The American: A Middle Western Legend (37 page)

Judge Kohlsaat was bored; invariably, injunction proceedings bored him, for such a parade was made of rights, justice, constitutionality, precedent, custom, freedom, liberty, offense against liberty, and so forth and so on that the words lost all meaning; and in time it seemed that the very words were laughing at each other. And today, several times, Judge Kohlsaat had to restrain the impulse to say to the two lawyers, “Now look here, both of you. A dirty little combine of immigrant Irish and Central European hack drivers have set themselves up against the Pennsylvania Railroad. I repeat, the Pennsylvania Railroad. Such things can't be. Let us be reasonable, gentlemen. Let us stop all this wearisome nonsense. This is twentieth-century America.” The impulse, however, was restrained; the long hours passed. The judge occupied himself variously. Sometimes he glanced at the briefs, which rested before him. Technically, they were to have been read and digested before this session opened, but after years of reading lengthy briefs, they turned into bitter medicine, and the judge was content to glance at them now and then and check some of the statements therein contained against the arguments of the attorneys. The judge would follow the progress of a fly across his stand. He would straighten creases in his robe. He would hum to himself. He would doodle with his pencil. He had a long history of investigation of means and methods of passing time, and in the course of a day he would inquire into all of them.

Sometimes, lie listened to what the lawyers were saying. Altgeld interested him; Altgeld had been a judge too; Altgeld had been governor of the state; Altgeld had smashed Cleveland—the judge blinked and stared at the dry little man with the rasping voice. That man! Life is something or other, the judge reflected. That man pardoned the anarchists. The judge wondered why. A miscalculation, perhaps, one of those brutal miscalculations that change the whole course of a man's life. How he must have regretted it! Why, without that pardon he could have been anything, anything at all—lived in the governor's mansion all the rest of his days. Well, one man did this and another did that, and there was no understanding why. But run with the dogs and you become a dog yourself—and here was Altgeld.

The judge's attention drifted once more. He found himself staring into the sunlight that streamed through the windows. He remembered an appointment he had made and had not kept. He noticed that one of the spectators in the court, an old man who had wandered in off the street, was intermittently dozing; the gray head would travel forward and then snap back to the erect position. Let him sleep, the judge thought, that's his privilege.

Altgeld was on his feet—“Your Honor!”

The judge recognized him and set himself to listen, at least briefly. There was much about Altgeld that disturbed him; he found it hard to face those biting blue eyes.

“Mr. Altgeld,” the judge said. The attorney for the Pennsylvania yawned. The judge took out his watch and laid it in front of him.

“I take exception,” Altgeld said, “to a definition by my worthy opponent here”—nodding at the company's lawyer—“of my clients as a disreputable foreign element. I do not think it pertains to the case in question or to the facts so far presented. But since the matter has been brought up, and since it cannot be denied that so many members of this union were born in Ireland and Germany and Lithuania, and since they are engaged in a struggle which for them is a life-and-death struggle, and since I have referred to them consistently as American, I would like to say a few words on this precise subject.”

The judge nodded. That was the difficulty with an injunction proceeding; it provided no real limitations, and if one attempted to prevent either lawyer from straying, one could too readily be accused of prejudice. In such cases, the decision rests with the judge, not with the jury, since no jury is involved, and the godlike position of the judge obliges him to listen to the debate, whatever direction it takes. Then, according to the briefs and the subsequent arguments, he either sustains the existing injunction—which the Pennsylvania Railroad had obtained so readily, and which made it a Federal offense for the union to picket or carry on any agitation whatsoever—or he reverses it, or he indulges both the railroad and the shadow of justice by allowing the matter to go to appeal, a matter of many weeks, during which time the injunction is in force and the strike is broken automatically.

“I've called myself an American,” Altgeld went on, thoughtfully, “for a good many years—” He rested one stiff arm on the table, watching the judge, leaning forward a little, giving the judge an impression of great tiredness, an impression that he might fall, were not the table there for him to lean on. “—but perhaps without justice, since I was brought to this country in 1848, and I was born elsewhere. No, this isn't the first time I've considered the matter, nor is it entirely at the prompting of the Pennsylvania Railroad's representative that I speak of it. I've asked myself, again and again, am I an American? Your Honor, I've even asked myself, what is an American? What do we mean by the term? What is its sacred import? Of course, that sort of an inquiry becomes puzzling and complex, and is apt to lead one up blind alleys, as, for example, when I hear a hack driver termed a disreputable element, since he was born in County Mayo, Ireland. But I cannot recall anyone stigmatizing Andrew Carnegie as a disreputable element simply because he was born in Scotland. Naturally, there is a qualitative element, but one wonders where it resides, in the man, the man's profession, or in the land of origin? One could argue the virtues of Scotland and Ireland—”

The judge interrupted: “I must beg you, Mr. Altgeld, to keep to the point. I have no desire to throttle discussion, but there are some limits we must impose on ourselves.”

