Home > Authors Index > Samuel Hopkins Adams > Success: A Novel > This page
Success: A Novel, a novel by Samuel Hopkins Adams |
||
Part 3. Fulfillment - Chapter 7 |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ PART III. FULFILLMENT CHAPTER VII Explosions of a powerful and resonant nature followed the publication of the fantastic, imaginative, and delightful mail-order catalogue editorial. In none of these senses, except the first, did it appeal to the advertising managers of the various department stores. They looked upon it as an outrage, an affront, a deliberate slap in the face for an established, vested, and prodigal support of the newspaper press. What the devil did The Patriot mean by it; The Patriot which sorely needed just their class of reputable patronage, and, after sundry contortions of rate-cutting, truckling, and offers of news items to back the advertising, was beginning to get it? They asked themselves, and, failing of any satisfactory answer, they asked The Patriot in no uncertain terms. Receiving vague and pained replies, they even went to the length of holding a meeting and sending a committee to wait upon the desperate Haring, passing over the advertising manager who was a mere figurehead in The Patriot office. Then began one of those scenes of bullying and browbeating to which every newspaper, not at once powerful and honest enough to command the fear and respect of its advertisers, is at some time subjected. Haring, the victim personifying the offending organ, was stretched upon the rack and put to the question. What explanation had he to offer of The Patriot's breach of faith? He had none, had the miserable business manager. No one could regret it more than he. But, really, gentlemen, to call it a breach of faith-- What else was it? Wasn't the paper turning on its own advertisers? Well; in a sense. But not-- But nothing! Wasn't it trying to undermine their legitimate business? Not intentionally, Mr. Haring was (piteously) sure. Intentionally be damned! Did he expect to carry their advertising on one page and ruin their business on another? Did he think they were putting money into The Patriot--a doubtful medium for their business, at best--to cut their own throats? They'd put it to him reasonably, now; who, after all, paid for the getting out of The Patriot? Wasn't it the advertisers? Certainly, certainly, gentlemen. Granted. Could the paper run a month, a fortnight, a week without advertising? No; no! It couldn't. No newspaper could. Then if the advertisers paid the paper's way, weren't they entitled to some say about it? Didn't it have a right to give 'em at least a fair show? Indeed, gentlemen, if he, Haring, were in control of the paper-- Then, why; why the _hell_ was a cub of an editor allowed to cut loose and jump their game that way? They could find other places to spend their money; yes, and get a better return for it. They'd see The Patriot, and so on, and so forth. Mr. Haring understood their feelings, sympathized, even shared them. Unfortunately the editorial page was quite out of his province. Whose province was it, then? Mr. Banneker's, eh? And to whom was Mr. Banneker responsible? Mr. Marrineal, alone? All right! They would see Mr. Marrineal. Mr. Haring was sorry, but Mr. Marrineal was out of town. (Fiction.) Well, in that case, Banneker. They'd trust themselves to show him which foot he got off on. They'd teach (two of them, in their stress of emotion, said "learn"; they were performing this in chorus) Banneker-- Oh, Mr. Banneker wasn't there, either. (Haring, very terrified, and having built up an early conception of the Wild West Banneker from the clean-up of the dock gang, beheld in his imagination dejected members of the committee issuing piecemeal from the doors and windows of the editorial office, the process being followed by an even more regrettable exodus of advertising from the pages of The Patriot.) Striving to be at once explanatory and propitiatory to all and sundry, Haring was reduced to inarticulate, choking interjections and paralytic motions of the hands, when a member of the delegation, hitherto silent, spoke up. He was the representative of McLean & Swazey, a college graduate of a type then new, though now much commoner, in the developing profession of advertising. He had read the peccant editorial with a genuine relish of its charm and skill, and had justly estimated it for what it was, an intellectual _jeu d'esprit_, the expression of a passing fancy for a tempting subject, not of a policy to be further pursued. "Enough has been said, I think, to define our position," said he. "All that we need is some assurance that Mr. Banneker's wit and skill will not be turned again to the profit of our competitors who, by the way, do _not_ advertise in The Patriot." Haring eagerly gave the assurance. He would have given assurance of Banneker's head on a