The Cup of Fury Part 21

But intolerances go out of style as suddenly as new creeds come in. He knew soldiers who held a lighted stub in one hand while they rolled a cigarette with the other. He knew Red Cross saints who could puff a forbidden cigarette like a prayer. He wondered how he or any one had ever made such a fierce taboo of a wisp of aromatic leaves kindled in a tiny parcel. Such strange things people choose for their tests of virtue--tests that have nothing whatever to do with the case, whether savage or civilized folk invent them.

He heard Miss Webling fumbling in a hand-bag. He heard the click of her rings against metal. He heard the little noise of the portals of a cigarette-case opening. His hands and hers stumbled together, and his fingers selected a little cylinder from the row.

He produced a match and held the flame before her. He filled his eyes with her vivid features as the glow detached her from the dark. Of her eyes he saw only the big lids, but he noted her lips, pursed a trifle with the kissing muscles, and he sighed as she blew a smoke about her like a G.o.ddess creating a cloud of vanishment. He lighted his own cigarette and threw the match away. They returned to a perfect gloom mitigated by the slight increase and decrease in the vividness of their tobacco-tips as they puffed.

She was the first to speak:

"I have a whole box of f.a.gs in my hand-bag. I usually have a good supply. When you want another-- Does it horrify you to see a woman smoke?"

He was very superior to his old bigotry. "Quite the contrary!"

This was hardly honest enough, so he said:

"It did once, though. I remember how startled I was years ago when I was in England and I saw ladies smoking in hotel corridors; and on the steamer coming back, there was a countess or something who sat in the balcony and puffed away. Of course, at the big dinners in London they smoked, too. They did at Sir Joseph's, I remember."

He did not see her wince at this name.

"There were some odd fish surrounding old Sir Joseph. Some of them I couldn't quite make out. He was just a little hard to get at, himself.

I got very huffy at the old boy once or twice, I'm sorry to say. It was about s.h.i.+ps. I'm a crank on s.h.i.+ps. Everybody has at least one mania. That's mine--s.h.i.+ps. Sir Joseph and I quarreled about them. He wanted to buy all I could make, but he was in no hurry to have 'em finished. I told him he talked more like a German trying to stop production than like a Britisher trying to speed it up. That made him huffy. I'm sorry I did him such an injustice. When you insult a man, and he dies--What a terrible repartee dying is! He had offered me a big price, too, but it's not money I want to make; it's s.h.i.+ps. And I want to see 'em at work. Did you ever see a s.h.i.+p launched?"

"No, I never did."

"There's nothing prettier. Come over to my s.h.i.+pyard and I'll show you.

We're going to put one over before long. I'll let you christen her."

"That would be wonderful."

"It's better than that. The civilized world is starting out on the most poetic job it ever undertook."

"Indeed?"

"Yep. The German sharks are gradually dragging all our s.h.i.+pping under water. The inventors don't seem able to devise any cure for the submarines except to find 'em and fight 'em. They're hard to find, and they won't fight. But they keep popping up and stabbing our pretty s.h.i.+ps to death. And now the great game is on, the greatest game that civilized men ever fought with h.e.l.l."

"What's that?"

"We're going to try to build s.h.i.+ps faster than the Hun can sink 'em.

Isn't that a glorious job for you? Was there ever a--well, a n.o.bler idea? We can't kill the beast; so we're going to choke him to death with food." He laughed to hide his embarra.s.sing exaltation.

She was not afraid of it: "It is rather a stupendous inspiration, isn't it?"

"Who was it said he'd rather have written Gray's 'Elegy' than taken Quebec? I'd rather have thought up this thought than written the Iliad. n.o.body knows who invented the idea. He's gone to oblivion already, but he has done more for the salvation of freedom than all the poets of time."

This shocked her, yet thrilled her with its loftiness. She thrilled to him suddenly, too. She saw that she was within the aura of a fiery spirit--a business man aflame. And she saw in a white light that the builders of things, even of perishable things, are as great as the weavers of immortal words--not so well remembered, of course, for posterity has only the words. Poets and highbrows scorn them, but living women who can see the living men are not so foolish. They are apt to prefer the maker to the writer. They reward the poet with a smile and a compliment, but give their lives to the manufacturers, the machinists, the merchants. Then the neglected poets and their toadies the critics grow sarcastic about this and think that they have condemned women for materialism when they are themselves blind to its grandeur. They ignore the divinity that attends the mining and smelting and welding and selling of iron things, the hewing and sawing and planing of woods, the sowing and reaping and distribution of foods. They make a priestcraft and a ritual of artful language, and are ignorant of their own heresy. But since they deal in words, they have a fearful advantage and use it for their own glorification, as priests are wont to do.

Marie Louise had a vague insight into the truth, but was not aware of her own wisdom. She knew only that this Davidge who had made himself her gallant, her messenger and servant, was really a genius, a giant.

She felt that the roles should be reversed and she should be waiting upon him.

In Sir Joseph's house there had been a bit of statuary representing Hercules and Omphale. The mighty one was wearing the woman's kirtle and carrying her distaff, and the girl was staggering under the lion-skin and leaning on the bludgeon. Marie Louise always hated the group. It seemed to her to represent just the way so many women tried to master the men they infatuated. But Marie Louise despised masterable men, and she had no wish to make a toy of one. Yet she had wondered if a man and a woman could not love each other more perfectly if neither were master or mistress, but both on a parity--a team, indeed.

