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Twelve Men by Theodore Dreiser

T >> Theodore Dreiser >> Twelve Men




His eyes rested on me while I read, and the moment I finished he began
with:

"I never said one word against that man, not one word. I never did a
thing he could take offense at, not one thing. I don't know how a man
can justify himself writing like that."

"Perhaps it's political," I said. "You don't belong to the same party,
do you?"

"Yes, we do," he said. "Sometimes I've thought that maybe it was because
I had the support of the shipyard when I first tried to get this office,
but then that wasn't anything between him and me," and he looked away as
if the mystery were inexplicable.

This shipyard was conducted by a most forceful man but one as narrow and
religionistic as this region in which it had had its rise. Old Mr.
Palmer, the aged founder of it, had long been a notable figure in the
streets and private chambers of the village. The principal grocery
store, coal-yard, sail-loft, hotel and other institutions were conducted
in its interests. His opinion was always foremost in the decision of the
local authorities. He was still, reticent, unobtrusive. Once I saw him
most considerately helping a cripple up the lane to the local Baptist
Church.

"What's the trouble between Burridge and Palmer?" I asked of the
sail-maker finally, coming to think that here, if anywhere, lay the
solution of the difficulty.

"Two big fish in too small a basket," he responded laconically.

"Can't agree, eh?"

"They both want to lead, or did," he said. "Elihu's a beaten man,
though, now." He paused and then added, "I'm sorry for Elihu. He's a
good man at heart, one of the kindest men you ever saw, when you let him
follow his natural way. He's good to the poor, and he's carried more
slow-pay people than any man in this country, I do believe. He won't
collect an old debt by law. Don't believe in it. No, sir. Just a
kind-hearted man, but he loves to rule."

"How about Palmer?" I inquired.

"Just the same way exactly. He loves to rule, too. Got a good heart,
too, but he's got a lot more money than Elihu and so people pay more
attention to him, that's all. When Elihu was getting the attention he
was just the finest man you ever saw, kind, generous, good-natured.
People love to be petted, at least some people do--you know they do.
When you don't pet 'em they get kind o' sour and crabbed like. Now
that's all that's the matter with Elihu, every bit of it. He's sour,
now, and a little lonely, I expect. He's drove away every one from him,
or nearly all, 'cept his wife and some of his kin. Anybody can do a good
grocery business here, with the strangers off the boats"--the harbor was
a lively one--"all you have to do is carry a good stock. That's why he
gets along so well. But he's drove nearly all the local folks away from
him."

I listened to this comfortable sail-loft sage, and going back to the
grocery store one afternoon took another look at the long, grim-faced
silent figure. He was sitting in the shadow of one of his moldy corners,
and if there had ever been any light of merriment in his face it was not
there now. He looked as fixed and solemn as an ancient puritan, and yet
there was something so melancholy in the man's eye, so sad and
disappointed, that it seemed anything but hard. Two or three little
children were playing about the door and when he came forward to wait on
me one of them sidled forward and put her chubby hand in his.

"Your children?" I asked, by way of reaching some friendly
understanding.

"No," he replied, looking fondly down, "she belongs to a French lady up
the street here. She often comes down to see me, don't you?" and he
reached over and took the fat little cheek between his thumb and
forefinger.

The little one rubbed her face against his worn baggy trousers' leg and
put her arm about his knee. Quietly he stood there in a simple way until
she loosened her hold upon him, when he went about his labor.

I was sitting one day in the loft of the comfortable sail-maker, who, by
the way, was brother-in-law to Burridge, when I said to him:

"I wish you'd tell me the details about Elihu. How did he come to be
what he is? You ought to know; you've lived here all your life."

"So I do know," he replied genially. "What do you want me to tell you?"

"The whole story of the trouble between him and Palmer; how he comes to
be at outs with all these people."

