Book VI: Chapter III

by Sherwood Anderson

　　All through the early months of that year in Chicago, rumours of a newand not understandable movement among labourers ran about among men ofaffairs. In a way the labourers understood the undercurrent of terrortheir marching together had inspired and like the advertising mandancing on the sidewalk before the grocery were made happy by it. Grimsatisfaction dwelt in their hearts. Remembering their boyhoods and thecreeping terror that invaded their fathers' houses in times ofdepression they were glad to spread terror among the homes of the richand the well-to-do. For years they had been going through lifeblindly, striving to forget age and poverty. Now they felt that lifehad a purpose, that they were marching toward some end. When in thepast they had been told that power dwelt in them they had notbelieved. "He is not to be trusted," thought the man at the machinelooking at the man at work at the next machine. "I have heard him talkand at bottom he is a fool."

　　Now the man at the machine did not think of his brother at the nextmachine. In his dreams at night he was beginning to have a new vision.Power had breathed its message into his brain. Of a sudden he sawhimself as a part of a giant walking in the world. "I am like a dropof blood running through the veins of labour," he whispered tohimself. "In my own way I am adding strength to the heart and thebrain of labour. I have become a part of this thing that has begun tomove. I will not talk but will wait. If this marching is the thingthen I will march. Though I am weary at the end of the day that shallnot stop me. Many times I have been weary and was alone. Now I am apart of something vast. This I know, that a consciousness of power hascrept into my brain and although I be persecuted I shall not surrenderwhat I have gained."

　　In the offices of the plough trust a meeting of men of affairs wascalled. The purpose of the meeting was to discuss the movement goingon among the workers. At the plough works it had broken out. No moreat evening did the men shuffle along, like a disorderly mob butmarched in companies along the brick-paved street that ran by thefactory door.

　　At the meeting David Ormsby had been as always quiet and self-possessed. A halo of kindly intent hung over him and when a banker,one of the directors of the company, had finished a speech he aroseand walked up and down, his hands thrust into his trousers pockets.The banker was a fat man with thin brown hair and delicate hands. Ashe talked he held a pair of yellow gloves and beat with them on a longtable at the centre of the room. The soft thump of the gloves upon thetable made a chorus to the things he had to say. David motioned forhim to be seated. "I will myself go to see this McGregor," he said,walking across the room and putting an arm about the shoulder of thebanker. "Perhaps there is as you say a new and terrible danger herebut I do not think so. For thousands, no doubt for millions of years,the world has gone on its way and I do not think it is to be stoppednow.

　　"It has been my fortune to see and to know this McGregor," added Davidsmiling at the others in the room. "He is a man and not a Joshua tomake the sun stand still."

　　In the office in Van Buren Street, David, the grey and confident,stood before the desk at which sat McGregor. "We will get out of hereif you do not mind," he said. "I want to talk to you and I would notlike being interrupted. I have a fancy that we talk out of doors."

　　The two men went in a street car to Jackson Park and, forgetting todine, walked for an hour along the paths under the trees. The windfrom the lake had chilled the air and the park was deserted.

　　They went to stand on a pier that ran out into the lake. On the pierDavid tried to begin the talk that was the object of their beingtogether but felt that the wind and the water that beat against thepiling of the pier made talk too difficult. Although he could not havetold why, he was relieved by the necessity of delay. Into the parkthey went again and found a seat upon a bench facing a lagoon.

　　In the presence of the silent McGregor David felt suddenly embarrassedand awkward. "By what right do I question him?" he asked himself andin his mind could find no answer. A half dozen times he started to saywhat he had come to say but stopped and his talk ran off intotrivialities. "There are men in the world you have not taken intoconsideration," he said finally, forcing himself to begin. With alaugh he went on, relieved that the silence had been broken. "You seethe very inner secret of strong men has been missed by you andothers."

　　David Ormsby looked sharply at McGregor. "I do not believe that youbelieve we are after money, we men of affairs. I trust you see beyondthat. We have our purpose and we keep to our purpose quietly anddoggedly."

　　Again David looked at the silent figure sitting in the dim light andagain his mind ran out, striving to penetrate the silence. "I am not afool and perhaps I know that the movement you have started among theworkers is something new. There is power in it as in all great ideas.Perhaps I think there is power in you. Why else should I be here?"

　　Again David laughed uncertainly. "In a way I am in sympathy with you,"he said. "Although all through my life I have served money I have notbeen owned by it. You are not to suppose that men like me have notsomething beyond money in mind."