“I'm sorry, Your Honor. A circular route is one of the many burdens age imposes. I beg the pardon of the court, and I will attempt to hold more closely to the point. I was speaking of Americans—I can't help but mention some of my own feelings. I am in the habit of calling this my land, my own native land. That is not entirely correct, but almost so. Perhaps in no other country would a foreigner be justified in referring to himself as a native, but that has always seemed to me to be one of the unique distinctions of America. This is my land; it has been so for as long as I can remember, and I think it will be so for whatever time is left to me. It is my land because it made me, it shaped me, it nourished me. The thoughts I think came from this land, and the dreams I dream came from this land.…”

The judge was listening now; so was the lawyer for the Pennsylvania Railroad; so was Joe Martin who had just entered and slipped into a seat at the back of the court; so were the sergeants-at-arms; so were the few spectators, even the old man who had come in off the street to find a warm place to sit.

“… Yet those men I represent in this court are accused of being foreigners. Their actions are called foreign actions. Their struggle, which is a very basic struggle, Your Honor, a struggle for bread and warmth, for life itself, is called an un-American struggle, and treason toward a country which welcomed them with open arms.

“Well, Your Honor, I would not insult your intelligence or my own by reiterating the old saw about no white man being native to these states. We know only too well that the wealth and the goodness of this land came about through successive waves of immigration. Is there a land on earth that did not give us its blood, its people, its culture, its legends, yes, and its food, its way of work and play, and its knowledge of how to earn liberty and keep it? How can I define America except to say that it is a place where these things jelled, where the many techniques of liberty were put to good use.

“But, Your Honor, is there a point where the struggle for freedom stops? I ask that in all seriousness, Your Honor—I ask it in relation to the fact that our Federal Government, through its appointed court, has decreed that this trade union I represent cannot carry on the fight for its people's existence.

“I ask you to consider the question of what is American, Your Honor, and what is not. Is there any struggle where men fight for freedom, black men or white men, here or in the Philippines or in South Africa, that is not America's struggle? Can freedom lose anywhere without lessening us, without weakening us and sowing the seeds for our own destruction? Can we throttle the voice of freedom in our own land yet continue as a democracy? What, then, is American? It was here in America, Your Honor, that the first trade unions this world ever knew were formed, as long ago as the 1820's. I hear them call May Day, the workers' day, a foreign importation; but you and I, Your Honor, remember when the first May Day was created, here in Chicago in 1886. What insanity has brought us to a condition where all men who work with their hands are suddenly un-American if they should even think, much less act? I have already argued, at great length, Your Honor, perhaps at too great length, the case of the men I represent, the reasons why they must combine and fight—or else cease to live. I take this time only to answer the attorney for the Pennsylvania when he charges that the hack union is a disreputable and foreign element. I only wish to remind him that disreputable and foreign elements, as he calls them, fought in our Revolution, and I, myself, was a member of a brigade, many of whose members were foreign-born, which marched off to preserve this Union. But if there is a point in our history where the struggle for freedom, for progress must stop, if we are to freeze still while the world goes on—then I agree that the word American is misused. I think American is a word for life, but if we must talk only in terms of death, then it might as well go overboard and be consigned to the past.”

He sat down and began to shuffle through his papers. The opposition attorney made notes quickly and then prepared to rise. The judge looked at the sunlight, at his watch, at the rear of the courtroom, and then said:

“Court will adjourn until tomorrow.” The judge felt listless and uncomfortable, and he felt that what Altgeld had said would spoil the rest of his day and his dinner too.” The attorney for the Pennsylvania, a brisk young man, already wedded to success, dumped his papers into his briefcase, shook hands with Altgeld, saying, “Fine show, Altgeld. I learned a point or two,” and went out, just as briskly, head up, whistling as he left the court. The spectators filed out. Only Altgeld and a sergeant-at-arms and Joe Martin were left, Altgeld sitting in the band of sunlight which had crept across the room now and enveloped him, turning his graying hair gold, and boxing him with whirling, dancing specks of dust, and Joe Martin standing at the rear of the court, lips pursed thoughtfully.

