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. Nobody 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 rôles should be reversed and she should be waiting upon him.
In Sir Joseph’s house there had been a bit of statuary 108 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 shipyard there and turn out ships––standardized ships––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 ship 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 shipyards.
“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 ships––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 109 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.”