"Well," he began, and here followed with many interruptions and side
elucidations, which for want of space have been eliminated, the
following details:

Twenty-five years before Elihu had been the leading citizen of Noank.
From operating a small grocery at the close of the Civil War he branched
out until he sold everything from ship-rigging to hardware. Noank was
then in the height of its career as a fishing town and as a port from
which expeditions of all sorts were wont to sail. Whaling was still in
force, and vessels for whaling expeditions were equipped here. Wealthy
sea-captains frequently loaded fine three-masted schooners here for
various trading expeditions to all parts of the world; the fishers for
mackerel, cod and herring were making three hundred and fifty dollars a
day in season, and thousands of dollars' worth of supplies were annually
purchased here.

Burridge was then the only tradesman of any importance and, being of a
liberal, strong-minded and yet religious turn, attracted the majority of
this business to him. He had houses and lands, was a deacon in the local
Baptist Church and a counselor in matters political, social and
religious, whose advice was seldom rejected. Every Fourth of July during
these years it was his custom to collect all the children of the town in
front of his store and treat them to ice-cream. Every Christmas Eve he
traveled about the streets in a wagon, which carried half a dozen
barrels of candy and nuts, which he would ladle out to the merry
shouting throng of pursuing youngsters, until all were satisfied. For
the skating season he prepared a pond, spending several thousand dollars
damming up a small stream, in order that the children might have a place
to skate. He created a library where all might obtain suitable reading,
particularly the young.

On New Year's morning it was his custom to visit all the poor and
bereaved and lonely in Noank, taking a great dray full of presents and
leaving a little something with his greetings and a pleasant handshake
at every door. The lonely rich as well as the lonely poor were included,
for he was certain, as he frequently declared, that the rich could be
lonely too.

He once told his brother-in-law that one New Year's Day a voice called
to him in church: "Elihu Burridge, how about the lonely rich and poor of
Noank?" "Up I got," he concluded, "and from that day to this I have
never neglected them."

When any one died who had a little estate to be looked after for the
benefit of widows or orphans, Burridge was the one to take charge of it.
People on their deathbeds sent for him, and he always responded, taking
energetic charge of everything and refusing to take a penny for his
services. After a number of years the old judge to whom he always
repaired with these matters of probate, knowing his generosity in this
respect, also refused to accept any fee. When he saw him coming he would
exclaim:

"Well, Elihu, what is it this time? Another widow or orphan that we've
got to look after?"

After Elihu had explained what it was, he would add:

"Well, Elihu, I do hope that some day some rich man will call you to
straighten out his affairs. I'd like to see _you_ get a little
something, so that _I_ might get a little something. Eh, Elihu?" Then he
would jocularly poke his companion in charity in the ribs.

These general benefactions were continuous and coeval with his local
prosperity and dominance, and their modification as well as the man's
general decline the result of the rise of this other individual--Robert
Palmer,--"operating" to take the color of power and preeminence from
him.

Palmer was the owner of a small shipyard here at the time, a thing which
was not much at first but which grew swiftly. He was born in Noank
also, a few years before Burridge, and as a builder of vessels had been
slowly forging his way to a moderate competence when Elihu was already
successful. He was a keen, fine-featured, energetic individual, with
excellent commercial and strong religious instincts, and by dint of hard
labor and a saving disposition he obtained, soon after the Civil War, a
powerful foothold. Many vessels were ordered here from other cities.
Eventually he began to build barges in large numbers for a great
railroad company.

Early becoming a larger employer of labor than any one else in the
vicinity he soon began to branch out, possessed himself of the allied
industries of ship-rigging, chandlering, and finally established a
grocery store for his employees, and opened a hotel. Now the local
citizens began to look upon him as their leading citizen. They were
always talking of his rise, frequently in the presence of Burridge. He
said nothing at first, pretending to believe that his quondam leadership
was unimpaired. Again, there were those who, having followed the various
branches of labor which Palmer eventually consolidated, viewed this
growth with sullen and angry eyes. They still sided with Burridge, or
pretended still to believe that he was the more important citizen of the
two. In the course of time, however--a period of thirty years or
more--some of them failed; others died; still others were driven away
for want of a livelihood. Only Burridge's position and business
remained, but in a sadly weakened state. He was no longer a man of any
great importance.

