the interest of democratic -freedom. I had made notes and had envelopes full of clippings, and a -head full of memories and a heart full of rage. I decided that I would -put all that into a book and use the huge circulation I had got from -that four-page Kansas weekly paper.</p> - -<p>Seeking a title, I went back to the days of my youth when I had joined -in the election campaign against Tammany Hall. William Travers Jerome -had told about the wholesale prostitution that was protected because of -graft paid to the police department. The “price of a woman’s shame” was -a brass check purchased at the entrance. Jerome had based his whole -campaign upon it, and it struck me that <i>The Brass Check</i> was a fine -title for a book about the prostitution of the press. I made the term -known not merely to all America but to Europe as well, for the book was -translated into many languages. It was a book of facts that no one could -dispute, because I had saved the clippings, and I verified every story -that I told.</p> - -<p>It happened that an old friend was spending the winter in a cottage at -our fashionable hotel. Samuel Untermyer, whom I had met through Lincoln -Steffens, had been the highest-paid corporation lawyer in New York. Now -he was an old man, tired<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span>—except for his tongue. He could tell more -terrible stories of corruption than anyone I ever knew, and he had told -some to me when I visited his home up the Hudson and inspected the -orchids that decorated every room.</p> - -<p>I took him the manuscript of <i>The Brass Check</i>. When he had read it, he -said, “Upton, you can’t possibly publish that book. It contains a score -of criminal libels and a thousand civil suits.” I said, “I am going to -publish it and take the consequences.”</p> - -<p>In Hammond, Indiana, I had found a large printing concern that had -printed my book, <i>The Profits of Religion</i>, and made no objection. Now -with some qualms I sent them the bulky “criminal” manuscript. To my -surprise they made no comment, but quoted a price and proceeded to send -me proofs.</p> - -<p>I remember an amusing episode. The elderly treasurer of the company paid -a visit to California and asked to see me. He came, and I learned to -what I owed the honor. He said, very mildly, that he had recently -discovered that I had run up a debt of twenty thousand dollars, and he -wondered if I realized how much money that was. I told him that I had -never had such a debt in my life hitherto, but that the book was selling -well and the money would come in installments; and it did.</p> - -<p>The book was published serially in the <i>Appeal</i>, and I was really -surprised by the result. I had never had so many letters or so many -orders. I knew that this time I had a real best seller. When I got the -finished books, I gave a copy to my old friend, Gaylord Wilshire, who -had made his home in Pasadena. He threw me into a panic when he phoned -to tell me that it was inconceivable that the publication of this book -would be permitted in America. He urged me to get all my copies -distributed at once to socialist and labor groups and bookstores, and -tell them to hide the books. I took this seriously and did as he -suggested. It was an easy way to get rid of books, but a hard way to -make money.</p> - -<p>I had to have more paper; when I applied to the wholesalers I was told -there was no paper on the market. World War I had caused a shortage of -everything. The big concerns had their contracts, of course, and were -getting their paper; but there was none left over for a little fellow -like the author of <i>The Brass Check</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span></p> - -<p>I wrote to every wholesale paper dealer in the United States, but got no -response. I took my lamentations into the city of Los Angeles, and there -made a surprising discovery. There was a kind of paper called -Kraft—otherwise known as plain brown wrapping paper. I could get it in -a light weight, and it was possible to read print on it.</p> - -<p>Nobody in the world had ever thought to print a book on it; but I got -the price for a carload, six thousand dollars, and went back home and -laid siege to my old friend, Sam Untermyer. I pointed out to him that I -hadn’t been arrested, and I hadn’t even had a civil suit threatened; so -I begged him to lend me six thousand dollars. I made him so ashamed of -his misjudgment as a lawyer that he actually wrote me a check. He was -quite pathetic when he told me how necessary it was that he should get -it back (He did.)</p> - -<p>The book created a tremendous sensation and, of course, no end of -controversy. I won’t go into the details because the stories are -old—and many of the newspapers have learned something about ethics. I -venture to think that reporters all over the country read the book and -took courage from it. Many of them are now editors, and while they still -have to “take policy,” they don’t take it quite so completely.</p> - -<p>I had called upon them to form a union to protect their rights, and this -they promptly did—but they preferred to call it a guild, which is more -aristocratic. Now the guild has branches all over the country and has -had some effect in establishing standards of professional decency. While -I was completing this book their New York chapter invited me to come and -receive an award.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Next book: <i>The Goose-Step</i>. In the early spring of 1922 I left my -long-suffering wife in charge of my office with an elderly secretary and -three or four assistants, while I took a tour all over the United -States, going first to the Northwest, then across to Chicago, New York, -and Boston, then back through the Middle West and Southwest. I had been -through five years of City College and four years of postgraduate work -at Columbia, and had come out unaware that the modern socialist movement -existed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span> So now I meant to muckrake the colleges, showing where they -had got their money and how they were spending it. I had jotted down the -names of discontented schoolteachers and college professors who had -written to me, or whose cases had become known; I visited some thirty -cities, and in each of them some educator had assembled the malcontents -in his or her home, and I sat and made notes while they told me their -angry or hilarious stories.</p> - -<p>There were many comical episodes on my tour. The University of Wisconsin -had been liberal in the days of Robert LaFollette; but now it had a -reactionary president, and I had a lively time with him. I had applied -for the use of a hall, and he had already announced that he wouldn’t -grant it. He referred me to the board of regents, and I had a session -with them. I finally got the use of the gymnasium, and the newspaper -excitement brought a couple of thousand students to ask me questions for -an hour after my talk. The concluding paragraph of my Wisconsin story -was as follows:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>Next afternoon I met the champion tennis team of the university, -and played each of the pair in turn and beat them in straight sets; -I was told that the student body regarded this as a far more -sensational incident than my Socialist speech. An elderly professor -came up to me on the campus next day—I had never seen him before, -and didn’t know his name; he assured me with mock gravity that I -had made a grave blunder—I should have played the tennis matches -first, and made the speech second, and no building on the campus -would have been big enough to hold the crowd.</p></div> - -<p>From Wisconsin I went on to Chicago, to what I called the University of -Standard Oil. The students had a hymn that they sang there:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Praise God from whom oil blessings flow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Praise Him, oil creatures here below,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Praise Him above, Ye Heavenly Host,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Praise Father, Son—but John the most.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>I interviewed the president there, and he granted me the use of a small -hall. When I assured him I would need a larger one, he refused to -believe me; so I found myself quite literally packed in, with students -climbing into the windows and sitting on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span> sills and standing in the -corridors. Just outside the hall I had noticed a beautiful quadrangle -with lovely soft grass and plenty of room. I suggested that we all move -out onto the grass and that somebody find me a soapbox to stand on—the -classical pulpit of radical orators. There were loud cheers, and we -moved outside. Still more people came running, and I talked to the crowd -for an hour or two and answered questions for an hour or two more. -Everybody had a good time except the Standard Oil president.</p> - -<p>The next day I played the tennis champion of that university, and I have -to record that he beat me—but with an effort so mighty that he split -his pants.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>One of the cities was my birthplace, Baltimore, and one of my sources -there was Elizabeth Gilman, daughter of the founder of Johns Hopkins -University. She filled her home with professors one day and with -schoolteachers the next, and they told me their troubles.</p> - -<p>I have mentioned my friendship with Mencken. It began by mail; he was a -tireless letter writer. There are some two hundred letters from him in -the collection of my papers in the Lilly Library of the University of -Indiana. He liked to write little short notes—he had secretaries and -kept them busy. He didn’t care in the least what he said—provided only -that it was funny. The more extravagant, the more fun; and the more -seriously you took it, the still greater fun. When I was in New York, I -called at the <i>American Mercury</i> office, and his conversation was just -like his letters.</p> - -<p>Now he had retired, and I visited his home in Baltimore—like Uncle -Bland’s, it was one of those brick houses, four stories high, apparently -built a whole block at a time in solid, uniform rows, each house with -three or four white marble steps up to the front door. Mencken poured -out his Jovian thunderbolts for a whole afternoon. This was the longest -time I had with him, and the most diverting.</p> - -<p>Uncle Bland, as I have already related, was the founder and president of -the United States Fidelity and Guaranty Company<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span> and had become one of -the most important men in Baltimore—but he had never met his “Sunpaper” -editor. He insisted that I invite Mencken out to Catonsville, his summer -home, for dinner. For this occasion my cousin Howard Bland sent his wife -and children over to the “big house,” and we four men had Howard’s -dining room for the evening.</p> - -<p>It wasn’t a pleasant occasion for me because the other three spent most -of the time discussing the various brands of wines, brandies, and -whiskies. Partly, of course, it was done to “kid” me. It was the time of -prohibition, and Uncle Bland had a tragic experience to report. He had -foreseen the trouble coming and had a large stock safely locked up in -his cellar; but while he was in his town house for the winter, the -cellar door was pried open, and everything was carted away in the night. -Everybody but me was grieved.</p> - -<p>I had shipped home various boxes containing documents. I came back and -for several months labored and wrote <i>The Goose-Step</i>. As usual, I was -warned about libel; but, as usual, it did not happen.</p> - -<p><i>The Goose-Step</i>, a big book, 488 pages, price two dollars, was -published in 1923, and I assure you the college professors read it—and -talked about it, even out loud. I could get paper this time, and filled -all the orders, some twenty thousand copies. Then I wrote <i>The -Goslings</i>, 454 pages, price two dollars, telling about schools of all -sorts; the teachers read it, and many had the courage to write to me. I -had given them weapons to fight with, or perhaps lanterns to light with; -anyhow, I have seen changes in America, and I tell myself I have helped -a little to bring them about.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>It was in that period that the American Civil Liberties Union was -started; I joined at once, and attended weekly luncheons of its -directors when I was in New York. Whether we had supported the war or -opposed it, we all supported our right to say what we thought and our -willingness to let the other fellow do the same. Among those I knew best -were Roger Baldwin, who became a civil-liberties hero and devoted his -life to the cause;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> Oswald Garrison Villard, publisher of <i>The Nation</i>, -who remained a pacifist even in the face of Kaiser Wilhelm; and B. W. -Huebsch, then a publisher on his own, and later editorial head of Viking -Press; he was my guide and mentor through the eleven Lanny Budd volumes, -about which I shall tell.</p> - -<p>Also, there was W. J. Ghent, author of <i>Our Benevolent Feudalism</i>. He -and I got into an argument over the war in the columns of <i>The Nation</i>. -The argument got too hot for Villard, and he wouldn’t publish my reply; -so I paid for a page advertisement in <i>The Nation</i> and had my say. I -remember Ghent’s published comment: “Sinclair has taken the argument -into the advertising columns, where I am unable to follow.” After that, -I was summoned to a luncheon with Villard and Huebsch and very gently -asked to call off the war—that is, the Ghent War.</p> - -<p>Not long afterward came the founding of the Southern California branch -of the ACLU, a drama in which I had the leading role. It began when I -tried to read the Constitution of the United States at a meeting on -private property that had been organized on behalf of workers who were -on strike at San Pedro Harbor. I was arrested after the third sentence. -When I got out of jail, I wrote a letter to Louis D. Oaks, chief of -police in Los Angeles. It was printed as a leaflet and widely circulated -in Los Angeles. It was also printed in <i>The Nation</i> of June 6, 1923, -along with an editorial note. I’m going to reprint that page from <i>The -Nation</i>, partly because it tells the story, but mainly because it -conveys so vividly the atmosphere of that period and the repression and -brutality that went on then—which a new generation might find hard to -credit.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>In refusing to bow to the police of Los Angeles, who in the harbor -strike have been the servile tools of the Merchants’ and -Manufacturers’ Association, Upton Sinclair is strictly and legally -a defender of the law against those who would violate it. And it is -doubly to his praise that in this case he, a civilian, happens to -be defending the law against the men who are sworn and paid to -uphold it and have all the power of constituted authority on their -side. The facts are undisputed: the police arrested Mr. Sinclair -and his associates on <i>private property</i>, where they had assembled -with the written consent of the owner. The law gives a police -officer the right to enter private property only in two cases: if -he has a warrant of arrest, or if a felony is actually being -com<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span>mitted. Neither of these excuses existed in Los Angeles. The -persons interfered with would have been legally justified in -dealing with the police as violently as with a thief or kidnapper. -We print below Mr. Sinclair’s letter to the chief of police of Los -Angeles because it is a recital of facts which our readers should -know and a nobly patriotic protest which should have their support.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<i>Pasadena, California, May 17, 1923</i><br /> -</p></div> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="hang"> -<span class="smcap">Louis D. Oaks</span>,<br /> -Chief of Police, Los Angeles<br /> -</p> - -<p>Having escaped from your clutches yesterday afternoon, owing to the -fact that one of your men betrayed your plot to my wife, I am now -in position to answer your formal statement to the public, that I -am “more dangerous than 4,000 I.W.W.” I thank you for this -compliment, for to be dangerous to lawbreakers in office such as -yourself is the highest duty that a citizen of this community can -perform.</p> - -<p>In the presence of seven witnesses I obtained from Mayor Cryer on -Tuesday afternoon the promise that the police would respect my -constitutional rights at San Pedro, and that I would not be -molested unless I incited to violence. But when I came to you, I -learned that you had taken over the mayor’s office at the Harbor. -Now, from your signed statement to the press, I learn that you have -taken over the district attorney’s office also; for you tell the -public: “I will prosecute Sinclair with all the vigor at my -command, and upon his conviction I will demand a jail sentence with -hard labor.” And you then sent your men to swear to a complaint -charging me with “discussing, arguing, orating, and debating -certain thoughts and theories, which thoughts and theories were -contemptuous of the constitution of the State of California, -calculated to cause hatred and contempt of the government of the -United States of America, and which thoughts and theories were -detrimental and in opposition to the orderly conduct of affairs of -business, affecting the rights of private property and personal -liberty, and which thoughts and theories were calculated to cause -any citizen then and there present and hearing the same to quarrel -and fight and use force and violence.” And this although I told you -at least a dozen times in your office that my only purpose was to -stand on private property with the written permission of the owner, -and there to read the Constitution of the United States; and you -perfectly well know that I did this, and only this, and that three -sentences from the Bill of Rights of the Constitution was every -word that I was permitted to utter—the words being those which -guarantee “freedom of speech and of the press, and the right of the -people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for -the redress of grievances.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>But you told me that “this Constitution stuff” does not go at the -Harbor. You have established martial law, and you told me that if I -tried to read the Constitution, even on private property, I would -be thrown into jail, and there would be no bail for me—and this -even though I read you the provision of the State constitution -guaranteeing me the right to bail. When you arrested me and my -friends, you spirited us away and held us “incommunicado,” denying -us what is our clear legal right, to communicate with our lawyers. -All night Tuesday, and all day Wednesday up to four o’clock, you -and your agents at the various jails and station-houses repeated -lies to my wife and my attorneys and kept me hidden from them. When -the clamor of the newspaper men forced you to let them interview -me, you forced them to pledge not to reveal where I was. You had -Sergeant Currie drive us up to Los Angeles, with strict injunctions -not to get there before four o’clock—he did not tell me, but I -heard another man give the order to him, and I watched his -maneuvers to carry it out. It was your scheme to rush us into court -at the last moment before closing, have lawyers appointed for us, -and have us committed without bail, and then spirit us away and -hide us again. To that end you had me buried in a cell in the city -jail, and to my demands for counsel the jailers made no reply. Only -the fact that someone you trusted tipped my wife off prevented the -carrying out of this criminal conspiracy. My lawyers rushed to the -jail, and forced the granting of bail, just on the stroke of five -o’clock, the last moment.</p> - -<p>I charge, and I intend to prove in court, that you are carrying out -the conspiracy of the Merchants’ and Manufacturers’ Association to -smash the harbor strike by brutal defiance of law. I was in the -office of I. H. Rice, president of this Association, and heard him -getting his orders from Hammond of the Hammond Lumber Company, and -heard his promise to Hammond that the job would be done without -delay. It is you who are doing the job for Rice, and the cruelties -you are perpetrating would shock this community if they were known, -and they will be punished if there is a God in Heaven to protect -the poor and friendless. You did all you could to keep me from -contact with the strikers in jail; nevertheless I learned of one -horror that was perpetrated only yesterday—fifty men crowded into -one small space, and because they committed some slight breach of -regulations, singing their songs, they were shut in this hole for -two hours without a breath of air, and almost suffocated. Also I -saw the food that these men are getting twice a day, and you would -not feed it to your dog. And now the city council has voted for -money to build a “bull-pen” for strikers, and day by day the public -is told that the strike is broken, and the men, denied every civil -right, have no place to meet to discuss their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> policies, and no one -to protect them or to protest for them. That is what you -want—those are the orders you have got from the Merchants’ and -Manufacturers’ Association; the men are to go back as slaves, and -the Constitution of the United States is to cease to exist so far -as concerns workingmen.</p> - -<p>All I can say, sir, is that I intend to do what little one man can -do to awaken the public conscience, and that meantime I am not -frightened by your menaces. I am not a giant physically; I shrink -from pain and filth and vermin and foul air, like any other man of -refinement; also, I freely admit that when I see a line of a -hundred policemen with drawn revolvers flung across a street to -keep anyone from coming onto private property to hear my feeble -voice, I am somewhat disturbed in my nerves. But I have a -conscience and a religious faith, and I know that our liberties -were not won without suffering, and may be lost again through our -cowardice. I intend to do my duty to my country. I have received a -telegram from the American Civil Liberties Union in New York, -asking me if I will speak at a mass meeting of protest in Los -Angeles, and I have answered that I will do so. That meeting will -be called at once, and you may come there and hear what the -citizens of this community think of your efforts to introduce the -legal proceedings of Czarist Russia into our free Republic.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span class="smcap">Upton Sinclair</span><br /> -</p></div> - -<p>The ending of this episode: We hired a good-sized hall in Los Angeles by -the week and held crowded meetings every afternoon and evening. The -Southern California branch of the American Civil Liberties Union was -formed, and a Congregational minister, Reverend Clinton J. Taft, -resigned from his pulpit and served as director for the next twenty -years or so. At the end of a couple of weeks the editor of the Los -Angeles <i>Examiner</i> called me on the telephone and said, “Sinclair, how -long is this thing going on?” I answered, “Until we have civil liberties -in Los Angeles.” “What, specifically, do you mean by that?” he asked, -and I said, “For one thing, Chief Oaks must be kicked off the force; and -we must have the assurance that there will never again be mass arrests -of strikers.” The editor said, “You may count upon both these conditions -being met.” I asked, “What guarantee have we?” He said, “I have talked -it over with the half-dozen men who run this town, and I have their -word. You may take mine.”</p> - -<p>So we called off the meetings. A few days later we read in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> -newspapers that Chief Oaks had been expelled from the force, having been -found parked in his car at night with a woman and a jug of whisky. So -far as I can recall, there have been no mass arrests of strikers in the -past twenty-nine years.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>Moved by the cruelties I had seen, I indulged myself in the pleasure of -writing two radical plays—“radical” was a terrible word in those days. -<i>Singing Jailbirds</i> portrayed the Industrial Workers of the World, of -whom we had met many; they sang in jail and were put “in the hole” for -it. They were called “wobblies” because in the early days they had done -their first organizing in a restaurant kept by an old Chinaman who could -not say IWW but made it “I-wobble-wobble.”</p> - -<p>I started with that scene, and then had the wobblies in jail recalling -the battles they had fought and the evils they had suffered. There was a -lot of singing all through, and the play made a hit when it was produced -in Greenwich Village by a group of four young playwrights—one of them -was Eugene O’Neill and another was John Dos Passos, who now after forty -years has evolved from a rampant radical into a rampant conservative. I -was writing for Bernarr Macfadden’s <i>Physical Culture</i> in those days (at -$150 per article). I took my boss to the show, and he put up a thousand -dollars to keep it going. I, of course, got nothing.</p> - -<p>The other play was in blank verse and was called <i>Hell</i>. It portrayed -the devils as being bored, and amusing themselves by sending a messenger -up to earth to create a great deposit of gold and set all the nations to -warring over it. (This was just after World War I, of course.) My -fastidious friend, George Sterling, was outraged by my verse, but I had -a lot of fun. I found myself a solitary spot on the edge of the Arroyo -Seco, and there paced up and down composing it and laughing over it. -Dear old Art Young made a delightful cover drawing, and I published the -play in pamphlet form; I still have copies, and—who can tell?—somebody -might produce it before World War III comes and ends all producing.</p> - -<p>Joking aside, I hope to live to see it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span></p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>The only house we went to in Pasadena was that of Mrs. Gartz. This was a -couple of miles up the slope from our home, and occupied a whole block -of beautiful grounds, like a park. The house was built around a central -court containing palm trees, ornamental plants, and a swimming pool. On -the front of the house was a wide veranda and a flight of stone steps. -The veranda looked out over the whole of Pasadena, and it was a pleasant -place to sit and listen to arguments over the future of mankind.</p> - -<p>Every Sunday afternoon Mrs. Gartz would invite some lecturer, and after -she met Craig, all these lectures dealt with the so-called radical -movement. It appeared that when the very rich become radical they go the -whole way. She became far more radical than we were, and it was Craig’s -function to tone her down; but, alas, this service was not appreciated -by Mrs. Gartz’s husband, who blamed us for all his troubles. I could -tell many funny stories of those meetings in a millionaire’s palace with -a raging millionaire husband roaming through the rooms, growling and -grumbling to himself.</p> - -<p>The whole of the class struggle was represented in that tormented home. -Wobblies, when they got out of jail, would come and tell Mrs. Gartz -their stories; the tears would come into her eyes, and she would write -indignant letters to the newspapers—which the newspapers did not print. -Also, there were the pacifists of all varieties, and later the -communists, who finally “captured” the gullible great lady.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Gartz took up the practice of writing to public officials about -these outrages against civil liberty, and as her letters were not always -coherent she would bring them to Craig to revise. Craig would take -occasion to tone them down a bit; so presently she was in charge of all -the great lady’s public relations. Craig hit upon the idea of publishing -a little volume entitled <i>Letters of Protest</i>. This made a hit, and -thereafter every year there would be a little volume that Mrs. Gartz -distributed to everyone on her mailing list. In all there were seven -pretty little books, and no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> doubt they helped somewhat to diminish the -stodginess of our millionaire city.</p> - -<h3>VII</h3> - -<p>I have given a few glimpses of Mary Craig’s skill as a social -practitioner. I must also tell a little about her as a homemaker.</p> - -<p>To the north of the “brown house” we had bought, there extended seven -lots rising slightly to a corner, from which the view over the Arroyo -was still more attractive. Craig said nothing to me about her plans, but -she bought those lots on installment payments. When I started the -magazine it was on our dining-room table; so she went out traveling on -foot about the town and found an old house that she bought for a hundred -and fifty dollars and had moved onto the lot next to ours. She had a -carpenter build a long table, and that was where the magazines were -wrapped and prepared for the mail. One little cubbyhole in that house -became my office, and several books were written there.</p> - -<p>Of course, as the subscriptions came in we had to have still more help. -We had no car in those days, but somehow Craig found another house and -had it moved and connected up with the first one. Before she got -through, she had bought four houses and fitted them in a row on two -lots, and bought a fifth house to be wrecked for lumber to join the -other houses together. I wrote an article about it in my magazine, -<i>Upton Sinclair’s</i>, and printed a photograph of the houses.</p> - -<p>It made a really funny story, because every house was a different color. -I described the consternation of the neighbors; but they recovered when -the job was finished, for Craig really made a beautiful home of it, with -a long porch along the front and, of course, a uniform coat of paint. It -was an especially good home for us because Craig could have her room at -the south end and I could practice my violin at the north end.</p> - -<p>There was an old carpenter named Judd Fuller who worked for Craig, -making old houses into new. Many a time I sat on a roof with him, -nailing down shingles; and all the time we talked politics, and the -state of the world. I tried to make a socialist out of an old-style -American individualist, and I learned how to deal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span> with that kind of -mind. Some years later I wrote a pamphlet called <i>Letters to Judd</i>, and -of course made him very proud. I printed something over a hundred -thousand of the pamphlet, and with the help of Haldeman-Julius -distributed them over the country.</p> - -<h3>VIII</h3> - -<p>I decided to muckrake world literature. I had read a mass of it in the -one language my mother had taught me, in the three that my professors -had failed to teach me—Latin, Greek and German—and in the two I had -taught myself—French and Italian. To me literature was a weapon in the -class struggle—of the master class to hold its servants down, and of -the working class to break its bonds. In other words, I studied world -literature from the socialist point of view.</p> - -<p>That had been done here and there in spots; but so far as I knew it had -not been done systematically, and so far as I know it has not been done -since. Of course, <i>Mammonart</i> was ridiculed by the literary authorities; -and of course I expected that. It was all a part of the class struggle, -and I had set it forth in the book. Great literature is a product of the -leisure classes and defends their position, whether consciously or by -implication. Literature that opposes them is called propaganda. And so -it is that you have probably never heard of my <i>Mammonart</i>.</p> - -<p>I had now studied our culture in five muckraking books: <i>The Profits of -Religion</i>, <i>The Brass Check</i>, <i>The Goose-Step</i>, <i>The Goslings</i>, -<i>Mammonart</i>. After that, I took up American literature, mostly of my own -time. I had known many of the writers, and some liked me and some -didn’t, according to which side they were on. I had published the five -earlier books myself—in both cloth and paper; but there were not so -many libel suits in the field of literature, so now I found a publisher. -From that time on for many years my arrangement was that the publisher -had his edition and I had mine, always at the same price. I had a card -file of some thirty thousand customers.</p> - -<p>I called the new book <i>Money Writes!</i> Its thesis was that authors have -to eat; in order to get food they have to have money, and for that to -happen the publisher has to get more money. So, in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> commercial world -it is money that decides what is to be written. My discussion of this -somewhat obvious truth gave offense to many persons.</p> - -<h3>IX</h3> - -<p>When I was working on a book, my secretary had orders never to disturb -me. But one day she did disturb me by bringing in a visiting card -attached to a hundred-dollar bill. (She judged I would consider that a -fair price for an interruption.) I looked at the card and saw the name, -King C. Gillette, familiar to all men who use a safety razor. Some years -earlier I had noted on the shelves of the Pasadena Public Library two -large tomes entitled <i>World Corporation</i> and <i>Social Redemption</i>. I had -taken them down and examined them with curiosity; they were written by a -man who apparently had never read a socialist book but had thought it -all out for himself. (I could guess that I might be the only person who -had ever taken those tomes from the library shelf.)</p> - -<p>Gillette, of course, was pleased to hear that I knew his books. He was a -large gentleman with white hair and mustache and rosy cheeks; extremely -kind, and touchingly absorbed in the hobby of abolishing poverty and -war. But I discovered that he had a horror of the very word <i>socialism</i>. -To him that meant class struggle and hatred, whereas he insisted that -his solution could all be brought about by gentle persuasion and calm -economic reasoning. He would take the time to explain this to anyone on -the slightest occasion. I discovered that the joy of his life was to get -someone to listen while in his gentle pleading voice he told about his -two-tome utopia.</p> - -<p>He had come to me for a definite purpose. He knew that I had an -audience, and he wanted me to convert that audience to his program. He -had a manuscript, and he wanted me to take it and revise it—of course, -not changing any of his ideas. For this service he was prepared to pay -me five hundred dollars a month; and a little later when he met my wife -he raised his offer. He said, “Mrs. Sinclair, if you will get him to do -this for me you will never have to think about money again as long as -you live.” That had a good sound to Craig, and she said I would do it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span></p> - -<p>She told me so, and of course I had to do what she said. Little by -little I discovered what it meant: Mr. Gillette was coming for two -mornings every week to tell me his ideas—the same ideas over and over -again. He was a bit childish about it. He didn’t remember what he had -said a week or two previously and said it again, most seriously, -impressively, and kindly. It became an endurance test. How often could I -listen to the same ideas and pretend that they were new and wonderful? -The time came when I could stand no more, not if he had turned over to -me all the royalties from Gillette razors and blades. I had to tell him -that I had done everything I could do for him.</p> - -<p>I had helped him to get his manuscript into shape, but, alas, he had -scribbled all over it and interlined it. I had it recopied, and with his -permission submitted it to Horace Liveright, my publisher at that time. -Horace couldn’t very well refuse it because Gillette offered to put up -twenty-five thousand dollars for advertising. The book was published, -and in spite of all the effort it fell flat.</p> - -<p>But the dear old gentleman never gave up. He would come to see us now -and then and invite us to his home. He had one down at Balboa Beach, and -another far up in the San Fernando Valley. When Sergei Eisenstein came, -we took him and a party up to meet Gillette, but the family were away. -We had a picnic under one of the shade trees on the estate and carefully -gathered up all the debris.</p> - -<h3>X</h3> - -<p>Writing books involves hard labor of both brain and typewriter. I have -mentioned more than once the subject of tennis—the device by which I -was able to get the blood out of my brain and into my digestive -apparatus. All through those years I used to say that I was never more -than twenty-four hours ahead of a headache. I had read somewhere in -history that it was the law in the armies of King Cyrus that every -soldier had to sweat every day. I found that I could get along with -sweating three times a week. (Out of curiosity I once weighed before and -after a hard tennis match in Pasadena’s summer weather, and discovered -that I had parted with four and a half pounds of water.)<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span></p> - -<p>Tennis is a leisure-class recreation, and on the courts I met some of -the prominent young men of my City of Millionaires. I was amused to note -that their attitude toward me on the court was cordial and sometimes -even gay, but we did not meet elsewhere. Sometimes their wives would -drive them to the court and call for them when the game was over; but -never once was I invited to meet one of those wives. I quietly mounted -my bicycle and pedaled a couple of miles, slightly uphill, to my home. -On Sunday morning I had a regular date with three men: one of the town’s -leading bankers, one of the town’s leading real-estate men, and another -whose high occupation I have forgotten. We played at the -ultrafashionable Valley Hunt Club, but never once was I invited to enter -the doors of that club. When the game was over, I mounted my bicycle and -pedaled away.</p> - -<p>One of these cases is especially amusing, and I tell it even though it -leads me ahead of my story. I had a weekly tennis date with a young man -of a family that owned a great business in Los Angeles. The young man, -who lived in Pasadena, called me “the human rabbit,” because I scurried -across the court and got shots that he thought he had put away. Every -time we played, his wife would be waiting in her car, and I dutifully -kept my distance.</p> - -<p>After several years I learned from the newspapers that he had divorced -his wife. Then Craig read an advertisement that all the furniture of an -elegant home was being offered for sale. She wanted a large rug for the -living room, so I drove her to the place and waited outside while she -went in. It proved to be a long wait, but I always carry something to -read so I didn’t mind. Craig bought a rug, and told me that the lady who -was doing the selling was the ex-wife of my tennis friend! She was a -chatty lady and had told her varied social adventures, including this:</p> - -<p>“I almost caught Neil Vanderbilt. He drove up to a boulevard stop right -alongside me, and I caught his eye. If that red light had lasted fifteen -seconds longer, I’d have nailed him!”</p> - -<p>(I myself with Craig’s help had already “nailed” Neil, and I shall have -a bit to tell about him later on. He is the possessor of an enchanted -name, which has brought him much trouble. I know only one man equally -unfortunate—Prince Hopkins. When he traveled in Europe, the bellboys -hit their foreheads on the ground; he changed his name to Pryns to avoid -the sight.)<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span></p> - -<h3>XI</h3> - -<p>In some trading deal Craig had come into possession of two lots on -Signal Hill, near Long Beach; and now in the papers she read the -electrifying news that oil had been discovered under that wide hill. I -drove her down there to find out about it, and she learned that lot -owners in the different blocks were organizing, since obviously there -could be no drilling on a tiny bit of land. I must have taken Craig a -dozen times—a distance of twenty miles or so—and I sat for that many -evenings listening to the arguments. I hadn’t a word to say of course; -the lots belonged to Craig, and she was the business end of the family.</p> - -<p>It was human nature in the raw, and this was the first time I had seen -it completely naked. There were big lots, and there were little lots; -there were corner lots—these had higher value for residences, but did -they have more oil under them? Cliques were formed, and tempers -blazed—they never quite came to blows, but almost. And there sat a -novelist, watching, listening, and storing away material for what he -knew was going to be a great long novel. He listened to the lawyers and -to the oilmen who came to make offers; they told their troubles. They -wanted the lease as cheaply as possible, and they had no idea they were -going to be in a novel with the title <i>Oil!</i>—including the exclamation -point. The book was going to be taken by a book club, translated into -twenty-seven languages, and read all over the world—but all they wanted -was to get that lease more cheaply.