PHIDIAS
Would that the joy of living came to-day,
Even as sculptured on Athena’s shrine
In sunny conclave of serene design,
Maidens and men, procession flute and feast,
By Phidias, the ivory-hearted priest
Of beauty absolute, whose eyes the sun
Showed goodlier forms than our desires can guess
And more of happiness.
MAN, IN THE CITY OF COLLARS
A Not Very Tragic Relapse into the Toils of the World,
and of Finance.
Having been properly treated as a bunco man by systematic piety in a certain city further south, I had double-barrelled special recommendations sent to a lofty benevolence in Asheville, from a religious leader of New York, the before-mentioned Charles F. Powlison.
It was with confidence that I bade good-by to the chicken-merchant who drove me into the city. I entered the office of the black-coated, semi-clerical gentleman who had received the Powlison indorsements. My stick pounded his floor. The heels of my brogans made the place resound. But he gave all official privileges. He received me with the fine manly hand-clasp, the glitter of teeth, the pat on the back. He insisted I use the shower bath, writing room, reading table. Then I suggested a conference among a dozen of his devouter workers on the relation of the sense of Beauty to their present notion of Christianity or, if he preferred, a talk on some aspect of art to a larger group.
He took me into his office. He shut the door. He was haughty. He made me haughty. I give the conversation as it struck me. He probably said some smart things I do not recall. But I remember all the smart things I said.
He denounced labor agitators in plain words. I agreed. I belonged to the brotherhood of those who loaf and invite their souls.
He spoke of anarchy. I maintained that I loved the law.
He very clearly, and at length, assaulted Single Tax. I knew nothing then of Single Tax, and thanked him for light. He denounced Socialism. Knowing little about Socialism at that time, I denounced it also, having just been converted to individualism by a man in Highlands.
The religious leader spoke of his long experience with bunco men. I insisted I wanted not a cent from him, I was there to do him good. I had letters of introduction to two men in the city; one of them, an active worker in the organization, had already been in to identify me. A third man was coming to climb Mount Mitchell with me.
He doubted that I was a bona fide worker in his organization. Then came my only long speech. We will omit the speech. But he began to see light. He took a fresh grip on his argument. He said: “There is a man here in Asheville I see snooping around with a tin box and a butterfly net. They call him the state something-ologist. He goes around and—and—hunts bugs. But do you want to know what I think of a crank like that?” I wanted to know. He told me.
“But,” I objected, “I am not a scientist. I am an art student.”
He expressed an interest in art. He gave a pious and proper view of the nude in art. It took some time. It was the sort of chilly, cautious talk that could not possibly bring a blush to the cheek of ignorance. I assured him his decorous concessions were unnecessary. I was not expounding the nude.
There was an artist here, and Asheville needed no further instruction of the kind, he maintained. The gentleman had won some blue ribbons in Europe. He painted a big picture (dimensions were given) and sold it for thousands (price was given).
“He is holding the next one, two feet longer each way, for double the money.”
I told him if he felt there was enough art in Asheville, we might do something to popularize the poets.
In reply he talked about literary cranks. He spoke of how Thoreau, with his long hair and ugly looks, frightened strangers who suddenly met him in the woods. I thanked him for light on Thoreau.... But he had to admit that my hair was short.
He suspected I was neither artist nor literary man. I assured him my friends were often of the same opinion.
“But,” he said bitterly, “do you know sir, by the tone of letters I received from Mr. Powlison I expected to assemble the wealth and fashion of Asheville to hear you. I expected to see you first in your private car, wearing a dress-suit.”
I answered sternly, “Art, my friend, does not travel in a Pullman.”
He threw off all restraint. “Old shoes,” he said, “old shoes.” He pointed at them.
“I have walked two hundred miles among the moonshiners. They wear brogans like these.” But his manner plainly said that his organization did not need cranks climbing over the mountains to tell them things.
“Your New York letter did not say you were walking. It said you ‘would arrive.’”
He began to point again. “Frayed trousers! And the lining of your coat in rags!”
“I took the lining of the coat for necessary patches.”
“A blue bandanna round your neck!”
“To protect me from sunburn.”
He rose and hit the table. “And no collar!”
“Oh yes, I have a collar.” I drew it from my hip pocket. It had had a two hundred mile ride, and needed a bath.
“I should like to have it laundered, but I haven’t the money.”
“Get the money.”
“No,” I said, “but I will get a collar.”
I entered a furnishing and tailor shop around the corner. I asked for the proprietor. He showed me collars.
“Two for a quarter?”
“Yes.”
“Now I have here a little brochure I sell for twenty-five cents. In fact it is a poem, well worth the money. I will let you have it for half price, that is, one collar.”
“We are selling collars.”
“I am selling the poem.”
I turned my Ancient Mariner eye on him. I recited the most mesmeric rhymes.
He repeated, “We are selling collars.”
Evidently the eye was out of order. I tried argument.
“Don’t you think I need a collar?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you think this one would fit this shirt?”
“Yes.”
“I renew my offer.”
He sternly put the box away.
So I said, “If I must face my friends in Asheville without this necessary ornament, you shall blush. I have done my duty, and refuse to blush.”
I looked up a scholar from Yale, Yutaka Minakuchi, friend of old friends, student of philosophy, in which he instructed me much, first lending me a collar. He became my host in Asheville. It needs no words of mine to enhance the fame of Japanese hospitality....
And I had a friend in a distant place, whom, for fancy’s sake, we will call the Caliph Haroun-al-Raschid. Let him remain a mystery. We will reveal this much. Had he known the truth, he would have sent Greek slaves riding on elephants, laden with changes of raiment. He discerned, at least, that I was in a barbarous land, for at length a long package containing a sword arrived from the court of the Caliph (to speak in parables). I exchanged the weapon at a pawnshop for money, all in one bill—money—against which I had so many times sworn eternal warfare, which had been my hoodoo in the past, and was destined to be again. But this time, such are the whims of fate, the little while it was with me it brought me only good.
I entered the furnishing store. The proprietor was terribly busy, but my glittering eye was in condition. I persuaded him, by dint of repetition, to show me his collars. I treated him as though we had not met.
“Fifteen cents apiece?”
“Yes.”
“I will take one.” I gave the bill. He had to send a boy out for the change. I put the silver in my pocket, and rattled it. He wrapped up the collar, while I studied his cheeks. He blushed like a maid, bless his tender heart, and in his sweet confusion he knew that I knew it.
The streets of Asheville kept shouting to me: “Let us praise Man, when he builds cities, and grows respectable, and cringes to money, and becomes a tailor, and loves collars with all his heart.”