XXI
When he stopped speaking, it was because a woman pressed her way
through the crowd, and caught one of his hands. "Master, my baby!"
she sobbed. "The little one that was hurt!" So Carpenter said to the
crowd, "The sick child needs me. I must go in." They started to
press after him, and he added, "You must not come into the room. The
child will need air." He went inside, and knelt once more by the
couch, and put his hand on the little one's forehead. The mother, a
frail, dark Mexican woman, crouched at the foot, not daring to touch
either the man or the child, but staring from one to the other,
pressing her hands together in an agony of dread.
The little one opened his eyes, and gazed up. Evidently he liked
what he saw, for he kept on gazing, and a smile spread over his
features, a wistful and tender and infinitely sad little smile, of a
child who perhaps never had a good meal in his lifetime. "Nice man!"
he whispered; and the woman, hearing his voice again, began sobbing
wildly, and caught Carpenter's free hand and covered it with her
tears. "It is all right," said he; "all right, all right! He will
get well--do not be afraid." He smiled back at the child, saying:
"It is better now; you will not have so much pain." To me he
remarked, "What is there so lovely as a child?"
The people thronging the doorway spread word what was going on, and
there were shouts of excitement, and presently the voice of a woman,
clamoring for admission. The throng made way, and she brought a
bundle in her arms, which being unfolded proved to contain a sick
baby. I never knew what was the matter with it; I don't suppose the
mother knew, nor did Carpenter seem to care. The woman knelt at his
feet, praying to him; but he bade her stand up, and took the child
from her, and looked into its face, and then closed his eyes in
prayer. When he handed back the burden, a few minutes later, she
gazed at it. Something had happened, or at least she thought it had
happened, for she gave a cry of joy, and fell at Carpenter's feet
again, and caught the hem of his garment with one hand and began to
kiss it. The rumor spread outside, and there were more people
clamoring. Before long, filtering into the room, came the lame, and
the halt, and the blind.
I had been reading not long ago of the miracles of Lourdes, so I
knew in a general way what to expect. I know that modern science
vindicates these things, demonstrating that any powerful stimulus
given to the unconscious can awaken new vital impulses, and heal not
merely the hysterical and neurotic, but sometimes actual physical
ailments. Of course, to these ignorant Mexicans and Italians, there
was no possible excitement so great as that caused by Carpenter's
appearance and behavior. I understood the thing clearly; and yet,
somehow, I could not watch it without being startled--thrilled in a
strange, uncomfortable way.
And later on I had company in these unaccustomed emotions; the crowd
gave way, and who should come into the room but Mary Magna! She did
not speak to either of us, but slipped to one side and stood in
silence--while the crowd watched her furtively out of the corner of
its eyes, thinking her some foreign princess, with her bold, dark
beauty and her costly attire. I went over to her, whispering, "How
did you get here?" She explained that, when we did not arrive at the
studios, she had called up the Stebbins home and learned about the
accident. "They warned me not to come here, because this man was a
terrible Bolshevik; he made a blood-thirsty speech to the mob. What
did he say?"
I started to tell; but I was interrupted by a piercing shriek. A
sick and emaciated young girl with paralyzed limbs had been carried
into the room. They had laid her on the couch, from which the child
had been taken away, and Carpenter had put his hands upon her. At
once the girl had risen up--and here she stood, her hands flung into
the air, literally screaming her triumphant joy. Of course the crowd
took it up--these primitive people are always glad of a chance to
make a big noise, so the whole room was in a clamor, and Carpenter
had hard work to extract himself from the throng which wished to
touch his hands and his clothing, and to worship him on their knees.
He came over to us, and smiled. "Is not this better than acting,
Mary?
"Yes, surely--if one can do it."
Said he: "Everyone could do it, if they knew."
"Is that really true?" she asked, with passionate earnestness.
"There is a god in every man, and in every woman."
"Why don't they know it, then?"
"There is a god, and also a beast. The beast is old, and familiar,
and powerful; the god is new, and strange, and afraid. Because of
his fear, the beast kills him."
"What is the beast?"
"His name is self; and he has many forms. In men he is greed; in
women he is vanity, and goes attired in much raiment--the chains,
and the bracelets, and the mufflers--"
"Oh, don't!" cried Mary, wildly.
"Very well, Mary; I won't." And he didn't. But, looking at Mary, it
seemed that she was just as unhappy as if he had.
He turned to an old man who had hobbled into the room on crutches.
"Poor old comrade! Poor old friend!" His voice seemed to break with
pity. "They have worked you like an old mule, until your skin is
cracked and your joints grown hard; but they have not been so kind
to you as to an old mule--they have left you to suffer!"
To a pale young woman who staggered towards him, coughing, he cried:
"What can I do for you? They are starving you to death! You need
food--and I have no food to give!" He raised his arms, in sudden
wrath. "Bring forth the masters of this city, who starve the poor,
while they themselves riot in wantonness!"
But the members of the Chamber of Commerce and of the Bankers'
Association of Western City were not within hearing, nor are their
numbers as a rule to be found in the telephone book. Carpenter
looked about the place, now lined pretty well with cripples and
invalids. Only a couple of hours of spreading rumor had been needed
to bring them forth, unholy and dreadful secrets, dragged from the
dark corners and back alley-ways of these tenements. He gazed from
one crooked and distorted face to another, and put his hand to his
forehead with a gesture of despair. "No, no!" he said. "It is of no
use!" He lifted his voice, calling once more to the masters of the
city. "You make them faster than I can heal them! You make them by
machinery--and he who would help them must break the machine!"
He turned to me; and I was startled, for it was as if he had been
inside my mind. "I know, it will not be easy! But remember, I broke
the empire of Rome!"
That was his last flare. "I can do no more," he whispered. "My power
is gone from me; I must rest." And his voice gave way. "I beg you to
go, unhappy poor of the world! I have done all that I can do for you
tonight."
And silently, patiently, as creatures accustomed to the voice of
doom, the sick and the crippled began to hobble and crawl from the
room.