</p> - -<p>One of them offered in exchange a goat ranch somewhere down to the -south, and so we drove there; I looked at the hills, and the goats, and -the people who raised them. A crude country fellow, he too was going to -be translated into twenty-seven languages, of which he had never even -heard the names.</p> - -<p>I told Craig what I was doing, of course; and it pleased her because it -would keep me out of mischief for a year. She got tired of the oil game -herself and sold her lots for ten thousand dollars each.</p> - -<p>Into the novel I put not merely the oil business but Hollywood, where -the wealthy playboys go; also the labor struggle, which is all over -America. It made a long novel, 527 closely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> printed pages; when it was -published, a kind Providence inspired the chief of police of Boston to -say that it was indecent, and to bar it from the city. After that, of -course, the publishers couldn’t get the books printed fast enough; and -they besieged me to go to Boston and make a fight. “Would you trade on -the indecency of your book?” demanded Craig; and I answered that I -wished to trade on its decency. So she let me go.</p> - -<p>In Grand Central Station when I took the train for Boston, I learned -that the bookstand there couldn’t keep a supply of the books; everyone -bound for Boston took copies for his friends. When I reached the city, I -interviewed the chief of police, an elderly Catholic gentleman who told -me which passages he objected to. I had those passages blacked out in -some copies and sold them on the street—the fig-leaf edition, a rare -collector’s item now. What shocked the Catholic gentleman most was the -passage in which an older sister mentions the subject of birth control -to a younger brother. I recall the soft voice of the old chief, -pleading: “Now surely, Mr. Sinclair, nobody should write a thing like -that.” I told him I earnestly wished that someone had done me that favor -when I was young. I believed in birth control, and practiced it, and I -am sure that the salvation of the human race will depend on it—and -soon.</p> - -<h3>XII</h3> - -<p>During my stay in Boston I paid a visit to Bartolomeo Vanzetti, who had -been in prison at that time for about six years, and whom I had visited -not long after his arrest. He was one of the wisest and kindest persons -I ever knew, and I thought him as incapable of murder as I was. After he -and Nicola Sacco had been executed, I returned to Boston and gathered -material for a two-volume novel dealing with their case.</p> - -<p>I had developed what the doctor called a plantar wart under one heel, so -it was hard for me to walk; but I got myself into a Pullman car, and -when I reached Boston I hobbled around the streets with a crutch, -talking with everyone who had been close to the case.</p> - -<p>I had a story half formed in my mind. Among Mrs. Gartz’s rich friends I -had met an elderly lady, socially prominent in Bos<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span>ton; Mrs. Burton was -her name, and she enjoyed telling me odd stories about the tight little -group of self-determined aristocrats who ruled the social life of the -proud old city. Judge Alvan T. Fuller and President A. Lawrence Lowell -of Harvard belonged to that group—and Bartolomeo Vanzetti didn’t. Mrs. -Burton had come to California, seeking a new life, and I delighted her -by saying that she would be my heroine—“the runaway grandmother,” I -would call her.</p> - -<p>For my story I needed to know not merely the Italian laborers, who were -easy to meet, but the aristocrats, who were difficult. Soon after my -arrival, still on a crutch, I read that the proprietor of a great Boston -industry had died and was to be buried from his home. It was a perfect -setup: a great mill in a valley, the cottages of the workers all about -it, and the mansion of the owner on the height above. I went to that -mansion and followed the little river of guests into the double parlor -for the funeral service. When one of the sons of the family came up to -me, I told him I had great respect for his father, and he said I was -welcome. So I watched the scene of what I knew would be my opening -chapter.</p> - -<p>On my way back on a streetcar I was recognized by a reporter from the -<i>Evening Transcript</i>, the paper then read by everybody who was anybody -in and about Boston. He had come to write up the funeral, and he -included me. I shall never forget the horror on the face of a proper -Boston couple when I told them of my attendance at that funeral. Maybe -it will shock the readers of this book. I can only say that if you are a -novelist you think about “copy” and not about anybody’s feelings, even -your own. If I were talking to you about that scene, I wouldn’t say, -“Was it a proper thing to do?” I would say, “Did I get that scene -correct?” When I went back to the little beach cottage, I wrote a -two-volume novel in which all the scenes were correct; and the novel -will outlive me.</p> - -<p>On the way home I stopped at Denver for a conference with Fred Moore, -who had been the original attorney for Sacco and Vanzetti, and had been -turned away when one of the Boston aristocracy, W. G. Thompson, -consented to take over the appeals. Fred was bitter about it, of course, -and it might be that this had influenced his opinion. He told me he -thought there was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span> a possibility that Sacco was involved in the payroll -holdup. He thought there was less chance in the case of Vanzetti. There -were anarchists who called themselves “direct actionists,” and Fred knew -of things they had done. I pointed out to him that if Sacco had been -guilty and Vanzetti innocent it meant that Vanzetti had given his life -to save the life of some comrade.</p> - -<p>Of course, I did not know and could only guess. I wrote the novel that -way, portraying Vanzetti as I had known him and as his friends had known -him. Some of the things I told displeased the fanatical believers; but -having portrayed the aristocrats as they were, I had to do the same -thing for the anarchists. The novel, <i>Boston</i>, ran serially in <i>The -Bookman</i> and was published in two handsome volumes that went all over -the world.</p> - -<p>Just recently I had the honor of a visit from Michael Musmanno, who as a -young lawyer came late into the Sacco-Vanzetti case and gave his heart -as well as his time and labor to an effort to save the lives of those -two men. Being Italian himself, he felt that he knew them, and he became -firmly assured of their innocence. Now he has become a much-respected -justice of the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania; but he still feels as he -did, and poured out his soul as if he were addressing the jury of a -generation ago. The bitter old Boston judge and the grim governor and -the cold-hearted president of Harvard all came to life, and I found -myself sitting again in the warden’s reception room at Charlestown -prison, in converse with the wise and gentle working-class philosopher -named Bartolomeo Vanzetti. I had sent him several of my books, and he -had been permitted to have them; I wish that I could have had a -phonograph to take down his groping but sensitive words.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XII" id="XII"></a><i>12</i><br /><br /> -<i>More Causes—and Effects</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>We had made too many friends and incurred too many obligations in -Pasadena; so we found a cottage down on the ocean front at Alamitos Bay, -Long Beach, and moved there. During both of my trips to Boston, Craig -stayed alone in the little beach cottage and never minded it. Somehow -she felt safe, and the waves on the other side of the boardwalk lulled -her to sleep. She had become fascinated with the problem of her own -mind, and studied it with the help of scores of books that I had got for -her. I still have more than a hundred volumes on psychology and -philosophy and psychic research that she read and marked—Bergson, -William James, William McDougall, Charcot, Janet—a long list of the -best. She had had psychic experiences herself in her girlhood and was -tormented with the desire to understand these hidden forces of the mind. -All the time that I was writing <i>Oil!</i> and <i>Boston</i>, I was also helping -her to find out what her gift actually was—and to guess what it meant. -The result was the book called <i>Mental Radio</i>.</p> - -<p>The procedure we adopted was the simplest possible: I would make half a -dozen drawings on slips of paper and put each inside an envelope. Then I -would bring them to Craig, who was lying on her couch. She would lay one -of them over her solar plexus—having read somewhere that this might be -the center of the unknown forces. We didn’t know whether that was so or -not; but the solar plexus was as good as any other place. I would sit -quietly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span> and keep watch so as to be able to say that she did not -cheat—although, of course, I knew that she had never cheated in her -life. She had only one obsession—she wanted to know for certain if -these forces were <i>real</i>.</p> - -<p>She would decide that something that had come into her mind was <i>the</i> -reality, and she would take pencil and pad and make a drawing. Then we -would open the envelope and compare the two. The results were amazing to -us both.</p> - -<p>I had been reading about telepathy and clairvoyance since my youth. At -Columbia I had studied with James Hyslop, who had been a patient psychic -researcher; then there was the Unitarian minister who had performed my -first marriage—Minot J. Savage—who told me he had seen and talked with -a ghost who said that he had just been drowned off the coast of Britain. -The results in Craig’s case settled the matter for us, and settles it -for anyone who is unwilling to believe that we are a pair of imbeciles -as well as cheats. There is no other alternative, for we took every -possible precaution against any blunder, and there is no way to account -for what happened except to say that a drawing completely invisible to -the eyes can make an impression on the mind by some other means.</p> - -<p>It was not merely from my drawings that Craig got these impressions. She -got them from the mind of a professional medium, whom she employed to -experiment with her. I have given the details in <i>Mental Radio</i>. I -printed several thousand copies of the book, and the experiments it -describes have stayed unexplained now for thirty years. It is worth -noting also that <i>Mental Radio</i> has just been reissued—this time by a -publisher of scientific books exclusively. This is significant.</p> - -<p>Professor William McDougall, who had been head of the department of -psychology first at Oxford and then at Harvard, wrote a preface to the -book. When he came to see us at the little beach cottage, he told us -that he had just accepted a position as head of the department of -psychology at Duke University; he had a fund at his disposal and -proposed to establish a department of parapsychology to investigate -these problems. He said he had taken the liberty of bringing several -cards in his pocket, and he would like to be able to say that Craig had -demonstrated her power to him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span></p> - -<p>Craig, always a high-strung person, hated to be submitted to tests -because they made her nervous; but her respect for McDougall was great, -and she said she would do her best. She sat quietly and concentrated. -Then she said that she had an impression of a building with stone walls -and narrow windows, and the walls were covered with something that -looked like green leaves. McDougall took from an inside pocket a -postcard of a building at Oxford University covered with ivy. There were -two or three other successes that I have forgotten. The outcome was that -McDougall said he was satisfied, and would go to Duke and set up the new -department. He did so, with results that all the world knows.</p> - -<p>I was interested to observe the conventional thinker’s attitude toward a -set of ideas that he does not wish to accept. <i>Mental Radio</i> contained -210 examples of successes in telepathy—partial successes and complete -successes. To the average orthodox scientist, the idea was -inconceivable, and it just wasn’t possible to tell him anything that he -knew in advance couldn’t have happened. On the other hand, the lovely -personality of Mary Craig is shown all through the book, and I cannot -recall that any scientist ever accused her of cheating. He would go out -of his way to think of something that <i>might</i> have happened, and then he -would assume that it <i>had</i> happened; it <i>must</i> have happened, and that -settled the matter. He would entirely overlook the fact that I had -mentioned that same possibility and had stated explicitly that it -<i>hadn’t</i> happened; that we had made it absolutely impossible for it <i>to -have</i> happened.</p> - -<p>I won’t be unkind enough to name any scientist. One suggested solemnly -that it might have been possible for Mary Craig to have gotten an idea -of the drawing by seeing the movements of my hand at a distance. But in -the book I plainly stated that I never made the drawing without going -into another room and closing the door. That kind of oversight has been -committed again and again by the critics.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>While I am on this subject I will venture to slip ahead for several -years and tell of one more experiment. Arthur Ford, the medium, was -paying a visit to Los Angeles, and I asked him to come out to our home -and see if his powers had waned. (He had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span> never refused an invitation -from us—and he had never let us pay him a dollar.) He said he would -come, and Craig was so determined to make a real test that she wouldn’t -even let me invite our friends by telephone. Our line might be tapped! -She wrote a letter to Theodore Dreiser, and one to Rob Wagner, editor of -<i>Script</i>, who was a skeptic but wanted to be shown.</p> - -<p>When evening came, my orders were to wait outside for Arthur and take -him around behind the house so that he might not see who came in. This I -faithfully did; so there were Dreiser and his wife, and Rob Wagner and -his wife, and Craig’s sister, Dolly, and her husband. They were seated -in a semidark room; and when I brought Arthur in, he went straight to -the armchair provided, leaned back in it with his eyes toward the -ceiling, and covered his eyes with a silk handkerchief, which is his -practice.</p> - -<p>Presently came the voice that Ford calls Fletcher. “Fletcher” speaks -quietly and without a trace of emotion. He said there was a spirit -present who had been killed in a strange accident. He had been crossing -a street when a team of runaway horses came galloping, and the center -pole had struck him in the chest. And then there was a spirit victim of -another strange accident. This man had been in a warship when one of the -guns had somehow backfired and killed him. And then there was a -newspaperman and quite a long conversation about various matters that I -have forgotten. I told the full details in an article for the <i>Psychic -Observer</i> but do not have a copy at hand.</p> - -<p>At that point in the séance there came a tap on the door, and Mrs. Gartz -came in with one of her nephews. She had known nothing about the séance; -being highly antagonistic, she had not been invited. Fletcher said, -“There is a strong Catholic influence here, but there will be a -divorce.”</p> - -<p>That ended the affair, possibly because of Mrs. Gartz’s hostile -attitude. The lights were turned up, and the various guests spoke in -turn. Bob Irwin, Craig’s brother-in-law, said that his young brother had -been killed by exactly such a runaway team; Rob Wagner said that his -brother had been killed in the Navy in a gun accident. Theodore Dreiser -had been a journalist, but he denied that he had ever known such a man -or heard of any such events as had come out in the séance. Mrs. Gartz’s -nephew<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> said that he was a Catholic, but there would surely not be any -divorce.</p> - -<p>So ended the evening; but the day after the next there came to Craig a -letter from Helen Dreiser saying that she was embarrassed to tell us -that Theodore had been drinking and had slept through the séance and not -heard a word. When she had repeated to him the various statements, he -admitted that he knew such a man and that the events mentioned had -occurred.</p> - -<p>The predicted divorce did not occur until a month or two later, when the -wife of the Gartz nephew divorced him.</p> - -<p>And now all the skeptics can put their wits to work and find out how -Arthur Ford got all those facts about people he had never met, and about -whom we had made such efforts at secrecy. I don’t like to be fooled any -more than the next man, but I agree with Professor McDougall and -Professor Rhine that it is the duty of science to investigate such -events and find out what are the forces by which they are brought about.</p> - -<p>Just by way of fun, I will add that Professor McDougall established his -department of parapsychology, and Professor Rhine has carried it on; one -of the things they have proved is that when Negroes shooting craps snap -their fingers and cry “Come seven! Come eleven!” they really are -influencing the dice. Rhine’s investigators have caused millions of dice -to be thrown mechanically, and observers have willed certain numbers to -come, and the numbers have come. The chances for the successes having -happened accidentally are up in the billions. Most embarrassing—but it -happens!</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Much of the story of my life is a story of the books I wrote. I read a -great many, too, and among those I found interesting was a history of -ancient Rome—because of the resemblance between the political and -economic circumstances of two thousand years ago and those I knew so -well in my native land. So I wrote <i>Roman Holiday</i>, the story of a rich -young American who amuses himself driving a racing automobile. He meets -with an accident and wakes up in the days when he had been driving -horses in a chariot race in the arena of ancient Rome. Everything is -familiar<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> to him, and he goes back and forth between the two ages of -history, equally at home in both. This novel was a foreshadowing of my -tragic drama, <i>Cicero</i>—although, rather oddly, this realization did not -come to me until just recently, when <i>Cicero</i> was produced.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>My next book handled the problem of prohibition, of special interest to -me ever since I had seen my father and two of my uncles die as -alcoholics. The whole country was boiling with excitement over the -struggle between the “wets” and the “drys,” so I put my youthful self -into a long novel, with all the characters I had known and the battles I -had fought against the saloon-keepers and the crooked politicians. <i>The -Wet Parade</i> I called it. It was made into a very good motion picture, -with an illustrious cast that included Robert Young, Walter Huston, -Myrna Loy, Lewis Stone, and Jimmie Durante as the comic prohibition -agent.</p> - -<p>Of course, the “wet paraders” I knew, headed by H. L. Mencken, had all -kinds of fun with me. But many of my oldest and best friends have been -caught in that parade, and I have had to watch them go down to early -graves. Jack London was one of them. I have told of his appearance and -his rousing speech at a mass meeting in New York City back in the days -when we were launching the Intercollegiate Socialist Society. The next -day I had lunch with him. The occasion was completely spoiled for me -because Jack was drinking and I wasn’t, and he amused himself by teasing -me with his exploits—the stories he afterward put into his book, <i>John -Barleycorn</i>. Later, when I went to live in Pasadena, Jack urged me now -and again to come up to Glen Ellen, his wonderful estate. I did not go -because George Sterling told me that Jack’s drinking had become tragic. -Jack took his own life at the age of forty.</p> - -<p>And, alas, George Sterling followed his example. Shortly before George’s -death, Mencken, who was in California, told me that he had seen George -at the Bohemian Club in San Francisco and that he was in a terrible -state after another of his drinking bouts. A day or two later George -took poison—but Mencken learned nothing from that dreadful episode.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span></p> - -<p>On one of my trips to New York I was asked to make a funeral speech over -the body of a kind and generous publisher, Horace Liveright. I remember -his weeping, black-clad mother and, sitting apart from her, the lovely -young actress who had been living in his home in Hollywood when my wife -and I went there to dinner, and who had taken drink for drink with him. -I remember walking downtown with Theodore Dreiser after the funeral. We -discussed the tragedy of drinking, and I knew the anguish that -Theodore’s wife was suffering. But he learned nothing from the funeral -or from my arguments.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>As I write there comes the news of the death of Ernest Hemingway. He -received an almost fatal wound in World War I, and this apparently -centered all his mind upon the idea of death. It became an obsession -with him—something not merely to write about but to inflict upon living -creatures. His idea of recreation was to kill large wild animals in -Africa, and half-tame bulls in Mexico, and small game in America, and -great fish in the sea. He wrote about all these experiences with -extraordinary vividness and became the most popular writer in America, -and perhaps in the world. When he died, the <i>Saturday Review</i> gave -thirty pages to his personality and his writings, almost two thirds of -the reading matter in that issue. I read a good part of it, and found -myself in agreement with just one paragraph, by a contributor:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>To the present critic, who is amazed by and genuinely admires the -lean virtuosity of Mr. Hemingway, the second most astonishing thing -about him is the narrowness of his selective range. The people he -observes with fascinated fixation and then makes live before us are -real, but they are all very much alike: bullfighters, bruisers, -touts, gunmen, professional soldiers, prostitutes, hard drinkers, -dope fiends.</p></div> - -<p>Nowhere in the thirty pages did I find any mention of the fact that all -this extraordinary writing was done under the stimulus of alcohol. A -decade or so ago there was published in <i>Life</i> an article by a staff man -who had been permitted to accompany Hemingway and a well-known motion -picture actress about the city of New York for a couple of typical days. -The writer de<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span>scribed Hemingway as unable to go for an hour without a -drink of liquor. As a result of this practice his health broke, and -after a long siege in hospitals he put himself out of his misery by -putting both barrels of his beautiful shotgun into his mouth and blowing -off the top of his head.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>And then the mail brings a volume containing 867 pages and weighing -several pounds. It is <i>Sinclair Lewis: An American Life</i>, by Mark -Schorer. I have known about the preparation of this “monumental study” -for several years. It is a Book-of-the-Month-Club selection, and so will -be widely read; the story of a man whom I knew for almost half a -century, whom I admired and helped when I could, whose books I praised -when I could, and whose tragic ending I mourned because I had tried to -prevent it and failed.</p> - -<p>I have told how Hal Lewis showed up as a runaway student from Yale, -expecting to find our Helicon Home Colony more interesting. He met -there, not in an academic way but socially, such people as William James -and John Dewey; Jo Davidson, the sculptor, who was later to do his bust; -and Sadakichi Hartmann, art authority, whom Lewis had to help put out -because he (not Lewis) was drunk. Also I remember that Professor W. P. -Montague of Columbia University taught Lewis how to play billiards, and -Professor William Noyes of Teachers College taught him how to tend the -furnace. Edwin Björkman, translator of Strindberg, told him about that -strange playwright, and Edwin’s wife, a suffragette and editor, later -became Lewis’ boss. As I have already noted, Edith Summers, my -secretary, became Lewis’ sweetheart at Helicon Hall.</p> - -<p>It was all quite different from what he would have gotten at Yale, and -he learned a lot about the modern world and modern ideas. He left us -after several months and wrote us up in the New York <i>Sun</i>. That was -going to be the way of his life for the rest of his sixty-six years. He -would wander over America and Europe, then settle down somewhere and -write stories, long stories or short ones, about the people he had met -and what he imagined about them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span></p> - -<p>Everywhere he went, both at home and in Europe, he ran into what is -called “social drinking,” and his temperament was such that whatever he -did he did to extremes. He became one of those drinking geniuses whose -talents blossom and fade.</p> - -<p>I have known two kinds of drink victims. There are the melancholy -drinkers who weep on your shoulder and ask you to help them. You try to, -but you can’t. Such a man was my kind father, whom I watched from -earliest childhood and whom I remember introducing to Hal Lewis at -Helicon Hall—shortly before my father’s pitiful ending. The other kind -is the fighting drunk, and Hal became one of those; you may read the -painful details in Professor Schorer’s book. Hal would throw his liquor -into the face of the man who had offended him. He would use vile -language and rush away—and rarely apologize later.</p> - -<p>I never saw him in that condition; I was careful never to be around. -That is why my friendship with him was carried on mostly by mail. I -called on him once in New York, and found that he had to revise the -manuscript of a play for rehearsal that afternoon; having been through -that kind of thing myself, I excused myself quickly. He brought his -first wife to my home in Pasadena, and he had not been drinking, so -Craig and I spent a pleasant evening with them.</p> - -<p>I have included ten of his letters in <i>My Lifetime in Letters</i>. -Professor Schorer has quoted a long one in which Hal scolds me for what -I had written about one or two of his least worthy novels. I am sorry to -report that his biographer has left out what I did to help my old friend -at the time when he was publishing his greatest novel—one that I could -praise without reservation. Hal had told me about <i>Babbitt</i> during his -visit in Pasadena, and he wrote me from New York, “I have asked -Harcourt, Brace and Company to shoot you out a copy of <i>Babbitt</i> just as -soon as possible.” I read the book at once, and sent them an opinion to -which they gave display in their first advertisement:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>I am now ready to get out in the street and shout hurrah, for -America’s most popular novelist has sent me a copy of his new book, -<i>Babbitt</i>. I am here to enter my prediction that it will be the -most talked-about and the most-read novel published in this country -in my life-time.</p></div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span></p> - -<p>The book became probably the best-selling novel of the decade.</p> - -<p>Later, when Lewis received the Nobel Prize and made his speech before -the king and the notables in Stockholm, he named me as one of the -American writers who might as well have been chosen for the prize. That -was as handsome as anything a man could do for a colleague, and it was -enough to keep me grateful to him up to the end. But I have to tell the -tragic story of his “decline” and his “fall”—these two words are -Schorer’s labels for large sections of the biography. “Decline” occupies -103 of the book’s pages, and “Fall” occupies the last 163 pages. -“Decline” and “Fall” together comprise one third of the volume; and, -oddly enough, when I figured up the years covered by those two sections, -they cover one third of Lewis’ life (22 out of 66 years).</p> - -<p>In Professor Schorer’s huge tome you may read the whole pitiful story of -American “social drinking” as it affected the life of one man of genius. -You may read about the parties and the rages, the various objects that -were thrown into other men’s faces, and so on. The Berkeley professor -has produced the most powerful argument against “social drinking” that I -have encountered in my eighty-four years. My own books about the -problem—<i>The Wet Parade</i> and <i>The Cup of Fury</i>, which I wrote in -1956—are small ones; Schorer’s contains more than half a million -words—all of them interesting, many of them charming and gay, and the -last of them a nightmare.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>I will give only the names of the gifted people known to me who fell -into the grip of John Barleycorn: Jack London, George Sterling, Eugene -O’Neill, Scott Fitzgerald, O. Henry, Stephen Crane, Finley Peter Dunne, -Isadora Duncan, William Seabrook, Edna St. Vincent Millay, George Cram -Cook, Dylan Thomas, Sherwood Anderson, Horace Liveright, Douglas -Fairbanks, Klaus Mann. Most of these persons I knew well; the others I -knew through friends. At least four took their own lives. Not one -reached the age of eighty, and only three got to seventy-one of these, -Seabrook, because he reformed.</p> - -<p>And I will add one more name, which will be a surprise to many people: -Eugene Debs, six times candidate of the Socialist Party for president of -the United States. Gene was one of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span> noblest and kindest men I have -had the good fortune to meet. He was a tireless fighter for social -justice. He was one friend of the poor and lowly who stood by his -principles and never wavered. In his campaigns he went from one end of -the country to the other addressing great audiences. I was one of his -pupils.</p> - -<p>I heard him first at a huge mass meeting at Madison Square Garden. I was -a young writer then, and he greeted me as though I were a long-lost -brother. Many years later when he came out to Los Angeles, I had the -pleasure of driving him from an afternoon meeting in the Zoological -Gardens to an evening meeting in the Hollywood Bowl. Theodore Dreiser -was there in a front seat, I remember, and he shouted his approval.</p> - -<p>Gene fought against the fiend all his life, and his friends helped him. -I personally never saw him touch a drop of liquor, but I got the story -from George H. Goebel, who had been appointed by the party leaders as -the candidate’s official guardian. It was Goebel’s duty to accompany him -on every lecture trip and stay with him every hour, morning, noon, and -night. That was an old story to me of course. Many times, as a lad, I -had been appointed to perform that duty for my father. But, alas, I was -not as big and strong as George Goebel.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a><i>13</i><br /><br /> -<i>Some Eminent Visitors</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Albert Einstein came to America in 1931 to become a professor in the -California Institute of Technology in Pasadena. He had been world-famous -for a dozen years or so, had been awarded the Nobel Prize, and was a -doctor <i>honoris causa</i> in fourteen of the world’s great universities. -His coming was a prestige matter to Cal Tech and had been announced -weeks in advance; reporters swarmed around him, the newspapers made -front-page stories of his arrival, the institute gave a banquet in his -honor, and one of the town’s many millionairesses contributed ten -thousand dollars for the privilege of tasting that food.</p> - -<p>I had been corresponding with Einstein for some years. He had read some -of my books and had written me: “To the most beautiful joys of my life -belongs your wicked tongue.” He had promised to come to see me; and soon -after his arrival in Pasadena, Craig’s sister Dolly came in and -reported, “There’s an old man walking up and down on the street, and he -keeps looking at the house.”</p> - -<p>Craig said, “Go out and ask what he wants.” Dolly went and came back to -report, “He says he’s Dr. Einstein.” Craig said, “Go bring him in,” and -called to me.</p> - -<p>Such was the beginning of as lovely a friendship as anyone could have in -this world. I report him as the kindest, gentlest, sweetest of men. He -had a keen wit, a delightful sense of humor, and his tongue could be -sharp—but only for the evils of this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> world. I don’t like the word -“radical”; but it is the word that the world chose to employ about me, -and Albert Einstein was as radical as I was. From first to last, during -his two winters in Pasadena, he never disagreed with an idea of mine or -declined a request I made of him.</p> - -<p>Of course, it was shocking to the authorities at Cal Tech that Einstein -chose to identify himself with the city’s sharpest social critic. I -could forgive Dr. Robert Millikan, president of the great institution, -because I knew he had to raise funds among the city’s millionaires and -so had to watch his step; but Einstein was less tolerant. He knew -snobbery when he saw it, and he expressed his opinions freely. He also -recognized anti-Semitism and knew when his loyal and devoted wife was -slighted. Said one young instructor at Cal Tech to Craig, “The Jews have -got Harvard, they are getting Princeton, and they are on the way to -getting Cal Tech.”</p> - -<p>Of course, when our friends knew that we knew Einstein, they all begged -to meet him; and when I told Einstein about it, he said, of course he -and his wife would come to a dinner and meet our friends. We engaged a -private dining room in the “swanky” Town House of Los Angeles. Craig and -I went a little early to make sure that everything was in order, and we -were in the dining room when Einstein and his wife arrived. He always -wore a black overcoat—I think a bit rusty—and a little soft black hat. -He came into the large room where a table was set for twelve and looked -around as if at a loss. Then he took off his overcoat, folded it -carefully, and laid it on the floor in an unoccupied corner. He then -took off the black hat and laid that on top of the coat. He was ready -for dinner. I was too tactful to mention that there is a hat-check room -in fashionable hotels.</p> - -<p>Another episode: Some labor leader was arrested in a strike. I felt it -my duty to make a protest, but I doubted if the press services would pay -heed to me. I thought they would pay heed to Einstein, and I asked him -if he would care to make a protest. He told me to write out the message -and he would sign it. He did so, and I turned it over to the United -Press. It was not sent out. Whereupon I telegraphed a protest to Carl -Bickel, head of the agency in New York. Bickel sent me a copy of the -rebuke he had telegraphed to the head of the Los Angeles office, -informing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> him that he had made the United Press ridiculous and that -hereafter anything that Einstein had to say on any subject was news.</p> - -<p>Once I mentioned to Einstein that someone had called my social protest -“undignified.” The next time he came to our home he brought a large and -very fine photograph of himself, eighteen by twenty-four inches, and on -it he had inscribed six lines of verse, in colloquial German that calls -for a Berliner. Needless to say, that trophy was framed and hung on the -wall, and German visitors always call for a flashlight and a footstool -to stand on.</p> - -<p>People ask for the text of the verses, so I give it here, first in -German, then in translation:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Wen ficht der schmutzigste Topf nicht an?</i><br /></span> -<span class="i2"><i>Wer klopft die Welt auf den hohlen Zahn?</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Wer verachtet das Jetzt und schwört auf das Morgen?</i><br /></span> -<span class="i2"><i>Wem macht kein “undignified” je Sorgen?</i><br /></span> -<span class="i4"><i>Der Sinclair ist der tapfre Mann</i><br /></span> -<span class="i4"><i>Wenn einer, dann ich es bezeugen kann.</i><br /></span> -<span class="i10"><i>In herzlichkeit</i><br /></span> -<span class="i15">Albert Einstein<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Whom does the dirtiest pot not attack?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Who hits the world on the hollow tooth?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who spurns the now and swears by the morrow?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Who takes no care about being “undignified”?<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The Sinclair is the valiant man<br /></span> -<span class="i4">If anyone, then I can attest it.<br /></span> -<span class="i10">In heartiness<br /></span> -<span class="i15">Albert Einstein<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>There is an amusing story connected with those verses. <i>Life</i> published -six pages of photographs of American rocking chairs; and I wrote them a -playful note, rebuking them for having left out the most characteristic -of all American chairs, the cradle rocker. I enclosed a photo of myself -in our cradle rocker and pointed out the photograph of Einstein just -behind the chair—which the great man had often sat in. I mentioned the -poem, and there came a phone call from <i>Life</i>’s Hollywood office. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> -editor, an agreeable lady, asked for the text of the poem. I said it was -in German, and she didn’t know German. Would I translate it for her? I -said I would, but I also said it would be useless, as <i>Life</i> wouldn’t -publish it. She asked why, and I answered, “Because it praises <i>me</i>.”</p> - -<p>The lady laughed merrily; she thought that was a witticism, asked again -for the translation, and wrote it out line by line. <i>Life</i> published the -letter and the photograph, April 28, 1961. It did not mention the poem. -So I knew <i>Life</i> better than one of its own editors! I had a bit of fun -telling her so when next I had her on the phone.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Einstein was surprised to learn that I had never been invited to speak -at Cal Tech and had never had the honor of meeting Dr. Millikan. I told -him that Bertrand Russell, when he had come to speak at Cal Tech, had -made an engagement to have lunch with us at the home of Mrs. Gartz. The -lecture took place in the morning, and we had arranged to meet him -afterward, but Dr. Millikan carried him off to lunch at the Valley Hunt -Club and made no apology to us.</p> - -<p>On one of Einstein’s last days in Pasadena, I went to his home to say -good-by to him. You entered his house into a hallway, and on one side -was a door opening into the dining room and on the other a door leading -into the living room. I was saying my farewell to Einstein in the living -room; just as I was ready to leave, Mrs. Einstein came in and said in a -half whisper, “Dr. Millikan is here. I took him into the dining room.”</p> - -<p>I, of course, started to get out of the way; but Einstein took me firmly -by one elbow and led me out of the living room and across the hall and -opened the dining-room door. “Dr. Millikan,” he said, “I want you to -meet my friend Upton Sinclair.” So, of course, we shook hands. I said a -few polite words and took myself off.</p> - -<p>I never saw Dr. Millikan again, but I will include one more story having -to do with him. At the time of our entrance into World War II, Phil La -Follette was opposing our entrance and came on a lecture tour to -Pasadena. Dr. Millikan’s son was casting about to find someone to oppose -Phil in debate, and he came to me. I was in favor of our entrance, as I -had been in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span> case of World War I; in both cases most of my socialist -friends opposed me, some of them very bitterly.</p> - -<p>When young Millikan asked if I would be willing to enter the lists, I -consented. My wife attended the debate and found herself seated just in -front of a group of young socialists who were jeering at my speech; when -she turned around and looked at them, they recognized her, and got up -and moved to another part of the hall. When some of the ardent patriots -jeered at La Follette, I got up from my seat on the platform and asked -them please to hear him. Some photographer took a snapshot of that -moment, and it made an amusing picture.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>My friendship with Einstein continued by mail for almost twenty years. -And in the course of time I received another jingle from him—he had a -propensity for writing them. A pacifist lady, Rosika Schwimmer, worked -up a little fuss with me over a story I had told in my book <i>Upton -Sinclair Presents William Fox</i>, to the effect that she had gone to Fox -with a proposal to finance a “peace ship” to Europe, and he had -declined. Rosika claimed that the story was false and employed a lawyer -to demand that I state in the next edition of the book that it was -false. I was perfectly willing to say that she denied it, but how could -I say it was false when it was a square issue of veracity between two -persons, and I had no other evidence?