The Conflict [18]
that week and for a few preceding weeks--and retreated to her favorite nook in her father's grounds to read and to think--and to plan. She searched the New Day in vain for any of the wild, wandering things Davy and her father had told her Victor Dorn was putting forth. The four pages of each number were given over either to philosophical articles no more ``anarchistic'' than Emerson's essays, not so much so as Carlyle's, or to plain accounts of the current stealing by the politicians of Remsen City, of the squalor and disease--danger in the tenements, of the outrages by the gas and water and street car companies. There was much that was terrible, much that was sad, much that was calculated to make an honest heart burn with indignation against those who were cheerily sacrificing the whole community to their desire for profits and dividends and graft, public and private. But there was also a great deal of humor--of rather a sardonic kind, but still seeing the fantastic side of this grand game of swindle.
Two paragraphs made an especial impression on her:
``Remsen City is no worse--and no better--than other American cities. It's typical. But we who live here needn't worry about the rest of the country. The thing for us to do is to CLEAN UP AT HOME.''
``We are more careful than any paper in this town about verifying every statement we make, before we make it. If we should publish a single statement about anyone that was false even in part we would be suppressed. The judges, the bosses, the owners of the big blood-sucking public service corporations, the whole ruling class, are eager to put us out of existence. Don't forget this fact when you hear the New Day called a lying, demagogical sheet.''
With the paper beside her on the rustic bench, she fell to dreaming--not of a brighter and better world, of a wiser and freer race, but of Victor Dorn, the personality that had unaided become such a power in Remsen City, the personality that sparkled and glowed in the interesting pages of the New Day, that made its sentences read as if they were spoken into your very ears by an earnest, honest voice issuing from a fascinating, humor-loving, intensely human and natural person before your very eyes. But it was not round Victor Dorn's brain that her imagination played.
``After all,'' thought she, ``Napoleon wasn't much over five feet. Most of the big men have been little men. Of course, there were Alexander--and Washington-- and Lincoln, but--how silly to bother about a few inches of height, more or less! And he wasn't really SHORT. Let me see--how high did he come on Davy when Davy was standing near him? Above his shoulder --and Davy's six feet two or three. He's at least as tall as I am--anyhow, in my ordinary heels.''
She was attracted by both the personalities she discovered in the little journal. She believed she could tell them apart. About some of the articles, the shorter ones, she was doubtful. But in those of any length she could feel that difference which enables one to distinguish the piano touch of a player in another room-- whether it is male or female. Presently she was searching for an excuse for scraping acquaintance with this pair of pariahs--pariahs so far as her world was concerned. And soon she found it. The New Day was taking subscriptions for a fund to send sick children and their mothers to the country for a vacation from the dirt and heat of the tenements--for Remsen City, proud though it was and boastful of its prosperity, housed most of its inhabitants in slums--though of course that low sort of people oughtn't really to be counted--except for purposes of swelling census figures-- and to do all the rough and dirty work necessary to keep civilization going.
She would subscribe to this worthy charity--and would take her subscription, herself. Settled--easily and well settled. She did not involve herself, or commit herself in any way. Besides, those who might find out and might think she had overstepped the bounds would excuse her on the ground that she had not been back
Two paragraphs made an especial impression on her:
``Remsen City is no worse--and no better--than other American cities. It's typical. But we who live here needn't worry about the rest of the country. The thing for us to do is to CLEAN UP AT HOME.''
``We are more careful than any paper in this town about verifying every statement we make, before we make it. If we should publish a single statement about anyone that was false even in part we would be suppressed. The judges, the bosses, the owners of the big blood-sucking public service corporations, the whole ruling class, are eager to put us out of existence. Don't forget this fact when you hear the New Day called a lying, demagogical sheet.''
With the paper beside her on the rustic bench, she fell to dreaming--not of a brighter and better world, of a wiser and freer race, but of Victor Dorn, the personality that had unaided become such a power in Remsen City, the personality that sparkled and glowed in the interesting pages of the New Day, that made its sentences read as if they were spoken into your very ears by an earnest, honest voice issuing from a fascinating, humor-loving, intensely human and natural person before your very eyes. But it was not round Victor Dorn's brain that her imagination played.
``After all,'' thought she, ``Napoleon wasn't much over five feet. Most of the big men have been little men. Of course, there were Alexander--and Washington-- and Lincoln, but--how silly to bother about a few inches of height, more or less! And he wasn't really SHORT. Let me see--how high did he come on Davy when Davy was standing near him? Above his shoulder --and Davy's six feet two or three. He's at least as tall as I am--anyhow, in my ordinary heels.''
She was attracted by both the personalities she discovered in the little journal. She believed she could tell them apart. About some of the articles, the shorter ones, she was doubtful. But in those of any length she could feel that difference which enables one to distinguish the piano touch of a player in another room-- whether it is male or female. Presently she was searching for an excuse for scraping acquaintance with this pair of pariahs--pariahs so far as her world was concerned. And soon she found it. The New Day was taking subscriptions for a fund to send sick children and their mothers to the country for a vacation from the dirt and heat of the tenements--for Remsen City, proud though it was and boastful of its prosperity, housed most of its inhabitants in slums--though of course that low sort of people oughtn't really to be counted--except for purposes of swelling census figures-- and to do all the rough and dirty work necessary to keep civilization going.
She would subscribe to this worthy charity--and would take her subscription, herself. Settled--easily and well settled. She did not involve herself, or commit herself in any way. Besides, those who might find out and might think she had overstepped the bounds would excuse her on the ground that she had not been back