Not unnaturally, this question of local supremacy was first tested in
the one place in which local supremacy is usually tested--the church
where they both worshiped. Although only one of five trustees, Burridge
had been the will of the body. Always, whatever he thought, the others
had almost immediately agreed to it. But now that Palmer had become a
power, many of those ardent in the church and beholden to him for profit
became his humble followers. They elected him trustee and did what he
wished, or what they thought he wished. To Burridge this made them
sycophants, slaves.

Now followed the kind of trivialities by which most human feuds are
furthered. The first test of strength came when a vagrant evangelist
from Alabama arrived and desired to use the church for a series of
evening lectures. The question had to be decided at once. Palmer was
absent at the time.

"Here is a request for the use of the church," said one of the trustees,
explaining its nature.

"Well," said Burridge, "you'd better let him have it."

"Do you think we ought to do anything about it," the trustee replied,
"until Mr. Palmer returns?"

Although Burridge saw no reason for waiting, the other trustees did, and
upon that the board rested. Burridge was furious. By one fell stroke he
was put in second place, a man who had to await the return of
Palmer--and that in his own church, so to speak.

"Why," he told some one, "the rest of us are nothing. This man is a
king."

From that time on differences of opinion within the church and elsewhere
were common. Although no personal animosity was ever admitted, local
issues almost invariably found these two men opposed to each other.
There was the question of whether the village should be made into a
borough--a most trivial matter; another, that of creating public works
for the manufacture of gas and distribution of water; a third, that of
naming a State representative. Naturally, while these things might be to
the advantage of Palmer or not, they were of no great import to
Burridge, but yet he managed to see in them an attempt or attempts to
saddle a large public debt upon widows and orphans, those who could not
afford or did not need these things, and he proceeded to so express
himself at various public meetings. Slowly the breach widened. Burridge
became little more than a malcontent in many people's eyes. He was a
"knocker," a man who wanted to hold the community back.

Although defeated in many instances he won in others, and this did not
help matters any. At this point, among other things the decay of the
fishing industry helped to fix definitely the position of the two men as
that of victor and vanquished. Whaling died out, then mackerel and cod
were caught only at farther and farther distances from the town, and
finally three- and even two-masted schooners ceased entirely to buy their
outfits here, and Burridge was left dependent upon local patronage or
smaller harbor trade for his support. Coextensively, he had the
dissatisfaction of seeing Palmer's industries grow until eventually
three hundred and fifty men were upon his payrolls and even his foremen
and superintendents were considered influential townspeople. Palmer's
son and two daughters grew up and married, branched out and became
owners of industries which had formerly belonged to men who had traded
with Burridge. He saw his grocery trade dwindle and sink, while with age
his religiosity grew, and he began to be little more than a petty
disputant, one constantly arguing as to whether the interpretation of
the Bible as handed down from the pulpit of what he now considered _his_
recalcitrant church was sound or not. When those who years before had
followed him obediently now pricked him with theological pins and
ventured to disagree with him, he was quick and sometimes foolish in his
replies. Thus, once a former friend and fellow-church-member who had
gone over to the opposition came into his store one morning and said:

"Elihu, for a man that's as strong on religion as you are, I see you do
one thing that can't quite be justified by the Book."

"What's that?" inquired Burridge, looking up.

"I see you sell tobacco."

"I see you chew it," returned the host grimly.

"I know I do," returned his visitor, "but I'll tell you what I'll do,
Elihu. If you'll quit selling, I'll quit chewing it," and he looked as
if he had set a fancy trap for his straw-balancing brother, as he held
him to be.

"It's a bargain," said Burridge on the instant. "It's a bargain!"

And from that day on tobacco was not offered for sale in that store,
although there was a large local demand for it.

Again, in the pride of his original leadership, he had accepted the
conduct of the local cemetery, a thing which was more a burden than a
source of profit. With his customary liberality in all things reflecting
credit upon himself he had spent his own money in improving it, much
more than ever the wardens of the church would have thought of returning
to him. In one instance, when a new receiving vault was desired, he had
added seven hundred dollars of his own to three hundred gathered by the
church trustees for the purpose, and the vault was immediately
constructed. Frequently also, in his pride of place, he had been given
to asserting he was tired of conducting the cemetery and wished he could
resign.

