I Was a Revolutionary (23 page)

By far the largest sculpture, Labor Crucified (the idea taken
from a column called “The Crucifixion of Labor” that he had followed regularly in the
Appeal to Reason
), was incomplete at the time of his death. In the scene, Labor, in Christlike human form, is being crucified by the surrounding sculptural figures of a doctor, lawyer, banker, and preacher. The construction required scaffolding and heavy support beams to steady the cross. For a few years, when he still had some sight left, Dinsmoor worked on the sculptures from his stool and directed Henry as his assistant moved up and down the ladder, gingerly sidling across the makeshift scaffolding to secure the figures in place, but by 1929 he was fully blind and could only listen to Henry carry out the plans they'd discussed.

“Where are you now, Henry? Make sure Doctor is parallel with Preacher?”

He followed it all in his mind's eye.

“And Lawyer, he's smiling at us, ain't he, Henry? He's proud of what he's done.”

It had been his last joke to model the Lawyer's face on his own. Dinsmoor had extended the end points of the three vertical concrete poles so that they curved back down into overhead streetlights, illuminating the scene. Sometimes at night, unable to sleep, he would remember his way outside and stand before it, feeling the electric light on his face.

He spent his last year, 1932, bedridden, complaining about feckless Hoover, holding out hopes that Roosevelt, primed to become the Democratic nominee, might have the sense to do something if elected. Often Henry read to him. Dinsmoor's favorite book that year was a newly released biography of the radical newspaperman J. A. Wayland, with whom Dinsmoor
had carried on a correspondence many years before when the former was the editor of the
Appeal to Reason
. They'd debated politics and current affairs through the post, and occasionally one of Dinsmoor's letters appeared in the back pages of the paper. He had developed a certain fondness and respect for Wayland, a friendliness that never quite grew to friendship, but Dinsmoor realized now how little of the man he'd known.

Though Wayland was twenty years dead and the
Appeal
was no longer printing, Dinsmoor found himself moved by Wayland's life and political commitment to the end. Inspired, he amended his will so that the Garden would be maintained purely for educational purposes in the future. Like a cathedral builder in the Middle Ages, he knew he wouldn't live to see the Garden completed or the socialist society it would lead to, but he could die peacefully, knowing that eventually it would be, and that with it would come change. His thoughts often turned toward the end, and he did not fear death. He wondered if Wayland had. Dinsmoor reckoned that heaven was a place where he would not only be reunited with Frances, but where he'd meet both Jesus and atheists like Wayland, whose principled disbelief would be forgiven, for God knew their hearts were pure, their morals sound, their causes just. Men like Wayland were simply Christians who went by another name.

One afternoon in late July, during the week he would die, he shuddered awake, his empty eyes opening wide, from a nap. “My tools,” he said. Emilie told him to rest, but he insisted: “Bring me my tools. Bring me gravel and cement.” Such moments had become frequent. He'd wake from the dreamy fog demanding to see the president, telling Henry to bring his gun, asking Emilie to send in Frances.

He listened as she stood and walked around, the swishing sound of her feet on the limestone floors. She returned holding a small concrete figurine of an angel he had made for one of the children. She took his hand and wrapped it around the miniature, but he was weak and dropped it onto the bed. Emilie held his hand, guiding it over the rough grit of the figurine.

“Yes,” he said. “Bring it closer.”

“Closer, Papa,” she said, holding his hand holding the angel, and moved his arm to his side.

“Closer,” he said, and she moved their hands to his stomach. “Closer,” he commanded again—and then to his chest. “I want to see it.”

“Papa, it is on your chest.”

“Yes, closer.”

“Closer, Papa,” she said, moving it into the hollow of his neck and up through the tangle of his beard, curving over his chin. The friction from the figure against his skin, like an unlathered shave from his war days, dragging over creases eighty-nine years in the making. “Papa, the angel is on your face.” He told her to keep going, so she inched it toward his lips and he opened his mouth, extending his tongue, ready to accept the figure.

1/29/31

Dear Mr. Bronstein,

How your letter of the 20th surprised me! Pleasantly, I should add, lest I give you the wrong impression. It has been a long time since I've thought of Girard. Fifteen years since my husband and I moved to Kansas City
and we've not once returned. The two-hour drive seems worthy of an ocean liner for the remove I feel from little old Girard. Oh listen to me! Such are the vagaries of sentiment for which women can curse middle age. I shall content myself to answering your queries forthwith
.

Yes, I knew Mr. Wayland, though I was not involved with
Appeal to Reason
. We were neighbors. His second wife, Pearl, was my dearest friend in those years
.

I would be happy to be of service to you in any way you might find useful. I suspect from the fine prose of your letter that you shall write an excellent book. (I must here correct one small factual error, if you'll forgive my bumptiousness: Mr. Wayland did not take his life on election night. It was three days afterward. I remember this for certain. He passed on November 10th, 1912.)

Please do not hesitate to further inquire. They were, on the whole, happy years I should be glad to remember
.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Edward Shaw

p.s. May I ask who put you in touch with me? I have lost touch with most of the old gang
.

