BOOK FOUR: THE LEVEL
CHAPTER IV: I MEET MOTHER AND SON
 HE
FIRST building in that long row of stables and barns
which ran along the southern edge of the western
half of the yard was the "driving-barn".
It consisted of two parts: the front-shed which held
an astonishing array of buggies, old-fashioned carriages,
dog-carts, and so on, a harness-room, and the quarters
of the "driving-boss"; in the rear, the stable where
four or five driving-teams and four or five saddle-horses
had their stalls. Over the whole building stretched a
hayloft. The quarters of the driving-boss were connected by
telephone with the White House,
the office, and the superintendent's residence.
The driving-boss,
as he was called -- the word "boss" meaning
in this connection that he took no orders from any of
the foremen -- was a middle-aged little Scotchman of
real horsemanship. His temper, however, was that of the
man suffering from chronic stomach-trouble -- an American
disease due, I believe, to the so-called high standard
of living. During my month as store-boss I had been thrown
with him a good deal, for the broncho-team was quartered
in his stable. One evening, when I was closing up for the day, Mr. Mackenzie appeared
in the store-house.
"How are you
with horses, Branden?" he
asked. "Oh," I replied, "about
as good as the next one, I suppose."
"Well," he went on, "I
need a substitute for the driving-boss. He is going
on a spree. Do you think you could handle the hackneys?"
"On a spree?" I
said, without answering the question.
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"I thought
you don't allow anybody to leave till you have finished
threshing?"
"Oh," he replied, "it's
different with Standish.
He's a permanent employee and has his privileges. When
he wants to get drunk, there's no holding him anyway.
I'd rather have him away, then. He picks his own time.
It is inconvenient -- just now; but he gives satisfaction,
and we want him back. How about the hackneys?"
"Well," I said, "as
far as the hackneys go, I'm not afraid. How about
the wages?"
"Same as here.
Two dollars for rainy days and Sundays; on workdays
what the field-crews get."
"All right," I
said.
"That's settled, then," said
Mr. Mackenzie. "We've
got a man to take your place here. Better move over tomorrow
morning.
Thus, for the second time, I changed my status on this
farm.
Again I will briefly summarize my new duties.
First among them was, of course, the care for the horses.
This comprised feeding and brushing, watching the state
of their health, looking after their shoeing, and taking
them out for exercise when they were not being used.
Further, I had to get the teams ready when they were
needed; for the owner, for the superintendent, and now
and then for the bookkeeper, too. And lastly, when Mr. Mackenzie or
his mother wished to be driven, I had to act as coachman.
Mrs. Mackenzie, whom I had
never seen so far, was a white-haired lady of bourgeois
habits and conspicuously expensive tastes. Her late husband
had, in his earlier life, been a section boss; that explained
it. She was given to visiting and church-work, so that,
whenever the weather was propitious, I was kept busy
in her service during the afternoon.
Hers was the black team of hackneys of which she was
at the same time excessively proud and inordinately afraid.
They were high-strung beasts, but so easily handled
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and so responsive that to me it was a never-exhausted
pleasure to drive them. They were so infinitely superior
to the dowdy old lady who sat behind my back that I
sometimes smiled and winked at occasional passers-by
in town who would invariably stop to admire their arching
necks and the thin bones of their fleet, dancing feet.
Once, when
we were crossing, the crowded freight-yard in town
where cars were being shunted and locomotives unexpectedly
blew off their steam, the funny bundle of silks
and ribbons in the carriage flew into a panic and screamed
at me, "Do
you see that engine, coachman? Take the whip!"
She did not know that to use the whip on horses like
that would have been at once dangerous and foolish.
I nodded; but I merely watched for the moment when
the passage ahead was clear and then clicked my tongue
the prancing horses straightened out and shot away.
The old lady
never called me anything but "coachman" --
that seemed to her a symbol of the gulf which gaped between
us. She was, to herself, the "grande dame"; I was a
nameless menial. She is dead, now; so this will never
hurt her.
On another
occasion she telephoned an unexpected order for
her team, adding, "Hurry up,
coachman. I want to be in town in twenty-five minutes."
The town was five miles away; twenty-five minutes was
rather short notice. I came very near recommending the
use of the car; but I knew that nothing would have induced
her to enter such a vulgar conveyance. I also knew the
horses and what I could ask them to do when it came to
an emergency. I had the carriage in front of the
White
House in less than six minutes.
She stood
on the steps; and when I held the door of the carriage
for her, she threw her order at me, "To
the rectory. And remember, coachman, I promised to be
there at half past two. Don't make me late."
"Very well, madam," I
replied and touched my cap;
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for I was wearing a uniform when I took her out;
her son was just as well pleased with me in overalls.
We had nineteen minutes to make five miles; but we
made them. The horses, not used to such speeding, were
speckled with the foam thrown from their mouths.
"Wait here," said
Mrs. Mackenzie when
I opened the door for her, touching my cap.