</p> - -<p>Rosika sued me for libel—the only time that has ever happened to me. -Obviously it was no libel, for she had made the same appeal to Henry -Ford, and with success as all the world knew. She carried the case to -the Supreme Court of New York State and lost all the way. She also -carried it to Albert Einstein, and he, friend to all pacifists, wrote me -some verses, mildly suggesting I take on more weighty foes. I replied -with another set of verses, pointing out that I had taken on the Francos -and the Hitlers.</p> - -<p>Postscript: When I published an article about Einstein for the <i>Saturday -Review</i> of April 14, 1962, Dr. Lee DuBridge, present head of Cal Tech, -wrote me a long letter protesting my statements about that institution. -In reply I wrote him some of my evidence that I had been too polite to -include in my article; for instance, that Mrs. Einstein had complained -to my wife that she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span> had never been able to get the use of the bus that -was maintained for the convenience of faculty wives. Dr. DuBridge had -sent his letter to me to the <i>Saturday Review</i>, requesting publication; -but the <i>Saturday Review</i> presently informed me that he had withdrawn -his request. I was left to guess that he had read my letter.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>You may be interested to hear of another man who sat in our cradle -rocker more recently. Craig’s brother Allan, a Mississippi planter who -has succeeded in his life purpose of buying back most of his father’s -lands, wrote Craig that his close friend, Judge Tom Brady, was lecturing -in southern California and would like to meet us. Allan had been Craig’s -darling from babyhood and could have anything he asked from her. An -appointment was made, and Hunter brought the Judge to our home one -evening.</p> - -<p>He was a grave and courteous Southern gentleman who was spokesman for -the citizens’ councils and had helped to spread them all over the Deep -South. We welcomed him, and he sat motionless in the chair and in a -quiet, persuasive voice repeated what was obviously the speech he had -been delivering to southern California audiences. It took an hour or -more, and we listened without interruption.</p> - -<p>Then I said, very gently, that I happened to have personal knowledge of -some of the events to which my guest had referred, and that several of -the institutions he had named as communist were nothing of the sort. For -example, the League for Industrial Democracy. I had founded it more than -half a century before. I had run it from my farmhouse attic in the hills -above Princeton, New Jersey, for the first year or two, and I had known -about its affairs ever since. It was just what it called itself: an -organization for democracy, and never anywhere in its publications was -there any suggestion for the achieving of socialist aims except by the -democratic process.</p> - -<p>Then some of the persons whom the judge had called -“communist-influenced” were my friends. For example, Oswald Garrison -Villard, for many years publisher and editor of the <i>Nation</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span> I had -known Villard well and had read his magazine from my youth. He was a -libertarian of conviction so determined that it might be called -religious. It would have been impossible to name an American less apt to -fall under communist influence. And so on for other names that I have -now forgotten.</p> - -<p>Our guest listened without interruption; when I finished, he said that -he was surprised by what I had told him and would give careful study to -the matter and not repeat the mistakes. So we parted as Southern -gentlemen, and on the way back to the motel he told Hunter that he was -humiliated by what had happened. When he got home he sent me his book -and later one or two pamphlets; but I have not heard that the policies -of the citizens’ councils have been modified in this respect.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Early in 1933 William Fox, most mighty of the movie moguls—excuse the -movie language—came into my life. He wrote that he wished to visit my -home. My wife, who knew the smell of money when it came near, got a good -fire burning in our fireplace and saw that a pitcher of lemonade was -prepared, with no alcohol in it. The country boy from Oregon who was our -servant at that time was literally trembling with excitement at the -prospect of seeing the great William Fox. When the boy came in to report -the arrival, Craig said, “What did you tell him?” The answer was, “I -told him to rest his hat and set.”</p> - -<p>William Fox had brought his lawyer with him and was “set” for action. He -had been robbed of a good part of his fortune during the recent panic; -he wanted that story told—and I was the man to do it. I explained -somewhat sadly that I was in the midst of another writing job and never -liked to break off my work once started. Usually Craig let me make my -own decisions, but not that one. She told Mr. Fox that I would accept -his offer of twenty-five thousand dollars—and what could I do about -<i>that</i>?</p> - -<p>Every day Fox came with his suitcase full of documents and his little -round pudgy lawyer to elucidate them. Every day he rested his hat and -set, and every day he had his pitcher of prohibition lemonade. I hired -two secretaries to listen on alternate days, and so in a very short time -I had a book. The great mogul<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span> himself suggested the title, <i>Upton -Sinclair Presents William Fox</i>; and when the mighty labor was done and -the bulky manuscript complete, Fox put the check into my wife’s -hands—not mine! He went off to New York in the midst of loud cheers -from the Sinclair establishment.</p> - -<p>And what happened then? Well, to be precise—nothing. I waited patiently -for two or three days, and then I waited impatiently for two or three -weeks, and I heard not a word. Then I received a letter from my friend -Floyd Dell, who happened to be in New York. How Floyd got the -information I have forgotten, but the substance of it was that Fox was -using the threat of publishing my manuscript in an effort to get back -some of the properties of which he had been deprived. I asked a lawyer -friend in New York to verify this information for me, and when it was -verified I knew exactly what to do. I sent my carbon copy to my -dependable printers in Hammond, Indiana, and instructed them to put the -book into type, send me the proofs, and order paper for twenty-five -thousand copies. Before long it occurred to me that it might be a wise -precaution to tell them to order paper for another twenty-five thousand -copies.</p> - -<p>When those beautiful yellow-covered books hit Hollywood, it was with a -bang that might have been heard at the moon if there was anybody there -to listen. It wasn’t but a few hours before I received a frantic -telegram from William Fox, threatening me with all kinds of punishments; -but the twenty-five-thousand-dollar check had been cashed, and the books -had gone to reviewers all over the United States—and I guess William -Fox decided that he might just as well be the hero I had made him. -Anyhow, I heard no more protests, and I sold some fifty thousand copies -of the book at three dollars a copy. (It would cost twice that today.) I -was told that immediately after the book appeared, there was posted on -the bulletin board of all entrances to the immense Fox lot a warning -that anyone found on the lot with a copy of the book would be -immediately discharged. So, of course, all the hundreds of Fox employees -had to do their reading at home.</p> - -<p>It is interesting to note that now, as I read the proofs of this book, -the great Fox establishment is shut down and the company is issuing -statements that it is not going into bankruptcy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span></p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>It was also in 1933 that we got involved with Sergei Eisenstein, the -Russian film director. He had come to Hollywood two years before to make -a picture. Because he would not do what our screen masters wanted, his -plans had miscarried, and now he was about to return to Russia. Then, -only a few hours before he was supposed to leave, he sent a friend to us -with a wonderful idea: if only someone would raise the money, he would -go to Mexico and make an independent picture of the primitive Indians -about whom Diego Rivera had told him.</p> - -<p>We hated to see a great artist humiliated by the forces that had -assailed Eisenstein in California; so we very foolishly undertook to -raise the money. Mrs. Gartz put up the first five thousand dollars—on -condition that Craig’s brother Hunter Kimbrough should be the manager of -the expedition.</p> - -<p>Now, the way in which “independent” pictures are made is as follows: the -director gets a certain sum of money and shoots a certain number of -miles of film; then he telegraphs back to the investors that the picture -is, unfortunately, not completed and that he must have more money, and -more miles of film, or else, unfortunately, the investors will have no -picture. Thereupon, the investors put up more money, and the director -shoots more miles of film, and then telegraphs that the picture is, -unfortunately, not completed and that he must have more money, and more -miles of film, or else, unfortunately, the investors will have no -picture. There may have been some case in the history of movie -expeditions where this did not happen, but I have not been able to come -upon any recollection of it in Hollywood.</p> - -<p>Eisenstein and his staff went to the tropical land of Tehuantepec, and -made pictures of Tehuana maidens with great starched ruffles over their -heads, and bare feet that gripped the rough hillsides like hands, and -baskets made of gourds painted with roses. He went to Oaxaca and made -pictures of masonry tumbling into ruins during an earthquake. He went to -Chichén Itzá and made pictures of Mayan temples with plumed serpents and -stone-faced men and their living descendants, unchanged in three<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span> -thousand years. He climbed Popocatepetl and made pictures of Indian -villages lost in forgotten valleys. Miles and miles of film were -exposed, and packing cases full of negatives in tin cans came back to -Hollywood.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, my wife and I found ourselves turned into company promoters, -addressing persuasive letters, many pages long, to friends of Soviet -Russia, devotees of Mexican art, and playboys of the film colony—anyone -who might be tempted by a masterpiece of camerawork and montage. We -interviewed lawyers and bankers, and signed trust agreements and -certificates of participating interest. We visited Mexican consuls and -United States customs inspectors, and arranged for censorship -exhibitions. We mailed bank drafts, took out insurance policies, -telephoned brokers, and performed a host of other duties far out of our -line.</p> - -<p>And Eisenstein went to the Hacienda Tetlapayac and made endless miles of -film of a maguey plantation, with peons wearing gorgeous striped -serapes, singing work hymns at dawn by old monastery walls, driven to -revolt by cruel taskmasters, and hunted to their death by wild-riding -vaqueros. He went to Mérida and “shot” señoritas with high-piled -headdresses and embroidered mantillas. He made the life story of a -bullfighter—his training and technique, his footwork and capework, his -intrigue with ladies of fashion, and his escape from vengeful husbands, -fiercer than any bull from Piedras Negras. The most marvelous material: -pictures of golden sunlight and black shadows; dream scenes of primitive -splendor; gorgeous pageants, like old tapestries come to life; -compositions in which the very clouds in the sky were trained to -perform.</p> - -<p>But, oh, the tens of miles of film and the tens of thousands of dollars! -The months and months—until at last Craig began to cry out in protest -and to demand an end. Mexico is a land of difficulties and dangers, and -Hunter Kimbrough was managing the expedition; her affection for him -multiplied the troubles in her mind. “Bring them home!” became her cry, -day and night.</p> - -<p>And, meanwhile, Eisenstein was in Chapala, shooting white pelicans, gray -pumas, and Nayaritan damsels paddling dugouts in mangrove swamps. He was -in Cholula, shooting Catholic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span> churches with carven skulls, and images -of Jesus with real hair and teeth. He was in Guadalupe, photographing -miraculous healings, and penitents carrying crosses made of spiny -cactus, crawling by hundreds up rocky hillsides on bare knees.</p> - -<p>“Bring them home!” demanded Craig; and she and her husband came to a -deadlock over the issue. The husband was infatuated, she declared; he -was as complete a madman as a Soviet director. They argued for days and -nights; meanwhile, Eisenstein tore off the roof of a Tehuantepec mansion -to photograph a dance inside, gave a bullfight to keep an actor from -going to Spain, and made arrangements to hire the whole Mexican Army. -Again Craig clamored, “Bring them home!” And again husband and wife took -up the issue; this time the husband was seized by a deadly chill and had -to be taken to the hospital in an ambulance, and he lay on his back for -two weeks.</p> - -<p>The raising of money went on, and freight trains groaned under the loads -of raw film going into Mexico, and exposed film coming out. Eisenstein -shot the standing mummies of Michoacàn, the flower festivals of -Xochimilco, and the “dead peoples’ day” celebrations of Amecameca, and -ordered the Mexican Army to march out into the desert to fight a battle -with a background of organ cactuses thirty feet high. It was the -beginning of the fifteenth month of this Sisyphean labor when Craig -assembled the cohorts of her relatives and lawyers, and closed in for -the final grapple with her infatuated spouse. “Bring them home!” she -commanded; and for eight days and nights the debate continued. To avoid -going to the hospital, the husband went to the beach for three days; -then he came back, and there were more days and nights of conferences -with the assembled cohorts. At times such as this, husbands and wives -discover whether they really love each other!</p> - -<p>Craig was with me in the dream of a picture—until she decided that -Eisenstein meant to grind her husband up in a pulp machine and spin him -out into celluloid film. She thought that thirty-five miles of film was -enough for any picture. And then she stood and looked at her husband, -and her hands trembled and her lips quivered; she had licked him in that -last desperate duel, and she wondered if in his heart he could ever -forgive her. He did.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span></p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>The real reason for Eisenstein’s delaying tactics was that he did not -want to go back to his beloved Soviet Union. He had been trying to get a -contract to make a picture in India, one in Japan, one in the Argentine. -His relations with Craig’s brother had reached a point where he cursed -Hunter; and Hunter, a Mississippian, got a gun and told him the next -time he cursed he would be shot. So, I sent a cablegram to Stalin, -asking him to order Eisenstein to return home; in reply I received a -cablegram signed by Stalin informing me that they no longer had any use -for Eisenstein and considered him a renegade.</p> - -<p>The history of that cablegram is amusing. Craig regarded it as she would -a rattlesnake in her home. Anyone who saw it, including the F.B.I., -would assume that I was a cryptocommunist. The evil document must be -locked up in a secret treasure box that contained such things as the -letters from Jefferson Davis and his daughter, Winnie. I was not even -allowed to know where that box was hidden.</p> - -<p>But I had told one or two friends about the cablegram. Way back in the -early Greenwich Village days I had known Robert Minor, art editor of -<i>The Masses</i>. I had played tennis with him at Croton; and much later, in -the days when I was writing the Lanny Budd books, he provided me with a -story of what it was like to be arrested by the French police—a story -that makes a delightful ending for the first Lanny Budd book, <i>World’s -End</i>. Now, a friend in New York mentioned the cablegram to Bob, and -reported Bob’s comment, “Tell Upton if he has a cablegram from Stalin he -is the only man in America who can say it.”</p> - -<p>In the end, we made a contract with Amtorg, the Russian trade agency in -New York, which handled the whole Eisenstein matter. We agreed to ship -the film to them with precise specifications that the boxes should not -be opened in New York but should be forwarded immediately to Moscow -where Eisenstein would cut the film, and the cut film would be shipped -to us. So Eisenstein received orders that he could not fail to obey, and -Hunter did not have to shoot him.</p> - -<p>The director and his two associates left Mexico City in our<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span> Buick car -and drove to New York; but instead of going at once to Moscow, as the -agreement specified, Eisenstein stayed in New York, and about a week -later we received letters from persons in New York to whom he had been -showing the film.</p> - -<p>That settled the matter for us. We put it into the hands of our lawyer, -with instructions to repossess the film, repack it, and ship it to -Hollywood—which was done. We made an agreement with Sol Lesser to cut -it, and that was done. And in the spring of 1934 <i>Thunder Over Mexico</i> -was scheduled to open at the Rialto Theater in New York.</p> - -<p>In the eyes of the communists, of course, we had committed a major -crime. We had deprived the great Russian master of his greatest art -work, and we had done it out of blind greed. All over the world the -communist propagandists took up that theme, and we could not answer -without damaging the property of our investors.</p> - -<p>The situation was still more odd because my friends, the socialists, -were also involved. I was just on the point of announcing my EPIC -campaign for the governorship of California. I had sent a copy of my -program to Norman Thomas, and he lit into it in the New York <i>Call</i>, -denouncing EPIC as a “tin-can economy,” and me as “a renegade to the -socialist movement.” The Socialist Party, which had placed a large order -for seats for the opening night of Eisenstein’s film, canceled the -order. So, we were getting it from all sides. On opening night there was -a minor riot; communists yelled protests, and some of them shook their -fists in my face in the lobby of the theater.</p> - -<p>I had one comfort, however. Among the investors in the picture was Otto -H. Kahn, New York banker and art patron; he had put in ten thousand -dollars at my request, without ever having met me. I invited him to -dinner with my wife and me at the Algonquin Hotel on the evening of the -opening. He came up to me in the lobby and took both my hands in his and -said, “I am telling all my friends that if they want to invest money and -want to be sure of having it carefully handled and promptly accounted -for, they should entrust it to the socialist, Mr. Upton Sinclair.”</p> - -<p>Of course, <i>Thunder Over Mexico</i> wasn’t a very good picture. It couldn’t -be because it was only a travelogue and had no form.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span> Sol Lesser, an -experienced producer, did his best and dealt with us fairly. The -investors got about half their money back, and Sol’s friendship was the -best thing that we got out of the whole experience.</p> - -<p>When the film had run its course, we turned it over to the Museum of -Modern Art in New York, and occasionally I see mention of its being -shown here and there. As for Eisenstein, he went back to Russia; I have -no report on his meeting with Stalin. But all the world knows that for -many years he was put to teaching his art instead of practicing it, and -that when he made another picture it was a glorification of the most -cruel of all the tsars.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a><i>14</i><br /><br /> -<i>EPIC</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>I come now to one of the great adventures of my life: the EPIC campaign. -There had come one of those periods in American history known as a -“slump,” or, more elegantly, a “depression.” The cause of this calamity -is obvious—the mass of the people do not get sufficient money to -purchase what modern machinery is able to produce. You cannot find this -statement in any capitalist newspaper, but it is plain to the mind of -any wide-awake child. The warehouses are packed with goods, and nobody -is buying them; this goes on until those who still have money have -bought and used up the goods; so then we have another boom and then -another bust. This has gone on all through our history and will go on as -long as the necessities of our lives are produced on speculation and -held for private profit.</p> - -<p>Now we had a bad slump, and Franklin Roosevelt was casting about for -ways to end it. In the state of California, which had a population of -seven million at the time, there were a million out of work, -public-relief funds were exhausted, and people were starving. The -proprietor of a small hotel down at the beach asked me to come and meet -some of his friends, and I went. His proposal was that I should resign -from the Socialist Party and join the Democratic Party, and let them put -me up as a candidate for governor at the coming November election. They -had no doubt that if I would offer a practical program I would capture -the Democratic nomination at the primaries, which came in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> spring. I -told them that I had retired from politics and promised my wife to be a -writer. But they argued and pleaded, pointing out the terrible -conditions all around them; I promised to think it over and at least -suggest a program for them.</p> - -<p>To me the remedy was obvious. The factories were idle, and the workers -had no money. Let them be put to work on the state’s credit and produce -goods for their own use, and set up a system of exchange by which the -goods could be distributed. “Production for Use” was the slogan, and I -told my new friends about it. They agreed to every one of my suggestions -but one—that they should get somebody else to put forward the program -and run for governor.</p> - -<p>I talked it over with my dear wife, who as usual was horrified; but the -more I thought about it, the more interested I became, and finally I -thought that at least I could change my registration and become a -Democrat—quietly. It was a foolish idea, but I went ahead; and, of -course, some reporter spotted my name and published the news. Then, of -course, Craig found out and I got a mighty dressing down.</p> - -<p>A great many people got after me, and the result was I agreed to run for -the nomination at the primaries. I didn’t think I could possibly win, -and I was astonished by the tidal wave that came roaring in and gathered -me up. I had no peace from then on; I carried the Democratic primary -with 436,000 votes, a majority over the total cast for the half dozen -other candidates.</p> - -<p>So I had to go through with it, and Craig, according to her nature, had -to back me. She would hate it for every minute of the whole campaign and -afterward; but once I had committed myself, I was honor-bound, and -quitting would be cowardice. There are no cowards in Mississippi.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Some months earlier I had made the acquaintance of a young man of some -wealth who had established a Bellamy Society and had printed an edition -of Bellamy’s charming <i>Parable of the Water Tank</i>. Now I went to him and -served notice that he had to be my campaign manager. I don’t know what -<i>his</i> wife thought of that, but I know that he dropped everything and -gave his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span> heart, his mind, and a lot of his money to that tremendous -political fight. Richard S. Otto was his name, and the name of the -movement was EPIC—End Poverty in California. It was a wonderful title, -and went all over the world.</p> - -<p>We had moved from our Long Beach cottage back to Pasadena, and now we -had to move from Pasadena because so many people had got our address and -gave us no peace. We bought on mortgage a home in Beverly Hills, where -we fondly thought we could hide. I had an elderly woman secretary, and -was using her little front room as an office. Now Dick Otto moved the -EPIC movement into that little front room, and presently the elderly -secretary had to find a new home and leave the whole cottage to EPIC.</p> - -<p>It wasn’t long before Dick had to hunt up a bigger place; he moved three -or four times and at the end leased a whole office building. People came -from all over the state, and brought funds when they had any; if they -had none, they offered their time, often when they had nothing to eat. -The movement spread like wildfire—quite literally that. The old-men -politicians were astonished, and the newspapers, which had kept silent -as long as they dared, had to come out and fight it in the open.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>As for me, it meant dropping everything else, and turning myself into a -phonograph to be set up on a platform to repeat the same speech in every -city and town of California. At first I traveled by myself and had many -adventures, some of them amusing, others less so. I had an old car, -which had a habit of breaking down, and I would telephone to the speech -place to come and get me. Once I was late and was driving fast, and I -heard a siren behind me; of course, I stopped and told my troubles to -the police officer. He looked at my driver’s license before he said -anything; then, “Okay, Governor, I’ll take you.” So I rode with a police -escort blazing a mighty blast and clearing traffic off one of the main -highways of central California. The phonograph arrived, and the speech -was made!</p> - -<p>I am joking about its being the same speech, because as a matter of fact -something kept turning up and had to be dealt with. Our enemies -continually thought up new charges, and I had to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span> answer them. I would -try to get them to come and debate with me, but I cannot recall one that -ever accepted. That doesn’t mean that I was a great orator, it simply -means that I had the facts on my side, and the facts kept on growing -more and more terrifying. The Republican opposition had no program—it -never does, because there is no way to defend idle factories and workers -locked out to starve. We have the same situation now, as I write, in -1962; but we don’t quite let them starve, we give them a stingy -“relief”—and they can thank EPIC for that, though they do not know it.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Self-help co-operatives had sprung up all over the state, and of course -that was “production for use,” and those people automatically became -EPIC’S.</p> - -<p>Our opponents would not debate; however, there were challenges from the -audience, and now and then I would invite the man up to the platform and -let him ask his question and present his case. That was fair play, and -pleased the audience. There were always communists, and several times -they showered down leaflets from the gallery. They called EPIC “one more -rotten egg from the blue buzzard’s nest.” (The “blue buzzard” was the -communists’ name for the New Deal’s “blue eagle.”) When the shower fell, -I would ask someone in the audience to bring me a leaflet, and I would -read the text and give my answer. It was a simple one: We wanted to -achieve our purpose by the American method of majority consent. We might -not win, but if we cast a big vote we would force the Roosevelt -administration to take relief measures, and we would have made all -America familiar with the idea of production for use; both these things -we most certainly did.</p> - -<p>That campaign went on from May to November, and the news of it went all -over the United States and even further. We had troubles, of -course—arguments and almost rows at headquarters. I would be called in -to settle them, but all I told anybody was to do what Dick Otto said. -That brave fellow stood everything that came, including threats to kill -him. There was only one thing he needed, he said, and that was my -support.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> More important yet, he had Craig’s. She never went near the -headquarters, but when I was on the road, she spoke for me—over the -telephone.</p> - -<p>Sometimes she went to meetings that were not too far away. She always -sat back toward the rear and was seldom recognized. At the outset of the -campaign, at a meeting in a church, she observed that everybody sat -still, and it occurred to her to applaud something I had said; instantly -the audience woke up, and the applause became continuous. That was a -trick she did not forget.</p> - -<p>We had an eight-page weekly paper called the <i>EPIC News</i>, and I had to -write an editorial for it every week, and answer our enemies and keep -our organizers and workers all over the state alive to the situation. -Sometimes Craig wrote for that.</p> - -<p>A big advertising concern had been hired to defeat EPIC. They made a -careful study of everything I had written, and they took passages out of -context and even cut sentences off in the middle to make them mean the -opposite of what I had written. They had had an especially happy time -with <i>The Profits of Religion</i>. I received many letters from agitated -old ladies and gentlemen on the subject of my blasphemy. “Do you believe -in God?” asked one; and then the next question, “Define God.” I have -always answered my letters, and the answer to question one was “Yes,” -and the answer to question two was “The Infinite cannot be defined.” -There wasn’t the least trouble in finding quotations from both the Old -and New Testaments that sounded like EPIC, and it wasn’t necessary to -garble them.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>When we carried the primaries, we were the Democratic Party of -California, and under the law we had a convention in Sacramento—the -state capital. I remember that Mrs. Gartz came with us to that -convention. Craig had been too busy to manage her now, and another lady -as large and stout as Mrs. Gartz had gotten hold of her. This lady had -herself nominated as EPIC candidate from her assembly district; also she -had a son and was frantically beseeching me to make him state -commissioner of education. She owned a half-dozen houses in California -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span> rented them, and had the wonderful idea that all homes should be -exempt from taxation. Poor Mrs. Gartz never knew what was being done to -her, and at the convention I had to tell those two large ladies to go -back to their seats and let me alone. The upshot was that Mrs. Gartz’s -daughter took her for a trip around the world until the EPIC nightmare -was over.</p> - -<p>Halfway through the campaign I wrote a little dramatic skit called -<i>Depression Island</i>. I imagined three men cast away on a small island, -with nothing to eat but coconuts. One was a businessman, and in the -process of trading he got all the coconuts and trees into his -possession. Then he became the capitalist and compelled the other two to -work for him on a scanty diet of coconuts. When the capitalist had -accumulated enough coconuts for all his possible needs, he told the -other two that there were “hard times.” He was sorry about it, but there -was nothing he could do; coconuts were overproduced, and the other two -fellows were out of jobs.</p> - -<p>But the other two didn’t starve gracefully. They organized themselves -into a union and also a government, and passed laws providing for public -ownership of the coconut trees. The little drama carefully covered every -point in the national situation, and nobody in that EPIC audience could -fail to get the idea.</p> - -<p>A group of our EPIC supporters in Hollywood undertook to put on the show -in the largest auditorium available. I went to see Charlie Chaplin, who -said he would come and speak at the affair—something he had never been -known to do previously. I remember trying to persuade several rich -people to put up rent for the auditorium. I forget who did, but there -was a huge crowd, and nobody failed to learn the geography -lesson—location of Depression Island on the map.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>In the month of October, not long before election day, I made a trip to -New York and Washington. I stopped off at Detroit and visited Father -Coughlin, a political priest who had tremendous influence at that time. -I told him our program, and he said he endorsed every bit of it. I asked -him to say so publicly, and he said he would; but he didn’t. He publicly -condemned some of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span> the very things he had approved, and he denied that -he had given his approval.</p> - -<p>In New York, of course, there were swarms of reporters. EPIC had gone -all over the country by that time. I had an appointment with President -Roosevelt at Hyde Park. It was five o’clock one afternoon, and some -friends drove me up there. The two hours I spent in the big study of -that home were among the great moments of my life. That wonderfully keen -man sat and listened while I set forth every step of the program, and he -checked them off one after the other and called them right. Then he gave -me the pleasure of hearing his opinion of some of his enemies. At the -end he told me that he was coming out in favor of production for use. I -said, “If you do, Mr. President, it will elect me.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said, “I am going to do it”; and that was that. But he did -not do it.</p> - -<p>I went to Washington to interview some of Roosevelt’s cabinet members -and get their support if I could. Harry Hopkins promised us everything -in his power if we got elected. Harold Ickes did the same—the whole -United States Treasury, no less. Also, I spent an evening with Justice -Louis Brandeis—but he couldn’t promise me the whole Supreme Court.</p> - -<p>I addressed a luncheon of the National Press Club, and that was an -interesting adventure. There were, I should guess, a couple hundred -correspondents of newspapers all over the country, and indeed all over -the world. I talked to them for half an hour or so, and then they plied -me with questions for an hour or two more. I was told afterwards that -they were astonished by my mastery of the subject and my readiness in -facing every problem. They failed to realize the half year of training I -had received in California. I can say there wasn’t a single question -they asked me that I hadn’t answered a score of times at home. I not -only knew the answers, but I knew what the audience response would be.</p> - -<p>I had all the facts on my side—and, likewise, all the fun. I can say -that EPIC changed the political color of California; it scared the -reactionaries out of their wits, and never in twenty-eight years have -they dared go back to their old practices. The same thing can also be -said of civil liberties; they have never dared to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span> break a strike as -they did at San Pedro Harbor before our civil-liberties campaign in the -early twenties.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Say not the struggle nought availeth,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The labor and the pains are vain!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In the last few days of the campaign, Aline Barnsdall, a -multimillionairess, came to Craig and told her she had decided to put -ten thousand dollars into the fight. Craig told her to take it to Dick -Otto, and needless to say she was welcomed at headquarters. Among other -things we did with that money was to put on a huge mass meeting in the -prize-fight arena in Los Angeles. I had never been in such a place -before and have not since. Speaking from the “ring,” I could face only -one fourth of the audience at any one time, so I distributed my time and -spoke to each fourth in turn. There were four loudspeakers, so everybody -could hear, and the audience enjoyed the novelty. The speech was relayed -and heard by an audience in the huge auditorium in San Francisco; so I -dealt with the problems of southern California for a while and then with -those of the north.</p> - -<p>I remember on the afternoon before the election a marvelous noon meeting -that packed the opera house in Los Angeles. Our enemies had made much of -the fact that the unemployed, otherwise known as “bums,” were coming to -the city on freight trains looking for free handouts. This had been -featured in motion pictures all over the state and had front-page -prominence in the Los Angeles <i>Times</i>. I told the audience that Harry -Chandler, owner of the <i>Times</i>, had himself come into Los Angeles on a -freight train in his youth. I shouted, “Harry, give the other bums a -chance!” I think the roar from the audience must have been audible as -far as the <i>Times</i> building.</p> - -<p>No words could describe the fury of that campaign in its last days. I -was told of incidents after it was over. A high-school girl of Beverly -Hills told me of being invited to the home of a classmate for dinner. -The master of that home poured out his hatred of the EPIC candidate, and -the schoolgirl remarked, “Well, I heard him speak, and he sounded to me -quite reasonable.” The host replied, “Get up and get out of this house. -Nobody can talk like that in my home.” He drove her out without her -dinner.</p> - -<p>Another woman in Hollywood, a poet rather well known, told<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span> me of a -businessman she knew who had made his will and got himself a revolver, -and was going to the studio where I was scheduled to speak on election -night; if I won he was going to shoot me. I did not win, and in my -Beverly Hills home that night a group of our friends, including Lewis -Browne, sat and awaited the returns. Very soon it became evident that I -had been defeated, and Craig, usually a most reserved person in company, -sank down on the floor, weeping and exclaiming, “Thank God, thank God!” -Our dear Lewis, whom she knew and trusted, came to her and said, “Its -all right, Craig. We all understand. None of us wanted him to win.”</p> - -<p>Many people rejoiced that night, and many others wept; I was told that -the scenes at the EPIC headquarters were tragic indeed. I won’t describe -them, but will take you back to that old home in Greenwood, Mississippi, -where an elderly judge sat listening to his radio set. It was Craig’s -Papa, the one who had “overspoke himself” a little more than twenty -years earlier. He had owned a great plantation, much land, and two -beautiful homes. He was the president of two banks, vice president of -others—one of which he had founded; and in all of them he was a heavy -stockholder. The panic had come, the banks had failed, and under the law -he was liable to the depositors up to twice the amount of his own -holdings. It had wiped him out.</p> - -<p>I had warned him of what was coming. I had warned his son, Orman, who -also was a lawyer and ran the law business that had been his father’s. -Orman had replied, “To show you how much I think of your judgment I will -tell you that I am buying a thirty-thousand-dollar property.” That may -sound ungracious, but it wouldn’t if you knew Orman, who was a great -“kidder.” He bought the property on credit, and he was in trouble too.</p> - -<p>Interesting evidence of the respect in which Leflore County held “the -Judge”: the people who took over his homes did not let him know it; they -let him use both houses for his remaining years. I suppose they did it -by a secret arrangement with Orman; anyhow, he was there in his -Greenwood house, with his large gardens. All his Negroes were dependent -upon him; they worked the gardens and lived on the food—corn and beans, -tomatoes, and milk from the cows.</p> - -<p>Such was the situation when the Judge sat at his radio set, lis<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span>tening -to the news of the California election. It should not surprise you to -learn that he was hoping for his son-in-law’s victory, and disappointed -at his son-in-law’s defeat.</p> - -<p>He was a proud old gentleman. With Craig’s approval, I had sent him a -check for two hundred dollars—and that check was in his pocket, -uncashed, when he died. But one other gift he did accept. One of his -daughters wrote that his greatest trouble was that he had nothing to -read. I was taking some fifty magazines, and still do. Every week, after -I had read them, my secretary would bundle them up and mail them to the -Judge, and it touched our hearts to hear of his pleasure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XV" id="XV"></a><i>15</i><br /><br /> -<i>Grist for My Mill</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>It was a relief to me to have coughed up that EPIC alligator, and to -Craig it was the coughing up of a whole aquarium. It was days before she -could be sure that we were really out—and by then she discovered that -we couldn’t be, because there were still the headquarters and the <i>EPIC -News</i>, and all those poor people who had put everything they had into -the campaign. It was unthinkable to quit, but—we had no money. I sat -myself down and wrote the story of the campaign as I have told it here, -and offered it for serial purposes to California newspapers. Some thirty -accepted. I had based the price upon the circulation of the newspaper, -and some of them actually paid. Those that failed to pay I suppose had -been calling EPIC dishonest. I put the whole story into book form: “I, -Candidate for Governor—and How I Got Licked.” What I have written here -is a summary for a new generation.