In these later evil days, therefore, the trustees, following the star of
the newer power, saw fit to intimate that perhaps some one else would be
glad to look after it if he was tired of it. Instantly the fact that he
could no longer boast as formerly came home to him. He was not essential
any longer in anything. The church did not want him to have a hand in
any of its affairs! The thought of this so weighed on him that
eventually he resigned from this particular task, but thereafter also
every man who had concurred in accepting his resignation was his bitter
enemy. He spoke acidly of the seven hundred he had spent, and jibed at
the decisions of the trustees in other matters. Soon he became a
disturbing element in the church, taking a solemn vow never to enter the
graveyard again, and not long after resigned all his other official
duties--passing the plate, et cetera--although he still attended
services there.

Decoration Day rolled around, the G.A.R. Post of which he was an ardent
member prepared for the annual memorial services over the graves of its
dead comrades. Early on the morning of the thirtieth of May they
gathered before their lodge hall, Burridge among them, and after
arranging the details marched conspicuously to the cemetery where the
placing of the wreaths and the firing of the salute were to take place.
No one thought of Burridge until the gate was reached, when, gun over
shoulder and uniform in perfect trim, he fell conspicuously out of line
and marched away home alone. It was the cemetery he had vowed not to
enter, his old pet and protege.

Men now looked askance at him. He was becoming queer, no doubt of it,
not really sensible--or was he? Up in Northfield, a nearby town, dwelt a
colonel of the Civil War who had led the very regiment of which Burridge
was a member but who during the war had come into serious difficulty
through a tangle of orders, and had been dishonorably discharged.
Although wounded in one of the engagements in which the regiment had
distinguished itself, he had been allowed to languish almost forgotten
for years and finally, failing to get a pension, had died in poverty.
On his deathbed he had sent for Burridge, and reminding him of the
battle in which he had led him asked that after he was gone, for the
sake of his family, he would take up the matter of a pension and if
possible have his record purged of the stigma and the pension awarded.

Burridge agreed most enthusiastically. Going to the local congressman,
he at once began a campaign, but because of the feeling against him two
years passed without anything being done. Later he took up the matter in
his own G.A.R. Post, but there also failing to find the measure of his
own enthusiasm, he went finally direct to one of the senators of the
State and laying the matter before him had the records examined by
Congress and the dead colonel honorably discharged.

One day thereafter in the local G.A.R. he commented unfavorably upon the
indifference which he deemed had been shown.

"There wouldn't have been half so much delay if the man hadn't been a
deserter," said one of his enemies--one who was a foreman in Palmer's
shipyard.

Instantly Burridge was upon his feet, his eyes aflame with feeling.
Always an orator, with a strangely declamatory style he launched into a
detailed account of the late colonel's life and services, his wounds,
his long sufferings and final death in poverty, winding up with a vivid
word picture of a battle (Antietam), in which the colonel had gallantly
captured a rebel flag and come by his injury.

When he was through there was great excitement in the Post and much
feeling in his favor, but he rather weakened the effect by at once
demanding that the traitorous words be withdrawn, and failing to compel
this, preferred charges against the man who had uttered them and
attempted to have him court-martialed.

So great was the bitterness engendered by this that the Post was now
practically divided, and being unable to compel what he considered
justice he finally resigned. Subsequently he took issue with his former
fellow-soldiers in various ways, commenting satirically on their church
regularity and professed Christianity, as opposed to their indifference
to the late colonel, and denouncing in various public conversations the
double-mindedness and sharp dealings of the "little gods," as he termed
those who ran the G.A.R. Post, the church, and the shipyards.

Not long after his religious affairs reached a climax when the minister,
once a good friend of his, following the lead of the dominant star, Mr.
Palmer, publicly denounced him from the pulpit one Sunday as an enemy of
the church and of true Christianity!

"There is a man in this congregation," he exclaimed in a burst of
impassioned oratory, "who poses as a Christian and a Baptist, who is in
his heart's depth the church's worst enemy. Hell and all its devils
could have no worse feelings of evil against the faith than he, and he
doesn't sell tobacco, either!"

