Octopus — Book II, Chapter 1, Part 4

And all these people had a veritable mania for declamation and fancy dress.

The Russian Countess gave talks on the prisons of Siberia, wearing the headdress and pinchbeck ornaments of a Slav bride; the Aesthete, in his white cassock, gave readings on obscure questions of art and ethics.

The widow of India, in the costume of her caste, described the social life of her people at home.

The bearded poet, perspiring in furs and boots of reindeer skin, declaimed verses of his own composition about the wild life of the Alaskan mining camps.

The Japanese youth, in the silk robes of the Samurai two-sworded nobles, read from his own works--“The flat-bordered earth, nailed down at night, rusting under the darkness,” “The brave, upright rains that came down like errands from iron-bodied yore-time.

” The Christian Scientist, in funereal, impressive black, discussed the contra-will and pan-psychic hylozoism.

The university professor put on a full dress suit and lisle thread gloves at three in the afternoon and before literary clubs and circles bellowed extracts from Goethe and Schiler in the German, shaking his fists, purple with vehemence.

The Cherokee, arrayed in fringed buckskin and blue beads, rented from a costumer, intoned folk songs of his people in the vernacular.

The elocutionist in cheese-cloth toga and tin bracelets, rendered “The Isles of Greece, where burning Sappho loved and sung.

” The Chinaman, in the robes of a mandarin, lectured on Confucius.

The Armenian, in fez and baggy trousers, spoke of the Unspeakable Turk.

The mandolin player, dressed like a bull fighter, held musical conversaziones, interpreting the peasant songs of Andalusia.

It was the Fake, the eternal, irrepressible Sham; glib, nimble, ubiquitous, tricked out in all the paraphernalia of imposture, an endless defile of charlatans that passed interminably before the gaze of the city, marshalled by “lady presidents,” exploited by clubs of women, by literary societies, reading circles, and culture organisations.

The attention the Fake received, the time devoted to it, the money which it absorbed, were incredible.

It was all one that impostor after impostor was exposed; it was all one that the clubs, the circles, the societies were proved beyond doubt to have been swindled.

The more the Philistine press of the city railed and guyed, the more the women rallied to the defence of their protege of the hour.

That their favourite was persecuted, was to them a veritable rapture.

Promptly they invested the apostle of culture with the glamour of a martyr.

The fakirs worked the community as shell-game tricksters work a county fair, departing with bursting pocket-books, passing on the word to the next in line, assured that the place was not worked out, knowing well that there was enough for all.

More frequently the public of the city, unable to think of more than one thing at one time, prostrated itself at the feet of a single apostle, but at other moments, such as the present, when a Flower Festival or a Million-Dollar Fair aroused enthusiasm in all quarters, the occasion was one of gala for the entire Fake.

The decayed professors, virtuosi, litterateurs, and artists thronged to the place en masse.

Their clamour filled all the air.

On every hand one heard the scraping of violins, the tinkling of mandolins, the suave accents of “art talks,” the incoherencies of poets, the declamation of elocutionists, the inarticulate wanderings of the Japanese, the confused mutterings of the Cherokee, the guttural bellowing of the German university professor, all in the name of the Million-Dollar Fair.

Money to the extent of hundreds of thousands was set in motion.

Mrs. Cedarquist was busy from morning until night.

One after another, she was introduced to newly arrived fakirs.

To each poet, to each litterateur, to each professor she addressed the same question: “How long have you known you had this power?

” She spent her days in one quiver of excitement and jubilation.

She was “in the movement.

” The people of the city were awakening to a Realisation of the Beautiful, to a sense of the higher needs of life.

This was Art, this was Literature, this was Culture and Refinement.

The Renaissance had appeared in the West.

She was a short, rather stout, red-faced, very much over-dressed little woman of some fifty years.

She was rich in her own name, even before her marriage, being a relative of Shelgrim himself and on familiar terms with the great financier and his family.

Her husband, while deploring the policy of the railroad, saw no good reason for quarrelling with Shelgrim, and on more than one occasion had dined at his house.

On this occasion, delighted that she had come upon a “minor poet,” she insisted upon presenting him to Hartrath.

“You two should have so much in common,” she explained.

Presley shook the flaccid hand of the artist, murmuring conventionalities, while Mrs. Cedarquist hastened to say: “I am sure you know Mr. Presley's verse, Mr. Hartrath.

You should, believe me.

You two have much in common.

I can see so much that is alike in your modes of interpreting nature.

In Mr. Presley's sonnet, 'The Better Part,' there is the same note as in your picture, the same sincerity of tone, the same subtlety of touch, the same nuances,--ah.

” “Oh, my dear Madame,” murmured the artist, interrupting Presley's impatient retort; “I am a mere bungler.

You don't mean quite that, I am sure.

I am too sensitive.

It is my cross.

Beauty,” he closed his sore eyes with a little expression of pain, “beauty unmans me.

” But Mrs. Cedarquist was not listening.

Her eyes were fixed on the artist's luxuriant hair, a thick and glossy mane, that all but covered his coat collar.

“Leonine!