</p> - -<p>I had made plans for a lecture trip, to travel over the country and tell -about the campaign and answer questions about production for use. A -friend had presented us with a lovely German shepherd, and we had the -protection of that affectionate creature all over the United States. No -one could ever come close to our car.</p> - -<p>We crossed the continent twice, and I could make quite a story out of -our adventures. In Seattle the governor of the state called out the -troops, and I didn’t know whether his idea was to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span> protect me or to -arrest me. Anyhow, I made the speech. In Portland I spoke in a baseball -park, and there I had the company of a young newspaperman, Dick -Neuberger, who later became United States Senator. In Butte we found -ourselves in a hotel amid a convention of rifleshooters, and discovered -that some shooter had either bored or shot a hole through the door of -our hotel room so that he could peek in at us. It was the wild and -woolly West.</p> - -<p>Once we got lost in lonely mountains, and because we were desperately -tired we asked shelter in one of two shacks by the roadside, where some -rough-looking men were living. One shack was given to us in all -kindness. Craig was a little scared of our hosts; but in the morning we -were politely asked how we had slept, and when Craig asked the price, -she was told, “It’s hard times, lady, would twenty-five cents be too -much?” She gave him a couple of dollars.</p> - -<p>Also, I never get tired of telling my experience in St. Louis, where -there was a large auditorium and a distinguished gentleman to introduce -me—the head of the astronomical observatory, I was told. The gentleman -made a most gracious speech and concluded, “And now ladies and -gentleman, I have great pleasure in introducing Mr. Sinclair Lewis.” The -audience began to laugh, the astronomer looked worried, and his son -jumped up and ran to him. I comforted him by saying that I had had much -experience with that mistake.</p> - -<p>In Chautauqua I debated before a huge audience with Congressman Hamilton -Fish, Republican aristocrat from Franklin Roosevelt’s district up the -Hudson. Fish had come to know me well, as we had had the same debate in -Hollywood and in Chicago. Craig never went in to my talks but sat in the -car under the protection of “Duchess.” When the debate was over the -audience strolled by, and Craig listened. Presently came “Ham,” and -Craig heard him say, “I really think he got the better of me.” But you -may be sure he didn’t say that from the platform!</p> - -<p>At Princeton I lectured in the university auditorium. Albert Einstein -was teaching there, and I spent the afternoon with him. He had consented -to introduce me at the debate, which was to be with a chosen -representative of the senior class. To our pained surprise there were -not more than twenty or thirty per<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span>sons in that auditorium. I was -interested to hear Albert Einstein tell the students and faculty of -Princeton University what he thought of their interest in public -affairs.</p> - -<p>My opponent in the debate was a well-bred young gentleman, and I didn’t -want to be hard on him. I told the audience how I had lived in a tent -north of Princeton just thirty years previously. I had come to know some -of the students then and had walked in the hills with a senior who had -specialized in economics. I was interested now to discover that -instruction at Princeton had not changed a particle in thirty years; -what my opponent had said in 1935 was exactly the same as my student -friend had said in 1904. America had changed, but Princeton stood like a -rock in the middle of a powerful stream.</p> - -<p>We made two trips from coast to coast, lecturing about EPIC—including -the detours, a distance of sixteen thousand miles, and I drove every -mile of it. It took more than that long for the EPIC political movement -to fade away; the self-help co-operatives hung on for years. I had -visited many of them, and talked with hundreds of their members.</p> - -<p>They included the inhabitants of what was known as Pipe City near -Oakland, California. A most unusual name, but it was literally exact. -The city of Oakland had been in the process of putting down a main sewer -line with pipe six feet in diameter. The money had run out, and sections -of pipe were lined up along the highway. They provided shelter from the -rain if not from the cold, and hundreds of unemployed men wandering the -roads ducked in and made Oakland their begging center.</p> - -<p>Three of them happened to be men with education and business experience, -and they had conceived the idea of a self-help co-operative. Instead of -begging for food, let them beg for the means of production—the tools -and goods that people possessed and could no longer either use or sell. -Let the co-operators offer to do useful work in exchange for such goods. -In the city where so many thousands were idle there was no kind of work, -and no kind of material that could not be found and bartered for -services. An idle building was found, and the people piled into it and -before long were actually working. In the course of the depression the -co-op became a successful business, and the lesson was learned. Before -the New Deal had brought Amer<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span>ican industry back to life there were two -or three hundred of these self-help co-operatives scattered all over the -state.</p> - -<p>I had conceived a form in which these events could be woven into a -story. Each chapter would tell of some individual or family of a -different character and a different occupation, either hearing about the -co-op in a different way or stumbling upon it by accident, and so coming -into the story. I saw it as a river, flowing continuously, and growing -bigger with new streams added. So came the novel <i>Co-op</i>.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Craig didn’t like communists. I am sad to have to report that there were -also some socialists with whom she failed to get along. Indeed, they -almost disillusioned her with the socialist movement—for she was a -personal person and thought that idealists ought to live up to their -programs.</p> - -<p>During the EPIC campaign, old Stitt Wilson, California socialist leader -and several times candidate for governor, had seen that the EPIC -movement was a tide and had decided to swim with it. He spoke at our -huge Fourth of July celebration in the Arroyo Seco. He was one of those -orators who take off their coats and wave their arms and shout, even in -a Fourth of July midday sun. After it was over, he was driven to our -home and ordered Craig to draw him a bath. She wouldn’t have minded -helping an old man, but she did mind taking an order; so, while he got -his bath he lost her regard.</p> - -<p>Then came Lena Morrow Lewis, tireless lecturer and strictly orthodox -Marxian. She was a guest in my absence and followed Craig around the -house, insisting on reading passages from Marx to her. Then she asked to -be allowed to stay in the house for a week or two while Craig was away, -and she left everything in a state of disarray—including the soiled -dishes. If Craig had been a guest in anybody’s house, there would not -have been a pin out of place, and every dish would have been polished. -So, the socialist movement went still lower in my lady’s esteem.</p> - -<p>Oddly enough, those who won her favor were the IWW. They had a most -terrible reputation in the capitalist newspapers. They were said to -drive copper nails into fruit trees. I made in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span>quiries among -arboriculturists, but could not find a single one who could see what -harm copper nails could do in a fruit tree. Anyway, the “wobblies” were -freely sent to jail in California, and when they got out of jail, they -would frequently come to me because I had written a play about -them—<i>Singing Jailbirds</i>. They wanted to tell me their stories and have -me write more. Without exception they were decent and honest men, and -they won Craig’s heart. They would not even let her give them -money—only, in one case, fifty cents to get back to Los Angeles.</p> - -<p>As the years passed, the communists succeeded more and more in their -effort to take possession of the word “socialism.” Craig saw no -possibility of countering this—especially when the effort had to be -made by her husband. More and more she wanted me to give up the word, -which I had worn as a badge all my life. Craig’s effort was supported by -her brother Hunter, who was with the government in Washington prior to -World War II and knew many labor men. It was amusing when now and then a -newspaper reporter would come for an interview, and Craig and Hunter -would conspire together to make me into an ex-socialist.</p> - -<p>I have mentioned the Intercollegiate Socialist Society, which I founded -in 1905 and which later changed its name to the League for Industrial -Democracy. “Now surely,” Craig pleaded, “that is a good-enough name. Why -not be an Industrial Democrat?” It is a rather long name to say, but I -do my best to remember, and Hunter Kimbrough helps by reminding me it -was he, after all, who persuaded Harry Flannery, head of the educational -department of the AFL-CIO, to make use of books such as <i>The Jungle</i>, -<i>King Coal</i>, and <i>Flivver King</i>; they did, and a great deal about them -has gone out in print and over the radio. That, of course, is what I -have lived for.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>All through the EPIC campaign I had been asked questions regarding my -ideas about God; so I decided that I would arm myself for the future, -and I wrote and published a book, <i>What God Means to Me</i>. The largest of -all subjects, of course; but I made the book small and tried to make it -practical—that is, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span> told the ideas by which I had guided my life. I -content myself here by quoting the concluding sentences, and you can -have more for the asking.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>Somehow love has come to be in the world; somehow the dream of -justice haunts mankind. These things claim my heart; they speak to -me with a voice of authority. I know full well how badly the -idealists fare in our society. I know that Jesus was crucified, and -Joan burned, and Socrates poisoned; I know that Don Quixote was -made ridiculous, and Hamlet driven mad. But still the dream -persists, and in every part of the world are men determined “to -make right reason and the will of God prevail.”</p> - -<p>This God whom I preach is in the hearts of human beings, fighting -for justice; inside the churches and out—even in the rebel groups, -many of which reject His name. A world in which men exploit the -labor of their fellows, and pile up fortunes which serve no use but -the display of material power—such a world presents itself to -truly religious people as a world which must be changed. Those who -serve God truly in this age serve the ideal of brotherhood; of -helping our fellow-beings, instead of exploiting their labor, and -beating them down and degrading them in order to exploit them more -easily.</p> - -<p>The religion I am talking about is not yet “established.” It rarely -dwells in temples built with hands, nor is it financed with bond -issues underwritten by holders of front pews. It does not have an -ordained priesthood, nor enjoy the benefit of apostolic succession. -It is not dressed in gold and purple robes, nor are its altar -cloths embroidered with jewels. It does not honor the rich and -powerful, nor sanctify interest and dividends, nor lend support to -political machines, nor sprinkle holy water upon flags and cannon, -nor send young men out to slaughter and be slaughtered in the name -of the Prince of Peace.</p> - -<p>My God is a still, small voice in my heart. My God is something -that is with me when I sit alone, and wonder, and question the -mystery. My God says: “I am here, and I am now.”</p> - -<p>My God says: “Speak to Me, and I will answer; not in sounds, but in -stirrings of your soul; in courage, hope, energy, the stuff of your -life.” My God says: “Ask, and it shall be given you. Seek, and you -shall find. Knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”</p> - -<p>My God is the process of my being; nothing strange, but that which -goes on all the time. I ask, “Can I pray?” and He answers: “You are -praying.” He says: “The prayer and the answer are one.”</p> - -<p>To pray is to resolve. To pray is to take heart. The motto of the -Benedictine order tells us that “To work is to pray.” Mrs. Eddy -tells us that “Desire is prayer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>The old-time prophets knew this God of mine. Jesus said: “Believe -me that I am in the Father, and the Father in me.” That was not -egotism, nor was it theology; it was elementary psychology.</p> - -<p>The philosophers have known this God; Emerson wrote: “The simplest -person who in his integrity worships God, becomes God.”</p> - -<p>The poets have known this God; Tennyson wrote:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Speak to Him thou, for he hears, and spirit with spirit can meet;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>My God is a personal God; for how else can I be a person? If He -does not know me, how can I know myself?</p> - -<p>My God is a God of freedom. He says: “Anyone may come to Me.”</p> - -<p>My God is a God of mercy. He says: “Come unto Me all ye that -travail and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you.”</p> - -<p>My God is a God of justice. Of Him it was said: “He hath put down -the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree.”</p> - -<p>My God is a God of love, in a world of raging madness. He has put -into the hearts of His people the idea of subduing the hate-makers.</p> - -<p>My God is an experimental God. He says: “I have made a world, and -am still making it.” He says to men: “I am still making you, and -you are still making Me.”</p></div> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>Much of this book, as you will have noted, is the story of other books, -their origins and their fates. This is something I could not help if I -tried, because my whole life has been a series of books.</p> - -<p>On our first motor trip up the Pacific Coast we had gone through one of -the redwood forests, and I was fascinated by those marvelous trees. One -of them was so big that the one-lane road had been cut through its -trunk. I got out and wandered about in the fern-covered forest, and when -I drove on, there popped into my mind a delightful story for children. -Two little gnomes, a young one and his grandfather, were the last of -their race to survive. A human child, wandering about in the ferns, was -greeted timidly by the grandfather and begged to help in finding a wife -for the younger gnome.</p> - -<p>The little girl promised to help, and the two gnomes were taken into the -automobile, which of course immediately became a “gnomobile”—the title -of the book. There followed a string of adventures extending all the way -from California to the forests<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span> of the East. The two gnomes were kept in -a large basket, and the playful young man of fashion who did the driving -told everybody that the basket contained Abyssinian geese. Thereafter he -was hounded by newspapermen who wanted to see those rare and precious -creatures. When the gnomes were stolen and put on exhibition in a -circus, the story indeed became exciting.</p> - -<p>This book for children was published with a lot of gay pictures; it was -also published in France, and is about to be republished here. Walt -Disney read it and told me that he had never done anything with live -characters, but if ever he did he would do <i>The Gnomobile</i>. Now, almost -thirty years later, he is setting out to keep the promise. I have a -contract.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>Next story: I thought it most amusing when my cousin, Wallis Warfield of -Baltimore, came near to wrecking the British Empire by running away with -its king; so I wrote a one-act play showing exactly how a Baltimore -belle went about fascinating any male animal, whether he had a crown or -a dunce’s cap on his head—or both at the same time. I called it <i>Wally -for Queen</i>. I thought it was hilariously funny; but when I sent it to my -friend, Arch Selwyn, movie producer, he wrote back, “Upton, are you -crazy, or do you think that I am?” So the crazy little play remains -unproduced. But I can wait, and maybe I’ll outlast my cousin and her -ex-king, and my story will be history and can be made into a musical -comedy, as happened to Bernard Shaw’s <i>Pygmalion</i>.</p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>Sometime in the twenties Henry Ford had come for a winter’s vacation and -lived on an estate in Altadena not far from our home. Henry fancied -himself a sociologist, an economist, and an authority on what should be -done for his country. I wrote a note offering to call, and received an -invitation. I duly presented my card to the guard at the gates and was -admitted. I found the unpretentious great man in the garage with his -son, Edsel, busy looking over some junk they had found in this rented -place.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span> They had in their hands a discarded carburetor and were twisting -it this way and that, trying to figure out what purpose the various -openings could have served. I don’t think I quite knew what a carburetor -was, so I was not able to help.</p> - -<p>Presently we went into the house; Henry’s wife was there, a quiet little -woman—I can’t recall anything that she said. Henry had a great deal to -say, and his wife listened. Henry thought he knew what was wrong with -America and told me. I saw that he liked to talk, and I let him, only -putting in a mild suggestion now and then. That suited him, and when I -left he suggested that I should come again and we would take a walk in -the hills.</p> - -<p>So we took a walk. Henry was a spare man and a fast walker even on -hills. I expressed the opinion that the American people needed educating -on economic questions, and Henry agreed with me. I asked him why he -didn’t do some of the educating himself, and the idea pleased him. I -suggested that he start a magazine, and he said he thought that when he -got back to Dearborn he would buy one. I suggested some of the topics -for the magazine—“Production for Use” and “Self-Help -Co-operatives”—and Henry said those things sounded good to him. He did -start a magazine. It was the <i>Dearborn Independent</i>; and from the outset -it was the most reactionary magazine in America.</p> - -<p>I had told Henry about King C. Gillette and his books. Gillette was -another multimillionaire, not quite so multi as Henry, but plenty. Henry -was interested. He consented to come and exchange ideas with Gillette, -and the appointment was made. A houseboy and two schoolboys whom my wife -employed for work on the place just couldn’t be persuaded to do any work -that morning. They lined up beside the drive to see the Flivver King and -the Razor King come in. (Razor King is a pun, but it was made by fate, -not by me.)</p> - -<p>The Flivver King was lean and spry, and the Razor King was large and -ponderous. They sat in easy chairs in front of our fireplace and -exchanged ideas. As I wrote shortly afterward, it was like watching two -billiard balls—they hit and then flew apart, and neither made the -slightest impression upon the other. America remained and still remains -what it always was—a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span> land of vast riches and cruel poverty. Gillette’s -book fell flat, and Henry’s magazine died unmourned.</p> - -<p>As fate willed it, I was to have more to do with Ford, indirectly. And -though I never heard from him again, I feel quite sure that he knew what -I did—and didn’t like it. In the thirties, the CIO set out to organize -industrial workers, including those who worked in the big automobile -plants. Henry Ford was blindly and stubbornly opposed to unionization -and declared that he would close his plants rather than have them -organized. There was a strike, and he fought ruthlessly. Frank Murphy, -mayor of Detroit, said to me at the dinner table of Rob Wagner in -Beverly Hills: “Henry Ford employs some of the worst gangsters in -Detroit, and I can name them.”</p> - -<p>Because I had known Ford, I was much interested in what was going on; as -usual, I decided to make a novel of it. I called the book <i>Flivver -King</i>, and when it was done I sent a copy of the manuscript to one of -the strike leaders in Detroit. I expected a prompt response and was not -disappointed. They wanted that story, and they wanted it quickly. I -offered them 200,000 pamphlet copies to be retailed at fifty cents a -copy. However, I insisted on having the book done by my own printer, a -union shop, because I wanted the plates and the control. After some -dickering they accepted the offer, and the result was that in Ford -plants all over the world Ford workers could be seen with a little green -paperbound book, folded once lengthwise and stuck in their back pants -pocket. I was told that they put it there on purpose, where it could be -seen. It was a sort of badge of defiance.</p> - -<p>The story of the humble mechanic who had built the first self-moving -vehicle in his own garage and had revolutionized the traffic of mankind -all over the world—look at it now!—was a wonderful story, and I would -have been a bungler if I had not made it interesting.</p> - -<p>Ford’s battle with the union had a surprising ending. He suddenly gave -way and permitted his plants to be organized. It wasn’t until some years -later that I learned the reason—his wife told him that if he did close -the plants she would leave him. I can’t reveal the source of this -information, but I know that it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span> true. As I have already related, I -had met Mrs. Ford during my acquaintance with her husband. She had -scarcely said a word and had never expressed an opinion during my -arguments with Henry. But she had listened. She couldn’t have heard such -arguments as mine very often in her life—and perhaps they played a part -in persuading her that Ford’s workers should be allowed to have a union. -It pleases me to believe that.</p> - -<h3>VII</h3> - -<p>My next book was a novelette called <i>Our Lady</i>, and I think it is my -favorite among all my too-many books.</p> - -<p>I had been brought up as a very religious little boy; I had been -confirmed in the Episcopal Church of the Holy Communion in New York at -the age of about fourteen. I remember that I attended service every day -during Lent. Later on in life I had found the New Testament an excellent -way of learning foreign languages. I knew the text so well that I could -save myself the trouble of looking up words in the dictionary; so I read -the New Testament first in Latin, then in Greek, then in German, then in -French, and then in Italian.</p> - -<p>I had conceived a real love, a personal affection, for the historical -Jesus; it seemed to me that he had been a social rebel who had been -taken up and made into an object of superstition instead of human love. -I had been particularly repelled by the deification of his mother; I -found myself thinking what she must have been in reality and what she -would have made of the worship of the Catholics. And so came my story:</p> - -<p>A humble peasant woman of Judea, named Marya, sees her beloved son go -off on a mission that terrifies her. In her neighborhood is a Nabatean -woman, a “dark-meated one,” a sorceress, much dreaded. Marya goes to her -and asks to see the future of her son. The sorceress weaves a spell, and -Marya in fright falls unconscious. She wakes up to find herself in the -modern world, walking on an avenue in Los Angeles, in the midst of a -great crowd on its way to a football stadium at which the Notre Dame -team is to be pitted against some local team. Since not all my readers -are scholarly persons, I point out that Notre Dame<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span> means “Our Lady”—in -other words, Marya, the mother of Jesus.</p> - -<p>Arriving at the gates, the woman in a humble peasant costume is assumed -to have been lost from one of the many floats; so she is seated in -another, goes in, and sees the game with all its uproar, having no idea -that it is being held in her name. She finds herself seated next to a -young Catholic priest from Notre Dame University; he is a student of -ancient languages and is astounded to hear her speak to him in ancient -Aramaic. He decides that this is a problem for the authorities of the -Church, and he takes her to a convent. He calls the bishop, and -ceremonies of exorcism are performed that send Marya back where she -belongs. She is disturbed by the strange experience and sternly rebukes -the Nabatean sorceress: “All this has nothing to do with me!”</p> - -<p>As I said, I think it is my favorite story, and I think that last line -has a special “punch.” I must add that I could never have written the -story if it had not been for the gracious and loving help of my friend -Lewis Browne, a scholar who knew those languages and cultures and gave -me all the rich details. That is why I think it is a good story, and -will be read as long as anything of mine. But perhaps not by my Catholic -friends.</p> - -<h3>VIII</h3> - -<p>I would guess that I have earned a million dollars in the course of my -life; ninety-nine per cent of it came from writing and one per cent from -lecturing. First it was the half-dime novels; then it became serious -books, and my troubles and the readers’ began. Always I had been -advocating unpopular opinions, swimming against the current. I can hear -the voice of my dear mother, long since departed from this earth, -pleading with me not to make things so hard for myself but to write -things to please other people—and incidentally help my dear mother so -that she would not have to wear the discarded clothes of her well-to-do -sisters.</p> - -<p>But there was something in me that drove me to write what I believed and -what other people ought to believe: always something unpopular, -something difficult; a play about Marie An<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span>toinette, for example—what -could be more unlikely from Upton Sinclair, or less likely to please his -readers? “Upton Sinclair just <i>loves</i> Marie Antoinette,” said the <i>New -Republic</i>, jovially.</p> - -<p>No, I didn’t exactly love her, but I pitied poor human creatures in -their dreadful predicaments. A girl child had been raised and trained to -believe that she was destined by Almighty God to rule over millions of -people—or at least to sit on the throne beside the ruler and bring a -future ruler into the world; and she was destined instead to be dragged -from her throne and hauled through avenues packed with screaming, -cursing people crowding in to see her head chopped off upon a high -public platform. Who was she really, and what did she make of it—she -and the God whom she worshiped.</p> - -<p>She had a lover, the Swedish Count Fersen, quite proper according to the -customs of her time. I found that pitiful love story touching, and I -think I wrote a good play; but it would have been expensive to produce, -and no one here or in Paris has come forward.</p> - -<p>I did my homework on it, as I always do, and the book was highly -praised. There sticks in my mind a letter from an old gentleman who took -exception to my interpretation of the revolutionary slogan, “<i>Les -aristocrats à la lanterne!</i>” There was a French song at the time that I -translated, “The aristocrats, they shall hang from lanterns”; the old -gentleman found that an amusing blunder. But in the music room of the -Pasadena Library I had dug up a book of those historic revolutionary -chants, and had found a footnote explaining that in those days at street -and highway intersections high posts had been set up and chains strung -across, so that a lantern could be hung above the center of the roads. -It was literally true that the aristocrats had been hung from lanterns.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XVI" id="XVI"></a><i>16</i><br /><br /> -<i>Lanny Budd</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>I come now to what I suppose is the most important part of my literary -performance. The Second World War was on the way. I had been predicting -it and crying out against it for many years—indeed, ever since the -First World War had been settled with so little good sense. At the end -of that awful peace settlement I had published my protests in the little -magazine, <i>Upton Sinclair’s</i>; but few had heeded. Now, at the age of -sixty, I decided to try once more, going back and picturing the -half-dozen years of the war and peace that had so tormented my soul. I -was going to write a real novel this time, not propaganda, but -history—a detailed picture of the most tragic five years in the story -of the tragic human race.</p> - -<p>I had enough money to last me for a year, and my dear wife had provided -me with a quiet and pleasant home. At one end of our place was a garden -fenced in and hidden by rose vines. And there was a lovely German -shepherd who was trained to lie still and never bark at the birds while -I was pecking on the typewriter. Nothing more could be asked for. The -greatest of all historic subjects, perfect peace to write in, a faithful -secretary to transcribe the manuscript, attend to the book business and -keep all visitors away; a garden path to walk up and down on while I -planned the next paragraph, and a good public library from which I could -get what history books I needed for the job.</p> - -<p>The year I was writing in was 1939, and the years I was writ<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span>ing about -were 1913 to 1919. For the opening scene I used our experience, already -described, in the German village of Hellerau or “bright meadow.” That -meadow had been bright, not merely with sunshine but with hope and joy -and art and beauty—and also with the golden beard of George Bernard -Shaw, when we attended the festival at the Dalcroze temple of art and -saw a performance of Gluck’s <i>Orpheus</i>. What setting could be more -appropriate for the beginning of a novel about everything that was -gracious and kind in the civilization of old Europe?</p> - -<p>I knew I had something extra this time and was shivering with delight -over it. The lovely American lady, “Beauty” Budd, and her charming and -eager son, Lanny, were at that festival. Our old friend Albert Rhys -Williams read my opening chapter and said to my wife, “You had better -watch out; Upton is in love with Beauty Budd.” So I was, all through -that enormous task; eleven volumes, 7,364 pages, over four million -words. When I began, I planned one novel to cover five years of Europe’s -history. I wonder if I would have had the nerve to go on with it if I -had known that it was going to cover more than forty years and take a -dozen years of work.</p> - -<p>I have read patronizing remarks about the Lanny Budd books from -high-brow critics. But some very distinguished individuals and journals -have done them honor. I quote a few of these opinions; they gave me -courage to go on writing the books, and they may give the reader courage -to read them.</p> - -<p>George Bernard Shaw: “When people ask me what happened in my long -lifetime I do not refer them to the newspaper files and to authorities -but to your novels.”</p> - -<p>Albert Einstein: “I am convinced that you are doing very important and -valuable work in giving to the American public a vivid insight into the -psychological and economical background of the tragedy evolving in our -generation. Only a real artist can accomplish this.”</p> - -<p>Thomas Mann: “Someday the whole cycle will certainly be recognized as -the best founded and best informed description of the political life of -our epoch.”</p> - -<p>New York <i>Times Book Review</i>: “Something of a miracle ... one of the -nation’s most valued literary properties.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>New York <i>Herald-Tribune Books</i>: “This greatly daring, ambitious history -in story form of our times.”</p> - -<p>New York <i>Post</i>: “This planetary saga.... We see a whole civilization on -these pages.”</p> - -<p><i>Times Literary Supplement</i>, London: “The inventive power, intellectual -resource and technical craft of these volumes, indeed, are easily -underrated.... How full, varied and decisive a job he makes of it! For -the fascination of <i>la haute politique</i> in our time of destiny he adds -the wonders of the worlds of art, finance, Marxism, travel, spiritualism -and a good deal more. At the same time how irrepressible and all but -disinterested is the storyteller in Mr. Sinclair, who switches from a -burst of left-wing elucidation to a chapter of thrills without turning a -hair. The first impression he leaves here is of the sweep and diversity -of his knowledge.”</p> - -<p>Manchester <i>Guardian</i>: “Lanny Budd is the romantic rider of a -documentary whirlwind.... Criticism kneels.”</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Beginning in 1939, the Lanny Budd books occupied practically all of my -working time and a good part of my playtime over a ten-year period; -then, after an interval, for another year. I thought about little else -when I was writing them, and Craig was delighted to have me at home and -out of mischief.</p> - -<p>I knew some people who had been through the war, and I found others. I -had been in Britain, France, Germany, and Holland, and had friends who -lived there and would answer my questions. I had my own writings, -including my little magazine, which had covered the time. I had met all -kinds of people who had lived and struggled through that -war—businessmen, politicians, soldiers, radicals of every shade. In -spite of my wife’s anxieties about communists I had known Jack Reed and -Bob Minor and Anna Louise Strong—I could compile quite a list of -persons whom I oughtn’t to have known.</p> - -<p>Near the end of my story I found that the men who had been on Wilson’s -staff of advisors in Paris were willing to write long letters, answering -questions and giving me local color. Also<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span> there was Lincoln Steffens, -who had been in Paris at the time of the peace conference; he had been -close to Woodrow Wilson, and had known everything that was going on in -those dread days of the peace making—or the next war preparing. He told -me the details; and I had already learned a lot from George D. Herron, -who had been Woodrow Wilson’s secret agent, operating in Switzerland. I -have told about Herron earlier in this book.</p> - -<p>So I wrote the story of a little American boy, illegitimate son of a -munitions-making father, living on the French Riviera with an adoring -mother called Beauty.</p> - -<p>Those lively scenes unfolded before my mind, and I was in a state of -delight for pretty nearly a whole year. I began sending bits of the -manuscript here and there for checking, and I found that other people -were also pleased. How Lanny grew up and went out into the world of -politics and fashion—there were a thousand details I had to have -checked; and there may have been someone who ignored me, but I cannot -recall him. Whatever department of European life Lanny entered, there -was always someone who knew about it and would answer questions. That -went for munitions and politics and the intermingling of the two. It -went for elegance and fashion, manners and morals, art and war.</p> - -<p>I have to pay tribute to several of these friends, new or old. There was -S. K. Ratcliffe, journalist and man of all knowledge. I had met him in -England, and once every year he came on a lecture trip to California; we -became close friends. I asked if he would read a bit of manuscript, and -he said he would read every page. Little did the good soul realize what -that promise meant! I sent him chapter by chapter straight through that -whole series, and I found him a living encyclopedia. The details that he -knew, the little errors he caught—it was wonderful, and every time I -tried to pay him, he would say no. He would be proud, he said, to have -helped with the Lanny Budd books.</p> - -<p>There was my old classmate, Martin Birnbaum. He had been in my class in -grammar school and for five years in City College—I figure that meant -six thousand hours. Then he became my violin teacher, and always he -remained my friend. He made himself an art expert, and what he did and -what he knew you can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span> read in his book, <i>The Last Romantic</i>, for which I -wrote a preface. It may have been his suggestion that being an art -expert would give Lanny Budd a pretext to visit all the rich and -powerful persons in both Europe and America. I knew, and still know, -very little about art, but Martin would tell me anything I wanted to -know—always exactly what my story required.</p> - -<p>I put Martin himself into the story; he is of Hungarian origin, and gave -me the Hungarian name Kerteszi, which means Birnbaum, which means “pear -tree.” Armed with Martin’s vast knowledge, Lanny could become a pal of -Hermann Goering and sell him wonderful paintings, or sell some of the -wonderful paintings that Goering had stolen. Armed with that art alibi, -Lanny could travel to every country in Europe, and come back to America -when he became a “presidential agent.”</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Incidentally, I actually knew a presidential agent, and he helped me -with Lanny Budd. This was Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jr.—“Neil” to the -thousands who know him. We met him early in California when he was -trying to start a liberal newspaper and came to persuade the Gartz -family to invest. I liked him, and what was more important, Craig liked -him; we saw a great deal of him, and watched his gallant fight to -finance a liberal newspaper in a reactionary community.</p> - -<p>In 1943 when I had gotten volume four to the printers and was thinking -about volume five, Neil happened along. I remember that two of Craig’s -nieces were visiting us, and Neil had recently obtained one of his -divorces. Maybe Craig had a certain notion in her head—I do not know, -and would not tell if I did—but anyhow the two young ladies prepared a -lunch of cold chicken and sundries, while I sat out by the little -homemade swimming pool and listened to Neil’s stories about his dealings -with Franklin Roosevelt during the Second World War.</p> - -<p>Neil really was a Presidential agent. He traveled to Europe on various -pretexts and came back and reported secretly to the boss. He had been -able to go into Germany and into Italy. He had been taken for a long -drive by Mussolini. The dictator did his own ferocious driving, and when -they ran over a child and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span> killed it, Il Duce did not stop. (When Neil -published this story, Mussolini denied it, but that of course meant -nothing.)</p> - -<p>Neil told me of the secret door by which he had entered the White House, -and what Franklin wore and how he behaved. Presently, I said with some -excitement and hesitancy, “That would make a wonderful story for Lanny -Budd.” Neil said, “That’s why I’m telling it to you.” It was a -magnificent gift, and I here express my gratitude. <i>Presidential Agent</i> -became the title of volume five of the series.</p> - -<p>Thereafter whenever I met Neil—I was about to say that I pumped him -dry, but I realize that that metaphor is wrong; he is a bubbling spring, -the most entertaining talker I ever listened to. Other people can be -interesting for half an hour, perhaps, but Neil—well, I will give the -statistics on our last meeting. He arrived at our home about three -o’clock in the afternoon and talked steadily until seven o’clock, when I -thought he ought to have some dinner; we got into his Cadillac—the only -time I ever rode in a Cadillac—and he talked all the way to dinner and -during dinner and on the way back to the house. Then he talked until -eleven o’clock in the evening. We listened to every word.</p> - -<p>Such stories! He has been married five times, and each marriage was a -set of mishaps. One dissatisfied wife forced her way into the great -Fifth Avenue mansion and refused to leave. When the servants shut off -the light and heat to get rid of her, she dumped armfuls of papers on -the tile floor and burned them, while she looked on. They included all -the letters Neil had had from Roosevelt. Such is life, if you happen to -be born an American millionaire!</p> - -<p>Craig was especially amused, because in her girlhood she had been for -two years a pupil at Mrs. Gardner’s fashionable school, directly across -Fifth Avenue from the Vanderbilt mansion. Curtains were drawn over all -the front windows of the school, and it was strictly against the rules -to open them. But don’t think the young ladies didn’t peek! Craig had -watched the family come out to their carriages and had seen a tiny boy, -two or three years old, toddling out with one or two attendants. She -could not know that this child would grow up to tell her muckraking -stories.