Part 2 (2/2)
Next day, just before the voting began, Dominick seated himself at the front of the governor's gallery,--the only person in it. I see him now as he looked that day,--black and heavy-jawed and scowling, leaning forward with both forearms on the railing, and his big, flat chin resting on his upturned, stubby thumbs. He was there to see that each of us, his creatures, dependent absolutely upon him for our political lives, should vote as he had sold us in block. There was no chance to s.h.i.+rk or even to squirm. As the roll-call proceeded, one after another, seven of us, obeyed that will frowning from the gallery,--jumped through the hoop of fire under the quivering lash. I was eighth on the roll.
”Sayler!” How my name echoed through that horrible silence!
I could not answer. Gradually every face turned toward me,--I could see them, could feel them, and, to make bad enough worse, I yielded to an imperious fascination, the fascination of that incarnation of brute-power,--power of muscle and power of will. I turned my eyes upon the amazed, furious eyes of my master. It seemed to me that his lips must give pa.s.sage to the oaths and filth swelling beneath his chest, and seething behind his eyes.
”Sayler!” repeated the clerk in a voice that exploded within me.
”No!” I shouted,--not in answer to the clerk, but in denial of that insolent master-to-dog command from the beast in the gallery.
The look in his eyes changed to relief and contemptuous approval. There was a murmur of derision from my fellow members. Then I remembered that a negative was, at that stage of the bill, a vote for it,--I had done just the reverse of what I intended. The roll-call went on, and I sat debating with myself. Prudence, inclination, the natural timidity of youth, the utter futility of opposition, fear, above all else, fear,--these joined in bidding me let my vote stand as cast. On the other side stood my notion of self-respect. I felt I must then and there and for ever decide whether I was a thing or a man. Yet, again and again I had voted for measures just as corrupt,--had voted for them with no protest beyond a cynical shrug and a wry look. Every man, even the laxest, if he is to continue to ”count as one,” must have a point where he draws the line beyond which he will not go. The liar must have things he will not lie about, the thief things he will not steal, the compromiser things he will not compromise, the practical man in the pulpit, in politics, in business, in the professor's chair, or editorial tribune, things he will not sacrifice, whatever the cost. That is ”practical honor.” I had reached my line of practical honor, my line between possible compromise and certain demoralization. And I realized it.
When the roll-call ended I rose, and, in a voice that I knew was firm and clear, said: ”Mr. Speaker, I voted in the negative by mistake. I wish my vote recorded in the affirmative. I am against the bill.”
Amid a fearful silence I took my seat. With a suddenness that made me leap, a wild and crazy a.s.semblyman, noted as the crank of that session, emitted a fantastic yell of enthusiastic approval. Again there was that silence; then the tension of the a.s.sembly, floor and crowded galleries, burst in a storm of hysterical laughter.
I wish I could boast how brave I felt as I reversed my vote, how indifferent to that tempest of mockery, and how strong as I went forth to meet my master and hear my death-warrant. But I can't, in honesty,--I'm only a human being, not a hero, and these are my _con_fessions, not my _pro_fessions. So I must relate that, though the voice that requested the change of vote was calm and courageous, the man behind it was agitated and sick with dread. There may be those who have the absolute courage some men boast,--if not directly, then by implication in despising him who shows that he has it not. For myself, I must say that I never made a venture,--and my life has been a succession of ventures, often with my whole stake upon the table,--I never made a venture that I did not have a sickening sensation at the heart. My courage, if it can be called by so sounding a name, has been in daring to make the throw when every atom of me was shrieking, ”You'll lose!
You'll be ruined!”
I did not see Dominick until after supper. I had nerved myself for a scene,--indeed, I had been hoping he would insult me. When one lacks the courage boldly to advance along the perilous course his intelligence counsels, he is lucky if he can and will goad some one into kicking him along it past the point where retreat is possible. Such methods of advance are not dignified, but then, is life dignified? To my surprise and alarm, Dominick refused to kick me into manhood. He had been paid, and the seventy-seven thousand dollars, in bills of large denomination, were warming his heart from the inner pocket of his waistcoat. So he came up to me, scowling, but friendly.
”Why didn't you tell me you wanted to be let off, Harvey?” he said reproachfully. ”I'd 'a' done it. Now, d.a.m.n you, you've put me in a place where I've got to give you the whip.”
To flush at this expression from Dominick was a hypocritical refinement of sensitiveness. To draw myself up haughtily, to turn on my heel and walk away,--that was the silliness of a boy. Still, I am glad I did both those absurd things. When I told my mother how I had ruined myself in politics she began to cry,--and tears were not her habit. Then she got my father's picture and kissed it and talked to it about me, just as if he were there with us; and for a time I felt that I was of heroic stature.
But, as the days pa.s.sed, with no laurels in the form of cases and fees, and as clients left me through fear of Dominick's power, I shriveled back to human size, and descended from my pedestal. From the ground-level I began again to look about the matter-of-fact world.
I saw I was making only a first small payment on the heavy price for the right to say, no, for the right to be free to break with any man or any enterprise that menaced my self-owners.h.i.+p. That right I felt I must keep, whatever its cost. Some men can, or think they can, lend their self-owners.h.i.+p and take it back at convenience; I knew I was not of them--and let none of them judge me. Especially let none judge me who only deludes himself that he owns himself, who has sold himself all his life long for salaries and positions or for wealth, or for the empty reputation of power he wields only on another's sufferance.
A glance about me was enough to disclose the chief reason why so many men had surrendered the inner citadel of self-respect. In the crucial hour, when they had had to choose between subservience and a hard battle with adversity, forth from their hearts had issued a traitor weakness, the feeling of responsibility to wife and children, and this traitor had easily delivered them captive to some master or masters. More, or less, than human, it seemed to me, was the courage that could make successful resistance to this traitor, and could strike down and drag down wife and children. ”I must give up Elizabeth,” I said to myself, ”for her own sake as well as for mine. Marry her I must not until I am established securely in freedom. And when will that be?” In my mood of darkness and despair, the answer to that question was a relentless, ”Never, especially if you are weighted with the sense of obligation to her, of her wasting her youth in waiting for you.”
I wrote her all that was in my mind. ”You must forget me,” I said, ”and I shall forget you--for I see that you are not for me.”
The answer came by telegraph--”Please don't ever again hurt me in that way.” And of the letter which came two days later I remember clearly this sentence: ”If you will not let me go on with you, I will make the journey alone.”
This shook me, but I knew only too well how the bright and beautiful legions of the romantic and the ideal could be put to flight, could be hurled headlong into the abyss of oblivion by the phalanxes of fact.
”I see what I must do,” was my answer to her letter. ”And I shall do it.
Be merciful to me, Elizabeth. Do not tempt me to a worse cowardice than giving you up. I shall not write again.”
And I did not. Every one of her letters was answered--sometimes, I remember, I wrote to her the whole night through, shading my window so that mother could not from her window see the reflection of my lamp's light on the ground and become anxious. But I destroyed those long and often agonized answers. And I can not say whether my heart was the heavier in the months when I was getting her letters, to which I dared not reply, or in those succeeding months when her small, clear handwriting first ceased to greet me from the mail.
IV
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