” she murmured-- “leonine!

Like Samson of old.

” However, abruptly bestirring herself, she exclaimed a second later: “But I must run away.

I am selling tickets for you this afternoon, Mr. Hartrath.

I am having such success.

Twenty-five already.

Mr. Presley, you will take two chances, I am sure, and, oh, by the way, I have such good news.

You know I am one of the lady members of the subscription committee for our Fair, and you know we approached Mr. Shelgrim for a donation to help along.

Oh, such a liberal patron, a real Lorenzo di' Medici.

In the name of the Pacific and Southwestern he has subscribed, think of it, five thousand dollars; and yet they will talk of the meanness of the railroad.

” “Possibly it is to his interest,” murmured Presley.

“The fairs and festivals bring people to the city over his railroad.

” But the others turned on him, expostulating.

“Ah, you Philistine,” declared Mrs. Cedarquist.

“And this from YOU!

, Presley; to attribute such base motives----” “If the poets become materialised, Mr. Presley,” declared Hartrath, “what can we say to the people?

” “And Shelgrim encourages your million-dollar fairs and fetes,” said a voice at Presley's elbow, “because it is throwing dust in the people's eyes.

” The group turned about and saw Cedarquist, who had come up unobserved in time to catch the drift of the talk.

But he spoke without bitterness;

there was even a good-humoured twinkle in his eyes.

“Yes,” he continued, smiling, “our dear Shelgrim promotes your fairs, not only as Pres says, because it is money in his pocket, but because it amuses the people, distracts their attention from the doings of his railroad.

When Beatrice was a baby and had little colics, I used to jingle my keys in front of her nose, and it took her attention from the pain in her tummy; so Shelgrim.

” The others laughed good-humouredly, protesting, nevertheless, and Mrs. Cedarquist shook her finger in warning at the artist and exclaimed: “The Philistines be upon thee, Samson!

” “By the way,” observed Hartrath, willing to change the subject, “I hear you are on the Famine Relief Committee.

Does your work progress?

” “Oh, most famously, I assure you,” she said.

“Such a movement as we have started.

Those poor creatures.

The photographs of them are simply dreadful.

I had the committee to luncheon the other day and we passed them around.

We are getting subscriptions from all over the State, and Mr. Cedarquist is to arrange for the ship.

” The Relief Committee in question was one of a great number that had been formed in California--and all over the Union, for the matter of that--to provide relief for the victims of a great famine in Central India.

The whole world had been struck with horror at the reports of suffering and mortality in the affected districts, and had hastened to send aid.

Certain women of San Francisco, with Mrs. Cedarquist at their head, had organised a number of committees, but the manufacturer's wife turned the meetings of these committees into social affairs--luncheons, teas, where one discussed the ways and means of assisting the starving Asiatics over teacups and plates of salad.

Shortly afterward a mild commotion spread throughout the assemblage of the club's guests.

The drawing of the numbers in the raffle was about to be made.

Hartrath, in a flurry of agitation, excused himself.

Cedarquist took Presley by the arm.

“Pres, let's get out of this,” he said.

“Come into the wine room and I will shake you for a glass of sherry.

” They had some difficulty in extricating themselves.

The main room where the drawing was to take place suddenly became densely thronged.

All the guests pressed eagerly about the table near the picture, upon which one of the hall boys had just placed a ballot box containing the numbers.

The ladies, holding their tickets in their hands, pushed forward.

A

staccato chatter of excited murmurs arose.

“What became of Harran and Lyman and the Governor?

” inquired Presley.

Lyman had disappeared, alleging a business engagement, but Magnus and his younger son had retired to the library of the club on the floor above.

It was almost deserted.

They were deep in earnest conversation.

“Harran,” said the Governor, with decision, “there is a deal, there, in what Cedarquist says.

Our wheat to China, hey, boy?

” “It is certainly worth thinking of, sir.

” “It appeals to me, boy; it appeals to me.

It's big and there's a fortune in it.

Big chances mean big returns; and I know--your old father isn't a back number yet, Harran--I may not have so wide an outlook as our friend Cedarquist, but I am quick to see my chance.

Boy, the whole East is opening, disintegrating before the Anglo-Saxon.

It is time that bread stuffs, as well, should make markets for themselves in the Orient.

Just at this moment, too, when Lyman will scale down freight rates so we can haul to tidewater at little cost.

” Magnus paused again, his frown beetling, and in the silence the excited murmur from the main room of the club, the soprano chatter of a multitude of women, found its way to the deserted library.

“I believe it's worth looking into, Governor,” asserted Harran.

Magnus rose, and, his hands behind him, paced the floor of the library a couple of times, his imagination all stimulated and vivid.

The great gambler perceived his Chance, the kaleidoscopic shifting of circumstances that made a Situation.

It had come silently, unexpectedly.

He had not seen its approach.

Abruptly he woke one morning to see the combination realised.

But also he saw a vision.

A sudden and abrupt revolution in the Wheat.

A new world of markets discovered, the matter as important as the discovery of America.