But I judged it expedient to walk the horses up and
down the street so as to prevent a chill.
When, twenty minutes or so after that, Mrs. Mackenzie appeared
on the steps, with the rector, she had to wait a quarter
of a minute before she could re-enter the carriage. I
saw at once that she was displeased.
An hour or
so later, when we were back at the farm, her son
came into the driving-barn and asked me, "What's
that my mother is complaining about?"
I stated the facts and showed him the horses which
were still nervous and which I had blanketed.
"Well," he said, "you
did right, of course. Never mind mother."
With that he walked out.
It was quite a different matter to drive Mr. Mackenzie himself.
I have already mentioned that he never stood on form.
He liked to Tinker about;
so he used his car mostly. Cars gave ample scope, at
the time, for the exercise of mechanical leanings; I
have heard they do so still.
But when the season advanced, he liked to go out shooting
birds in the evening; and whenever he did, he asked me
to drive him. If we missed the supper-hour, he would
take me to the kitchen of the White
House where a pretty maid would serve both of
us with a snack.
We used to take a broncho-team for these drives, and
they were sometimes not easy to handle. One of the horses
we had, occasionally, to chase for five or ten minutes
around the stable before we could slip a bridle over
his head. And when we had hitched them to the democrat
we were using, we had to jump in as fast as we could,
for there was no
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holding them. The young owner invariably helped me
in these preparations, and we had a good deal of fun.
Then, when we rolled along the smooth roads between
his Fields, Mr. Mackenzie dearly
loved to talk.
Since we were going out to shoot birds, I told him
of the game reserves in Europe.
I told him especially of a certain evening which I had
once spent in a deer-park; I contrasted that careful
policy of conservation with America's
wastefulness.
"Oh yes," he said, "but
all that's only for royalty."
"Not as far as their presence goes," I replied. "Of
course, as for shooting them . . ."
"Well," he asked, "what
else should you want to keep game for?"
"That's your American view," I assailed him. "You
people still have the utilitarian idea; the fight for
the backyard is still in your blood; you haven't had
time to put your frontyard in order . . ."
The young
owner laughed. "I like your way," he said. "You
are hard on America, are you
not?"
"On some phases of its life," I argued. "Do
you know why?"
"I am curious," he
said.
"Because you
are wasting the biggest opportunity any civilized
nation ever had; because there is even in you a spark
of that spirit which found the word Government of
the people, by the people, for the people."
"The people!" Mr. Mackenzie scoffed. "Who
are they? I am the people."
I gasped. "Do you know," I said, "that
you are not the first one to use words to that effect?"
"No, I don't."
"You should read," I went on. "Read
history, above all. There's something to be learned."
Mr. Mackenzie laughed
it off. "You are a funny fellow," he said.
But he came back to the topic. A few days later, when
we were rolling along the roads again, we passed the
field
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on which the crews were threshing. We approached
behind a screen of poplars and came unawares upon some
of them who were loading the sheaves. At sight of the
young owner they changed their gait.
Mackenzie laughed
again. "There
is your people for you," he said. "Did you see how they
speeded up when they saw us?"
"Of course," I replied, "what
else can you expect? They have nothing at stake."
"They are taking my money," he
objected.
"You have taken their land," I
countered, waving my arms across the landscape.
"It's honestly come by," he
said.
"It's come by through chance," I
challenged.
He laughed.
"I have often wondered," I went on, "how
much of what is called enterprise is really chance."
"You're a radical," he
said.
"Of course," I agreed. "How
can anybody with imagination, sympathy, and brains
be anything but a radical? You are a duke, a lord,
or an incipient king."
"No kings in this country," he
said.
"Well," I replied, "do
you think that kings in Europe had
a different origin? It has always been that way. Who
grabs most becomes the founder of a great family. What
did you do to become the owner of this principality?
You went to the trouble of being born, to quote a Frenchman."
"I am a good farmer," he
defended himself.
"You're not," I accused. "Have
you ever spent a night in a bed of your bunk-house?"
"Well," he exclaimed, "you
are the limit! I am not fond enough of lice."
"So you have
not even the excuse of ignorance! Do you think the
hobos are?"
"They must
be, or they would get rid of them."
"Have you ever seen them squatting along the slough,
of a Sunday, boiling their clothes?" I asked.
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"Yes," he pondered, "I
have. Why don't they go and clean out the bunks?"
"I wish you
would try to pitch sheaves for twelve hours, one
day, and afterwards clean house."
"There may be something in that," he agreed. "But
there are the rainy days."
"I should not like myself to sleep in wet straw," I
answered.
Next day I was thrilled to hear that a man had been
appointed to look after the cleaning of the bunk-house.
All the bunks were treated with coal-oil and gasoline;
the straw was renewed.
"You're learning," I praised the next time. "I
wish you had given orders to have the blankets burnt."
"Say," said the young man, "don't
you think you are asking a good deal?"
"Just what does your harvest amount to?" I
countered.