II

As Joe Martin walked down the aisle, Altgeld sighed, stretched out his hands in front of him on the table, and leaned his head back. Martin came up quietly, but Altgeld must have seen him before, for now he said, “Hello, Joe. I didn't know it was your turn today,” weariness in his voice and a trace of annoyance too.

“That was an awful damn fine talk,” Joe Martin said, ignoring Altgeld's remark. Some time ago, he and Darrow and Schilling and a few other close friends of Altgeld had decided among themselves that one of them would always go with him whenever he left town, knowing how sick he was and how liable to collapse. This pact was a secret among them and Emma, but by now Altgeld knew what was going on, and he resented being coddled, resented the implication that he was no longer physically responsible. Tonight, he had a speaking date at Joliet, and Joe Martin had been appointed to go along with him and see him through it.

“Was it?” Altgeld said. “I guess I'm tired of hearing my own voice. I'm tired of courtrooms. I'm tired of being respectful to die bench—”

Joe Martin sat down at the table and watched him,

“Just tired,” Altgeld said.

“Do you want to go?”

“In minute—just—let—me—ease—out.” His face was gray. Martin poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, and Altgeld gulped it down.

“Better?”

“I'll be all right in a moment.”

“Emma said I should try to get you home for dinner—call off this Joliet thing tonight. What do you say, Pete, just a quiet dinner, the three of us, and then I'll give you a lesson in poker?”

Altgeld shook his head.

“Why not, Pete? You're all worn out. What in hell's difference will one speech make?”

“No. I got to go, Joe. You don't have to come with me—I know what those meetings do to you. I'll be all right.”

“I'll be damned if I can see it.”

“Look, Joe. They called the meeting for me. They called it because I promised to come. It's a protest in support of the Boers in South Africa. All right, it's a long way off. The Boers never hear that we're supporting them. They just go on fighting and dying. But it's important—it's important for men to talk up, even if only one person hears.”

“It's just as important for you to rest,” Martin said stubbornly.

“Look, Joe—don't argue with me, please. I've had enough argument for one day. Do you have the tickets?”

“I have them,” Martin said.

III

On the train, going down to Joliet, Altgeld wrapped himself in his own thoughts. He still seemed to hold it against Martin that he was chaperoning him, and he answered the few words put to him gruffly and shortly. Then, until dinner, Joe Martin left him alone. In Altgeld's mind, the events and words of the day were leaping around, hammering each other, disturbing each other, making chaos where there should have been order. His head ached, and even now, weariness ran through his body, like sand through an hourglass that is continually tilted, head to foot, foot to head. He tried to inject himself into the personality of Judge Kohlsaat, and when he did that the words spoken in the court sounded-like the bleating of lost sheep. What were all the brave words he had spoken about America, about himself? A picture superimposed itself of Judge Kohlsaat trying to pluck a little hair from the inside of his nose, feeling so delicately and quietly and all the while attempting to look intelligent and interested; and all the while the words went in one of his ears and out the other. Why didn't he pull the hairs from his ears? Why didn't he put both his hands up to his ears and try to pluck out little, curly black hairs simultaneously? … The bench, the judge, the court, the power and the justice and the reason and the dignity and the motto: Let the truth come into its own, let the truth come into its own, let the truth come into its own; and to the clacking of the wheels it went, its own, its own, its own. He remembered how long ago it was that he had last told that favorite anecdote of his, about the blind men who had gone to know the elephant and what they had found. What had they found, he asked himself now? What had he found?— that a judge and a bench and a courtroom built in something of the Greek style could all be purchased by the Pennsylvania Railroad, or by Standard Oil or by Carnegie Steel, or by anyone who had enough money and was so inclined to purchase a court or a bench or a black robe or a congress man or a woman or a bottle of whisky, or a handful of cigars, or this or that or anything, or the truth, or what appeared to be the truth, a reasonable facsimile, a likely image a reproduction made so like the original as to defy imitation although it was an imitation, identification although it was an imitation, an imitation of an imitation, and imitation of the truth, and to the rhythm of the wheels, the truth, the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.…