salver to be rid of these persecuting autocrats. They withdrew, leaving behind an atmosphere of threat and disaster, dark, inglorious clouds of which Haring trailed behind him when he entered the office of the owner with his countenance of woe. His postulate was that Mr. Marrineal should go to his marplot editor and duly to him lay down the law; no more offending of the valuable department-store advertisers. No; nor of any others. Or he, Haring (greatly daring), would do it himself. Beside the sweating and agonizing business manager, Marrineal looked very cool and tolerant and mildly amused. "If you did that, Mr. Haring, do you appreciate what the result would be? We should have another editorial worse than the first, as soon as Mr. Banneker could think it out. No; you leave this to me. I'll manage it." His management took the negative form of a profound silence upon the explicit point. But on the following morning Banneker found upon his desk a complete analytical table showing the advertising revenue of the paper by classes, with a star over the department-store list, indicating a dated withdrawal of twenty-two thousand dollars a year. The date was of that day. Thus was Banneker enabled to figure out, by a simple process, the loss to himself of any class of advertising, or even small group in a class, dropping out of the paper. It was clever of Marrineal, he admitted to himself, and, in a way, disappointing. His proffered gage of battle had been refused, almost ignored. The issue was not to be joined when he was ready, but when Marrineal was ready, and on Marrineal's own ground. Very well, Banneker could be a good waiter. Meantime he had at least asserted his independence. Io called him up by 'phone, avid of news of the editorial, and he was permitted to take her to luncheon and tell her all about it. In her opinion he had won a victory; established a position. Banneker was far less sanguine; he had come to entertain a considerable respect for Marrineal's capacity. And he had another and more immediate complication on his mind, which fact his companion, by some occult exercise of divination, perceived. "What else is worrying you, Ban?" she asked. Banneker did not want to talk about that. He wanted to talk about Io, about themselves. He said so. She shook her head. "Tell me about the paper." "Oh, just the usual complications. There's nothing to interest you in them." "Everything," she maintained ardently. Banneker caught his breath. Had she given him her lips, it could hardly have meant more--perhaps not meant so much as this tranquil assumption of her right to share in the major concerns of his life. "If you've been reading the paper," he began, and waited for her silent nod before going on, "you know our attitude toward organized labor." "Yes. You are for it when it is right and not always against it when it is wrong." "One can't split hairs in a matter of editorial policy. I've made The Patriot practically the mouthpiece of labor in this city; much more so than the official organ, which has no influence and a small following. Just now I'm specially anxious to hold them in line for the mayoralty campaign. We've got to elect Robert Laird. Otherwise we'll have such an orgy of graft and rottenness as the city has never seen." "Isn't the labor element for Laird?" "It isn't against him, except that he is naturally regarded as a silk-stocking. The difficulty isn't politics. There's some new influence in local labor circles that is working against me; against The Patriot. I think it's a fellow named McClintick, a new man from the West." "Perhaps he wants to be bought off." "You're thinking of the old style of labor leader," returned Banneker. "It isn't as simple as that. No; from what I hear, he's a fanatic. And he has great influence." "Get hold of him and talk it out with him," advised Io. "I intend to." He brooded for a moment. "There isn't a man in New York," he said fretfully, "that has stood for the interests of the masses and against the power of money as I have. Why, Io, before we cut loose in The Patriot, a banker or a railroad president was sacrosanct. His words were received with awe. Wall Street was the holy of holies, not to be profaned by the slightest hint of impiety. Well, we've changed all that! Not I, alone. Our cartoons have done more than the editorials. Every other paper in town has had to follow our lead. Even The Ledger." "I like The Ledger," declared Io. "Why?" "I don't know. It has a sort of dignity; the dignity of self-respect." "Hasn't The Patriot?" demanded the jealous Banneker. "Not a bit," she answered frankly, "except for your editorials. They have the dignity of good workmanship, and honesty, and courage, even when you're wrong." "Are we so often wrong, Io?" he said wistfully. "Dear boy, you can't expect a girl, brought up as I have been, to believe that society is upside down, and would