</p> - -<p>Neil gave me not merely the title, <i>Presidential Agent</i>, he pro<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span>vided me -with many incidents and much local color, all accurate—for be sure that -millions of people read those stories in some twenty of the world’s -great languages, and few were the errors pointed out to me. Now Lanny -Budd is being prepared for TV, and Neil is somehow connected with it. -Maybe he is going to furnish local color. I hope for the best.</p> - -<p>One other person to whom I owe a heavy debt of thanks: Ben Huebsch, old -friend from the first days of the Civil Liberties Union in New York. He -was then an independent publisher, and later became editorial head of -Viking Press. It was to him that I sent the completed manuscript of -<i>World’s End</i>—one thousand or more pages. He afterward stated that he -had known in the first twenty-four hours that they would publish the -book.</p> - -<p>They published it beautifully; the Literary Guild took it, which meant -something over a hundred thousand copies at the start. Ben had pointed -out errors, and thereafter I sent him every chapter of the succeeding -ten volumes. He found many errors and gave much advice; he is one more -to whom the reader is indebted for the assurance that the books can be -read as history, as politics, art, and science, and a little bit of -everything—business, fashion, war and peace and human hope.</p> - -<p>I wrote the first three of the Lanny Budd books in Pasadena, and then we -moved to Monrovia. I remember because one day the telephone rang, and -the editor of the local newspaper asked me if I had heard that volume -three, <i>Dragon’s Teeth</i>, had just been awarded the Pulitzer Prize. I -hadn’t heard it and, of course, was thankful for the call. Bernard Shaw -and a large group of others had tried to get me the Nobel Prize but had -failed. Another try is now being prepared.</p> - -<p>I interrupted the writing of the Lanny Budd series only once—to do a -play about the atomic bomb, which everybody was speculating about at the -end of the 1940’s. They have been speculating ever since, and are -continuing as I write. Is our world going to be ended with a bang—or -will it take several? I put my speculations into a play called <i>A -Giant’s Strength</i>. “Oh, it is excellent to have a giant’s strength,” -says Shakespeare, “but it is tyrannous to use it as a giant.” It seems -to me not excellent to have a giant’s strength entrusted to persons with -the mentality of pigmies. My play pictured a Princeton professor of -phys<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span>ics fleeing with his family to hide in a cave somewhere in the -Rocky Mountains; and not even the caves were safe.</p> - -<p>Then I wrote the tenth volume of the Lanny Budd books, <i>O Shepherd, -Speak!</i> The shepherd who was asked to speak from the grave was Franklin -Roosevelt, and I thought that was to be the end of my series. I was -entitled to a little fun, so I wrote <i>Another Pamela</i>—in which I took -Samuel Richardson’s old-time serving maid and exposed her to temptations -in a family that, I must admit, bore many resemblances to that of our -friend Kate Crane-Gartz. It pleased her wonderfully. She never objected -to publicity. The story is now being prepared as a musical comedy.</p> - -<p>Also I wrote <i>A Personal Jesus</i>, in which I speculated about what that -good man must have been in actuality. Having been brought up on the -Bible, in later years I was tempted to go back to those old stories and -old formulas and see them through a modern pair of spectacles. Needless -to say, they turned out to be somewhat different. I tried to imagine -Jesus as a human being.</p> - -<p>And then another light novel: What would happen if a modern man suddenly -found himself with the power to work miracles—miracles like those in -the Testaments both New and Old? How would he be received, and what -would he accomplish? So came <i>What Didymus Did</i>. My “Thomas called -Didymus” was a humble and rather ignorant American youth, and what he -did got him into a lot of trouble—and made a lot of fun. Oddly enough, -the book was translated and made an impression in the far-off native -land of the original Didymus. Just recently they had a communist -overturn in Kerala, and I earnestly hope that my little story was not to -blame. You see, in my story the communists got hold of Didymus in Los -Angeles and brought to smash the new religion he was trying to found. I -would hate to think that I had put evil ideas into any heads on the -southwest coast of modern India!</p> - -<p>After an interval of four years, I wrote <i>The Return of Lanny Budd</i>, -dealing with the postwar struggles against the communists. Some of my -friends objected to the episode in which Lanny encouraged an anti-Nazi -German youth to betray the secrets of his Nazi father. All I can say is -that it was a civil war as well as a social war, and that Lanny was -saving American lives. I hap<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span>pened to know of one such case, and have no -doubt there were hundreds. War is hell, and books should not prettify -it.</p> - -<p>After I had finished with Lanny Budd, I turned my attention to a subject -that I had not touched upon since <i>The Wet Parade</i> a couple of decades -earlier. I called the book <i>The Cup of Fury</i>. My maternal grandfather -was a deacon in the Methodist Church, and on a lower shelf of his -bookcase was a row of bound volumes of the <i>Christian Herald</i>. They were -full of pictures, and as a little fellow I used to pull out a volume and -lie on the floor and learn to spell out words and read the titles and -the stories underneath. Now, seventy years later, I submitted the -manuscript of <i>The Cup of Fury</i> to Daniel A. Poling, now editor of the -<i>Christian Herald</i>. He was enthusiastic about it and turned it over to -his publishers; it is still one of my best-selling books.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>I have already told a great deal about Kate Crane-Gartz who played such -an important part in our lives. My wife loved her as a sister, and my -wife was the most loyal of friends. She had done a great deal of work -for Kitty; she had been well paid for it, and was sure that she had -earned the pay. In addition there was friendship, which cannot be bought -for money and can be repaid only with more friendship. But Craig had a -higher loyalty, which was to truth and to the human society in which we -have to live.</p> - -<p>Little by little, Mrs. Gartz’s mind had been laid siege to by the -communists. They had high-sounding phrases, they were trained in -subtlety, and they had no loyalty except to their cause of social -revolution. Directly or indirectly, they were subsidized by Moscow. Mrs. -Gartz was an easy mark because she was kindhearted; she believed what -she was told, and they knew exactly what to tell her. They told her that -we socialists were dreamers, out of touch with the real cruelties of -militarism and the corruptions of our political life. They told her that -she alone had the insight and courage to be a real pacifist and to -support the only real steps that could prevent another world war. They -pointed out that when the showdowns had come, Upton Sinclair and his -wife had supported two cruel world wars<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span> and that she, Kate Crane-Gartz, -was the only true and dedicated pacifist. She was the one who had been -right all along!</p> - -<p>I can’t say that Mrs. Gartz accepted all this, because I was not present -to investigate her mind, and she changed it frequently. All that she -asked of us was that we would come up to her home and answer the -communists; and that was what Mary Craig had made up her mind to do no -more. We had seen enough of their trickery and their success in -flattering our old friend. After we had been confronted by communists -several times without warning, Craig decided that we would stay -away—and that she would cash no more of Mrs. Gartz’s checks. (Years -later, she discovered half a dozen that she had put away; but the estate -had been closed.)</p> - -<p>All this had its humorous aspect if you could forget the pain on both -sides. Craig could not shut our door to Mrs. Gartz, so her decision was -that we would go into hiding. I don’t know how many cottages Craig -bought and moved me into in order to keep Mrs. Gartz from finding us. I -can tell you those that come to my mind and of which I remember the -names.</p> - -<p>In 1946 we found a little cottage in the hills up above Arlington. A -lovely location, a great high plateau with no smog in the air, and hills -all around with flocks of sheep tended by shepherds who were Basques. -There was a highway in the distance, and at night when the cars passed -over it, the long row of lights made a beautiful effect. Wandering over -those ridges I came upon a level spot with a half-dozen boulders laid -around in a circle, and it was easy for my imagination to turn it into -an Indian assembly place. I pictured there a gathering of departed -spirits, including Lincoln Steffens and Mrs. Gartz’s eldest son, who had -taken his own life. I imagined them discussing the state of the world, -each according to his own point of view; I wrote down the discussion and -called the little pamphlet <i>Limbo on the Loose</i>.</p> - -<p>And then there was a place in the hills above Corona, the most -comfortable cottage we ever had. We lived there a year or two and came -back to it after Craig’s first heart attack, as I shall narrate. There -were always troubles, of course. Boys played baseball on the place when -we were away and damaged the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span> tile roof. Also, some of the neighbors -thought we were unsociable, which was too bad. The main trouble was that -our highway went wandering through the hills, and the traffic was fast -and heavy; so every time I went to town Craig was worried.</p> - -<p>In 1948 we found a lovely concrete house on the slope just above Lake -Elsinore. It had an extra building that had been a billiard room and -made a fine office for me. But, alas, we had no sooner fallen in love -with that beautiful lake than it proceeded to disappear. I don’t know -whether it went down through the mud or up into the air; anyhow, there -was no more lake, but only a great level plain of dust. I can’t remember -why we moved from there, and, alas, Craig is no longer here to tell me. -If she were here she probably wouldn’t let me be telling this story -anyway.</p> - -<p>I am giving a playful account of our game of hide-and-seek with Mrs. -Gartz; that is my way—especially if the troubles are past and I can no -longer undo them. It really seems absurd to say that we spent several -years of our lives keeping out of reach of one woman to whom my wife -felt in debt and whose feelings she could not bear to hurt. It wasn’t -the devil who was after us, it was a dear friend who wanted nothing -except to make us meet communists.</p> - -<p>Whenever we took a trip to some other region of California, Craig would -buy a picture post card of that place, sign it “With love,” and mail it -to Mrs. Gartz. Later on, Albert Rhys Williams, who had written a book -about Russia and didn’t mind knowing communists, told Craig that Mrs. -Gartz had received one of these cards and had sent him on a hunt. He -went to San Jacinto and asked at the post office and the hotels and -wherever there might be a possibility of finding out where the Upton -Sinclairs lived. All the Upton Sinclairs had done in San Jacinto was to -eat one lunch and write one post card.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>The time came when ill-health put an end to that strange game of -hide-and-seek. Craig had to go back to our comfortable Monrovia house -and lock the big wooden gates and keep them locked no matter who came. -One man climbed over the gates<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span> and told her that he had just been -released from the psychopathic ward at the Veterans’ Home in Sawtelle; -that time, Craig called the police.</p> - -<p>Her anxieties were the result of many experiences, extending over many -years. I will tell one more story, going back to the Pasadena days. A -Swedish giant, who must have been seven feet high, entered my study and -told me in a deep sepulchral voice, “I have a message direct from God.” -I, only five feet seven and cringing at a desk, said politely, -“Indeed—how interesting; and in what form is it?” Of course, I knew -what the form was because I saw a package under his arm. “It is a -manuscript,” he said.</p> - -<p>It was up to me to say, “You wish me to read it?” The sepulchral voice -replied, “No human eye has ever beheld it. No human eye ever <i>will</i> -behold it.”</p> - -<p>I asked timidly, “What do you wish me to do?”</p> - -<p>Then I heard Craig’s voice in the doorway, “Upton, the plumber is -waiting for you.”</p> - -<p>When it comes to hints I am very dumb. “What plumber?” I asked. Craig, -used to my dumbness, continued, “There’s a leak in the basement, and you -have to go and let the plumber in.” I got it that time and followed her, -and we fled down to the other house and locked ourselves in.</p> - -<p>As to Mrs. Gartz, Craig had finally made up her mind to face it out. -When the celebrated “Red Dean” of Canterbury Cathedral visited Pasadena -and Mrs. Gartz wrote demanding that we meet him, Craig locked our gates -and let them stay that way. Mrs. Gartz came, with the communist prelate -by her side. Her chauffeur got out and pounded on the gate, while Craig -peered through a tiny crack in an upstairs window curtain. Afterward she -wept, because of what she had done to an old and beloved friend.</p> - -<p>Years later, another friend was driving Craig on one of the business -streets of Pasadena, and they passed a mortuary. “Just think,” said the -friend, pointing. “In there is all that is left of Kate Gartz—in an -urn, on a shelf.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="XVII" id="XVII"></a><i>17</i><br /><br /> -<i>Harvest</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Woman, the conservator. She is traditionally that, and from the first -moment we united our destinies, Craig had set herself to saving all the -papers that were lying about our house. She put them into boxes and -stacked the boxes in a storeroom. When she built the five old houses -into one house on Sunset Avenue, she had a mason come and build a -concrete room. She didn’t know about concrete so she did not supervise -the job, and very soon she had a leaky roof to torment her. She got old -Judd, the carpenter, and really laid down the law to him. She was going -to build four storerooms, each a separate airtight and watertight little -house; she was going to supervise that job herself.</p> - -<p>Old Judd had one set comment for all of Craig’s jobs: “Nobody ever did -anything like that before.” But he gave up and did what he was told; -soon on the long front porch and on the several back porches of that -extraordinary home were four tiny houses, three of them eight by ten and -one of them eight by sixteen, built as solidly as if they were really -houses, each with its double tar-paper roof—and all that under the -roofs of the regular porches.</p> - -<p>So at last the Sinclair papers were safe and dry. When we moved to the -new house in Monrovia each of those little houses was picked up with its -contents undisturbed, put on a truck, and transported a dozen miles or -so to the new place. Craig did all these things without telling me; I -was writing a new book while she was taking care of the old ones.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span></p> - -<p>The big double garage at the Monrovia place didn’t suit her because one -had to circle around the main house to get into it, and she didn’t trust -her husband’s ability to back out around a curve; so the big double -garage, which was of concrete, became my office, and the four little -houses were emptied and set therein. Later, a long concrete warehouse -was built, as well as an aluminum warehouse, and all the precious boxes -of papers were at last sheltered safely.</p> - -<p>I lived and worked in that Monrovia office over a period of some fifteen -years, and I managed to fill all the storerooms with boxes of papers. -The ceilings were high, and shelves went up to where you could only -reach them by ladder. I had over eight hundred foreign translations of -my books, not counting duplicates. I had what was estimated to be over a -quarter of a million letters, all packed away in files. I had -practically all the original manuscripts of my eighty books, and also of -the pamphlets and circulars.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>We decided that the time had come to find a permanent resting place for -our papers. I called the head librarian of the Huntington Library, and -he came with two assistants. They spent a couple of weeks going through -everything and exclaiming with delight. Leslie E. Bliss, an elderly man, -said it was the best and the best-preserved collection he had ever seen. -He asked what we wanted for it, and at a wild guess I said fifty -thousand dollars. He said that was reasonable, and he would take -pleasure in advising his trustees to make the deal.</p> - -<p>Alas, I had forgotten to ask about those trustees. I quailed when I -learned that the chairman of the board was Mr. Herbert Hoover; and the -other members were all eminent and plutocratic. I was not favored by the -Pasadena gentlemen who control the Huntington Library; my collection was -declined.</p> - -<p>Dear, good Mr. Bliss was sad. He was kind enough to tell me of a -wonderful new library, both fireproof and bombproof, that was being -built at Indiana University with a million dollars put up by the -pharmaceutical firm of Lilly. He advised me to approach them; and in -April 1957 Cecil Byrd, the head of all that university’s libraries, and -also David Randall, head of the Lilly Library, came to see me. They said -just what Bliss had said, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span> ours was the most extensive and the -best-preserved collection they had ever seen.</p> - -<p>You remember the story I told about the Stalin telegram. I said to Byrd -and Randall, “If someone were to come upon a genuine document signed by -Tamerlane, or Genghis Khan, or any other of the wholesale slaughterers -of history, what do you think it would be worth?” One of them said, “Oh, -about a million dollars.” I laughed and said, “What we are asking for -the collection is ten thousand a year for five years.” They said, “It’s -a deal.”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>One of the great sights of my life was the arrival of a huge van from a -storage company, and the packing of those treasures. The three packers -were experts. They had sheets of heavy cardboard, already cut and -creased, so that with a few motions of the hand each sheet became a box. -Into those boxes went all the priceless foreign editions, the original -manuscripts, the manila folders with the two hundred and fifty thousand -letters. The whole job was done in three or four hours, and off went our -lifetime’s treasure. Off went the bust by the Swedish sculptor, Carl -Eldh, and the large photograph of Albert Einstein with the poem to me, -written in German; off went all the books, pamphlets and manuscripts.</p> - -<p>I could fill a chapter with a listing of those treasures. There were -thirty-two letters from Einstein and a hundred and eighty-six from -Mencken, and a long one from Bernard Shaw about the Nobel Prize that he -had asked for me—in vain; also his letter that I quoted earlier, -praising the Lanny Budd books. Any scholar who really wants to know -about the pains I took with those eleven volumes will find the thousands -of letters I wrote to informed persons, checking details of history and -biography. Anyone can see the pains I took with a book like <i>The Brass -Check</i> which contained, as Samuel Untermyer told me, fifty criminal -libels and a thousand civil suits, but brought no suit whatever. (I -ought to add that Untermyer’s statement was hyperbolical, and my memory -of it may be the same. It was something like that.)</p> - -<p>The collection rolled away, and the place seemed kind of empty—all -those storerooms and nothing in them! Only the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">{306}</a></span> outdoors was full—of -the grocery cartons the truckmen had discarded. They were piled to the -very top of the office, and I remember it cost us thirty-five dollars to -have them carted away. But we could afford it!</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>So far I have said little about my efforts at playwriting. I have always -had aspirations to the stage, and no interest in “closet dramas”; I -wanted to write for producers, actors, and audiences. But, alas, I had -to write on subjects that appealed to few in those groups. Stage plays -are supposed to portray things as they are, and I wanted to portray -things as they ought to be—or to portray people trying to change them. -I spent a lifetime learning the lesson that no matter how real such -characters may be, no matter how lively their struggles may be, no -producer thinks that the public wants to see or hear them.</p> - -<p>One day I estimated that I had written thirty plays; half a dozen of -them one-acters, and the others full length. On the same day, oddly -enough, I received a letter from a graduate student who has been doing -research on my collection at Indiana University. He told me that in half -a year of research and reading he had found a total of twenty-eight -plays—thirteen published and fifteen unpublished. (I had two others in -my home.) The list may interest other students.</p> - -<p>Revolutionary or reform themes: <i>Co-op</i>; <i>Depression Island</i>; <i>Singing -Jailbirds</i>; <i>The Second-Story Man</i>; <i>After the War Is Over</i>; <i>Oil!</i>; -<i>Prince Hagen</i>.</p> - -<p>Indirect demands for reform: <i>The Machine</i>; <i>The Millennium</i>; <i>Doctor -Fist</i>; <i>The Great American Play</i>; <i>John D</i>; <i>Love in Arms</i>; <i>Bill -Porter</i>; <i>The Grand Duke Lectures</i>; <i>The Pamela Play</i>; <i>The Saleslady</i>; -<i>The Convict</i>; <i>The Naturewoman</i>; <i>Hell</i>.</p> - -<p>Those on topical subjects: <i>A Giant’s Strength</i>; <i>The Enemy Had It Too</i>.</p> - -<p>Nonreform subjects: <i>The Pot Boiler</i>; <i>Marie and Her Lover</i>; <i>The -Emancipated Husband</i>; <i>The Most Haunted House</i>; <i>Wally for Queen</i>; -<i>Cicero</i>.</p> - -<p>Lost and forgotten: <i>The Jungle</i> dramatization.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">{307}</a></span></p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>The latest of my plays, <i>Cicero: A Tragic Drama in Three Acts</i>, was -written in the winter of 1959-60. I had been reading a history of -ancient Rome and was impressed by the resemblances between the time of -Cicero and the time of Eisenhower: the extremes of contrast between the -rich and the poor; the rich exhibiting their glory by fantastic -extravagances; the unemployed poor crowding into the cities, existing in -slums on doles; the farmers deserting their land and rioting—they were -doing it in Oklahoma; the domination of public affairs by big money; and -the total blindness of the public to all these manifest evils.</p> - -<p>I did not intend to preach a sermon; on the contrary, I determined to -leave the resemblances to the discernment of the audience. I was going -to show what Cicero faced and what happened to him. He was a rich man -himself, a consul, a senator; he had all the honors. A lawyer, he tried -criminal cases and made fortunes; a statesman, he was driven into exile, -and when his party came into power he came back. In the end his enemies -triumphed, and he fled and was captured; his head and hands were cut off -and exhibited in the forum. That hasn’t happened as yet to anybody in -America—but who knows?</p> - -<p>Most terrifying in ancient Rome was—and in our own land is—the sexual -corruption. When I was young I wrote a book about love and marriage, -<i>Love’s Pilgrimage</i>. It contained a bridal scene and a birth scene that -were detailed and without precedent; but every line was clean and true, -and every doctor and every married person knew it. I was told there -would be trouble, but there wasn’t. I was told there would be trouble in -England, and I asked the English publisher to send a copy of the book to -every bishop of the Church of England. He did so, and I got some kind -letters from these gentlemen; you will find examples in the volume, <i>My -Lifetime in Letters</i>. There was no trouble.</p> - -<p>But the vileness that is being published today is revolting to every -decent-thinking person. It is deliberately advertised and sold as -vileness, and one after another the books enter the bestseller list. I -have chosen to stay out of that competition; all I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">{308}</a></span> say here is that it -is exactly what Cicero saw in ancient Rome. He blistered it in his -courtroom speeches; he named names—and that was a contributing cause to -his murder.</p> - -<p>I had the three-act <i>Cicero</i> mimeographed, and one of the persons who I -hoped would honor it was Albert Camus. He wrote me cordially, and I -quote the first three sentences of his opinion—first in French and then -in translation:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>J’ai été bien touché par la confiance que vous m’avez faite en -m’envoyant votre <i>Ciceron</i>. C’est une tragédie pleine de sens et -plus actuelle qu’il n’y paraît. On y comprend mieux un certain -classicisme qui finissait dans les rains coupées et l’horreur.</p> - -<p>I have been indeed touched by the confidence you have shown me in -sending me your <i>Cicero</i>. It is a tragedy full of sense and more -real than it would seem. One there understands better a certain -classicism which would finish with the kidneys cut and the horror.</p></div> - -<p>I, and others, were puzzled by the <i>rains coupées</i>—“the kidneys cut.” -It was explained to me that the phrase approximates “a rabbit punch” in -American parlance.</p> - -<p>Camus went on to say that he had been “promised a theater” and would be -able to deal with the play “with more precision.” Soon thereafter I read -in the news that he had been assigned the directorship of the Théâtre -Française, perhaps the most famous in the world. My hopes rose high. -Then, alas, I read that he had been killed in a motorcar accident.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Taking my cue from Camus, I decided that the play might be “classical” -in more than one sense, and might appeal to university audiences. I -submitted the script to John Ben Tarver, then in the department of -dramatic arts at New York University. With his permission I quote from -his reply, dated April 3, 1960:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>I have gone through <i>Cicero</i> several times. It is a splendid play, -and I want to thank you again for sending it to us. Here are some -of my reactions:</p> - -<p>1. It has color, contrast, variety. Too many modern dramas labor -one theme to death and never try to vary the thread of the story.</p> - -<p>2. It is told in dramatic terms. The finest writing in the world -will not play in the theatre unless it is suited to a stage.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">{309}</a></span></p> - -<p>3. It makes a statement which has general meaning, a statement -which has meaning for today’s audience.</p> - -<p>4. The characters are sharp. All parts are good for actors. Every -role is clearly defined. Cicero, in particular is superbly written.</p> - -<p>5. It calls for all the elements of the theatre to be brought into -play.</p></div> - -<p>Tarver undertook to give the play a commercial production Off Broadway -in New York. He set out to raise the money, and I gave him the names of -friends who might be interested. That, alas, made my dear Craig unhappy, -because I had caused friends to lose money in the past, and I had been -forbidden ever to do it again.</p> - -<p>One of the names was that of Dick Otto, campaign manager of EPIC a -quarter of a century back. Craig considered him one of the finest men -she had ever known; she had stood by him all through those horrible two -or three years (for EPIC had gone on after my defeat in the election). -Then Dick had gone off on a small yacht to recuperate, and had come back -to his business and had extraordinary success. Craig forbade him to put -any money into the play, but he disobeyed her to the extent of ten -thousand dollars, and that was sad and mad and bad indeed.</p> - -<p>After elaborate preparation and numerous rehearsals, the play went on in -a small theater on Second Avenue. Whatever power controls the weather in -New York must have disapproved of my political and social opinions, for -there fell such masses of snow that it was impossible for most people to -get about. A few did get to the theater, and sent me enthusiastic -telegrams, which gave me hope for a day or two. But, alas, the critics -were lukewarm—most of them didn’t like the subject of the play. When I -read accounts of the stuff they have to witness and praise, I am not -surprised.</p> - -<p><i>Cicero</i> ran for about six weeks, and Dick Otto lost his ten thousand -dollars. I lost the advance paid to me, which I had put back as an -investment. Dick was sorry about the play but untroubled about the -money—in the meantime he had developed a deposit of quicksilver on his -property, and will now be richer than ever. The trouble is, it takes -more of his time, and he delays writing the autobiography that he has -been promising me—including, of course, the story of our EPIC campaign -as he saw it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">{310}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XVIII" id="XVIII"></a><i>18</i><br /><br /> -<i>A Tragic Ordeal</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>I come now to the tragic, the almost unbearable part of my story. Craig -had been overworking and overworrying, for many years. Nobody could stop -her; when there was something to be done she did it, because she was the -one who knew <i>how</i> to do it. She had got so that she no longer wanted a -servant. We had moved about so much.</p> - -<p>Also, there was the smog. The growth of industry in Los Angeles, -especially of the oil industry, had become tremendous; the fumes were -brought our way by the sea breeze, and they settled around the mountain -that went up directly back of our home. Everybody talked about smog, and -even the newspapers had to discuss it, bad as it was for business.</p> - -<p>So, in the spring of 1954, we moved again; this time to the Arizona -desert, as far away from industry as possible. Phoenix was where Hunter -lived, and he could come to help us. We found a cottage, and Hunter had -a seven-foot concrete wall put around the lot. Those four boxes that had -been built for storerooms, and which had been transported from Pasadena -to Monrovia, were now transported from Monrovia to Buckeye, and set down -in a row with an extra roof over them for coolness. One was to be my -workroom, and the others were to hold my stock of books. I still could -not get away from book orders.</p> - -<p>Craig worked as she had always done, unsparing of her strength. In the -middle of the night she called to me, <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311">{311}</a></span>terrified—she could not breathe. -Lying down asleep, she had almost choked, and to get her breath she had -to sit up. There were two doctors in the town, and I called one. He told -us she had an enlarged heart, and it was due to overexertion: what she -had now was a “congestive” heart attack. The heart was no longer equal -to pumping the blood out of the lungs, and she had to sit up in order -that part of her lungs could be clear.</p> - -<p>So there we were, in a strange place, both of us possessed by dread. A -specialist was brought from Phoenix, and he confirmed the diagnosis. -“The patient should be taken to a hospital.” She was taken to Phoenix -and treated for a couple of weeks, and she got a little better; but the -specialist gave us no hope.</p> - -<p>She was brought back to our Buckeye home, and I had her sole care. I had -her care for the next seven years, and there were few days when we did -not confront the thought of her doom.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>I came upon an article about a treatment for such heart conditions -advocated by Dr. Walter Kempner of Duke University, in Durham, North -Carolina. I wired asking for literature, and there came a copy of a -magazine published in Los Angeles called <i>G.P.</i>, meaning “General -Practice.” It gave an account of Kempner’s treatment, and included x-ray -photographs of hearts before and after treatment. The difference was -striking, and I made up my mind that Craig was going to have Dr. -Kempner’s rice-and-fruit diet. (His belief is that the cause of the -heart enlargement is excess of salt in the blood, and rice is the -all-nourishing food that has the lowest quantity of salt).</p> - -<p>It was out of the question to move Craig to North Carolina. I phoned to -a physician we knew in Riverside and asked if he would give the rice -diet according to Kempner’s specifications. He said, “I will do it if -you will take the responsibility.” Then he gave a little laugh and -added, “If you will take half.” I said, “I will take all.” I arranged -for a hospital plane to take us to Riverside next morning.</p> - -<p>She didn’t want to go, but for once she was too weak to resist, and I -was in a position to have my way. We had to make an early start because -we had mountains to fly over, and when the sun<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312">{312}</a></span> was up the rising air -would make turbulence. At five o’clock in the morning Hunter was there, -and we carried Craig to our car and drove her to the little airfield of -the town, not much more than a cow pasture.</p> - -<p>It was a four-hundred-mile trip, my first by air. We flew over the road -I had driven many times, and it was fascinating to see it from above. I -told Craig about the sights; but, alas, she hadn’t much interest. At the -airport there was an ambulance waiting, and soon she was in a hospital -bed.</p> - -<p>I doubt if anybody in the hospital had ever heard of the rice diet, and -it was hard to get a large plate of well-cooked rice without gravy or -butter on it. In fact, it was hard to get anything that Craig wanted, -including quiet; but even so, the miracle began right away. She got well -and was able to breathe lying down. After a couple of weeks she was able -to walk a little.</p> - -<p>My mind turned to that little cottage up in the Corona hills only seven -miles away. In that cottage there would be no nurses gossiping outside -her door at midnight. I would be the one to take care of her, and I -would move on tiptoe whenever she slept. I persuaded her to let me take -her there; the doctor consented, on condition that I bring her down -twice a week for the blood tests that were necessary—to make sure that -the supply of salt in her blood wasn’t below the minimum required. I -promised so to do.</p> - -<p>So for half a year more we lived in that cottage. I was nurse, cook, -housemaid, chauffeur, and guardian angel. I cooked a pot and a half of -rice for Craig every day, and she was so well that it was a miracle. -Even the cautious doctor had to use extravagant language when he set the -newest x-ray photograph beside the earliest one. I said to him, “Don’t -you think that is remarkable?” His answer was, “I should say it is -spectacular.”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>The results of the rice-and-fruit diet were so spectacular that I -decided to try it myself. I didn’t want to bother with blood tests, so I -added celery to the diet—it is a vegetable of which I happen to be -fond, and it gave me what I thought was the necessary bulk for safety. I -added a spoonful of dried-milk powder for a little more salt. We were -both having large quantities of fruit<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313">{313}</a></span> juice, mine being pineapple -because it is the sweetest. Both of us took vitamins.</p> - -<p>Throughout most of my writing life, certainly for a half century of it, -I had been accustomed to say that I was never more than twenty-four -hours ahead of a headache. But from the time I adopted the diet of rice -and fruit, which I still follow, I ceased to have headaches, and I have -even forgotten, now, what a headache feels like. Nor have I had any -other ailment, not even a cold.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>But to return to my story. With the good doctor’s permission I took -Craig back to our Monrovia home, and we got some apparatus that was -supposed to take the smog out of our bedrooms. We lived there in peace -and happiness for a while; but then Craig discovered that she could no -longer bear to eat any more rice. She began trying all other kinds of -health foods, in particular bread stuffs that were supposed to be low in -salt. Also, she could no longer stand the blood tests, because the -nurses couldn’t find the vein in one wrist, and the other wrist had -become sore from too much puncturing.</p> - -<p>So all the heart troubles came back; and there was something worse, -called fibrillation—an endless quivering of the heart that was most -distressing and kept her awake at night. I had gotten an oxygen tank; -she would call me, and I would get up and put the little cap over her -nose and turn on the valve and wait until she had had enough, and then -turn off the valve and go back to bed and sleep, if I could, until she -called again. Neither of us wanted a stranger in the house, so I had her -sole care. I cooked her food, served it, and cleaned up afterward.</p> - -<p>Every day I took her outdoors. I took care of her flower beds, and she -would gaze at them with rapture—her poppies, her big red rosebush, her -camellia bush that bloomed every April, and a wonderful golden oleander -that bloomed all summer.</p> - -<p>Every night I put her to sleep with prayers. “Dear God, make her well,” -was what I wanted to say over and over again, but Craig insisted it must -be, “Dear God, make <i>us</i> well.” I didn’t need any help so far as I could -see, but I said it her way; when the fibrillations got bad, I would say -it over a hundred times, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314">{314}</a></span> maybe two hundred, until at last she went -to sleep. I could never tell when she was asleep; so I would let my -voice die away softly, and wait and see if she spoke.</p> - -<p>That was our life for several years. Every now and then I would try to -persuade her to have some rice, just a little at a time; and that -little, alas, was not enough. She was tired of it and forbade me to -mention it. Month after month her condition got worse, her pain harder -to endure. The kind doctor would try pills with some new outlandish -name, and I would get the prescription filled and do my best to learn -which was which.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>It was during this period of long-drawn-out pain and struggle that Craig -wrote the beautiful book, <i>Southern Belle</i>. She wrote about herself and -her lovely childhood and girlhood, all because I pleaded with her to do -it. She wrote about her life with me, because she wanted to set me -straight with the world. Sometimes I would sit by the bed, and write to -her dictation; but most of the time she would write lying in bed with -her head propped forward, holding a pad with one hand and a pencil with -the other.</p> - -<p>It was a tiring position, and after she had been doing it for months, -she developed a pain near the base of the spine. I knew from the -beginning that it was a question of posture and tried to persuade her of -that, but in vain. I would take her to specialists, and they would -examine her and give their verdicts—and no two verdicts were the same. -I am quite sure that none of these doctors had ever had a patient who -had treated her spine in that fashion. Craig wouldn’t let me tell them; -I wasn’t a specialist—only a husband—and I must not influence their -judgment.</p> - -<p>How many of these dreadful details shall I put into a book? Of course, -anyone may skip them; but I had no way to skip them. Craig had stood by -me through my ordeals, and she was all I had in this world—apart from -the books I had written and the one I was writing. The only other person -who could help us was Hunter, and he would arrive from Phoenix eight -hours after I telephoned. He was there when Craig became delirious from -pain or from the injections that the doctors had given her. He would -comfort me when I, too, was on the verge of becoming delirious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315">{315}</a></span> at the -sight of her suffering. She would say that she was suffering from cold -and would have me pile every blanket in the house on top of her; then -she would say that she was suffocating and would throw them all off. I -remember a night of that, and then I could not sleep in the day. We had -to have her taken to a hospital; and she hated hospitals, each one had -been worse than the last.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>I cannot bring myself to tell much about the end. I do not think that -many could bear to read it. At times she became delirious, and wasn’t -herself any more; I had to make up my mind to that. Then suddenly she -<i>would</i> be herself—her beautiful self, her dear, kind, loving self, her -darling self, agonizing about me and what I was going to do, and how I -could manage to survive in a dreadful world where everybody would be -trying to rob me, to trap me, to take away the money that she had worked -so desperately to keep me from spending.