Mr. Mackenzie looked
at me, quizzically. "I know what you are driving at.
I'll tell you. Suppose I did all that. What good would
it do?"
"It would set an example," I replied. "You
see, I am a better American than you are. Do you know
what I believe to be the fundamental difference between
this country and Europe?"
"I wonder."
"The whole
civilization of Europe is
based on the theory of the original sin. Right is done
only when might enforces it. Even the life of the individual
is regulated. But here there is a profound suspicion
that in his heart the human animal wants to do right
and is good. Take the case of mere honesty. The railway-system,
the customs, the police-organization of Europe --
they are all built up on the presumption that everybody,
unless watched, is a crook. Here the presumption is that
the average American is honest."
"I wish I had more of that average," said
Mr. Mackenzie.
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This time
it was I who laughed. "Hold on," I said. "Now
you are the radical."
"I don't see that," he
replied.
"According
to your fundamental tenet all men are born free and
equal."
"A beautiful
phrase!"
"Do I hear
an American say that?"
"You don't
want me to assume that the hobo who has to be watched
at his work from morning till night is my equal?"
"Are you so
sure that, if he had been born in your place, he
would not make as good a millionaire as you are?
Or that you would make a more industrious hobo than
he is? -- I am a hobo myself."
"You don't seem to be one," he said. "You
are too outspoken."
"Do you know
what I have made up my mind to do?"
"Well?" he
asked.
"When I leave this life, I am going to talk Red to
every man like you," I replied. "But I am going to be
the most conservative of the conservatives when I talk
to the men. I cannot help believing that at heart you
mean right, even where you are doing wrong."
There was quite a break, after this, in our conversations,
occasioned by the fact that visitors arrived at the White
House. For a week or longer there was only one
of these evening-excursions; and that time Mr. Mackenzie was
accompanied by a guest.
When the guests were gone, Mr. Mackenzie resumed
the drives. The first time we sat in silence for quite
a while. Then it was he who took our old topic up again.
"I've been wondering," he said, "what
you would have done if you had had the misfortune of
being born in my place."
"Don't be so ironical about it," I
said.
"Well," he countered, "your
talks have made me feel quite blue."
"Good," I exclaimed. "Though
they were not meant
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to work that
way. If it is any comfort to you, I will first of
all say that probably I should have lived a life
of ease as you have done. You rich people don't have
half a chance. Your education is neglected."
"Our education?."
"Yes," I replied. "A
man like Judge Gary is
to be pitied only. It would do him, and incidentally
a few thousand workmen, a world of good if he were turned
out on a tramp in a foreign country for a year or two,
penniless, in order to learn. I contend that, as things
stand to-day, the most fundamental part of your education
is forgotten. You are not taught to see the other fellow's
point of view. But, of course, if you were, you might
lose sight of your own, though that would be distinctly
the lesser evil. Equality of opportunity! Nothing but
a phrase. You poor rich people simply do not stand a
chance!"
"It strikes me," laughed
Mr. Mackenzie, "that
this time it is you who are ironical."
"Very well," I said, "I'll
be serious. What you really meant to ask is this:
What would I do if a property like this fell into
my hands at the present time, I being what I am and
having gone through what I have seen of the world?
I will tell you; but it will seem Utopian. First
of all I should spend some hundred thousand odd dollars
in providing proper dormitories for the men -- a
white-tiled bunk-house with proper bathing and washing
facilities and decent beds: that would settle the
vermin. Then gymnasium, reading-room, and play-room
equipped for the proper kind of games: that would
settle the goings-on in that bunk-house hall of yours.
Next I should provide proper work for them the year
around. You would soon anchor that part of your floating
labour supply which can take root. And lastly I should
divest myself of my property."
"What do you
mean by that?"
"I mean, I
should feel that it is sinful for me to let even
an appearance persist as if I were really the owner
of all this and as if the men were working for me.
It is surely better for the country if the same amount
of grain, or even
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a smaller amount,
is produced by a greater number of independent farmers,
each holding a fraction only of what you hold. I
am not an economist, but I can see that real democracy
can be arrived at only in one of two ways, by collective
ownership or by a limitation of wealth. I do not
presume to decide on their relative merits; I do
not expect to see either way realized in my lifetime."
"How old are you?" asked
Mr. Mackenzie with
seeming irrelevance.
"I am young,
thank God," I
replied with fervour; "and so are you. Youth means courage
and adaptability; old age means ossification. I hope
I shall never be old, even though I live to be a hundred
or more."
"I sometimes wonder," he sighed, "whether
you are right or merely crazy."
And at that we left it.
Harvest was finished; the regular driving-boss returned.
I drew my pay -- it amounted to two hundred dollars or
so -- and got ready to move.
I said a personal good-by to Mr. Mackenzie,
and he offered me the position as bookkeeper on his farm.
I declined; "I want to see a little more of this life," I
said; "My place is with the men; you are the past, they
are the future. I have my plans, and I see very clearly
what I want; it is not within your gift."
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