Twelve Men. Theodore Dreiser
“Make them over?” I queried, still curious, for it was all like a romance, and rather fantastic to me. “What do you mean? How do you make them over?”
“Oh, in their attitude, that’s how. You’ve got to change a man and bring him out of self-seeking if you really want to make him good. Most men are so tangled up in their own errors and bad ways, and so worried over their seekings, that unless you can set them to giving it’s no use. They’re always seeking, and they don’t know what they want half the time. Money isn’t the thing. Why, half of them wouldn’t understand how to use it if they had it. Their minds are not bright enough. Their perceptions are not clear enough. All you can do is to make them content with themselves. And that, giving to others will do. I never saw the man or the woman yet who couldn’t be happy if you could make them feel the need of living for others, of doing something for somebody besides themselves. It’s a fact. Selfish people are never happy.”
He rubbed his hands as if he saw the solution of the world’s difficulties very clearly, and I said to him:
“Well, now, you’ve got a man out of the mire, and ‘saved,’ as you call it, and then what? What comes next?”
“Well, then he’s saved,” he replied. “Happiness comes next—content.”
“I know. But must he go to church, or conform to certain rules?”
“No, no, no!” he replied sweetly. “Nothing to do except to be good to others. ‘True religion and undefiled before our God and Father is this,’” he quoted, “‘to visit the widow and the orphan in their affliction and to keep unspotted from the world. Charity is kind,’ you know. ‘Charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, seeketh not its own.’”
“Well,” I said, rather aimlessly, I will admit, for this high faith staggered me. (How high! How high!) “And then what?”
“Well, then the world would come about. It would be so much better. All the misery is in the lack of sympathy one with another. When we get that straightened out we can work in peace. There are lots of things to do, you know.”
Yes, I thought, looking down on the mills and the driving force of self-interest—on greed, lust, love of pleasure, all their fantastic and yet moving dreams.
“I’m an ignorant man myself, and I don’t know all,” he went on, “and I’d like to study. My, but I’d like to look into all things, but I can’t do it now. We can’t stop until this thing is straightened out. Some time, maybe,” and he looked peacefully away.
“By the way,” I said, “whatever became of the man to whom you gave your rubber boots over on Fishers Island?”
His face lit up as if it were the most natural thing that I should know about it.
“Say,” he exclaimed, in the most pleased and confidential way, as if we were talking about a mutual friend, “I saw him not long ago. And, do you know, he’s a good man now—really, he is. Sober and hard-working. And, say, would you believe it, he told me that I was the cause of it—just that miserable old pair of rubber boots—what do you think of that?”
I shook his hand at parting, and as we stood looking at each other in the shadow of the evening I asked him:
“Are you afraid to die?”
“Say, brother, but I’m not,” he returned. “It hasn’t any terror for me at all. I’m just as willing. My, but I’m willing.”
He smiled and gripped me heartily again, and, as I was starting to go, said:
“If I die tonight, it’ll be all right. He’ll use me just, as long as He needs me. That I know. Good-by.”
“Good-by,” I called back.
He hung by his fence, looking down upon the city. As I turned the next corner I saw him awakening from his reflection and waddling stolidly back into the house.
MY BROTHER PAUL
I LIKE best to think of him as he was at the height of his all-too-brief reputation and success, when, as the author and composer of various American popular successes (“On the Banks of the Wabash,” “Just Tell Them That You Saw Me,” and various others), as a third owner of one of the most successful popular music publishing houses in the city and as an actor and playwright of some small repute, he was wont to spin like a moth in the white light of Broadway. By reason of a little luck and some talent he had come so far, done so much for himself. In his day he had been by turn a novitiate in a Western seminary which trained aspirants for the Catholic priesthood; a singer and entertainer with a perambulating cure-all oil troupe or wagon (“Hamlin’s Wizard Oil”) traveling throughout Ohio, Indiana and Illinois; both end- and middle-man with one, two or three different minstrel companies of repute; the editor or originator and author of a “funny column” in a Western small city paper; the author of the songs mentioned and a hundred others; a black-face monologue artist; a white-face ditto, at Tony Pastor’s, Miner’s and Niblo’s of the old days; a comic lead; co-star and star in such melodramas and farces as “The Danger Signal,” “The Two Johns,” “A Tin Soldier,” “The Midnight Bell,” “A Green Goods Man” (a farce which he himself wrote, by the way), and others. The man had a genius for the kind of gayety, poetry and romance which may, and no doubt must be, looked upon as exceedingly middle-class but which nonetheless had as much charm as anything in this world can well have. He had at this time absolutely no cares or financial worries of any kind, and this plus his health, self-amusing disposition and talent for entertaining, made him a most fascinating figure to contemplate.
My first recollection of him is of myself as a boy of ten and he a man of twenty-five (my oldest brother). He had come back to the town in which we were then living solely to find his mother and help her. Six or seven years before he had left without any explanation as to where he was going, tired of or irritated by the routine of a home which for any genuine opportunity it offered him might as well never have existed. It was run dominantly by my father in the interest of religious and moral theories, with which this boy had little sympathy. He was probably not understood by any one save my mother, who understood or at least sympathized with us all. Placed in a school which was to turn him out a priest, he had decamped, and now seven years later was here in this small town, with fur coat and silk hat, a smart cane—a gentleman of the theatrical profession. He had joined a minstrel show somewhere and had become an “end-man.” He had suspected that we were not as fortunate in this world’s goods as might be and so had returned. His really great heart had called him.
But the thing which haunts me, and which was typical of him then as throughout life, was the spirit which he then possessed and conveyed. It was one of an agile geniality, unmarred by thought of a serious character but warm and genuinely tender and with a taste for simple beauty which was most impressive. He was already the author of a cheap song-book, “The Paul Dresser Songster” (“All the Songs Sung in the Show”), and some copies of this he had with him, one of which he gave me. But we having no musical instrument of any kind, he taught me some of the melodies “by ear.” The home in which by force of poverty we were compelled to live was most unprepossessing and inconvenient, and the result of his coming could but be our request for, or at least the obvious need of, assistance. Still he was as much an enthusiastic part of it as though he belonged to it. He was happy in it, and the cause of his happiness was my mother, of whom he was intensely fond. I recall how he hung about her in the kitchen or wherever she happened to be, how enthusiastically he related all his plans for the future, his amusing difficulties in the past. He was very grand and youthfully self-important, or so we all thought, and still he patted her on the shoulder or put his arm about her and kissed her. Until she died years later she was truly his uppermost thought, crying with her at times over her troubles and his. He contributed regularly to her support and sent home all his cast-off clothing to be made over for the younger ones. (Bless her tired hands!)
As I look back now on my life, I realize quite clearly that of all the members of my family, subsequent to my mother’s death, the only one who truly understood me, or, better yet, sympathized with my intellectual and artistic point