be better if it were tipped over the other way and run by a lot of hod-carriers and ditch-diggers and cooks. Can you, now?" "Of course not. Nor is that what I advocate. I'm for the under dog. For fair play. So are you, aren't you? I saw your name on the Committee List of the Consumers' League, dealing with conditions in the department stores." "That's different," she said. "Those girls haven't a chance in some of the shops. They're brutalized. The stores don't even pretend to obey the laws. We are trying to work out some sort of organization, now, for them." "Yet you're hostile to organized labor! Who shall ever understand the feminine mind! Some day you'll be coming to us for help." "Very likely. It must be a curious sensation, Ban, to have the consciousness of the power that you wield, and to be responsible to nobody on earth." "To the public that reads us," he corrected. "Not a real responsibility. There is no authority over you; no appeal from your judgments. Hasn't that something to do with people's dislike and distrust of the newspapers; the sense that so much irresponsible power is wrong?" "Yet," he said, "any kind of censorship is worse than the evil it remedies. I've never shown you my creed, have I?" His manner was half jocular; there was a smile on his lips, but his eyes seemed to look beyond the petty troubles and problems of his craft to a final and firm verity. "Tell me," she bade him. He drew his watch out and opened the back. For a moment she thought, with confused emotions, that she would see there a picture of herself of which he might have possessed himself somewhere. She closed her eyes momentarily against the fear of that anti-climax. When she opened them, it was to read, in a clear, fine print those high and sure words of Milton's noblest message: And though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so truth be in the field, we do injuriously, by licensing and prohibiting, to misdoubt her strength. Let her and falsehood grapple; who ever knew truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter? Her confuting is the best and surest suppressing. Twice she read the pregnant message. "I have it," said she gravely. "To keep--for always." "Some day I'll put it at the head of The Patriot." "Why not now?" "Not ready. I want to be surer; absolutely sure." "I'm sure," she declared superbly; "of you." "You make me sure of myself, Io. But there's Marrineal." "Yes; there's Marrineal. You must have a paper of your own, mustn't you, Ban, eventually?" "Perhaps. If I ever get enough money to own it absolutely." "Only four years ago," she murmured, with apparent irrelevancy. "And now--" "When shall I see you again?" he asked anxiously as she rose. "Are you coming Saturday night?" "Of course," said Io. Through the agency of Russell Edmonds, McClintick, the labor leader, came to see Banneker. He was a stooping giant with a deep, melancholy voice, and his attitude toward The Patriot was one of distrustful reticence. Genuine ardor has, however, a warming influence. McClintick's silence melted by degrees, not into confidence but, surprisingly, into indignation, directed upon all the "capitalistic press" in general, but in particular against The Patriot. Why single out The Patriot, specially, Banneker asked. "Hypocrite," muttered the giant. At length the reason came out, under pressure: The Patriot had been (in the words of the labor man) making a big row over the arrest of certain labor organizers, in one of the recurrent outbreaks against the Steel Trust, opposed by that organization's systematic and tyrannous method of oppression. So far, so good. But why hadn't the paper said a word about the murder of strikers' wives and children out at the Veridian Lumber Company's mills in Oregon; an outrage far surpassing anything ever laid to the account of the Steel Trust? Simple reason, answered Banneker; there had been no news of it over the wires. No; of course there hadn't. The Amalgamated Wire Association (another tool of capitalism) had suppressed it; wouldn't let any strike stuff get on the wires that it could keep off. Then how, asked Banneker, could it be expected--? McClintick interrupted in his voice of controlled passion; had Mr. Banneker ever heard of the Chicago Transcript (naming the leading morning paper); had he ever read it? Well, The Transcript--which, he, McClintick, hated strongly as an organ of money--nevertheless did honestly gather and publish news, as he was constrained huskily to admit. It had the Veridian story; was still running it from time to time. Therefore, if Mr. Banneker was interested, on behalf of The Patriot-- Certainly, The Patriot was interested; would obtain and publish the story in full, if it was as Mr. McClintick represented, with due editorial comment. "Will it?" grumbled McClintick, gave his hat a look of mingled hope and skepticism, put it on, and went