The torrent of wheat was to be diverted, flowing back upon itself in a sudden, colossal eddy, stranding the middleman, the ENTRE-PRENEUR, the elevator-and mixing-house men dry and despairing, their occupation gone.

He saw the farmer suddenly emancipated, the world's food no longer at the mercy of the speculator, thousands upon thousands of men set free of the grip of Trust and ring and monopoly acting for themselves, selling their own wheat, organising into one gigantic trust, themselves, sending their agents to all the entry ports of China.

Himself, Annixter, Broderson and Osterman would pool their issues.

He would convince them of the magnificence of the new movement.

They would be its pioneers.

Harran would be sent to Hong Kong to represent the four.

They would charter--probably buy--a ship, perhaps one of Cedarquist's, American built, the nation's flag at the peak, and the sailing of that ship, gorged with the crops from Broderson's and Osterman's ranches, from Quien Sabe and Los Muertos, would be like the sailing of the caravels from Palos.

It would mark a new era; it would make an epoch.

With this vision still expanding before the eye of his mind, Magnus, with Harran at his elbow, prepared to depart.

They descended to the lower floor and involved themselves for a moment in the throng of fashionables that blocked the hallway and the entrance to the main room, where the numbers of the raffle were being drawn.

Near the head of the stairs they encountered Presley and Cedarquist, who had just come out of the wine room.

Magnus, still on fire with the new idea, pressed a few questions upon the manufacturer before bidding him good-bye.

He wished to talk further upon the great subject, interested as to details, but Cedarquist was vague in his replies.

He was no farmer, he hardly knew wheat when he saw it, only he knew the trend of the world's affairs; he felt them to be setting inevitably eastward.

However, his very vagueness was a further inspiration to the Governor.

He swept details aside.

He saw only the grand coup, the huge results, the East conquered, the march of empire rolling westward, finally arriving at its starting point, the vague, mysterious Orient.

He saw his wheat, like the crest of an advancing billow, crossing the Pacific, bursting upon Asia, flooding the Orient in a golden torrent.

It was the new era.

He had lived to see the death of the old and the birth of the new; first the mine, now the ranch; first gold, now wheat.

Once again he became the pioneer, hardy, brilliant, taking colossal chances, blazing the way, grasping a fortune--a million in a single day.

All the bigness of his nature leaped up again within him.

At the magnitude of the inspiration he felt young again, indomitable, the leader at last, king of his fellows, wresting from fortune at this eleventh hour, before his old age, the place of high command which so long had been denied him.

At last he could achieve.

Abruptly Magnus was aware that some one had spoken his name.

He looked about and saw behind him, at a little distance, two gentlemen, strangers to him.

They had withdrawn from the crowd into a little recess.

Evidently having no women to look after, they had lost interest in the afternoon's affair.

Magnus realised that they had not seen him.

One of them was reading aloud to his companion from an evening edition of that day's newspaper.

It was in the course of this reading that Magnus caught the sound of his name.

He paused, listening, and Presley, Harran and Cedarquist followed his example.

Soon they all understood.

They were listening to the report of the judge's decision, for which Magnus was waiting--the decision in the case of the League vs. the Railroad.

For the moment, the polite clamour of the raffle hushed itself--the winning number was being drawn.

The guests held their breath, and in the ensuing silence Magnus and the others heard these words distinctly: “....

It follows that the title to the lands in question is in the plaintiff--the Pacific and Southwestern Railroad, and the defendants have no title, and their possession is wrongful.

There must be findings and judgment for the plaintiff, and it is so ordered.

” In spite of himself, Magnus paled.

Harran shut his teeth with an oath.

Their exaltation of the previous moment collapsed like a pyramid of cards.

The vision of the new movement of the wheat, the conquest of the East, the invasion of the Orient, seemed only the flimsiest mockery.

With a brusque wrench, they were snatched back to reality.

Between them and the vision, between the fecund San Joaquin, reeking with fruitfulness, and the millions of Asia crowding toward the verge of starvation, lay the iron-hearted monster of steel and steam, implacable, insatiable, huge--its entrails gorged with the life blood that it sucked from an entire commonwealth, its ever hungry maw glutted with the harvests that should have fed the famished bellies of the whole world of the Orient.

But abruptly, while the four men stood there, gazing into each other's faces, a vigorous hand-clapping broke out.

The raffle of Hartrath's picture was over, and as Presley turned about he saw Mrs. Cedarquist and her two daughters signalling eagerly to the manufacturer, unable to reach him because of the intervening crowd.

Then Mrs. Cedarquist raised her voice and cried: “I've won.

I've won.

” Unnoticed, and with but a brief word to Cedarquist, Magnus and Harran went down the marble steps leading to the street door, silent, Harran's arm tight around his father's shoulder.

At once the orchestra struck into a lively air.

A renewed murmur of conversation broke out, and Cedarquist, as he said good-bye to Presley, looked first at the retreating figures of the ranchers, then at the gayly dressed throng of beautiful women and debonair young men, and indicating the whole scene with a single gesture, said, smiling sadly as he spoke: “Not a city, Presley, not a city, but a Midway Plaisance.

”