</p> - -<p>Three times during that long ordeal I found her lying on the hard -plastone floor of the upstairs kitchen that we had made for her. The -first two times we were alone in the house, and since I could not lift -her, I had to call the ambulance to get her back in bed. The second time -she was unconscious, and I called the doctor again. He thought these -were “light strokes,” and later on the autopsy confirmed the opinion; -but she had not been told.</p> - -<p>The third time was less than a month before the end. Her nephew, -Leftwich Kimbrough, was with us, so we two carried her to bed. I sat by, -keeping watch, and presently I heard her murmuring; I listened, and soon -went and got a writing pad and pen. They were fragments of a poem she -was composing while half-conscious, and I wrote what I heard:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Stay in their hearts, dear Jesus,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Stay and make them kind.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">And then, after an interval:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, the poor lonely nigger,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bring love to his soul.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316">{316}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">Later, I wrote underneath, for the record: “Craig’s murmured singing -after bad fall. I mentioned to her, it was Good Friday Eve, 1961.”</p> - -<p>You will recall my account of the visit of Judge Tom Brady, founder of -the citizens’ councils all through the Deep South. From earliest -childhood little Mary Craig Kimbrough had wrestled with that race -problem of her homeland. She heard and saw both sides; the fears of the -whites, for which they had reason, and the pitiful helplessness of the -ignorant blacks. Now, in her last hours, she was pleading, in the first -couplet for the whites whom she loved and in the second for the blacks, -whom she also loved.</p> - -<p>One day she would eat nothing but soft-boiled eggs, and the next day she -would eat nothing but gelatine. So the icebox was full of eggs and then -of gelatine. One elderly doctor told her that the best remedy for -fibrillation was whisky; so here was I, a lifelong teetotaler who had -made hatred of whisky a part of his religion, going out to buy it by the -quart. Craig insisted that I should never buy it in Monrovia where I was -known; I must drive out on one of the boulevards and stop in some -strange place and pay for a bottle with some imbecile name that I -forgot. That went on for quite a while, and the time came when Craig was -so weak that I couldn’t manage to hold her up while she tried to walk -the length of the room.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>She wouldn’t let us call the doctor because he would order her to the -hospital. But the time came when we had to call the doctor, and he -called the ambulance, and poor Craig was carried away on her last ride. -She was in the hospital for three weeks, and it cost us close to four -thousand dollars. This seems an ungracious thing to mention, but I am -thinking about what happens to the poor—how do <i>they</i> die? Perhaps they -do it more quickly, and don’t have day and night nurses by their -bedside. This sounds like irony, but I let it stand.</p> - -<p>In addition to the nurses and the husband, there were Hunter and Sally, -his wife, two nieces, and a sister who had come on from Alabama. What -they saw was a hideously tormented human being. I pleaded with the -doctor—surely there must be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317">{317}</a></span> some ethical code that would give him the -right to end such torment! But he said that stage had not yet been -reached.</p> - -<p>I won’t tell much about my own part in it. I would sit and gaze at the -features of my beloved who no longer knew me; or if she did know me she -was angry because I had let her be brought to the hospital. I would sit -there blinded with my own tears, and then I would get up and try to get -out of the hospital without making a spectacle of myself.</p> - -<p>Why do I tell such a story? Well, it happened. It was life. It is our -human fate. It happened to me, and it could happen to you. This universe -is a mystery to me. How beauty, kindness, goodness, could have such an -end visited upon it will keep me in agony of spirit for the rest of my -days on this planet. I do not know what to make of it, and I can draw -only this one moral from it: that nature has been, and can be, so cruel -to us that surely we should busy ourselves not to commit cruelties -against one another. I know that I had for half a century the love of -one of the kindest, wisest, and dearest souls that ever lived upon this -earth; why she should have died in such untellable horror is a question -I ask of God in vain.</p> - -<p>She died in St. Luke Hospital, Pasadena, on April 26, 1961. Her ashes -were shipped to a brother in Greenwood, Mississippi, and were interred -in a family plot in the cemetery in that town.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318">{318}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XIX" id="XIX"></a><i>19</i><br /><br /> -<i>End and Beginning</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p>The death of Craig left me with a sense of desolation beyond my power to -describe. Hunter and his wife Sally went back to Arizona. The sister and -nieces scattered to their homes, and I was in that lovely old house in -which every single thing spoke of the woman who had bought it, arranged -it, used it—and would never see it again. I had lived in a town for -twenty years and never entered a single home; I had no one to speak to -but the clerks in the post office, the market, the bank. In my early -days I would not have minded that; I had camped alone all summer, in a -tent on an island in the St. Lawrence, and again in an “open camp” on an -Adirondack lake, and had been perfectly happy. But I no longer had the -firm conviction that the future of mankind depended upon the words I was -putting on paper; on the contrary, I was obsessed by memories of horror, -inescapable, inexcusable. The house was haunted—but I had no other -place to go.</p> - -<p>For more than seven years, ever since her first heart attack, Craig had -been insisting that I could not live alone. It had become a sort of -theme song: “Oh, what will you do? What will become of you? You <i>must</i> -find some woman to take care of you.” Then she would add, “Oh, don’t let -some floozie get hold of you!” My answer was always the same: “I am -going to take care of you and keep you alive.” But now she was gone, and -I could say it no more.</p> - -<p>We had friends, but they were mostly far away; elderly mar<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319">{319}</a></span>ried couples -who came to see us once or twice in a year: Sol Lesser, who had produced -<i>Thunder Over Mexico</i> for us; Richard Otto, who had run the EPIC -campaign for us; Harry Oppenheimer, New York businessman who had -promised to come and run the state of California for me if I had had the -misfortune to get elected. Now I spent several weeks wondering which of -these good friends I should ask to help me find a wife.</p> - -<p>For decades I had been a friend and supporter of the <i>New Leader</i>; and -every week had read the gay verses of Richard Armour. He had sent me his -books, beginning with <i>It All Started with Columbus</i>, and continuing -with <i>It All Started with Eve</i> and <i>It All Started with Marx</i>. I was so -pleased that I wrote him some lines in his own style; I recall the last -two lines:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And if you find that I’m a charmer<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’ll know that I’ve been reading Armour.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>He is dean of Scripps College, some twenty miles east of my home; but -for many years we did not meet. It happened that Hunter Kimbrough was a -classmate of Frederick Hard, president of the college, and Hunter was in -the habit of stopping by on his way to and from Arizona. He and Dick -Armour became friends, and several months after Craig’s death, Hunter -invited Dick and his wife to my home for a picnic lunch. So it was that -I met Kathleen Armour, gracious, kind of heart and with a laugh as merry -as her husband’s verses.</p> - -<p>After days and nights of thinking about it, I composed a letter to -Kathleen, putting my plight before her. The unmarried women I knew could -be counted on the fingers of one hand, and not one of the four was -suitable. In a woman’s college Kathleen must know many; I didn’t mean a -pupil, but a teacher, or member of such a family.</p> - -<p>I received a cordial reply, and soon I was invited to Kathleen’s home. -There I met the sister of Hunter’s friend, Fred Hard, president of the -college. She was a widow, and her years were seventy-nine, appropriate -to my eighty-three. She was twice a mother, once a grandmother, and -three times a great-grandmother. She was of a kind disposition, with a -laugh as happy as Kathleen’s and an abundance of good sense. She was -born in South Carolina and had lived in several parts of the United<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320">{320}</a></span> -States. She was well read and was part of a cultured environment. She -was staying in the lovely home of the college president, keeping it -during summer while he and his wife were in Europe. Her name was May, -and Dick Armour had written her some verses:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For her, two cities vie and jockey:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">First Claremont claims her, then Milwockey.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The West and Middle West both crave her,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To both she brings her special savor,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For in the one or in the other’n,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She’s still herself, completely Southern.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But here alone we can rejoice<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With lifted hearts and lifted voice<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And happily and smugly say:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When it is August, we have May.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>I invited her to my home. The large downstairs rooms were dark, she -said; and I pointed out to her that the long velvet curtains could be -thrown back. In the living room are four double windows, from floor -almost to ceiling, and in the dining room are five more of the same; the -rooms are practically one, because the wide double doors roll back into -the walls. But she said she would be lonely in that half acre of gardens -surrounded by a high hedge of two hundred eugenia trees. She said she -might marry me if I would come to live in Claremont; but I saw myself -living in a town full of college boys and girls who would come to ask -for interviews, and who would consider me snobbish if I put a fence -around my house. I do my work outdoors, weather permitting—as it does -most of the time in southern California.</p> - -<p>So, back I went to my lonely existence. Hunter was disturbed, for to him -the Hard family represented the best of culture, that of the South. -Maybe the Armours had something to do with it—I did not ask—but I met -May at their house again, and she was cordial. More time passed, and -there came a birthday letter, telling me of her interest in my work and -wishing me happiness. So I went to see her again; this time I did not -stand on ceremony, but put my arms around her, and it was all settled in -a few minutes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321">{321}</a></span></p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>We were to be married in the Episcopal Church, and the rector was called -in to hear my story. I had obtained a divorce half a century before, I -being the innocent party in the suit. I had been remarried by an -Episcopal clergyman, on the banks of the Rappahannock River—with -jonquils blooming on the riverbank and behind me the heights on which -twenty thousand Union soldiers had given their lives. The rector in -Claremont said that if the church had given its sanction once, it would -not refuse it again; so all was well.</p> - -<p>We wanted the wedding as quiet as possible. All my life I have sought -publicity—but for books and causes, not for myself, and if we could -have had our way, no one but the family would have known. But the law in -California requires that both parties appear at the county office -building and sign an application for a license—and this two days before -the marriage can take place. The license is valid anywhere in the state; -so I had an idea: “Let’s go into another county, where there’s less -chance of our being known.” We motored to San Bernardino, where two kind -ladies gave us the blanks and instructions, and gave no sign that there -was anything unusual about us. But soon after we got back to Claremont, -the telephone calls began, and we knew that all the cats were out of the -bag. Later we learned that courthouse reporters make it a practice to -inspect the lists daily before closing time.</p> - -<p>The clergyman had agreed that only members of the family and half a -dozen invited friends were to be admitted: the Armours, of course, and -the Sol Lessers, and the Richard Ottos of the far-off EPIC campaign. Dr. -Hard gave his sister away, and the bride’s granddaughter, Barbara Sabin, -was matron of honor. Hunter acted as my “best man.” The doors were -guarded, and the morning ceremony was performed with the customary -age-old dignity. But when the bride and groom emerged from a side door, -there was what appeared to be a mob. A flood of questions was poured -out, and cameras before our eyes were making little clicking noises. -There was a crony of the far-off EPIC days, Hans Rutzebeck, a sailor who -had written a grand book about his life,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322">{322}</a></span> <i>The Mad Sea</i>. He had had -plenty of time to talk to the reporters, and when I greeted him his -claims of friendship were confirmed.</p> - -<p>So the story was lively, and it appeared in all the evening papers. More -detailed stories with photographs were in the morning papers all over -the world. I do not exaggerate; friends, and strangers too, cut them out -and sent them to us from half a dozen capitals of Europe, and from -Brazil, Tokyo, India, Australia. College president’s sister, aged 79, -marries muckrake man, aged 83—you can see how it was, and May was -amused. She even got an album in which to keep the clippings for her -great-grandchildren.</p> - -<p>So this story has a happy ending. We both enjoy good health, and age -does not bother us. We live with our books and papers in a wonderful -fireproof house that a rich banker built, got tired of, and sold cheaply -some twenty years ago. There is a half acre of land, completely -surrounded by the hedge of eugenia trees. There are twenty-one kinds of -fruit trees, and instead of lawns there are lantana and sweet alyssum, -which do not have to be mowed. There is a camellia bush, and a golden -oleander as big as a cottage; there are rosebushes, an iris bed, poppy -beds that are a dream—and when I get tired of hammering on a -typewriter, I go out and pull weeds from the poppies.</p> - -<p>Now the house is fixed up May’s way; the velvet curtains are drawn back, -and there are bright curtains and new paint in spots and everything is -gay. Her friends come and carry her off to luncheons and musicales and -exhibitions of paintings; in the evenings we read some of the fifty -magazines that I take, or play the word game called Scrabble, which she -has taught me. She is ahead one day, and I the next.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Ordinarily I do not attend luncheons or dinners—my diet of rice and -fruit cuts down my social life. But as I write, my wife and I have just -returned from a trip to the East that was one long round of luncheons -and dinners. (I kept to my diet—and probably left a trail of puzzled -waiters behind me.)</p> - -<p>Some months ago the New York chapter of the American Newspaper Guild -wrote to inform me that a Page One Award in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323">{323}</a></span> Letters was to be presented -to me and invited me to attend the ceremony late in April. Then, shortly -afterward, came a letter from Walter Reuther, president of the United -Automobile Workers, telling me that the UAW was also giving me an -award—at its annual convention in Atlantic City early in May—and would -like to present it to me in person. I could scarcely resist two such -invitations.</p> - -<p>The trip by air was a miracle to me. I had made only two short flights -before. Now I saw the whole of the United States spread under me like a -map, and I marveled at the nearness of the mountaintops and the vast -spread of the plains. On the bare, brown deserts I observed great black -spots, and I puzzled my head as to what could be growing on a desert -floor; until I realized suddenly that these were the shadows of clouds, -also beneath me. It was fascinating to observe how the shape of every -spot corresponded exactly to the shape of its cloud. In the Middle West -the farms were all laid out in perfect rectangles with the quarter -sections clearly distinguishable; but as we got farther east, the -irregularities increased until everything was chaos, including the -roads.</p> - -<p>All kinds of enterprises like to make use of celebrities, and the -airport was no exception. The management, learning of my age, had taken -the precaution to send a wheelchair to the plane. When May saw it she -said to the porter, “You get in and let him wheel you.”</p> - -<p>My son, David, was on hand with his wife and his car. An engineer, he -publishes pamphlets about his technical discoveries of which his father -is unable to understand a sentence. One of the problems he has solved is -that of spinning a plastic thread so fine that one spool of it would -reach all the way around the world. Both May and I are fortunate, in -that we can love and admire our “in-laws.”</p> - -<p>The American Newspaper Guild presented me with a handsome gold figure, -which now stands on our mantel. The citation runs as follows:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>Page One Award in Letters to Upton Sinclair, author of hundreds of -books and papers, including <i>The Jungle</i> and <i>The Brass Check</i>, -over a span of 60 years, all of which contributed immeasurably to -the advancement of democracy and public enlightenment. 1962.</p></div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324">{324}</a></span></p> - -<p>Some sixteen hundred people were present, and I made a short speech.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>A few days later David and his wife drove us down to Atlantic City, -where the sixty-five hundred delegates of the United Automobile Workers -throughout the world were having a week’s assembly. I had never met -either Walter Reuther or his younger brother, Victor, and this was a -pleasant occasion for both me and my family. Present also was Michael -Angelo Musmanno, who as a young lawyer had plunged into a last-hour -effort to save the lives of Sacco and Vanzetti. A wonderfully -kindhearted and exuberant person, now close to the seventies, he has -become a judge of the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania. When I asked him -how this miracle had come about, he answered with a smile: “It is an -elective office.”</p> - -<p>On a Sunday evening we found ourselves confronting the sixty-five -hundred cheering delegates, many of whom no doubt had read <i>Flivver -King</i>. It was a dinner affair, and I found myself seated between my wife -and Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt, whom I had not seen since a visit to the -White House in 1935, just after the EPIC campaign. There was plenty of -time for conversation, especially since I had had my rice-and-fruit meal -an hour or so earlier.</p> - -<p>Walter Reuther presented to me the Social Justice Award of the United -Automobile Workers—an ebony plaque that carries this citation:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>With admiration and affection and in thankful appreciation for the -great moral courage and social conscience that motivated your -writings as you exposed the inhuman exploitation of labor in -American industrial jungles. Your life and your work have -contributed immeasurably to the extension of the frontiers of -<i>Social Justice</i>. May 1962.</p></div> - -<p>In my speech of acceptance I told how I had made a socialist, or a -near-socialist, out of Henry Ford’s wife; and how, when he saw that he -could not win the strike, he made all his plans to close up his -plants—and was only deterred from it at the last moment by his wife’s -announcement that if he carried out this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325">{325}</a></span> evil purpose she would leave -him. The story was new to those delegates, and I will not attempt to -describe the enthusiasm with which they received it.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Roosevelt also gave one of her warm-hearted talks, and so it was a -worthy occasion to those labor men and their wives. I imagined that -newspaper readers might also be interested in it, but I examined the New -York morning and afternoon papers and discovered that they had nothing -whatever to say about the affair. I am used to newspaper silence about -my doings, but I had really thought they would have something to say -about the eloquence of Eleanor Roosevelt, and of the welcome she had -received from that vast throng. But not one word in the Monday morning -and afternoon papers! I paid a call on the labor editor of the New York -<i>Times</i>, and he was cordial—he took me about and introduced me to -several other editors—but he had nothing to say about the paper’s -failure to say anything about the UAW assemblage.</p> - -<p>The award from the UAW included a check for a thousand dollars. I had -written Walter that I would use the money to put a copy of <i>Flivver -King</i> in the libraries of all the branches of the union throughout the -world. In Atlantic City Victor Reuther told me that they planned to -reissue <i>Flivver King</i> themselves and make it available to all their -members. So I shall use the money to put in the union libraries copies -of this present book and of the memorial edition of <i>Southern Belle</i>.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>Meanwhile, in New York, I met many old friends. Also, I was asked to -appear on several TV programs, and my interviews with Eric Goldman, Mike -Wallace, and Barry Gray were great fun. One of the most unusual -occasions was a luncheon given by my faithful agent, Bertha Klausner, -who invited only those people who are working, in one way or another, -with my various books—publishing or reissuing or dramatizing them for -stage or screen. And there was a roomful of them!</p> - -<p>Happily, there seems to be a revival of interest in my books. <i>The -Jungle</i> is now in paperback, and students are reading it and teachers -are talking about it in their classes. <i>World’s End</i> and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326">{326}</a></span> <i>Dragon’s -Teeth</i>, two of the Lanny Budd volumes, are also in paperback. So is -<i>Manassas</i>, under the title of <i>Theirs Be the Guilt</i>. <i>Mental Radio</i>, my -precise and careful study of Craig’s demonstrations of her telepathic -power, has just been reissued by a publisher of scientific books, with -the original preface by William McDougall and, in addition, the preface -that Albert Einstein wrote for the German edition. <i>The Cry for Justice: -An Anthology of Social Protest</i> is to be republished with modern -additions. And <i>A Personal Jesus</i>, an attempt at a modern insight, is -also being reissued.</p> - -<p><i>Our Lady</i> is being dramatized. <i>Another Pamela</i> is being converted into -a musical comedy. Walt Disney is now setting out to make a movie of <i>The -Gnomobile</i>, my story for children, which is also going to be reissued -with gay illustrations from the French edition. And there is to be a TV -series drawn from the Lanny Budd books. I cannot attempt to control this -last and can only hope for the best.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327">{327}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="XX" id="XX"></a><i>20</i><br /><br /> -<i>Summing Up</i></h2> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>A reader of this manuscript asked the question: “Just what do you think -you have accomplished in your long lifetime?” I give a few specific -answers.</p> - -<p>I begin with a certainty. At the age of twenty-eight I helped to clean -and protect the meat that comes to your table. I followed that matter -through to the end. I put the shocking facts into a book that went -around the world in both directions. I set forth the details at -President Theodore Roosevelt’s lunch table in the White House, and later -put them before his trusted investigators. I put their true report on -the front page of the New York <i>Times</i>, and I followed it up with -letters to Congressmen. I saw the laws passed; from friends in the -Chicago stockyards, I learned that they were enforced. The stockyard -workers now have strong unions; I know some of their officials, and if -the old conditions had come back, I would have been told of it and would -be telling it here.</p> - -<p>Second, I know that we still have many bad and prejudiced newspapers, -but many are better than they were. I think that <i>The Brass Check</i> -helped to bring about the improvement. It also encouraged newspapermen -to form a union. And the guild, among other things, has improved the -quality of newspapers.</p> - -<p>Third, I know that our “mourning parade” before the offices of Standard -Oil in New York not merely ended slavery in the mining camps in the -Rocky Mountains but also changed the life<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328">{328}</a></span> course of the Rockefeller -family; and this has set an example to others of our millionaire -dynasties—including the Armours and the Fords.</p> - -<p>Fourth, I think that Mary Craig Sinclair, with my help, did much to -promote an interest in the investigation of psychic phenomena. Professor -William McDougall, an Englishman who became known as “the dean of -American Psychology,” told us that it was Craig’s demonstrations that -decided him to set up the department of parapsychology at Duke -University. It was McDougall who appointed J. B. Rhine, and the work -that has been done by these two men has made the subject respectable. -<i>Mental Radio</i> is now issued by a scientific publishing house.</p> - -<p>Fifth, I know that the American Civil Liberties Union, which I helped to -organize in New York and of which I started the southern California -branch in 1923, has put an end to the oppression of labor in California -and made it no longer possible to crowd six hundred strikers into a jail -built to hold one hundred.</p> - -<p>Sixth, I know that the EPIC campaign of 1934 in California changed the -whole reactionary tone of the state. We now have a Democratic governor -and a Democratic state legislature, and the Republicans are unhappy. In -the depression through which we passed in 1961, no one died of -starvation.</p> - -<p>Seventh, I know that I had something to do with the development and -survival of American democratic ideas, both political and social, in -Japan. From 1915 on, practically every book I wrote was translated and -published in Japan, and I was informed that a decade or two in that -country were known as the <i>Sinkuru Jidai</i>, which means “the Sinclair -Era.” Every one of the Lanny Budd books was a best seller there; and in -September 1960, when the Japanese students appeared on the verge of a -procommunist revolution, my faithful translator, Ryo Namikawa, cabled, -begging me to send a message in favor of the democratic process of -social change. I paid over four hundred dollars to send a cablegram to -<i>Shimbun</i>, the biggest newspaper in Japan, and it appeared on the front -page the next day. Of course, I cannot say how much that had to do with -it. I only know that the students turned away from their communist -leadership and chose the democratic process and friendship with America.</p> - -<p>Eighth, my two books on the dreadful ravages of alcoholism<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329">{329}</a></span> may have had -some effect. The second, called <i>The Cup of Fury</i>, was taken up by the -church people, and it has sold over a hundred thousand copies. I get -many letters about it.</p> - -<p>Ninth. Way back in the year 1905, I started the Intercollegiate -Socialist Society, now the League of Industrial Democracy. I had had -nine years of college and university, and I hadn’t learned that the -modern socialist movement existed. I held that since the educators -wouldn’t educate the students, it was up to the students to educate the -educators—and this was what happened, partly because so many of our -students of those days are educators now.</p> - -<p>Tenth and last, there are the Lanny Budd books. They won the cordial -praise of George Bernard Shaw (who made them the basis for recommending -me for the Nobel Prize), H. G. Wells, Albert Einstein, and Thomas Mann. -I worked at those books like a slave for a dozen years, and if they -contain errors of historical fact, these have not been pointed out. The -books have been translated into a score of languages. They contain the -story of the years from 1911 to 1950, and I hope they have spread a -little enlightenment through the world.</p> - -<p>The English Queen Mary, who failed to hold the French port of Calais, -said that when she died, the word “Calais” would be found written on her -heart. I don’t know whether anyone will care to examine my heart, but if -they do they will find two words there—“Social Justice.” For that is -what I have believed in and fought for during sixty-three of my -eighty-four years.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>In politics and economics, I believe what I have believed ever since I -discovered the socialist movement at the beginning of this century. I -have incorporated those beliefs in a hundred books and pamphlets and -numberless articles. My books have been translated into forty languages, -and millions of people have read them. What those millions have found is -not only a defense of social justice but an unwavering conviction that -true social justice can be achieved and maintained only through the -democratic process. The majority of my books have been translated and -published in communist lands; of course, it may be that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330">{330}</a></span> texts have -been altered. If they were published as I wrote them, their readers -learned the ideals of democratic freedom.</p> - -<p>Despite my fight and the struggles of many others, communist -dictatorships have taken over half the world. Meanwhile, for the first -time, proud man, dressed with a little brief authority, has so perfected -the instruments of destruction that he is in a position to put an end to -the possibility of life on our earth and condemn this planet to go its -way through infinite space, lonely and forgotten. Whether this will -happen depends entirely upon the decision of two men—or possibly on the -decision of one of them. Both are known to the world by one initial, -“K.” What can a poor fellow whose name happens to begin with “S” do -about it? He can only say what he thinks and hope to be heard. He can -only go on fighting for social justice and the democratic ideal, hope -that man does not destroy himself, by design or by accident, and trust -that eventually the peoples of the world will force their rulers to -follow the ways of peace, of freedom, and of social justice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331">{331}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="Books_by_Upton_Sinclair" id="Books_by_Upton_Sinclair"></a><i>Books by Upton Sinclair</i></h2> - -<p class="nind"> -Springtime and Harvest 1901 (<i>Reissued as</i> King Midas 1901)<br /> -The Journal of Arthur Stirling 1903<br /> -Prince Hagen 1903<br /> -Manassas: A Novel of the War 1904 (<i>Reissued as</i> Theirs Be the Guilt 1959)<br /> -A Captain of Industry 1906<br /> -The Jungle 1906<br /> -The Industrial Republic 1907<br /> -The Overman 1907<br /> -The Metropolis 1908<br /> -The Moneychangers 1908<br /> -Samuel the Seeker 1910<br /> -The Fasting Cure 1911<br /> -Love’s Pilgrimage 1911<br /> -Plays of Protest 1912<br /> -The Millennium: A Comedy of the Year 2000 1912<br /> -Sylvia 1913<br /> -Damaged Goods 1913<br /> -Sylvia’s Marriage 1914<br /> -The Cry for Justice 1915<br /> -King Coal 1917<br /> -The Profits of Religion 1918<br /> -Jimmie Higgins 1919<br /> -The Brass Check 1919<br /> -100%: The Story of a Patriot 1920<br /> -The Book of Life 1921<br /> -They Call Me Carpenter 1922<br /> -The Goose-Step 1923<br /> -Hell: A Verse Drama and Photoplay 1923<br /> -The Goslings 1924<br /> -Singing Jailbirds: A Drama in Four Acts 1924<br /> -The Pot Boiler 1924<br /> -Mammonart 1925<br /> -Bill Porter: A Drama of O. Henry in Prison 1925<br /> -The Spokesman’s Secretary 1926<br /> -Letters to Judd 1926<br /> -Oil! 1927<br /> -Money Writes! 1927<br /> -Boston 1928<br /> -Mountain City 1930<br /> -Mental Radio 1930, 1962<br /> -Roman Holiday 1931<br /> -The Wet Parade 1931<br /> -American Outpost 1932<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332">{332}</a></span>Upton Sinclair Presents William Fox 1933<br /> -The Way Out 1933<br /> -I, Governor of California—and How I Ended Poverty 1933<br /> -The Epic Plan for California 1934<br /> -I, Candidate for Governor—and How I Got Licked 1935<br /> -We, People of America 1935<br /> -Depression Island 1935<br /> -What God Means to Me 1936<br /> -Co-op 1936<br /> -The Gnomobile 1936, 1962<br /> -Wally for Queen 1936<br /> -The Flivver King 1937<br /> -No Pasaran 1937<br /> -Little Steel 1938<br /> -Our Lady 1938<br /> -Terror in Russia 1938<br /> -Expect No Peace 1939<br /> -Letters to a Millionaire 1939<br /> -Marie Antoinette 1939<br /> -Telling the World 1939<br /> -Your Million Dollars 1939<br /> -World’s End 1940<br /> -World’s End Impending 1940<br /> -Between Two Worlds 1941<br /> -Peace or War in America 1941<br /> -Dragon’s Teeth 1942<br /> -Wide Is the Gate 1943<br /> -Presidential Agent 1944<br /> -Dragon Harvest 1945<br /> -A World to Win 1946<br /> -Presidential Mission 1947<br /> -A Giant’s Strength 1948<br /> -Limbo on the Loose 1948<br /> -One Clear Call 1948<br /> -To the Editor 1948<br /> -O Shepherd, Speak! 1949<br /> -Another Pamela 1950<br /> -The Enemy Had It Too 1950<br /> -A Personal Jesus 1952<br /> -The Return of Lanny Budd 1953<br /> -What Didymus Did 1955<br /> -The Cup of Fury 1956<br /> -It Happened to Didymus 1958<br /> -Theirs Be the Guilt 1959<br /> -My Lifetime in Letters 1960<br /> -Affectionately Eve 1961<br /> -</p> - -<h2><a name="Index" id="Index"></a><i>Index</i></h2> - -<p class="c"><a href="#A">A</a>, -<a href="#B">B</a>, -<a href="#C">C</a>, -<a href="#D">D</a>, -<a href="#E">E</a>, -<a href="#F">F</a>, -<a href="#G">G</a>, -<a href="#H">H</a>, -<a href="#I-i">I</a>, -<a href="#J">J</a>, -<a href="#K">K</a>, -<a href="#L">L</a>, -<a href="#M">M</a>, -<a href="#N">N</a>, -<a href="#O">O</a>, -<a href="#P">P</a>, -<a href="#R">R</a>, -<a href="#S">S</a>, -<a href="#T">T</a>, -<a href="#U">U</a>, -<a href="#V-i">V</a>, -<a href="#W">W</a>, -<a href="#Y">Y</a>.