away. "Now, what's wrong with that chap's mental digestion?" Banneker inquired of Edmonds, who had sat quiet throughout the interview. "What is he holding back?" "Plenty," returned the veteran in a tone which might have served for echo of the labor man's gloom. "Do you know the Veridian story?" "Yes. I've just checked it up." "What's the milk in that cocoanut?" "Sour!" said Edmonds with such energy that Banneker turned to look at him direct. "The principal owner of Veridian is named Marrineal.... Where you going, Ban?" "To see the principal owner of the name," said Banneker grimly. The quest took him to the big house on upper Fifth Avenue. Marrineal heard his editorial writer with impassive face. "So the story has got here," he remarked. "Yes. Do you own Veridian?" "No." Hope rose within Banneker. "You don't?" "My mother does. She's in Europe. A rather innocent old person. The innocence of age, perhaps. Quite old." All of this in a perfectly tranquil voice. "Have you seen The Chicago Transcript? It's an ugly story." "Very. I've sent a man out to the camp. There won't be any more shootings." "It comes rather late. I've told McClintick, the labor man who comes from Wyoming, that we'll carry the story, if we verify it." Marrineal raised his eyes slowly to Banneker's stern face. "Have you?" he said coolly. "Now, as to the mayoralty campaign; what do you think of running a page feature of Laird's reforms, as President of the Board, tracing each one down to its effect and showing what any backward step would mean? By the way, Laird is going to be pretty heavily obligated to The Patriot if he's elected." For half an hour they talked politics, nothing else. At the office Edmonds was making a dossier of the Veridian reports. It was ready when Banneker returned. "Let it wait," said Banneker. Prudence ordained that he should throw the troublous stuff into the waste-basket. He wondered if he was becoming prudent, as another man might wonder whether he was becoming old. At any rate, he would make no decision until he had talked it over with Io. Not only did he feel instinctive confidence in her sense of fair play; but also this relationship of interest in his affairs, established by her, was the opportunity of his closest approach; an intimacy of spirit assured and subtle. He hoped that she would come early on Saturday evening. But she did not. Some dinner party had claimed her, and it was after eleven when she arrived with Archie Densmore. At once Banneker took her aside and laid before her the whole matter. "Poor Ban!" she said softly. "It isn't so simple, having power to play with, is it?" "But how am I to handle this?" "The mills belong to Mr. Marrineal's mother, you said?" "Practically they do." "And she is--?" "A silly and vain old fool." "Is that his opinion of her?" "Necessarily. But he's fond of her." "Will he really try to remedy conditions, do you think?" "Oh, yes. So far as that goes." "Then I'd drop it." "Print nothing at all?" "Not a word." "That isn't what I expected from you. Why do you advise it?" "Loyalty." "The paralytic virtue," said Banneker with such bitterness of conviction that Io answered: "I suppose you don't mean that to be simply clever." "It's true, isn't it?" "There's a measure of truth in it. But, Ban, you can't use Mr. Marrineal's own paper to expose conditions in Mr. Marrineal's mother's mills. If he'd even directed you to hold off--" "That's his infernal cleverness. I'd have told him to go to the devil." "And resigned?" "Of course." "You can resign now," she pointed out. "But I think you'd be foolish. You can do such big things. You _are_ doing such big things with The Patriot. Cousin Billy Enderby says that if Laird is elected it will be your doing. Where else could you find such opportunity?" "Tell me this, Io," he said, after a moment of heavy-browed brooding very unlike his usual blithe certainty of bearing. "Suppose that lumber property were my own, and this thing had broken out." "Oh, I'd say to print it, every word," she answered promptly. "Or"--she spoke very slowly and with a tremor of color flickering in her cheeks--"if it were mine, I'd tell you to print it." He looked up with a transfigured face. His hand fell on hers, in the covert of the little shelter of plants behind which they sat. "Do you realize what that implies?" he questioned. "Perfectly," she answered in her clear undertone. He bent over to her hand, which turned, soft palm up, to meet his lips. She whispered a warning and he raised his head quickly. Ely Ives had passed near by. "Marrineal's familiar," said Banneker. "I wonder how he got here. Certainly I didn't ask him.... Very well, Io. I'll compromise. But ... I don't think I'll put that quotation from the Areopagitica at the head of my column. That will have to wait. Perhaps it will have to wait until I--we get a paper of our own." "Poor Ban!" whispered Io. _ |
||