Davidge enjoyed talking to her, at least. That comforted her. When she came back from her meditations he was saying:

"My company is reaching out. We've bought a big tract of swamp, and we're filling it in and clearing it, and we're going to lay out a s.h.i.+pyard there and turn out s.h.i.+ps--standardized s.h.i.+ps--as fast as we can. We're steadying the ground first, sinking concrete piles in steel casing--if you put 'em end to end, they'd reach twenty-five miles.

They're just to hold the ground together. That's what the whole country has got to do before it can really begin to begin--put some solid ground under its feet. When the s.h.i.+p is launched she mustn't stick on the ways or in the mud.

"Of course, I'd rather go as a soldier, but I've got no right to. I can ride or walk all day, and shoot straight and stand all kinds of weather, and killing Germans would just about tickle me to death. But this is a time when every man has got to do what he can do better than he can do anything else. And I've spent my life in s.h.i.+pyards.

"I was a common laborer first--swinging a sledge; I had an arm then!

That was before we had compressed-air riveters. I was a union man and went on strike and fought scabs and made the bosses eat crow. Now I'm one of the bosses. I'm what they call a capitalist and an oppressor of labor. Now I put down strikes and fight the unions--not that I don't believe in 'em, not that I don't know where labor was before they had unions and where it would be without 'em to-day and to-morrow, but because all these things have to be adjusted gradually, and because the main thing, after all, is building s.h.i.+ps--just now, of course, especially.

"When I was a workman I took pride in my job, and I thought I was an artist at it. I wouldn't take anybody's lip. Now that I'm a boss I have to take everybody's lip, because I can't strike. I can't go to my boss and demand higher wages and easier hours, because my boss is the market. But I don't suppose there's anything on earth that interests you less than labor problems."

"They might if I knew the first thing about them."

"Well, the first thing is that they are the next war, the big war after this one's over. The job is to keep it down till peace comes.

Then h.e.l.l will pop--if you'll pardon my French. I'm all for labor getting its rights, but some of the men don't want the right to work--they want the right to loaf. I say let the sky be the limit of any man's opportunity--the sky and his own limitations and ambitions.

But a lot of the workmen don't want opportunity; they've got no ambition; they hate to build things. They talk about the terrible conditions their families live in, and how gorgeously the rich men live. But the rich men were poor once, and the poor can be rich--if they can and will.

"The war is going to be the fight between the makers and the breakers, the uplifters and the down-draggers, you might say. And it's going to be some war!

"The men on the wrong side--what I call the wrong side, at least--are just as much our enemies as the Germans. We've got to watch 'em just as close. They'd just as soon burn an unfinished s.h.i.+p as the Germans would sink her when she's on her way.

"That little s.h.i.+p I'm building now! Would you believe it? It has to be guarded every minute. Most of our men are all right. They'd work themselves to death for the s.h.i.+p, and they pour out their sweat like prayers. But sneaks get in among 'em, and it only takes a fellow with a bomb one minute to undo the six months' work of a hundred."

"Tell me about your s.h.i.+p," she said.

A s.h.i.+p she could understand. It was personal and real; labor theories were as foreign to her as problems in metaphysics.

"Well, it's my first-born, this s.h.i.+p," he said. "Of course I've built a lot of other s.h.i.+ps, but they were for other people--just jobs, for wages or commissions. This one is all my own--a freighter, ugly as sin and commodious as h.e.l.l--I beg your pardon! But the world needs freighters--the hungry mobs of Europe, they'll be glad to see my little s.h.i.+p come in, if ever she does. If she doesn't I'll-- But she'll last a few trips before they submarine her--I guess."

He fell silent among his visions and left her to her own.

He saw himself wandering about a s.h.i.+pyard, a poor thing, but his own.

His mind was like a mold-loft full of designs and detail-drawings to scale, blue-prints and models. On the way a s.h.i.+p was growing for him.

As yet she was a ghastly thing all ribs, like the skeleton of some ancient sea-monster left ash.o.r.e at high tide and perished eons back, leaving only the bones.

His fancy saw her transverses taking on their iron flesh. He saw the day of her nativity. He heard them knock out the blocks that lowered the sliding-ways to the groundways and sent her swirling into the sea.

He saw her ready for her cargo, saw a Niagara of wheat cascading into her hold. He saw her go forth into the sea.

Then he saw the s.h.i.+p stagger, a wound opened in her side, from the bullet of a submarine.

It was all so vivid that he spoke aloud in a frenzy of ire:

"If the Germans kill my s.h.i.+p I'll kill a German! By G.o.d, I will!"

He was startled by the sound of his own voice, and he begged her pardon humbly.

She had been away in reverie, too. The word "submarine" had sent her back into her haunting remembrances of the _Lusitania_ and of her own helpless entanglement in the fate of other s.h.i.+ps--their names as unknown to her as the names and faces of the men that died with them, or perished of starvation and thirst in the lifeboats sent adrift. The thought of these poor anonymities frightened her. She shuddered with such violence that Davidge was startled from his own wrath.