</p> - -<p class="nind"> -<a name="A" id="A"></a>Abbott, Leonard D., <a href="#page_101">101</a><br /> - -Addams, Jane, <a href="#page_109">109-10</a>, <a href="#page_213">213</a><br /> - -<i>Adventures in Interviewing</i>, by Isaac F. Marcosson, <a href="#page_118">118</a><br /> - -AFL-CIO, <a href="#page_282">282</a>, <a href="#page_287">287</a><br /> - -American Civil Liberties Union, <a href="#page_227">227</a>, <a href="#page_228">228</a>, <a href="#page_231">231</a>, <a href="#page_328">328</a><br /> - -Anderson, Sherwood, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -<i>Appeal to Reason</i> (later <i>Haldeman-Julius Weekly</i>), <a href="#page_89">89</a>, <a href="#page_101">101-02</a>, <a href="#page_104">104</a>, <a href="#page_105">105</a>, <a href="#page_108">108</a>, <a href="#page_112">112</a>, <a href="#page_115">115</a>, <a href="#page_150">150</a>, <a href="#page_213">213</a>, <a href="#page_221">221</a>, <a href="#page_223">223</a><br /> - -Armour, J. Ogden, <a href="#page_116">116-17</a>, <a href="#page_139">139</a><br /> - -Armour, Kathleen, <a href="#page_319">319</a>, <a href="#page_321">321</a><br /> - -Armour, Richard, <a href="#page_319">319</a>, <a href="#page_321">321</a><br /> - -Atherton, Gertrude, <a href="#page_107">107</a><br /> - -<br /> -<i><a name="B" id="B"></a>Babbitt</i>, by Sinclair Lewis, <a href="#page_251">251-52</a><br /> - -<i>Baby Mine</i>, by Margaret Mayo, <a href="#page_125">125</a><br /> - -Baldwin, Roger, <a href="#page_227">227</a><br /> - -Bamford, Frederick Irons, <a href="#page_152">152</a><br /> - -Barnett, Gen. George, <a href="#page_13">13</a>, <a href="#page_14">14</a><br /> - -Barnett, Mrs. George, <a href="#page_13">13-14</a>, <a href="#page_53">53</a><br /> - -Barnsdall, Aline, <a href="#page_275">275</a><br /> - -Barrows, Ellen, <a href="#page_197">197</a><br /> - -Beall, Rev. Upton, <a href="#page_29">29</a><br /> - -Belasco, David, <a href="#page_144">144</a>, <a href="#page_155">155</a><br /> - -Bellamy, Edward, <a href="#page_269">269</a><br /> - -Belloc, Hilaire, <a href="#page_181">181</a><br /> - -Belmont, Mrs. Oliver, <a href="#page_136">136</a><br /> - -Bennett, James Gordon, <a href="#page_121">121</a><br /> - -Berger, Victor, <a href="#page_170">170</a>, <a href="#page_171">171</a><br /> - -Beveridge, Sen. Albert J., <a href="#page_13">13</a><br /> - -Bickel, Carl, <a href="#page_255">255</a><br /> - -Bierce, Ambrose, <a href="#page_44">44</a><br /> - -Birnbaum, Martin, <a href="#page_56">56</a>, <a href="#page_294">294-95</a><br /> - -Björkman, Edwin, <a href="#page_132">132</a>, <a href="#page_250">250</a><br /> - -Björkman, Mrs. Edwin (Frances Maule), <a href="#page_132">132</a>, <a href="#page_250">250</a><br /> - -Bland, Howard, <a href="#page_93">93</a>, <a href="#page_227">227</a><br /> - -Bland, John Randolph, <a href="#page_9">9</a>, <a href="#page_11">11-12</a>, <a href="#page_14">14</a>, <a href="#page_45">45</a>, <a href="#page_53">53-54</a>, <a href="#page_63">63-64</a>, <a href="#page_226">226-27</a><br /> - -Blatch, Harriet Stanton, <a href="#page_140">140</a><br /> - -Bliss, Leslie E., <a href="#page_304">304</a><br /> - -Bloor, Mrs. Ella Reeve, <a href="#page_120">120-21</a>, <a href="#page_124">124</a>, <a href="#page_137">137</a>, <a href="#page_165">165</a><br /> - -Boston Society for Psychical Research, <a href="#page_33">33</a><br /> - -Brady, Judge Tom, <a href="#page_259">259</a>, <a href="#page_260">260</a>, <a href="#page_316">316</a><br /> - -Brandeis, Justice Louis, <a href="#page_274">274</a><br /> - -Brandes, George, <a href="#page_201">201</a><br /> - -Brett, George P., <a href="#page_114">114</a>, <a href="#page_212">212</a>, <a href="#page_214">214</a><br /> - -<i>Bride of Dreams</i>, by Frederik van Eeden, <a href="#page_184">184</a><br /> - -Brown, J. G., <a href="#page_37">37</a><br /> - -Browne, Lewis, <a href="#page_276">276</a>, <a href="#page_289">289</a><br /> - -Brownell, W. C., <a href="#page_78">78</a><br /> - -Buchanan, Thompson, <a href="#page_187">187</a><br /> - -Buerger, Leo, <a href="#page_158">158</a><br /> - -Burns, John, <a href="#page_122">122</a>, <a href="#page_178">178</a><br /> - -Butler, Nicholas Murray, <a href="#page_60">60</a>, <a href="#page_61">61</a>, <a href="#page_83">83</a><br /> - -Bynner, Witter, <a href="#page_156">156</a><br /> - -Byrd, Cecil, <a href="#page_304">304</a>, <a href="#page_305">305</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="C" id="C"></a>California Institute of Technology, <a href="#page_254">254-55</a>, <a href="#page_257">257</a>, <a href="#page_258">258-59</a><br /> - -Camus, Albert, <a href="#page_308">308</a><br /> - -Cannon, Mrs. Laura, <a href="#page_198">198</a><br /> - -Carmichael, Bert, <a href="#page_47">47-48</a><br /> - -Caron, Arthur, <a href="#page_201">201</a><br /> - -Carpenter, Edward, <a href="#page_203">203</a><br /> - -Carpenter, Prof. George Rice, <a href="#page_58">58</a>, <a href="#page_61">61</a><br /> - -Chandler, Harry, <a href="#page_275">275</a><br /> - -Chaplin, Charles, <a href="#page_273">273</a><br /> - -Church of St. Mary the Virgin, <a href="#page_30">30</a><br /> - -Church of the Holy Communion, <a href="#page_30">30</a>, <a href="#page_99">99</a>, <a href="#page_288">288</a><br /> - -Church of the Messiah, <a href="#page_32">32</a>, <a href="#page_77">77</a><br /> - -Churchill, Winston, <a href="#page_121">121-22</a><br /> - -Clay, Bertha M., pseudonym of John Coryell, <a href="#page_133">133</a><br /> - -College of the City of New York, <a href="#page_21">21</a>, <a href="#page_23">23-25</a>, <a href="#page_37">37-40</a>, <a href="#page_47">47</a>, <a href="#page_48">48</a>, <a href="#page_57">57</a>, <a href="#page_224">224</a>, <a href="#page_294">294</a><br /> - -Collier, Peter, <a href="#page_108">108</a><br /> - -Collier, Robert F., <a href="#page_108">108</a>, <a href="#page_136">136</a><br /> - -Columbia University, <a href="#page_25">25</a>, <a href="#page_46">46</a>, <a href="#page_48">48</a>, <a href="#page_51">51</a>, <a href="#page_56">56-63</a>, <a href="#page_65">65</a>, <a href="#page_66">66</a>, <a href="#page_86">86</a>, <a href="#page_131">131</a>, <a href="#page_132">132</a>, <a href="#page_224">224</a>, <a href="#page_244">244</a>, <a href="#page_250">250</a><br /> - -Community Church, <a href="#page_32">32</a><br /> - -Cook, George Cram, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -Cooke, Grace MacGowan, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -Corydon (pseudonym of 1st wife), <a href="#page_13">13</a>, <a href="#page_81">81</a>, <a href="#page_93">93</a>, <a href="#page_94">94</a>, <a href="#page_104">104</a>, <a href="#page_106">106</a>, <a href="#page_108">108</a>, <a href="#page_112">112</a>, <a href="#page_156">156</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">acquaintance of, with Sinclair, <a href="#page_17">17</a>, <a href="#page_41">41-42</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">advises Mary Craig Kimbrough on her book, <a href="#page_166">166</a>, <a href="#page_167">167-68</a>, <a href="#page_172">172</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">and Harry Kemp, <a href="#page_160">160</a>, <a href="#page_174">174-75</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">courtship of, <a href="#page_75">75-77</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">despondency and loneliness of, <a href="#page_95">95</a>, <a href="#page_96">96-98</a>, <a href="#page_111">111</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">divorce of, from Sinclair, <a href="#page_172">172</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">considered by her, <a href="#page_154">154-55</a>, <a href="#page_165">165</a>, <a href="#page_170">170</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">granted in Holland, <a href="#page_186">186</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">proceedings in, <a href="#page_175">175-76</a>, <a href="#page_177">177-78</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">scandal re, <a href="#page_168">168</a>, <a href="#page_174">174-75</a>, <a href="#page_178">178</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fights for custody of son, <a href="#page_210">210</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">financial difficulties during pregnancy of, <a href="#page_79">79-80</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">helps Sinclair write <i>Love’s Pilgrimage</i>, <a href="#page_75">75-76</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ill-health of, <a href="#page_95">95</a>, <a href="#page_96">96</a>, <a href="#page_137">137-38</a>, <a href="#page_145">145</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">in sanitariums, <a href="#page_138">138</a>, <a href="#page_160">160</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">leaves Sinclair to live with parents, <a href="#page_83">83</a>, <a href="#page_86">86</a>, <a href="#page_91">91</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">to take own apartment, <a href="#page_146">146</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">marriage of, to Sinclair, <a href="#page_77">77</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">opposed by family, <a href="#page_77">77</a>, <a href="#page_79">79</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">remarries, <a href="#page_169">169</a>, <a href="#page_210">210</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">returns to Sinclair, <a href="#page_154">154-55</a>, <a href="#page_165">165</a>, <a href="#page_173">173</a>, <a href="#page_210">210</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">son of, <i>see</i> Sinclair, David; birth of, <a href="#page_84">84</a></span><br /> - -Coryell, John, <a href="#page_133">133</a><br /> - -Coughlin, Father Charles E., <a href="#page_273">273-74</a><br /> - -Crane, Charles R., <a href="#page_215">215</a><br /> - -Crane, Stephen, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -<br /> -<i><a name="D" id="D"></a>Damaged Goods</i>, by Eugène Brieux, <a href="#page_193">193</a><br /> - -<i>The Daughter of the Confederacy</i>, by Mary Craig Kimbrough, <a href="#page_166">166</a><br /> - -Davidson, Jo, <a href="#page_133">133</a>, <a href="#page_250">250</a><br /> - -Davis, Jefferson, <a href="#page_166">166</a>, <a href="#page_205">205</a>, <a href="#page_265">265</a><br /> - -Davis, Richard Harding, <a href="#page_204">204</a><br /> - -Davis, Robert, <a href="#page_117">117</a><br /> - -Davis, Winnie, <a href="#page_166">166</a>, <a href="#page_168">168</a>, <a href="#page_173">173</a>, <a href="#page_205">205</a>, <a href="#page_265">265</a><br /> - -Debs, Eugene, <a href="#page_44">44</a>, <a href="#page_252">252-53</a><br /> - -<i>The Defeat in the Victory</i>, by George D. Herron, <a href="#page_102">102</a><br /> - -Dell, Floyd, <a href="#page_34">34</a>, <a href="#page_88">88-90</a>, <a href="#page_99">99</a>, <a href="#page_204">204</a>, <a href="#page_261">261</a><br /> - -Democratic Party, <a href="#page_19">19</a>, <a href="#page_64">64</a>, <a href="#page_268">268</a>, <a href="#page_272">272</a>, <a href="#page_328">328</a><br /> - -<i>The Demon of the Absolute</i>, by Paul Elmer More, <a href="#page_85">85</a><br /> - -Dewey, John, <a href="#page_132">132</a>, <a href="#page_250">250</a><br /> - -De Witt, Samuel, <a href="#page_29">29</a><br /> - -Dill, James B., <a href="#page_144">144-45</a><br /> - -Dinwiddie, William, <a href="#page_122">122</a><br /> - -Disney, Walt, <a href="#page_285">285</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a><br /> - -<i>The Divine Fire</i>, by May Sinclair, <a href="#page_182">182</a><br /> - -Doremus, R. Ogden, <a href="#page_23">23-24</a><br /> - -Dos Passos, John, <a href="#page_232">232</a><br /> - -Doubleday, Frank, <a href="#page_124">124</a><br /> - -Dreiser, Theodore, <a href="#page_45">45</a>, <a href="#page_85">85</a>, <a href="#page_246">246</a>, <a href="#page_247">247</a>, <a href="#page_249">249</a>, <a href="#page_253">253</a><br /> - -DuBridge, Dr. Lee, <a href="#page_258">258-59</a><br /> - -Duke University, <a href="#page_244">244</a>, <a href="#page_328">328</a><br /> - -Duncan, Isadora, <a href="#page_203">203</a>, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -Dunne, Finley Peter, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -<br /> -<i>The <a name="E" id="E"></a>Easiest Way</i>, by Eugene Walter, <a href="#page_144">144</a><br /> - -Einstein, Albert, <a href="#page_254">254-59</a>, <a href="#page_279">279-80</a>, <a href="#page_292">292</a>, <a href="#page_305">305</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a>, <a href="#page_329">329</a><br /> - -Eisenstein, Sergei, <a href="#page_64">64</a>, <a href="#page_237">237</a>, <a href="#page_262">262-67</a><br /> - -Eldh, Carl, <a href="#page_305">305</a><br /> - -EPIC (End Poverty in California), <a href="#page_266">266</a>, <a href="#page_268">268-76</a>, <a href="#page_278">278</a>, <a href="#page_280">280</a>, <a href="#page_282">282</a>, <a href="#page_309">309</a>, <a href="#page_319">319</a>, <a href="#page_321">321</a>, <a href="#page_328">328</a><br /> - -Ettor, Joe, <a href="#page_187">187</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="F" id="F"></a>Fairbanks, Douglas, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -Faulkner, William, <a href="#page_45">45</a><br /> - -<i>The Fighting Sinclairs</i>, <a href="#page_4">4-6</a><br /> - -Finch, Jessica, <a href="#page_194">194-95</a><br /> - -Fischer, <a href="#page_185">185</a><br /> - -Fish, Hamilton, <a href="#page_279">279</a><br /> - -Fitch, Ensign Clarke, USN (pen name of Upton Sinclair), <a href="#page_50">50</a><br /> - -Fitzgerald, F. Scott, <a href="#page_45">45</a>, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -Flannery, Harry, <a href="#page_282">282</a><br /> - -Flynn, Elizabeth Gurley, <a href="#page_187">187</a><br /> - -Ford, Arthur, <a href="#page_245">245-47</a><br /> - -Ford, Edsel, <a href="#page_285">285-86</a><br /> - -Ford, Henry, <a href="#page_258">258</a>, <a href="#page_285">285</a>, <a href="#page_324">324-25</a><br /> - -Ford, Mrs. Henry, <a href="#page_286">286</a>, <a href="#page_287">287-88</a>, <a href="#page_324">324-25</a><br /> - -Fox, William, <a href="#page_260">260-61</a><br /> - -Freeman, Elizabeth, <a href="#page_201">201</a><br /> - -Fuller, Judge Alvan T., <a href="#page_241">241</a><br /> - -Fuller, Judd, <a href="#page_234">234</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="G" id="G"></a>Garfield, James R., <a href="#page_118">118</a><br /> - -Garrison, Lt. Frederick, USA (pen name of Upton Sinclair), <a href="#page_49">49</a><br /> - -Gartz, Craney, <a href="#page_217">217</a>, <a href="#page_300">300</a><br /> - -Gartz, Gloria, <a href="#page_217">217</a>, <a href="#page_273">273</a><br /> - -Gartz, Mrs. Kate Crane, <a href="#page_214">214-18</a>, <a href="#page_219">219-20</a>, <a href="#page_233">233</a>, <a href="#page_240">240</a>, <a href="#page_246">246</a>, <a href="#page_257">257</a>, <a href="#page_262">262</a>, <a href="#page_272">272-73</a>, <a href="#page_298">298</a>, <a href="#page_299">299-302</a><br /> - -Gartz, Adolph, <a href="#page_217">217</a>, <a href="#page_218">218</a>, <a href="#page_233">233</a><br /> - -Genthe, Arnold, <a href="#page_151">151</a><br /> - -Ghent, W. J., <a href="#page_228">228</a><br /> - -Gillette, King C., <a href="#page_236">236-37</a>, <a href="#page_286">286-87</a><br /> - -Gilman, Elizabeth, <a href="#page_226">226</a><br /> - -Ginn, Edwin, <a href="#page_93">93</a><br /> - -Giovannitti, Arthur, <a href="#page_187">187</a><br /> - -Goebel, George H., <a href="#page_253">253</a><br /> - -Gold, Michael, <a href="#page_70">70</a><br /> - -Goldman, Eric, <a href="#page_325">325</a><br /> - -Gray, Barry, <a href="#page_325">325</a><br /> - -Gurney, Edmund, <a href="#page_33">33</a><br /> - -Gutkind, Erich, <a href="#page_184">184</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="H" id="H"></a>Haldeman, Marcet, <a href="#page_213">213</a><br /> - -Haldeman-Julius, Emanuel, <a href="#page_87">87</a>, <a href="#page_213">213</a>, <a href="#page_221">221</a><br /> - -Haldeman-Julius Little Blue Books, <a href="#page_83">83</a>, <a href="#page_154">154</a><br /> - -<i>Haldeman-Julius Weekly</i> (formerly <i>Appeal to Reason</i>), <a href="#page_221">221</a><br /> - -Hanford, Ben, <a href="#page_220">220</a><br /> - -Hapgood, Norman, <a href="#page_107">107</a><br /> - -Hard, Dr. Frederick, <a href="#page_319">319</a>, <a href="#page_321">321</a><br /> - -Hard, May (Mrs. Upton Sinclair, his 3d wife), <a href="#page_319">319-22</a><br /> - -Harden, Harry, <a href="#page_7">7</a>, <a href="#page_91">91</a><br /> - -Harden, John S. (grandfather of Upton Sinclair), <a href="#page_7">7</a>, <a href="#page_9">9</a>, <a href="#page_10">10</a>, <a href="#page_29">29</a><br /> - -Harden, Mrs. John S. (Mary Ayers), <a href="#page_10">10-11</a><br /> - -Hardy, Prof. George, <a href="#page_38">38</a><br /> - -Harris, Frank, <a href="#page_169">169-70</a>, <a href="#page_181">181-82</a><br /> - -Hartmann, Sadakichi, <a href="#page_133">133</a>, <a href="#page_250">250</a><br /> - -Harvard University, <a href="#page_196">196-97</a>, <a href="#page_241">241</a>, <a href="#page_242">242</a>, <a href="#page_244">244</a><br /> - -Haywood, William D., <a href="#page_187">187</a><br /> - -Hearst, William Randolph, <a href="#page_50">50</a>, <a href="#page_133">133</a><br /> - -Helicon Hall (Home Colony), <a href="#page_128">128-36</a>, <a href="#page_141">141</a>, <a href="#page_142">142</a>, <a href="#page_250">250</a><br /> - -Hemingway, Ernest, <a href="#page_45">45</a>, <a href="#page_249">249-50</a><br /> - -Henderson, C. Hanford, <a href="#page_204">204</a><br /> - -Henry, O., <a href="#page_44">44</a>, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -Herbermann, Prof. Charles George, <a href="#page_38">38</a><br /> - -Herron, George D., <a href="#page_93">93</a>, <a href="#page_101">101-03</a>, <a href="#page_176">176</a>, <a href="#page_183">183</a>, <a href="#page_294">294</a><br /> - -Herron, Mrs. George (Carrie Rand), <a href="#page_176">176</a>, <a href="#page_183">183</a><br /> - -Higginson, Thomas Wentworth, <a href="#page_85">85</a>, <a href="#page_93">93</a><br /> - -<i>The High Romance</i>, by Michael Williams, <a href="#page_142">142</a>, <a href="#page_143">143</a><br /> - -Hitchcock, Ripley, <a href="#page_88">88</a><br /> - -Hoover, Herbert, <a href="#page_304">304</a><br /> - -Hopkins, Harry, <a href="#page_274">274</a><br /> - -Hopkins, Pryns (Prince), <a href="#page_238">238</a><br /> - -House, Col. Edward M., <a href="#page_218">218</a>, <a href="#page_221">221</a><br /> - -Howatt, David, <a href="#page_156">156-57</a>, <a href="#page_162">162</a><br /> - -Howe, Frederick C., <a href="#page_203">203</a><br /> - -Howe, Julia Ward, <a href="#page_93">93</a><br /> - -Huebsch, B. W., <a href="#page_228">228</a>, <a href="#page_297">297</a><br /> - -Huntington Library, <a href="#page_304">304</a><br /> - -Hyslop, Prof. James, <a href="#page_60">60-61</a>, <a href="#page_65">65</a>, <a href="#page_244">244</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="I-i" id="I-i"></a>Ickes, Harold, <a href="#page_274">274</a><br /> - -Industrial Workers of the World, <a href="#page_229">229</a>, <a href="#page_232">232</a>, <a href="#page_233">233</a>, <a href="#page_281">281-82</a><br /> - -Intercollegiate Socialist Society (later League for Industrial Democracy), <a href="#page_113">113-14</a>, <a href="#page_140">140</a>, <a href="#page_170">170</a>, <a href="#page_172">172</a>, <a href="#page_194">194</a>, <a href="#page_196">196</a>, <a href="#page_197">197</a>, <a href="#page_248">248</a>, <a href="#page_282">282</a>, <a href="#page_329">329</a><br /> - -Irvine, Alexander, <a href="#page_201">201</a><br /> - -<i>It All Started with Columbus</i>, by Richard Armour, <a href="#page_319">319</a><br /> - -<i>It All Started with Eve</i>, by Richard Armour, <a href="#page_319">319</a><br /> - -<i>It All Started with Marx</i>, by Richard Armour, <a href="#page_319">319</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="J" id="J"></a>James, Henry, <a href="#page_181">181</a><br /> - -James, William, <a href="#page_132">132-33</a>, <a href="#page_250">250</a><br /> - -Jerome, William Travers, <a href="#page_66">66</a>, <a href="#page_67">67</a>, <a href="#page_222">222</a><br /> - -<i>John Barleycorn</i>, by Jack London, <a href="#page_248">248</a><br /> - -Jones, Capt. and Mrs., <a href="#page_209">209</a>, <a href="#page_210">210</a><br /> - -“Jonesy,” fruit inspector, <a href="#page_67">67-68</a>, <a href="#page_123">123-24</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="K" id="K"></a>Kahn, Otto H., <a href="#page_266">266</a><br /> - -Kautsky, Karl, <a href="#page_184">184-85</a><br /> - -Keeley, James, <a href="#page_116">116</a><br /> - -Kellogg, W. K., <a href="#page_140">140</a><br /> - -Kelly, Mrs. Edith Summers, <a href="#page_132">132</a>, <a href="#page_250">250</a><br /> - -Kemp, Harry, <a href="#page_147">147-48</a>, <a href="#page_160">160</a>, <a href="#page_168">168</a>, <a href="#page_172">172</a>, <a href="#page_174">174-75</a>, <a href="#page_178">178</a><br /> - -Kempner, Dr. Walter, <a href="#page_311">311</a><br /> - -Kennerley, Mitchell, <a href="#page_167">167</a>, <a href="#page_176">176</a>, <a href="#page_186">186</a><br /> - -Kimbrough, Allan, <a href="#page_259">259</a><br /> - -Kimbrough, Dolly, <a href="#page_192">192</a>, <a href="#page_193">193-94</a>, <a href="#page_208">208</a>, <a href="#page_246">246</a>, <a href="#page_254">254</a><br /> - -Kimbrough, Hunter Southworth, <a href="#page_204">204-05</a>, <a href="#page_206">206</a>, <a href="#page_208">208</a>, <a href="#page_259">259</a>, <a href="#page_260">260</a>, <a href="#page_262">262</a>, <a href="#page_263">263</a>, <a href="#page_265">265</a>, <a href="#page_266">266</a>, <a href="#page_282">282</a>, <a href="#page_310">310</a>, <a href="#page_314">314</a>, <a href="#page_318">318</a>, <a href="#page_319">319</a>, <a href="#page_320">320</a><br /> - -Kimbrough, Judge Allan McCaskell, <a href="#page_180">180</a>, <a href="#page_186">186</a>, <a href="#page_188">188</a>, <a href="#page_190">190</a>, <a href="#page_193">193</a>, <a href="#page_195">195</a>, <a href="#page_200">200</a>, <a href="#page_204">204</a>, <a href="#page_205">205</a>, <a href="#page_206">206-07</a>, <a href="#page_208">208</a>, <a href="#page_212">212</a>, <a href="#page_276">276-77</a><br /> - -Kimbrough, Leftwich, <a href="#page_315">315</a><br /> - -Kimbrough, Mary Craig (Mrs. Upton Sinclair, his 2d wife), <a href="#page_184">184</a>, <a href="#page_186">186</a>, <a href="#page_193">193</a>, <a href="#page_194">194</a>, <a href="#page_195">195-96</a>, <a href="#page_204">204-11</a> <i>passim</i>, <a href="#page_224">224</a>, <a href="#page_251">251</a>, <a href="#page_254">254</a>, <a href="#page_259">259</a>, <a href="#page_263">263-65</a>, <a href="#page_277">277</a>, <a href="#page_279">279</a>, <a href="#page_281">281</a>, <a href="#page_286">286</a>, <a href="#page_293">293</a>, <a href="#page_307">307</a>, <a href="#page_309">309</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">and Corydon, <a href="#page_166">166</a>, <a href="#page_167">167-68</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">and Mrs. Kate Crane-Gartz, <a href="#page_214">214-18</a>, <a href="#page_219">219-20</a>, <a href="#page_233">233</a>, <a href="#page_299">299-300</a>, <a href="#page_301">301-02</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">and Neil Vanderbilt, <a href="#page_238">238</a>, <a href="#page_295">295</a>, <a href="#page_296">296</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">as homemaker, <a href="#page_234">234</a>, <a href="#page_303">303</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">books by, <a href="#page_166">166</a>, <a href="#page_167">167-68</a>, <a href="#page_173">173</a>, <a href="#page_314">314</a>, <a href="#page_325">325</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">collaborates with Sinclair on <i>Mental Radio</i> experiments, <a href="#page_33">33</a>, <a href="#page_243">243-45</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">on revision of <i>King Coal</i>, <a href="#page_212">212-13</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">death of, <a href="#page_317">317</a>, <a href="#page_318">318</a>, <a href="#page_319">319</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">during Sinclair’s campaign for Governor, <a href="#page_269">269</a>, <a href="#page_272">272</a>, <a href="#page_275">275</a>, <a href="#page_276">276</a>, <a href="#page_278">278</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">heroine of <i>Sylvia</i>, <a href="#page_180">180-81</a>, <a href="#page_195">195</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">in England, <a href="#page_179">179</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">in Holland, <a href="#page_183">183</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">interested in telepathy, <a href="#page_33">33</a>, <a href="#page_243">243-47</a>, <a href="#page_328">328</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">last illness of, <a href="#page_300">300</a>, <a href="#page_301">301</a>, <a href="#page_310">310-17</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">loved by George Sterling, <a href="#page_172">172</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">marriage of, <a href="#page_188">188-90</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">opposed by family, <a href="#page_186">186</a>, <a href="#page_188">188</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">meets Sinclair, <a href="#page_161">161-62</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">participates in protest demonstration, <a href="#page_198">198-202</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">persuades Sinclair to change name of socialist society, <a href="#page_282">282</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">to edit King C. Gillette’s ms., <a href="#page_236">236-37</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">to write book on William Fox, <a href="#page_260">260</a>, <a href="#page_261">261</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Sonnets to Craig</i> written for, <a href="#page_172">172-73</a></span><br /> - -Kimbrough, Mrs. Mary Hunter K., <a href="#page_180">180</a>, <a href="#page_186">186</a>, <a href="#page_188">188</a>, <a href="#page_190">190</a>, <a href="#page_191">191</a>, <a href="#page_192">192</a>, <a href="#page_195">195</a><br /> - -Kimbrough, Orman, <a href="#page_276">276</a><br /> - -Kimbrough, Sally, <a href="#page_318">318</a><br /> - -Kimbrough, Willie, <a href="#page_208">208</a><br /> - -Klausner, Bertha, <a href="#page_325">325</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="L" id="L"></a>La Follette, Philip F., <a href="#page_257">257-58</a><br /> - -La Follette, Robert M., <a href="#page_225">225</a><br /> - -Laidler, Harry, <a href="#page_113">113</a><br /> - -Lansbury, George, <a href="#page_193">193</a><br /> - -<i>The Last Romantic</i>, by Martin Birnbaum, <a href="#page_294">294</a><br /> - -Lawrence, Mrs. Pethick, <a href="#page_193">193</a><br /> - -League for Industrial Democracy (formerly Intercollegiate Socialist Society), <a href="#page_113">113-14</a>, <a href="#page_260">260</a>, <a href="#page_282">282</a>, <a href="#page_329">329</a><br /> - -Ledebour, Georg, <a href="#page_185">185</a><br /> - -Le Gallienne, Richard, <a href="#page_88">88</a><br /> - -Leupp, Francis E., <a href="#page_118">118</a><br /> - -Lesser, Sol, <a href="#page_266">266</a>, <a href="#page_267">267</a>, <a href="#page_319">319</a>, <a href="#page_321">321</a><br /> - -<i>Letters of Protest</i>, by Mrs. Kate Crane-Gartz, <a href="#page_233">233</a><br /> - -Lewis, Henry Harrison, <a href="#page_41">41</a>, <a href="#page_48">48-49</a>, <a href="#page_50">50</a><br /> - -Lewis, Lena Morrow, <a href="#page_281">281</a><br /> - -Lewis, Sinclair, <a href="#page_45">45</a>, <a href="#page_85">85</a>, <a href="#page_132">132</a>, <a href="#page_250">250-52</a>, <a href="#page_279">279</a><br /> - -Liebknecht, Wilhelm, <a href="#page_185">185</a><br /> - -Lilly Library, University of Indiana, <a href="#page_226">226</a>, <a href="#page_304">304-06</a><br /> - -Lindsay, Vachel, <a href="#page_203">203</a><br /> - -Lindsey, Judge Ben, <a href="#page_148">148</a><br /> - -Lippmann, Walter, <a href="#page_194">194</a>, <a href="#page_196">196</a>, <a href="#page_197">197</a><br /> - -Liveright, Horace, <a href="#page_237">237</a>, <a href="#page_249">249</a>, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -London, Jack, <a href="#page_44">44</a>, <a href="#page_113">113-14</a>, <a href="#page_169">169</a>, <a href="#page_182">182</a>, <a href="#page_248">248</a>, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -Lorimer, George Horace, <a href="#page_116">116</a><br /> - -Lowell, A. Lawrence, <a href="#page_241">241</a><br /> - -Ludlow massacre, <a href="#page_198">198-203</a>, <a href="#page_327">327-28</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="M" id="M"></a>McDougall, Prof. William, <a href="#page_244">244-45</a>, <a href="#page_247">247</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a>, <a href="#page_328">328</a><br /> - -MacDowell, Edward, <a href="#page_48">48</a>, <a href="#page_58">58-60</a><br /> - -MacDowell, Mary, <a href="#page_109">109</a><br /> - -Macfadden, Bernarr, <a href="#page_157">157</a>, <a href="#page_158">158</a>, <a href="#page_159">159</a>, <a href="#page_232">232</a><br /> - -MacGowan, Alice, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -Mackay, Mrs. Clarence, <a href="#page_136">136</a><br /> - -Mann, Klaus, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -Mann, Thomas, <a href="#page_292">292-93</a>, <a href="#page_329">329</a><br /> - -Mann, Tom, <a href="#page_178">178</a><br /> - -Marcosson, Isaac F., <a href="#page_118">118</a><br /> - -Markham, Edwin, <a href="#page_85">85</a><br /> - -Martin, John, <a href="#page_139">139-40</a><br /> - -Martin, Mrs. John (Prestonia Mann), <a href="#page_139">139</a><br /> - -Matthews, Brander, <a href="#page_61">61</a>, <a href="#page_78">78</a><br /> - -Mayo, Margaret, <i>see</i> Selwyn, Mrs. Edgar<br /> - -Mead, Edwin D., <a href="#page_93">93</a><br /> - -Mencken, H. L., <a href="#page_87">87</a>, <a href="#page_226">226</a>, <a href="#page_227">227</a>, <a href="#page_248">248</a>, <a href="#page_305">305</a><br /> - -Mexico, Indians filmed by Eisenstein in, <a href="#page_26">26</a>, <a href="#page_262">262-67</a><br /> - -Mickiewicz, Ralph, <a href="#page_16">16</a><br /> - -Milholland, Inez, <a href="#page_8">8</a>, <a href="#page_170">170-72</a><br /> - -Millay, Edna St. Vincent, <a href="#page_45">45</a>, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -Millikan, Dr. Robert, <a href="#page_255">255</a>, <a href="#page_257">257</a><br /> - -Minor, Robert, <a href="#page_204">204</a>, <a href="#page_265">265</a>, <a href="#page_293">293</a><br /> - -<i>Modern Utopia</i>, by H. G. Wells, <a href="#page_146">146</a><br /> - -Moir, Rev. William Wilmerding, <a href="#page_30">30-32</a>, <a href="#page_42">42</a>, <a href="#page_45">45-46</a>, <a href="#page_49">49</a>, <a href="#page_74">74</a><br /> - -Montague, Lelia, <a href="#page_53">53</a><br /> - -Montague, Prof. W. P., <a href="#page_131">131</a>, <a href="#page_132">132</a>, <a href="#page_250">250</a><br /> - -Moore, Fred, <a href="#page_241">241</a><br /> - -Mordell, Albert, <a href="#page_4">4-5</a><br /> - -More, Paul Elmer, <a href="#page_83">83-84</a>, <a href="#page_85">85</a>, <a href="#page_101">101</a><br /> - -Morgan, J. P., <a href="#page_141">141-42</a>, <a href="#page_144">144</a><br /> - -Murphy, Mayor Frank, <a href="#page_287">287</a><br /> - -Murphy, Tom, <a href="#page_133">133</a><br /> - -Museum of Modern Art, <a href="#page_267">267</a><br /> - -Musmanno, Justice Michael Angelo, <a href="#page_242">242</a>, <a href="#page_324">324</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="N" id="N"></a>Namikawa, Ryo, <a href="#page_328">328</a><br /> - -Nearing, Scott, <a href="#page_114">114</a>, <a href="#page_166">166</a>, <a href="#page_167">167</a><br /> - -Neill, Charles P., <a href="#page_119">119</a><br /> - -Neuberger, Sen. Richard, <a href="#page_279">279</a><br /> - -New York University, <a href="#page_308">308</a><br /> - -Nobel Prize, <a href="#page_297">297</a>, <a href="#page_305">305</a>, <a href="#page_329">329</a><br /> - -Noyes, Prof. William, <a href="#page_132">132</a>, <a href="#page_250">250</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="O" id="O"></a>Oaks, Louis D., <a href="#page_228">228-32</a><br /> - -O’Higgins, Harry, <a href="#page_148">148</a><br /> - -O’Neill, Eugene, <a href="#page_45">45</a>, <a href="#page_232">232</a>, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -Oppenheimer, Harry, <a href="#page_319">319</a><br /> - -Otto, Richard S., <a href="#page_269">269-70</a>, <a href="#page_275">275</a>, <a href="#page_309">309</a>, <a href="#page_319">319</a>, <a href="#page_321">321</a><br /> - -<i>Our Benevolent Feudalism</i>, by W. J. Ghent, <a href="#page_228">228</a><br /> - -Oxford University, <a href="#page_244">244</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="P" id="P"></a>Page, Walter H., <a href="#page_116">116</a>, <a href="#page_140">140</a><br /> - -Pankhurst, Sylvia, <a href="#page_193">193</a><br /> - -<i>Parable of the Water Tank</i>, by Edward Bellamy, <a href="#page_269">269</a><br /> - -Peck, Harry Thurston, <a href="#page_60">60</a>, <a href="#page_83">83</a><br /> - -Perry, Bliss, <a href="#page_82">82</a><br /> - -<i>Phantasms of the Living</i>, by Edmund Gurney, <a href="#page_33">33</a><br /> - -Phelps, William Lyon, <a href="#page_61">61</a><br /> - -Phillips, David Graham, <a href="#page_118">118-19</a><br /> - -Poling, Daniel A., <a href="#page_299">299</a><br /> - -Poole, Ernest, <a href="#page_187">187</a><br /> - -Price, Will, <a href="#page_166">166</a><br /> - -Prince, Dr. Walker Franklin, <a href="#page_33">33</a><br /> - -Princeton University, <a href="#page_93">93</a>, <a href="#page_279">279</a><br /> - -Pulitzer Prize, <a href="#page_297">297</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="R" id="R"></a>Randall, David, <a href="#page_304">304</a>, <a href="#page_305">305</a><br /> - -Ratcliffe, S. K., <a href="#page_294">294</a><br /> - -Rathenau, Walter, <a href="#page_185">185-86</a><br /> - -Reed, John, <a href="#page_187">187</a>, <a href="#page_188">188</a>, <a href="#page_293">293</a><br /> - -Reedy, W. M., <a href="#page_44">44</a><br /> - -Republican Party, <a href="#page_271">271</a>, <a href="#page_328">328</a><br /> - -Reuther, Victor, <a href="#page_324">324</a><br /> - -Reuther, Walter, <a href="#page_323">323</a>, <a href="#page_324">324</a>, <a href="#page_325">325</a><br /> - -Reynolds, James Bronson, <a href="#page_119">119</a><br /> - -Rhine, Prof. J. B., <a href="#page_247">247</a>, <a href="#page_328">328</a><br /> - -Ridgway, E. J., <a href="#page_117">117</a><br /> - -Rivera, Diego, <a href="#page_262">262</a><br /> - -Robinson, Prof. James Harvey, <a href="#page_60">60</a><br /> - -Rockefeller, John D., Jr., <a href="#page_198">198</a>, <a href="#page_199">199</a>, <a href="#page_201">201</a>, <a href="#page_202">202</a>, <a href="#page_328">328</a><br /> - -Rockefeller, Nelson A., <a href="#page_202">202</a><br /> - -Roosevelt, Mrs. Eleanor, <a href="#page_325">325</a><br /> - -Roosevelt, Franklin D., <a href="#page_268">268</a>, <a href="#page_271">271</a>, <a href="#page_274">274</a>, <a href="#page_279">279</a>, <a href="#page_296">296</a>, <a href="#page_298">298</a><br /> - -Roosevelt, Theodore, <a href="#page_118">118-19</a>, <a href="#page_124">124</a>, <a href="#page_327">327</a><br /> - -Russell, Bertrand, <a href="#page_257">257</a><br /> - -Russell, Frank, Lord, <a href="#page_179">179-80</a>, <a href="#page_183">183</a>, <a href="#page_186">186</a><br /> - -Russell, Countess (“Aunt Molly”), <a href="#page_179">179-80</a>, <a href="#page_181">181</a>, <a href="#page_183">183</a>, <a href="#page_186">186</a><br /> - -Rutzebeck, Hans, <a href="#page_321">321</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="S" id="S"></a>Sabin, Barbara, <a href="#page_321">321</a><br /> - -Sacco, Nicola, <a href="#page_240">240-42</a><br /> - -Salisbury, Dr. J. H., <a href="#page_162">162-63</a><br /> - -Sanborn, Frank B., <a href="#page_93">93</a><br /> - -Santayana, George, <a href="#page_85">85</a><br /> - -Savage, Rev. Minot J., <a href="#page_32">32-33</a>, <a href="#page_77">77</a>, <a href="#page_111">111</a>, <a href="#page_244">244</a><br /> - -Schorer, Mark, <a href="#page_250">250</a>, <a href="#page_251">251</a>, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -Schwed, Fred, <a href="#page_38">38-39</a><br /> - -Schwimmer, Rosika, <a href="#page_139">139</a>, <a href="#page_258">258</a><br /> - -Scott, Leroy, <a href="#page_187">187</a><br /> - -Scripps College, <a href="#page_319">319</a><br /> - -Seabrook, William, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -<i>The Sea Wolf</i>, by Jack London, <a href="#page_114">114</a><br /> - -Selfridge, Harry Gordon, <a href="#page_194">194</a><br /> - -Selwyn, Arch, <a href="#page_125">125</a>, <a href="#page_285">285</a><br /> - -Selwyn, Edgar, <a href="#page_125">125</a>, <a href="#page_203">203</a><br /> - -Selwyn, Mrs. Edgar (Margaret Mayo), <a href="#page_125">125</a>, <a href="#page_203">203</a><br /> - -Shaw, George Bernard, <a href="#page_106">106</a>, <a href="#page_146">146</a>, <a href="#page_182">182</a>, <a href="#page_192">192</a>, <a href="#page_285">285</a>, <a href="#page_292">292</a>, <a href="#page_305">305</a>, <a href="#page_329">329</a><br /> - -Shaw, Mrs. George Bernard, <a href="#page_193">193</a><br /> - -<i>Shelburne Essays</i>, by Paul Elmer More, <a href="#page_84">84</a><br /> - -Sinclair, Capt. Arthur (grandfather of Upton Sinclair), <a href="#page_4">4</a>, <a href="#page_5">5</a>, <a href="#page_6">6</a>, <a href="#page_191">191</a><br /> - -Sinclair, Comm. Arthur (great-grandfather of Upton Sinclair), <a href="#page_5">5</a>, <a href="#page_191">191</a><br /> - -Sinclair, Arthur, Jr., <a href="#page_6">6</a><br /> - -Sinclair, Mrs. Arthur (grandmother of Upton Sinclair), <a href="#page_4">4</a><br /> - -Sinclair, David (son of Upton Sinclair), <a href="#page_84">84</a>, <a href="#page_91">91</a>, <a href="#page_94">94-95</a>, <a href="#page_96">96</a>, <a href="#page_104">104</a>, <a href="#page_112">112</a>, <a href="#page_138">138</a>, <a href="#page_142">142</a>, <a href="#page_154">154</a>, <a href="#page_163">163</a>, <a href="#page_165">165</a>, <a href="#page_166">166</a>, <a href="#page_176">176</a>, <a href="#page_177">177</a>, <a href="#page_179">179</a>, <a href="#page_185">185</a>, <a href="#page_189">189</a>, <a href="#page_192">192</a>, <a href="#page_195">195</a>, <a href="#page_204">204</a>, <a href="#page_210">210</a>, <a href="#page_323">323</a>, <a href="#page_324">324</a><br /> - -Sinclair, George T., <a href="#page_5">5</a>, <a href="#page_6">6</a><br /> - -Sinclair, George Terry, <a href="#page_6">6</a>, <a href="#page_25">25</a><br /> - -Sinclair, May, <a href="#page_182">182-83</a><br /> - -Sinclair, Priscilla Harden (Mrs. Upton, mother of Upton Sinclair), <a href="#page_3">3</a>, <a href="#page_6">6-7</a>, <a href="#page_8">8</a>, <a href="#page_9">9</a>, <a href="#page_14">14</a>, <a href="#page_15">15</a>, <a href="#page_17">17</a>, <a href="#page_19">19</a>, <a href="#page_24">24</a>, <a href="#page_28">28</a>, <a href="#page_29">29</a>, <a href="#page_34">34</a>, <a href="#page_36">36</a>, <a href="#page_41">41</a>, <a href="#page_42">42</a>, <a href="#page_50">50</a>, <a href="#page_59">59</a>, <a href="#page_65">65</a>, <a href="#page_69">69</a>, <a href="#page_77">77</a>, <a href="#page_79">79</a>, <a href="#page_91">91</a>, <a href="#page_189">189</a>, <a href="#page_191">191</a>, <a href="#page_235">235</a>, <a href="#page_289">289</a><br /> - -Sinclair, Upton<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">acting company organized by, <a href="#page_153">153-54</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">and Inez Milholland, <a href="#page_170">170-72</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">and Protestant Episcopal Church, <a href="#page_29">29-33</a>, <a href="#page_99">99-100</a>, <a href="#page_288">288</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Unitarian Church, <a href="#page_32">32</a>, <a href="#page_288">288</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">arrested for playing tennis, <a href="#page_168">168</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">for protest demonstration, <a href="#page_199">199-200</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">for reading U.S. Constitution, <a href="#page_228">228</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">as candidate for Congress, <a href="#page_105">105</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">for Governor of California, <a href="#page_266">266</a>, <a href="#page_268">268-76</a>, <a href="#page_278">278</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">as election watcher, <a href="#page_66">66-67</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">as producer of Eisenstein’s film, <a href="#page_262">262-67</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">as reporter for N. Y. <i>Evening Post</i>, <a href="#page_42">42-43</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">at City College, <a href="#page_21">21</a>, <a href="#page_23">23-25</a>, <a href="#page_37">37-40</a>, <a href="#page_47">47</a>, <a href="#page_48">48</a>, <a href="#page_57">57</a>, <a href="#page_224">224</a>, <a href="#page_294">294</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">at Columbia University, <a href="#page_48">48</a>, <a href="#page_51">51</a>, <a href="#page_56">56</a>, <a href="#page_57">57-63</a>, <a href="#page_224">224</a>, <a href="#page_244">244</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">attends British Parliament to hear debate, <a href="#page_178">178-79</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">biographer of, <i>see</i> Dell, Floyd</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">biography of, published, <a href="#page_99">99</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">birthplace of, <a href="#page_226">226</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">card-playing by, <a href="#page_92">92</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">childhood of, <a href="#page_3">3</a>, <a href="#page_7">7-12</a>, <a href="#page_14">14-28</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">collaborates with Michael Williams on health book, <a href="#page_142">142-43</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">confirmation of, <a href="#page_30">30</a>, <a href="#page_288">288</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">declines appointment to U.S. Naval Academy, <a href="#page_25">25</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">divorce of, <a href="#page_168">168</a>, <a href="#page_174">174-75</a>, <a href="#page_175">175-76</a>, <a href="#page_177">177-78</a>, <a href="#page_183">183</a>, <a href="#page_186">186</a>, <a href="#page_189">189</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">early education of, <a href="#page_8">8-9</a>, <a href="#page_21">21-25</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">edits King C. Gillette’s ms., <a href="#page_236">236-37</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">estimate of works of, <a href="#page_88">88-90</a>, <a href="#page_292">292-93</a>, <a href="#page_308">308-09</a>, <a href="#page_327">327-30</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">family of</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">account re members of, in the Navy, <a href="#page_4">4-6</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">aunts, <a href="#page_3">3</a>, <a href="#page_11">11</a>, <a href="#page_13">13</a>, <a href="#page_15">15</a>, <a href="#page_29">29</a>, <a href="#page_53">53</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">cousins, <a href="#page_13">13</a>, <a href="#page_14">14</a>, <a href="#page_53">53</a>, <a href="#page_93">93</a>, <a href="#page_104">104</a>, <a href="#page_191">191</a>, <a href="#page_227">227</a>, <a href="#page_285">285</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">father, <i>see</i> Sinclair, Upton Beall</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">grandfathers, <a href="#page_4">4</a>, <a href="#page_5">5</a>, <a href="#page_6">6</a>, <a href="#page_7">7</a>, <a href="#page_9">9</a>, <a href="#page_10">10</a>, <a href="#page_29">29</a>, <a href="#page_191">191</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">grandmothers, <a href="#page_4">4</a>, <a href="#page_10">10-11</a>, <a href="#page_29">29</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">granduncles, <a href="#page_5">5</a>, <a href="#page_6">6</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">mother, <i>see</i> Sinclair, Priscilla Harden</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">son, <i>see</i> Sinclair, David</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">uncles, <a href="#page_6">6</a>, <a href="#page_7">7</a>, <a href="#page_8">8</a>, <a href="#page_9">9</a>, <a href="#page_11">11-12</a>, <a href="#page_14">14</a>, <a href="#page_25">25</a>, <a href="#page_45">45</a>, <a href="#page_53">53-54</a>, <a href="#page_63">63-64</a>, <a href="#page_78">78</a>, <a href="#page_79">79</a>, <a href="#page_91">91</a>, <a href="#page_191">191</a>, <a href="#page_226">226-27</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">wife, <i>see</i> Corydon; Hard, May (3d wife); Kimbrough, Mary Craig (2d wife)</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">helps launch Nietzsche cult in America, <a href="#page_87">87</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Home Colony of, <a href="#page_128">128-36</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ill-health of, <a href="#page_73">73</a>, <a href="#page_87">87</a>, <a href="#page_125">125</a>, <a href="#page_137">137</a>, <a href="#page_140">140-41</a>, <a href="#page_155">155</a>, <a href="#page_158">158</a>, <a href="#page_237">237</a>, <a href="#page_294">294</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">and consequent interest in special diet, <a href="#page_140">140-41</a>, <a href="#page_153">153</a>, <a href="#page_157">157-60</a>, <a href="#page_162">162</a>, <a href="#page_163">163</a>, <a href="#page_311">311</a>, <a href="#page_312">312-13</a>, <a href="#page_322">322</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">interested in foreign languages, <a href="#page_61">61-63</a>, <a href="#page_167">167</a>, <a href="#page_235">235</a>, <a href="#page_288">288</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">in law, <a href="#page_25">25</a>, <a href="#page_48">48</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">in mental telepathy, <a href="#page_33">33</a>, <a href="#page_243">243-47</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a>, <a href="#page_328">328</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">in music, <a href="#page_56">56-57</a>, <a href="#page_71">71</a>, <a href="#page_77">77</a>, <a href="#page_79">79</a>, <a href="#page_234">234</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">lecture tour by, <a href="#page_278">278-82</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">literary hoax by, <a href="#page_88">88</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">marriage of, <a href="#page_77">77</a>, <a