From: Arden Town (1913; Unpublished MS)
Author: Scott Nearing
Published:
“I was in business once,” Will Evans began.
“You?” cried Fred Allen in amazement.
“Yes, even I. I had a good business, too, in a line of work that I loved. But I hated competition, the debasement of my art, the oppressive wages that I was forced to pay my labor, the petty meannesses of my competitors. Nevertheless, I loved the business.”
He paused suddenly, as though wondering whether or not he should go on.
“If you loved your business, why did you stop it?” Fred asked.
“I thought I was a success at it; I believed in my business abilities. It seemed to me that the thing which I was doing need not be so basely commercialized. Always there was in it the possibility of art—I saw the rosy side and I stuck at it. I stuck—until—until another man took it from me.”
“Tell me about that, please.” Fred Allen spoke hurriedly, almost breathlessly.
“There is little to tell. There was another man in business with me. I loved him as I loved my own life. One of my children was sick; then my wife died. For months I could not bring my mind back to the world of affairs, and when I did, I found that the business had been taken away from me. I can say it without bitterness now. Then I was very angry. It seemed so barbarously unjust! I had always managed the factory, and my partner had attended to the finances. It was easy for him to make the changes which forced me out, but very, very hard for me to leave.”
“And then?”
“Then I came here to devote the remainder of my life to an idea—an ideal, if you will. My efforts have met with success; we are brothers, here; you have seen the spirit; you were taken in—received with open arms.”
Fred Allen had turned his head away. Twice he passed his hand across his face. On a sudden he started to his feet, exclaiming,—
“It is impossible!”
The others looked at him in surprise. He turned to Will Evans with impetuous vehemence.
“How long ago was this?”
“Which?”
“Your loss of the business; your coming here.”
“I lost the business twenty years ago. I have been here nearly twelve years.”
“And the man who ruined you—he was my—”
“He was your father. He saved me.”
“You knew me, then?”
“Yes, I knew you.”
“And you gave me your home to live in?”
“Yes.”
“You could do that?”
“Why not. The past is dead. Long ago I have forgiven and forgotten. Your father saved me from myself; he made it possible for me to live a successful life.”
“I might have known,” Fred Allen mused. “The brilliant young artist about whom my father spoke now and then—I was very young, but I might have known. Yet you knew—all, and knowing, you received me as an honored guest.”
“Could your father come back and visit me here,” Will Evans said, “I would do no less for him.”
“Why—how could you?”
“Because I loved your father. Because I love you. Because I wish you to do something that I could never have done.”
“What is that?”
“I want you to continue in your business—in our business. I want you to pay fair wages. I want you to breathe into it the spirit of art. Do not come to Arden; take the Arden spirit with you to the city. We would love to have you; they need you.”
Fred Allen stood up proudly.
“You are right,” he said, “I will go. But I cannot go alone.”
He turned to Ruth Wade. “Will you go with me?”
“Yes,” she said, “I will go.”
Simply, she reached her hand to him. He took it, kissed it, and then, drawing his arm around her, he kissed her lips.
She turned her face to where her uncle stood, his face drawn with pain.
“Oh, Uncle,” she cried, “how can I go?”
“You must go,” he said, half gayly. “Your father had my business,” he said, turning to Fred Allen. “You have my soul. Yet in all the world there is no hand into which I had sooner commit her care.”
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