The last reference at once fixed the identity of the person, and caused
Burridge to get up and leave the church. He pondered over this for a
time, severed his connections with the body, and having visited Graylock
one Sunday drove there every Sabbath thereafter, each time going to a
different church. After enduring this for six months he generated a
longing for a more convenient meeting-place, and finally allied himself
with the Baptist Church of Eustis. Here his anchor might possibly have
remained fast had it not been that subtle broodings over his wrongs, a
calm faith in the righteousness of his own attitude, and disgust with
those whom he saw calmly expatiating upon the doctrines and dogmas of
religion in his own town finally caused him to suspect a universal
misreading of the Bible. This doubt, together with his own desire for
justification according to the Word, finally put the idea in his mind to
make a study of the Bible himself. He would read it, he said. He would
study Hebrew and Greek, and refer all questionable readings of words and
passages back to the original tongue in which it had been written.

With this end in view he began a study of these languages, the
importance of the subject so growing upon him that he neglected his
business. Day after day he labored, putting a Bible and a Concordance
upon a pile of soap-boxes near the door of his store and poring over
them between customers, the store meantime taking care of itself. He
finally mastered Greek and Hebrew after a fashion, and finding the word
"repent" frequently used, and that God had made man in the image of
Himself, with a full knowledge of right and wrong, he gravitated toward
the belief that therefore his traducers in Noank knew what they were
doing, and that before he needed to forgive them--though his love might
cover all--they must repent.

He read the Bible from beginning to end with this one feeling
subconsciously dominant, and all its loving commands about loving one
another, forgiving your brother seventy times seven, loving those that
hate you, returning good for evil, selling all that you have and giving
it to the poor, were made to wait upon the duty of others to repent. He
began to give this interpretation at Eustis, where he was allowed to
have a Sunday-school, until the minister came and told him once, "to his
face," as the local report ran: "We don't want you here."

Meekly he went forth and, joining a church across the Sound on Long
Island, sailed over every Sunday and there advanced the same views until
he was personally snubbed by the minister and attacked by the local
papers. Leaving there he went to Amherst, always announcing now that he
held distinctive views about some things in the Bible and asking the
privilege of explaining. In this congregation he was still comfortably
at rest when I knew him.

"All sensitiveness," the sail-maker had concluded after his long
account. "There ain't anything the matter with Elihu, except that he's
piqued and grieved. He wanted to be the big man, and he wasn't."

I was thinking of this and of his tender relationship with children as I
had noticed it, and of his service to the late colonel when one day
being in the store, I said:

"Do you stand on the Bible completely, Mr. Burridge?"

"Yes, sir," he replied, "I do."

"Believe every word of it to be true?"

"Yes, sir."

"If your brother has offended you, how many times must you forgive him?"

"Seventy times seven."

"Do you forgive your brothers?"

"Yes, sir--if they repent."

"If they repent?"

"Yes, sir, if they repent. That's the interpretation. In Matthew you
will find, 'If he repent, forgive him.'"

"But if you don't forgive them, even before they repent," I said,
"aren't you harboring enmity?"

"No, sir, I'm not treasuring up enmity. I only refuse to forgive them."

I looked at the man, a little astonished, but he looked so sincere and
earnest that I could not help smiling.

"How do you reconcile that with the command, 'Love one another?' You
surely can't love and refuse to forgive them at the same time?"

"I don't refuse to forgive them," he repeated. "If John there,"
indicating an old man in a sun-tanned coat who happened to be passing
through the store at the time, "should do me a wrong--I don't care what
it was, how great or how vile--if he should come to me and say,
'Burridge, I'm sorry,'" he executed a flashing oratorical move in
emphasis, and throwing back his head, exclaimed: "It's gone! It's gone!
There ain't any more of it! All gone!"

I stood there quite dumbfounded by his virility, as the air vibrated
with his force and feeling. So manifestly was his reading of the Bible
colored by the grief of his own heart that it was almost painful to
tangle him with it. Goodness and mercy colored all his ideas, except in
relation to his one-time followers, those who had formerly been his
friends and now left him to himself.

"Do you still visit the poor and the afflicted, as you once did?" I
asked him once.

"I'd rather not say anything about that," he replied sternly.

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