href="#page_188">188-90</a>, <a href="#page_321">321</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">method of working of, <a href="#page_94">94</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">newspaper guild formed at suggestion of, <a href="#page_224">224</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">organizes protest demonstration, <a href="#page_198">198-203</a>, <a href="#page_327">327-28</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pen names of, <a href="#page_49">49</a>, <a href="#page_50">50</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">papers of, given to Lilly Library, <a href="#page_226">226</a>, <a href="#page_304">304-06</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">prizes of: Nobel Prize sought for him, <a href="#page_305">305</a>, <a href="#page_329">329</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Page One Award, <a href="#page_323">323</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Pulitzer Prize, <a href="#page_297">297</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Social Justice Award, <a href="#page_324">324-25</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">reading habits of, <a href="#page_8">8-9</a>, <a href="#page_20">20</a>, <a href="#page_32">32</a>, <a href="#page_47">47</a>, <a href="#page_48">48</a>, <a href="#page_53">53-54</a>, <a href="#page_57">57</a>, <a href="#page_62">62-63</a>, <a href="#page_86">86</a>, <a href="#page_87">87</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">residences of, and visits by, in:</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Adirondack Mts., <a href="#page_41">41-42</a>, <a href="#page_55">55</a>, <a href="#page_56">56-57</a>, <a href="#page_87">87</a>, <a href="#page_138">138-40</a>, <a href="#page_144">144-46</a>, <a href="#page_318">318</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Arden, Del., single-tax colony, <a href="#page_164">164-67</a>, <a href="#page_173">173</a>, <a href="#page_196">196-97</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Arlington, Cal., <a href="#page_300">300</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Baltimore, <a href="#page_3">3-4</a>, <a href="#page_9">9</a>, <a href="#page_16">16</a>, <a href="#page_45">45</a>, <a href="#page_53">53-54</a>, <a href="#page_226">226-27</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Battle Creek, Mich., <a href="#page_140">140</a>, <a href="#page_158">158-61</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Bermuda, <a href="#page_141">141-42</a>, <a href="#page_195">195-96</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Bishop, Cal., <a href="#page_149">149-50</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Boston, <a href="#page_92">92-93</a>, <a href="#page_224">224</a>, <a href="#page_240">240</a>, <a href="#page_243">243</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Buckeye, Cal., <a href="#page_310">310</a>, <a href="#page_311">311</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Butte, <a href="#page_279">279</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Carmel, Cal., <a href="#page_146">146</a>, <a href="#page_150">150-51</a>, <a href="#page_152">152-53</a>, <a href="#page_155">155</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Coconut Grove, Fla., <a href="#page_155">155-56</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Chautauqua, N.Y., <a href="#page_279">279</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Chicago, <a href="#page_109">109-10</a>, <a href="#page_147">147</a>, <a href="#page_224">224</a>, <a href="#page_225">225-26</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Claremont, Cal., <a href="#page_321">321</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Corona, Cal., <a href="#page_300">300</a>, <a href="#page_311">311-16</a> <i>passim</i></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Coronado, Cal., <a href="#page_212">212-13</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Croton-on-Hudson, <a href="#page_108">108</a>, <a href="#page_203">203</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Cutchogue, L.I., <a href="#page_156">156</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Denver, <a href="#page_148">148</a>, <a href="#page_241">241</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">England, <a href="#page_8">8</a>, <a href="#page_178">178</a>, <a href="#page_192">192</a>, <a href="#page_193">193</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Fairhope, Ala., single-tax colony, <a href="#page_162">162-64</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Florence, <a href="#page_176">176-77</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Florida, <a href="#page_112">112</a>, <a href="#page_155">155-56</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Germany, <a href="#page_177">177</a>, <a href="#page_184">184-86</a>, <a href="#page_192">192</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Halifax, <a href="#page_104">104</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Holland, <a href="#page_177">177</a>, <a href="#page_183">183</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Key West, Fla., <a href="#page_155">155</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lake Elsinore, Cal., <a href="#page_301">301</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lake Placid, <a href="#page_74">74</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lawrence, Kan., <a href="#page_147">147</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Long Beach, Cal., <a href="#page_243">243-47</a>, <a href="#page_270">270</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Los Angeles, <a href="#page_228">228-32</a>, <a href="#page_253">253</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Miami, <a href="#page_155">155-54</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Milan, <a href="#page_177">177</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Mississippi, <a href="#page_204">204-10</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Monrovia, Cal., <a href="#page_297">297</a>, <a href="#page_301">301</a>, <a href="#page_303">303-04</a>, <a href="#page_310">310</a>, <a href="#page_316">316</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Naples, <a href="#page_62">62-63</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">New York City, <a href="#page_8">8</a>, <a href="#page_16">16-27</a>, <a href="#page_29">29-52</a> <i>passim</i>, <a href="#page_57">57-67</a>, <a href="#page_74">74</a>, <a href="#page_77">77-80</a>, <a href="#page_83">83</a>, <a href="#page_91">91</a>, <a href="#page_101">101</a>, <a href="#page_113">113</a>, <a href="#page_115">115</a>, <a href="#page_116">116</a>, <a href="#page_123">123</a>, <a href="#page_125">125</a>, <a href="#page_135">135</a>, <a href="#page_170">170-71</a>, <a href="#page_173">173</a>, <a href="#page_174">174-76</a>, <a href="#page_186">186-89</a>, <a href="#page_191">191-92</a>, <a href="#page_196">196-202</a>, <a href="#page_224">224</a>, <a href="#page_249">249</a>, <a href="#page_253">253</a>, <a href="#page_322">322-24</a>, <a href="#page_325">325</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oakland, <a href="#page_151">151</a>, <a href="#page_152">152</a>, <a href="#page_280">280</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ogden, Utah, <a href="#page_148">148</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ontario, <a href="#page_68">68-69</a>, <a href="#page_106">106-07</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Paris, <a href="#page_192">192-93</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Pasadena, <a href="#page_11">11</a>, <a href="#page_213">213-23</a> <i>passim</i>, <a href="#page_233">233-38</a>, <a href="#page_248">248</a>, <a href="#page_251">251</a>, <a href="#page_254">254-70</a> <i>passim</i>, <a href="#page_297">297</a>, <a href="#page_310">310</a>, <a href="#page_317">317</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Pawlet, Vt., <a href="#page_36">36-37</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Phoenix, <a href="#page_310">310-11</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Point Pleasant, N.J., <a href="#page_135">135</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Portland, Ore., <a href="#page_279">279</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Princeton, <a href="#page_94">94-95</a>, <a href="#page_96">96-97</a>, <a href="#page_105">105</a>, <a href="#page_110">110-17</a> <i>passim</i>, <a href="#page_119">119</a>, <a href="#page_259">259</a>, <a href="#page_279">279-80</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Quebec, <a href="#page_71">71-74</a>, <a href="#page_76">76</a>, <a href="#page_318">318</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Reno, <a href="#page_148">148-49</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">St. Louis, <a href="#page_279">279</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">San Bernardino, <a href="#page_321">321</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Santa Barbara, <a href="#page_13">13-14</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Seattle, <a href="#page_278">278</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Switzerland, <a href="#page_177">177</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thousand Islands, <a href="#page_48">48</a>, <a href="#page_80">80-82</a>, <a href="#page_86">86</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Trenton, <a href="#page_125">125</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Virginia, <a href="#page_14">14-15</a>, <a href="#page_189">189-90</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Washington, D.C., <a href="#page_118">118-19</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Wisconsin, <a href="#page_225">225</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">resigns from Socialist Party, <a href="#page_217">217</a>, <a href="#page_268">268-69</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sonnet to, <a href="#page_174">174</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">supports American participation in World Wars I and II, <a href="#page_217">217</a>, <a href="#page_218">218</a>, <a href="#page_257">257-58</a>, <a href="#page_299">299</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tours the U.S., <a href="#page_224">224-27</a>, <a href="#page_278">278-82</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">urges Henry Ford to start a magazine, <a href="#page_286">286</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">views of</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">on drinking, <a href="#page_6">6-7</a>, <a href="#page_43">43</a>, <a href="#page_44">44-45</a>, <a href="#page_248">248-53</a>, <a href="#page_328">328</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">on fame, <a href="#page_122">122-23</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">on his accomplishments, <a href="#page_327">327-30</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">on inadequacy of American education, <a href="#page_61">61-62</a>, <a href="#page_85">85</a>, <a href="#page_224">224-25</a>, <a href="#page_227">227</a>, <a href="#page_235">235</a>, <a href="#page_280">280</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">on marriage, <a href="#page_75">75</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">on natural beauty, <a href="#page_54">54-56</a>, <a href="#page_72">72</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">on New York State divorce laws, <a href="#page_175">175-76</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">on religious beliefs and practices, <a href="#page_29">29-33</a>, <a href="#page_37">37</a>, <a href="#page_38">38</a>, <a href="#page_99">99-100</a>, <a href="#page_272">272</a>, <a href="#page_282">282-84</a>, <a href="#page_288">288</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">on sex education, <a href="#page_28">28-29</a>, <a href="#page_46">46-47</a>, <a href="#page_240">240</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">on social, economic, and political issues, <a href="#page_9">9-10</a>, <a href="#page_12">12</a>, <a href="#page_25">25</a>, <a href="#page_26">26</a>, <a href="#page_29">29</a>, <a href="#page_40">40</a>, <a href="#page_43">43</a>, <a href="#page_44">44-45</a>, <a href="#page_46">46</a>, <a href="#page_49">49</a>, <a href="#page_64">64</a>, <a href="#page_65">65</a>, <a href="#page_70">70</a>, <a href="#page_73">73</a>, <a href="#page_99">99</a>, <a href="#page_100">100</a>, <a href="#page_101">101</a>, <a href="#page_105">105-06</a>, <a href="#page_107">107-08</a>, <a href="#page_113">113-14</a>, <a href="#page_118">118-21</a>, <a href="#page_123">123</a>, <a href="#page_124">124-25</a>, <a href="#page_126">126</a>, <a href="#page_128">128</a>, <a href="#page_133">133-34</a>, <a href="#page_178">178-79</a>, <a href="#page_180">180-81</a>, <a href="#page_187">187</a>, <a href="#page_209">209</a>, <a href="#page_210">210</a>, <a href="#page_216">216</a>, <a href="#page_228">228-32</a>, <a href="#page_235">235-36</a>, <a href="#page_286">286</a>, <a href="#page_329">329-30</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">on writing, <a href="#page_51">51-52</a>, <a href="#page_58">58</a>, <a href="#page_71">71</a>, <a href="#page_72">72</a>, <a href="#page_73">73-74</a>, <a href="#page_84">84</a>, <a href="#page_241">241</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">writings of</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>After the War Is Over</i> (play), <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Another Pamela</i>, <a href="#page_298">298</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Appomattox</i>, <a href="#page_92">92</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Bill Porter</i> (play), <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Book of Life</i>, <a href="#page_47">47</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Boston</i>, <a href="#page_242">242</a>, <a href="#page_243">243</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Brass Check</i>, <a href="#page_108">108</a>, <a href="#page_121">121</a>, <a href="#page_187">187</a>, <a href="#page_222">222-24</a>, <a href="#page_235">235</a>, <a href="#page_305">305</a>, <a href="#page_323">323</a>, <a href="#page_327">327</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>A Captain of Industry</i>, <a href="#page_91">91</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Caradrion</i> (blank-verse narrative), <a href="#page_83">83</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Cicero: A Tragic Drama</i>...., <a href="#page_248">248</a>, <a href="#page_306">306-09</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Coal War</i>, <a href="#page_214">214</a>, <a href="#page_217">217</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“The Condemned Meat Industry” (essay), <a href="#page_117">117-18</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Convict</i> (play), <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Co-op</i> (play), <a href="#page_280">280-81</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Cry for Justice: An Anthology of Social Protest</i>, <a href="#page_203">203</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Cup of Fury</i>, <a href="#page_252">252</a>, <a href="#page_328">328</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Damaged Goods</i> (based on Brieux’ play), <a href="#page_193">193</a>, <a href="#page_195">195</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Depression Island</i> (play), <a href="#page_273">273</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Doctor Fist</i> (play), <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Dragon’s Teeth</i>, <a href="#page_297">297</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Emancipated Husband</i> (play), <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Enemy Had It Too</i> (play), <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“Farmers of America, Unite” (manifesto), <a href="#page_105">105</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Fasting Cure</i>, <a href="#page_160">160</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Flivver King</i>, <a href="#page_282">282</a>, <a href="#page_287">287</a>, <a href="#page_324">324</a>, <a href="#page_325">325</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Gettysburg</i>, <a href="#page_92">92</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>A Giant’s Strength</i> (play), <a href="#page_297">297</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Gnomobile</i> (children’s story), <a href="#page_284">284-85</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Goose-Step</i>, <a href="#page_224">224</a>, <a href="#page_227">227</a>, <a href="#page_235">235</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Goslings</i>, <a href="#page_227">227</a>, <a href="#page_235">235</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Grand Duke Lectures</i> (play), <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Great American Play</i>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Hell</i> (play), <a href="#page_232">232</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“I, Candidate for Governor—and How I Got Licked,” <a href="#page_278">278</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Indignant Subscriber</i> (play), <a href="#page_154">154</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Industrial Republic</i>, <a href="#page_108">108</a>, <a href="#page_133">133</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Jimmie Higgins</i>, <a href="#page_220">220</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>John D.</i> (play), <a href="#page_154">154</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Journal of Arthur Stirling</i>, <a href="#page_74">74</a>, <a href="#page_87">87-89</a>, <a href="#page_90">90</a>, <a href="#page_92">92</a>, <a href="#page_101">101</a>, <a href="#page_103">103</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Jungle</i>, <a href="#page_13">13</a>, <a href="#page_67">67</a>, <a href="#page_85">85</a>, <a href="#page_109">109-10</a>, <a href="#page_111">111-12</a>, <a href="#page_114">114-19</a>, <a href="#page_120">120</a>, <a href="#page_122">122</a>, <a href="#page_136">136</a>, <a href="#page_137">137</a>, <a href="#page_140">140</a>, <a href="#page_145">145</a>, <a href="#page_164">164</a>, <a href="#page_196">196</a>, <a href="#page_204">204</a>, <a href="#page_213">213</a>, <a href="#page_282">282</a>, <a href="#page_323">323</a>, <a href="#page_325">325</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">dramatization of, <a href="#page_125">125-26</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>King Coal</i>, <a href="#page_208">208</a>, <a href="#page_212">212</a>, <a href="#page_214">214</a>, <a href="#page_282">282</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>King Midas</i> (reissue of <i>Springtime and Harvest</i>), <a href="#page_80">80</a>, <a href="#page_82">82</a>, <a href="#page_85">85-86</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“Language Study: Some Facts” (article), <a href="#page_85">85</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Letters to Judd</i> (pamphlet), <a href="#page_235">235</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Limbo on the Loose</i> (pamphlet), <a href="#page_300">300</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Love in Arms</i> (play), <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Love’s Pilgrimage</i>, <a href="#page_43">43</a>, <a href="#page_44">44</a>, <a href="#page_46">46</a>, <a href="#page_75">75</a>, <a href="#page_83">83</a>, <a href="#page_84">84-85</a>, <a href="#page_90">90</a>, <a href="#page_92">92</a>, <a href="#page_164">164</a>, <a href="#page_167">167</a>, <a href="#page_176">176</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Machine</i> (play), <a href="#page_156">156</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Mammonart</i>, <a href="#page_87">87</a>, <a href="#page_235">235</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Manassas: A Novel of the War</i> (reissued as <i>Theirs Be the Guilt</i>), <a href="#page_92">92</a>, <a href="#page_93">93</a>, <a href="#page_94">94</a>, <a href="#page_103">103</a>, <a href="#page_104">104</a>, <a href="#page_107">107</a>, <a href="#page_108">108</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Marie and Her Lover</i> (play), <a href="#page_289">289-90</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Mental Radio</i>, <a href="#page_33">33</a>, <a href="#page_243">243-45</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Metropolis</i>, <a href="#page_9">9</a>, <a href="#page_136">136-37</a>, <a href="#page_138">138</a>, <a href="#page_139">139</a>, <a href="#page_140">140</a>, <a href="#page_141">141</a>, <a href="#page_144">144</a>, <a href="#page_146">146</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Millennium</i> (play), <a href="#page_142">142</a>, <a href="#page_144">144</a>, <a href="#page_155">155</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Money Writes!</i>, <a href="#page_235">235-36</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Moneychangers</i>, <a href="#page_144">144</a>, <a href="#page_145">145</a>, <a href="#page_146">146</a>, <a href="#page_156">156</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Most Haunted House</i> (play), <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>My Lifetime in Letters</i>, <a href="#page_251">251</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Naturewoman</i> (play), <a href="#page_164">164</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Oil!</i> (play), <a href="#page_107">107</a>, <a href="#page_118">118</a>, <a href="#page_139">139-40</a>, <a href="#page_243">243</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>O Shepherd, Speak!</i>, <a href="#page_298">298</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Our Lady</i> (novelette), <a href="#page_288">288-89</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">play, <a href="#page_326">326</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Overman</i> (novelette), <a href="#page_83">83</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Pamela Play</i>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>A Personal Jesus</i>, <a href="#page_298">298</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Plays of Protest</i>, <a href="#page_164">164</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Pot Boiler</i> (play), <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Prairie Pirates</i>, <a href="#page_41">41</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Presidential Agent</i>, <a href="#page_296">296</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Prince Hagen</i>, <a href="#page_82">82</a>, <a href="#page_83">83</a>, <a href="#page_95">95</a>, <a href="#page_103">103</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">play, <a href="#page_153">153</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Profits of Religion</i>, <a href="#page_30">30</a>, <a href="#page_143">143</a>, <a href="#page_223">223</a>, <a href="#page_235">235</a>, <a href="#page_272">272</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Return of Lanny Budd</i>, <a href="#page_299">299</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“A Review of Reviewers,” <a href="#page_85">85</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Roman Holiday</i>, <a href="#page_247">247-48</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Saleslady</i> (play), <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Samuel the Seeker</i>, <a href="#page_157">157-58</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Second-Story Man</i> (play), <a href="#page_154">154</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Singing Jailbirds</i> (play), <a href="#page_232">232</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Springtime and Harvest</i> (reissued as <i>King Midas</i>), <a href="#page_71">71-72</a>, <a href="#page_77">77-79</a>, <a href="#page_80">80</a>, <a href="#page_85">85-86</a>, <a href="#page_93">93</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Sylvia</i>, <a href="#page_180">180-81</a>, <a href="#page_195">195</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Sylvia’s Marriage</i>, <a href="#page_187">187</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“Teaching of Languages” (article), <a href="#page_85">85</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Theirs Be the Guilt</i> (reissue of <i>Manassas</i>, <i>q.v.</i>), <a href="#page_326">326</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“The Toy and the Man” (essay), <a href="#page_104">104</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Upton Sinclair Presents William Fox</i>, <a href="#page_258">258</a>, <a href="#page_261">261</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Upton Sinclair’s</i> (magazine), <a href="#page_218">218-21</a>, <a href="#page_234">234</a>, <a href="#page_291">291</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Wally for Queen</i> (play), <a href="#page_285">285</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Wet Parade</i>, <a href="#page_17">17</a>, <a href="#page_44">44</a>, <a href="#page_248">248</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>What Didymus Did</i>, <a href="#page_298">298</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>What God Means to Me</i>, <a href="#page_282">282</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>World’s End</i>, <a href="#page_192">192</a>, <a href="#page_265">265</a>, <a href="#page_297">297</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">articles, essays, reviews, etc., <a href="#page_59">59</a>, <a href="#page_83">83</a>, <a href="#page_85">85</a>, <a href="#page_88">88-90</a>, <a href="#page_96">96</a>, <a href="#page_105">105</a>, <a href="#page_107">107</a>, <a href="#page_109">109</a>, <a href="#page_123">123</a>, <a href="#page_128">128</a>, <a href="#page_167">167</a>, <a href="#page_184">184</a>, <a href="#page_232">232</a>, <a href="#page_246">246</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“Clif Faraday” stories, <a href="#page_50">50-51</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">early writings, <a href="#page_33">33-36</a>, <a href="#page_39">39-40</a>, <a href="#page_41">41</a>, <a href="#page_42">42</a>, <a href="#page_47">47</a>, <a href="#page_48">48-52</a>, <a href="#page_68">68</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">first story, <a href="#page_36">36</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">novel, 41 (unpublished), <a href="#page_77">77-79</a>, <a href="#page_80">80</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">health book written in collaboration, <a href="#page_141">141-42</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“Lanny Budd” books, <a href="#page_192">192</a>, <a href="#page_228">228</a>, <a href="#page_265">265</a>, <a href="#page_291">291-98</a>, <a href="#page_299">299</a>, <a href="#page_305">305</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a>, <a href="#page_328">328</a>, <a href="#page_329">329</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“Mark Mallory” stories, <a href="#page_49">49-51</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">novel based on his experiences with Socialist Party, <a href="#page_220">220</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">novel based on Sacco-Vanzetti case, <a href="#page_240">240-42</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">open letter protesting unjust arrest, <a href="#page_228">228-31</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">plays, listed, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> - -Sinclair, Mrs. Upton, <i>see</i> Corydon (1st wife); Hard, May (3d wife); Kimbrough, Mary Craig (2d wife)<br /> - -Sinclair, Upton Beall (father of Upton Sinclair), <a href="#page_4">4</a>, <a href="#page_6">6-7</a>, <a href="#page_8">8</a>, <a href="#page_9">9</a>, <a href="#page_14">14-15</a>, <a href="#page_19">19-20</a>, <a href="#page_24">24</a>, <a href="#page_29">29</a>, <a href="#page_36">36</a>, <a href="#page_43">43-45</a>, <a href="#page_91">91</a>, <a href="#page_248">248</a>, <a href="#page_251">251</a><br /> - -Sinclair, Dr. William B., <a href="#page_5">5-6</a><br /> - -Sinclair, William B., Jr., <a href="#page_6">6</a><br /> - -Sinclair, William H., <a href="#page_6">6</a><br /> - -<i>Sinclair Lewis</i>, by Mark Schorer, <a href="#page_250">250-52</a><br /> - -Slosson, Edward E., <a href="#page_140">140</a><br /> - -Smith, Adolphe, <a href="#page_110">110</a><br /> - -Smith, Alfred E., <a href="#page_22">22</a><br /> - -Smith College, <a href="#page_164">164</a><br /> - -<i>Social Redemption</i>, by King C. Gillette, <a href="#page_236">236</a><br /> - -Socialist Party, <a href="#page_114">114</a>, <a href="#page_166">166</a>, <a href="#page_170">170</a>, <a href="#page_216">216</a>, <a href="#page_217">217</a>, <a href="#page_220">220</a>, <a href="#page_252">252</a>, <a href="#page_266">266</a>, <a href="#page_268">268</a><br /> - -<i>Sonnets to Craig</i>, by George Sterling, <a href="#page_172">172-73</a><br /> - -<i>Southern Belle</i>, by Mary Craig (Kimbrough) Sinclair, <a href="#page_200">200</a>, <a href="#page_314">314</a>, <a href="#page_325">325</a><br /> - -Stalin, Joseph, <a href="#page_265">265</a><br /> - -Stedman, Edmund Clarence, <a href="#page_76">76</a>, <a href="#page_106">106</a><br /> - -Stedman, Laura, <a href="#page_76">76</a><br /> - -Steffens, Lincoln, <a href="#page_107">107-08</a>, <a href="#page_115">115</a>, <a href="#page_222">222</a>, <a href="#page_294">294</a>, <a href="#page_300">300</a><br /> - -Stephens, Donald, <a href="#page_165">165</a>, <a href="#page_166">166</a><br /> - -Stephens, Frank, <a href="#page_164">164-65</a>, <a href="#page_167">167</a><br /> - -Sterling, George, <a href="#page_44">44</a>, <a href="#page_146">146</a>, <a href="#page_150">150-52</a>, <a href="#page_172">172</a>, <a href="#page_200">200-01</a>, <a href="#page_202">202</a>, <a href="#page_203">203</a>, <a href="#page_248">248</a>, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -Stern, Simon, <a href="#page_33">33</a>, <a href="#page_41">41</a>, <a href="#page_49">49</a><br /> - -Stokes, James Graham Phelps, <a href="#page_140">140</a>, <a href="#page_204">204</a><br /> - -Stokes, Mrs. James Graham (Rose Pastor), <a href="#page_140">140</a><br /> - -Strong, Anna Louise, <a href="#page_293">293</a><br /> - -Südekum, David, <a href="#page_185">185</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="T" id="T"></a>Taft, Rev. Clinton J., <a href="#page_231">231</a><br /> - -Tammany Hall, <a href="#page_19">19</a>, <a href="#page_29">29</a>, <a href="#page_37">37</a>, <a href="#page_45">45</a>, <a href="#page_64">64</a>, <a href="#page_65">65</a>, <a href="#page_66">66-67</a>, <a href="#page_123">123</a>, <a href="#page_133">133</a>, <a href="#page_222">222</a><br /> - -Tarver, John Ben, <a href="#page_308">308-09</a><br /> - -Teachers College, <a href="#page_132">132</a>, <a href="#page_250">250</a><br /> - -<i>Thirty Strange Stories</i>, by H. G. Wells, <a href="#page_146">146</a><br /> - -Thomas, A. E., <a href="#page_204">204</a><br /> - -Thomas, Augustus, <a href="#page_204">204</a><br /> - -Thomas, Dylan, <a href="#page_45">45</a>, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -Thomas, Norman, <a href="#page_113">113</a>, <a href="#page_266">266</a><br /> - -Thompson, W. G., <a href="#page_241">241</a><br /> - -<i>Thunder Over Mexico</i>, film by Eisenstein, <a href="#page_262">262-67</a>, <a href="#page_319">319</a><br /> - -Thyrsis, <i>see</i> Sinclair, Upton<br /> - -Tibbs, Taylor, <a href="#page_17">17</a><br /> - -Trent, Prof. W. P., <a href="#page_58">58</a>, <a href="#page_61">61</a><br /> - -Tresca, Carlo, <a href="#page_187">187</a><br /> - -Trinity Church, <a href="#page_30">30</a><br /> - -<i>Two Tears on the Alabama</i>, by Arthur Sinclair, Jr., <a href="#page_6">6</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="U" id="U"></a>United States Fidelity and Guaranty Company, <a href="#page_11">11</a>, <a href="#page_226">226</a><br /> - -University of Chicago, <a href="#page_225">225-26</a><br /> - -University of Indiana, <a href="#page_226">226</a>, <a href="#page_304">304-05</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a><br /> - -University of Kansas, <a href="#page_174">174</a><br /> - -University of Pennsylvania, <a href="#page_166">166</a><br /> - -University of Wisconsin, <a href="#page_225">225</a><br /> - -Untermyer, Samuel, <a href="#page_144">144</a>, <a href="#page_222">222-23</a>, <a href="#page_224">224</a>, <a href="#page_305">305</a><br /> - -Updegraff, Allan, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="V-i" id="V-i"></a>Vanderbilt, Cornelius (“Neil”), Jr., <a href="#page_238">238</a>, <a href="#page_295">295-97</a><br /> - -Van Eeden, Frederik, <a href="#page_157">157</a>, <a href="#page_177">177</a>, <a href="#page_183">183-84</a><br /> - -Vanzetti, Bartolomeo, <a href="#page_240">240-42</a><br /> - -Villard, Oswald Garrison, <a href="#page_228">228</a>, <a href="#page_259">259-60</a><br /> - -Volker, pen name of Erich Gutkind, <a href="#page_184">184</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="W" id="W"></a>Wagner, Rob, <a href="#page_246">246</a>, <a href="#page_287">287</a><br /> - -Wallace, Mike, <a href="#page_325">325</a><br /> - -Walter, Eugene, <a href="#page_144">144</a><br /> - -Ware, Hal, <a href="#page_165">165-66</a><br /> - -Warfield, Wallis, <a href="#page_285">285</a><br /> - -Warren, Fiske, <a href="#page_196">196-97</a><br /> - -Warren, Gretchen, <a href="#page_197">197</a><br /> - -Warren, Fred D., <a href="#page_108">108-09</a>, <a href="#page_114">114-15</a><br /> - -Waterman, Maj., <a href="#page_16">16</a>, <a href="#page_18">18-19</a><br /> - -Wayland, J. A., <a href="#page_150">150</a>, <a href="#page_213">213</a><br /> - -Webb, Gen. Alexander S., <a href="#page_24">24</a><br /> - -<i>Weeds</i>, by Edith Summers Kelly, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -Weisiger, Col., <a href="#page_16">16-17</a>, <a href="#page_30">30</a><br /> - -Wells, H. G., <a href="#page_145">145-46</a>, <a href="#page_181">181</a>, <a href="#page_183">183</a>, <a href="#page_221">221</a>, <a href="#page_329">329</a><br /> - -Wendell, Barrett, <a href="#page_85">85</a><br /> - -Wheeler, Edward J., <a href="#page_80">80</a><br /> - -Whitaker, Robert, <a href="#page_157">157</a><br /> - -White, Matthew, Jr., <a href="#page_36">36</a><br /> - -Whitman, Walt, <a href="#page_203">203</a><br /> - -Williams, Albert Rhys, <a href="#page_292">292</a>, <a href="#page_301">301</a><br /> - -Williams, Sen. John Sharp, <a href="#page_218">218-19</a>, <a href="#page_221">221</a><br /> - -Williams, Michael, <a href="#page_132">132</a>, <a href="#page_141">141-44</a><br /> - -Wilshire, Gaylord, <a href="#page_101">101-04</a>, <a href="#page_135">135</a>, <a href="#page_136">136</a>, <a href="#page_146">146</a>, <a href="#page_149">149-50</a>, <a href="#page_178">178</a>, <a href="#page_183">183</a>, <a href="#page_223">223</a><br /> - -Wilshire, Mrs. Gaylord (Mary), <a href="#page_104">104</a>, <a href="#page_183">183</a><br /> - -<i>Wilshire’s Magazine</i>, <a href="#page_101">101</a>, <a href="#page_150">150</a><br /> - -Wilson, Stitt, <a href="#page_281">281</a><br /> - -Wilson, Woodrow, <a href="#page_218">218-19</a>, <a href="#page_294">294</a><br /> - -Wood, Clement, <a href="#page_201">201</a>, <a href="#page_202">202-03</a><br /> - -Wood, Eugene, <a href="#page_163">163</a><br /> - -Woodberry, George Edward, <a href="#page_60">60</a><br /> - -<i>World Corporation</i>, by King C. Gillette, <a href="#page_236">236</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="Y" id="Y"></a>Yale University, <a href="#page_132">132</a>, <a href="#page_250">250</a><br /> - -Young, Art, <a href="#page_232">232</a><br /> -</p> - -<hr class="full" /> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF UPTON SINCLAIR ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. -</div> - -<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br /> -<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br /> -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person -or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the -Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when -you share it without charge with others. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work -on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the -phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: -</div> - -<blockquote> - <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most - other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions - whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms - of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online - at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you - are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws - of the country where you are located before using this eBook. - </div> -</blockquote> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg™ License. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format -other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain -Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -provided that: -</div> - -<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation.” - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ - works. - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. - </div> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right -of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread -public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state -visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. -</div> - -</div> diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 23d6107..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_1-a.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_1-a.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 809bcec..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_1-a.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_1-b.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_1-b.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 3e838c6..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_1-b.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_2-a.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_2-a.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 0317683..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_2-a.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_2-b.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_2-b.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 542a5f6..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_2-b.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_3-a.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_3-a.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 17573be..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_3-a.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_3-b.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_3-b.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index af05c2e..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_3-b.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_4-a.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_4-a.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index eab1556..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_4-a.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_4-b.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_4-b.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index d515429..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_4-b.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_5-a.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_5-a.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 18b5f41..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_5-a.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_5-b.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_5-b.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index d966cee..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_5-b.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_6-a.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_6-a.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index eaa7bee..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_6-a.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_6-b.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_6-b.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index a13f9fd..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_6-b.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_6-c.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_6-c.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index f89e1fd..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_6-c.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_7-a.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_7-a.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index ebbf261..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_7-a.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_7-b.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_7-b.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 0430e9c..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_7-b.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_8--b.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_8--b.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 7deb5b7..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_8--b.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_8-a.jpg b/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_8-a.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 2f3cfc9..0000000 --- a/old/66840-h/images/i_166fp_8-a.jpg +++ /dev/null |
