One Way of Putting It electronic edition Cather, Willa, 1873-1947 Jewell, Andrew, 1975- Ronning, Kari, 1949- Editorial Assistant Jennifer Moore Revised edition, 2010 Transformed TEI P4 encoding to TEI P5 encoding Andrew Jewell cat.j00045 The Willa Cather Archive
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2010

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 One Way of Putting It Nebraska State Journal Willa Cather 9 November 19, 1893

Text created for online distribution on the Willa Cather Archive (http://cather.unl.edu).

End-of-line hyphenation silently removed where appropriate.

Typographical or spelling irregularities in the orginal have been noted using markup.

 Library of Congress Subject Headings column Politicians--Profesional ethics Conversion of markup from TEI P4 to TEI P5 Third revision after Jennifer Moore's proofreading Second revision after Kari Ronning's proofreading Checked; revised Encoding Conversion of Word files to HTML then XML Initial Creation One Way of Putting It.

A light shone from the window of a little frame laundry on Eleventh street. Within one could see a Chinaman burning incense before a big red god that hung over the ironing board. The only light in the room came from a smoking oil lamp and the little brown sticks which the little yellow man held up before the god. His queue hung down his back, and his wrinkled face was lifted toward the painted image, and his narrow eyes glittered bright and brown as beads of opium. There was a weirdness about him and his red deity that made one shudder. They are an unearthly people, these Chinamen who steal quietly about in our great cities, dressing and living as men did in the days of Noah . All other peoples at least affect the ways of civilization, but the son of the celestial land goes his own way among his own people. He is never benefited by modern civilization; it cannot reach him; it is as impossible to graft into him the life and energy of this generation as it is to transfuse living blood into the dried veins of the mummies who have slept in their mummy pits these 2,000 years. He is out place out of place in the nineteenth century. He has memories that go back further than centuries can number and traditions that were old before the nations of Europe were born.

He was a public official, and he was standing before the people talking of the virtue and honor of the citizen. He was a little fleshier than the ideal man and his face was very red, his mustache was white and his hair, what there was of it, was white and smoothly brushed. There was not a gleam of intelligence in his heavy eyes, and in his face plebeian instincts plainly asserted themselves, along with several other qualities that are not pleasant to name. Yet, on the whole, he was not a bad looking man, for he was well dressed and well kept and had about him the cordial air of a man who is well satisfied with himself and the world. He mouthed his words and spoke rather thickly, but his delivery could be pardoned for the sake of what he said, for he spoke of the virtue of manhood and the honor of citizenship. Of course every one knew his secretary had written the speech; but that was pardonable, for a man who had made as much money as he had had not time to write speeches. As he pointed heavenward in some solemn affirmation of man's greatness, a slight disfigurement of his hand showed. There were some people in the audience who remembered that he had got that when, years ago, even the semi-barbarous society of a new state had revolted against his utter want of character and had tried to tar and feather him for general indecency of conduct. But even those who knew all this forgot it today under the heat of political enthusiasm and the flutter of flags. Everyone seemed pleased with his talk, except his secretary who sat in the back of the room groaning to hear his speech made such jargon of. When the great man finished and took his seat everyone applauded loudly, and every eye was fixed upon him as he sat wiping his forehead with a white silk handkerchief. Not every eye, either. There was one woman in the crowd who from the beginning of his speech to the end had not raised her eyes in his direction, but who sat wondering why it was that the people always clamor for Barabas . She was his wife.

He was standing on a high platform telling the people of their wrongs, things of which "the people" are always glad to hear. He told them they were the bone and sinew of the land, all kings by blood, all princes by birth. He told them they were God's people in bondage, and that he had come to lead them into the land of promise. He cursed wealth and monopoly, he cursed money makers and money hoarders. His large thin features worked nervously as he spoke. His mouth and law jaw had a sunken look like that of a very old woman, and his voice was thin and cracked. Upon the finger he shook at the crowd there glittered a diamond that represented more money than any man there would ever make or spend in all his life time. Behind him sat his wife who wore a diamond cross that had been the price of an election. When the speaker had told the crowd enough about their starving families and desolate homes, he brought forward his wife and introduced her amid the cheer of the populace, and she daintily descended the platform steps and advanced to shake hands with the men. The laborers wiped their hands on their breeches and glanced anxiously at their finger nails as they stumbled toward her and stammered out their boundless admiration of her graciousness and went away to spend all their sustenance drinking her health.

If the great capitalists really feared the "people" very much they could easily secure their safety. If they would have their wives put on all their diamonds and make a formal call at the homes of their employes employees and would once invite their ironworkers to a five course dinner the labor question might be peacefully settled.

He was a little shriveled old man whom I used often to see leaning over the railing in the gallery. Often when it has been my ill luck to be seated on the right side of the dress circle I have seen him above on the right, clear up in the top gallery where very old men are not often seen. When the acting was particularly good I have seen him stretch his body over the railing until I feared for the people beneath him. Old men are not usually such faithful devotees of the theatre and this man looked older than any man I have ever seen, he was broken and shriveled and faded as though he had lived a dozen lives and they had worn him out completely, used up all the vitality there was in his frame. It became a regular thing to see him and I always looked for him. If I did not see him in the theatre I saw him coming down the gallery step pulling up the collar of his old frock-coat with his well hand while his other hung helpless at his side.

One night when a great emotional actress was to play, I saw him timidly slip up to the ticket box and take a piece of pasteboard the ticket man handed him, and climb slowly up the gallery stairs without taking out any money. I was on the right side of the house that night and to escape the torture of the orchestra I sat watching the old man in the gallery. He seemed restless and anxious for the curtain to rise. He started sharply every now and then when there was a noise and seemed to be trembling all over. When the actress came on the stage from the fly, he leaned forward as usual, I fancied a trifle more eagerly. I did not look at him again until when one of the strong situations in the third act was on, I heard a noise in the gallery and glancing up I saw them carrying him out. As I left the theatre I spoke to the man in the ticket office and asked him who had fainted in the gallery. "O, he is an old fellow we let in every night for the sake of the cause. I guess the play tonight was a little too much for him. He hasn't seen her for years; he used to be her leading man before he was paralyzed.'