　　The old plough maker looked away over McGregor's shoulder to where theleaves of the trees shook in the wind from the lake. "There have beenmen and great leaders who have understood the silent competentservants of wealth," he said half petulantly. "I want you tounderstand these men. I should like to see you become such a oneyourself--not for the wealth it would bring but because in the end youwould thus serve all men. You would get at truth thus. The power thatis in you would be conserved and used more intelligently."

　　"To be sure, history has taken little or no account of the men of whomI speak. They have passed through life unnoticed, doing great workquietly."

　　The plough maker paused. Although McGregor had said nothing the olderman felt that the interview was not going as it should. "I should liketo know what you have in mind, what in the end you hope to gain foryourself or for these men," he said somewhat sharply. "There is afterall no point to our beating about the bush."

　　McGregor said nothing. Arising from the bench he began again to walkalong the path with Ormsby at his side.

　　"The really strong men of the world have had no place in history,"declared Ormsby bitterly. "They have not asked that. They were in Romeand in Germany in the time of Martin Luther but nothing is said ofthem. Although they do not mind the silence of history they would likeother strong men to understand. The march of the world is a greaterthing than the dust raised by the heels of some few workers walkingthrough the streets and these men are responsible for the march of theworld. You are making a mistake. I invite you to become one of us. Ifyou plan to upset things you may get yourself into history but youwill not really count. What you are trying to do will not work. Youwill come to a bad end."

　　When the two men emerged from the park the older man had again thefeeling that the interview had not been a success. He was sorry. Theevening he felt had marked for him a failure and he was not accustomedto failures. "There is a wall here that I cannot penetrate," hethought.

　　Along the front of the park beneath a grove of trees they walked insilence. McGregor seemed not to have heard the words addressed to him.When they came to where a long row of vacant lots faced the park hestopped and stood leaning against a tree to look away into the park,lost in thought.

　　David Ormsby also became silent. He thought of his youth in the littlevillage plough factory, of his efforts to get on in the world, of thelong evenings spent reading books and trying to understand themovements of men.

　　"Is there an element in nature and in youth that we do not understandor that we lose sight of?" he asked. "Are the efforts of the patientworkers of the world always to be abortive? Can some new phase of lifearise suddenly upsetting all of our plans? Do you, can you, think ofmen like me as but part of a vast whole? Do you deny to usindividuality, the right to stand forth, the right to work things outand to control?"

　　The ploughmaker looked at the huge figure standing beside the tree.Again he was irritated and kept lighting cigars which after two orthree puffs he threw away. In the bushes at the back of the benchinsects began to sing. The wind coming now in gentle gusts swayedslowly the branches of the trees overhead.

　　"Is there an eternal youth in the world, a state out of which men passunknowingly, a youth that forever destroys, tearing down what has beenbuilt?" he asked. "Are the mature lives of strong men of so littleaccount? Have you like the empty fields that bask in the sun in thesummer the right to remain silent in the presence of men who have hadthoughts and have tried to put their thoughts into deeds?"

　　Still saying nothing McGregor pointed with his finger along the roadthat faced the park. From a side street a body of men swung about acorner, coming with long strides toward the two. As they passedbeneath a street lamp that swung gently in the wind their facesflashing in and out of the light seemed to be mocking David Ormsby.For a moment anger burned in him and then something, perhaps therhythm of the moving mass of men, brought a gentler mood. The menswinging past turned another corner and disappeared beneath thestructure of an elevated railroad.

　　The ploughmaker walked away from McGregor. Something in the interview,terminating thus with, the presence of the marching figures had hefelt unmanned him. "After all there is youth and the hope of youth.What he has in mind may work," he thought as he climbed aboard astreet car.

　　In the car David put his head out at the window and looked at the longline of apartment buildings that lined the streets. He thought againof his own youth and of the evenings in the Wisconsin village when,himself a youth, he went with other young men singing and marching inthe moonlight.

　　In a vacant lot he again saw a body of the Marching Men moving backand forth and responding quickly to the commands given by a slenderyoung man who stood on the sidewalk beneath a street lamp and held astick in his hand.

　　In the car the grey-haired man of affairs put his head down upon theback of the seat in front. Half unconscious of his own thoughts hismind began to dwell upon the figure of his daughter. "Had I beenMargaret I should not have let him go. No matter what the cost Ishould have clung to the man," he muttered.