2/18/31

Dear Mr. Bronstein,

Oh, it was Fred who gave you my name. Dear Fred, how is he? We corresponded for a few years after I left Girard, but not in the many since. He is a kind man and I'll tell you this, because not many people realize it: Fred Warren was the secret behind the
Appeal to
Reason
's success. Don't misunderstand me. J.A. (forgive me, but that's what everyone called Mr. Wayland) started the paper and under him it was successful, but it was when Fred came on board as
an editor, around 1904 or so if I recall correctly, that the paper really took off. I remember Pearl telling me how Fred and J.A. would argue late into the night in J.A.'s study, shouting about some matter or other at the paper. They were great friends though, and J.A. could not have regretted Fred's influence on the
Appeal
. Circulation rose quickly. J.A. always said he wanted a million readers, but I suspect he contented himself with the half million he received. It is hard to imagine even now. Six hundred thousand subscriptions for a red newspaper. Surely more than a few “papers of the plutes,” as J.A. used to say, would have envied such figures. Fred can tell you more of the specifics than I. As you'll recall, I wasn't involved with the paper, nor was I of their political persuasion. I was a friend and most of my memories are of long walks with Pearl or of the spectacular dinners she and J.A. would host. They were generous with everyone. How I miss them both
.

                                                                                                               
Sincerely,

                                                                                                               
Mrs. Edward Shaw

3/2/31

Dear Mr. Bronstein,

Forgive me for not answering the questions raised in your last letter. It was not intentional, I assure you. I got to thinking about the past and my mind wandered off as it is wont do. I shall set right to the list you've been kind enough to include to keep me on task
.

1.
     
As I recall, Pearl told me that J.A. had come up with the idea for the newspaper here in Kansas City around 1895 and moved with his first wife, Etta (whom I did not know), and children to Girard sometime in 1897 or 1898. I'm not sure why he chose Girard—possibly cheaper printing costs than the city. You might
ask his son, Walter, who took over the newspaper after his father's death
.

2.
     
As I say, I did not know Etta. She was sickly when they arrived in Girard and passed shortly afterward. It was not until J.A. and Pearl married in 1901 that I began to know the couple
.

3.
     
Pearl worked in the printing office at the
Appeal
and for a time was a housekeeper for J.A. He courted her fiercely and after seeing a fortune-teller, who bespoke coming happiness, so the story went, he proposed and she was quick to accept
.

4.
     
I could only describe them as happy. He was older than she, and she adored him in the manner of daughter and wife. In many ways they were suitably opposite. She was excitable, boisterous, quick to smile, and he was quiet and pensive, often seeking solitude in his office. Their temperaments tamed the other's excesses in these areas
.

I hope I have responded to your liking, Mr. Bronstein. I shall be happy to oblige any further inquiries to the best of my capabilities. I must say, however, that while I am flattered you have taken the time to contact me there are others, like Fred or members of J.A.'s family, who are far more knowledgeable than I on these matters and specifics
.

                                                                                                               
Sincerely,

                                                                                                               
Mrs. Edward Shaw

3/21/31

Dear Mr. Bronstein,

I suppose I understand why you should want an “outsider's” perspective on things. However, this designation feels inaccurate. I was a friend, neighbor, and fellow townsperson. I was an outsider only to the political aspirations and inner workings of “the Appeal army,” to
use a phrase J.A. loved. I was not taking communion at their church, one might say, but we got on splendidly. That was one of the interesting things about Girard. J.A. was welcomed upon arrival. Though solidly Republican, Girard had been no stranger to political debate—after all, we counted a fair number of Populists on our rolls in the 1890s. It mattered less what he was preaching than that he was an entrepreneur bringing business to town
.

That is what you must realize: he was an interesting breed of socialist because he was one shrewd businessman. The contradictions didn't seem to nettle him in the least. He had made a considerable amount of money with prudent speculation on land in Colorado and Texas, and he continued to do so till the end of his life. He used the profits to support the paper, in part, but he also used them to support his lifestyle, which can only be described fairly as a small step shy of lavish. The notion that a red newspaper could or should turn a profit seems confused, but it didn't stop him. He ran advertisements alongside articles about “wage slavery” and thought nothing of it. He fought the unionization of his own newspaper when his employees complained about working conditions. Now, I seem to recall that some of this changed when Fred became editor, but Pearl always said that J.A. believed these were the necessary compromises to fighting capitalism on its own battlefield. Myself, I believe he was in a financial position amenable to believing such a thing
.

I remember one evening Edward came home from the office (he sold, and continues to sell, insurance) and remarked that he had seen J.A. driving through town center in a brand new Ford. There were few automobiles in town then. “If that is socialism, I reckon we better sign on for the revolution,” he said, and we had a good laugh. It was, of course, precisely that he did not advocate revolution, which allowed us to laugh. Whatever his rhetoric, he was no Bolshevik; he believed education would hasten the end he desired
.

                                                                                                                   
Sincerely,

                                                                                                                   
Mrs. Edward Shaw

4/8/31

Dear Mr. Bronstein,

As you have surely surmised, Girard was a small town, as it still is no doubt. That southeastern part of the state is unordinary for its coal and zinc mines, and surrounding the town in nearly every direction were encampments of the most wretched lot you ever saw. Catholics, most able to summon only a word or two of English. In town proper, however, there was a bevy of respectable families and establishments and it was this quality that likely attracted the Waylands
.

Their house was beautiful, you are certainly correct. It was on the outskirts of town on a healthy parcel of land that allowed J.A. to keep a small farm and pasture. Etta was by all accounts serious about her gardening, and after she passed that was a duty J.A. made sure the household staff upheld, because the good Lord knows that's a talent for which Pearl was unblessed. There were trees, stands of fruit and catalpa, that kept their yard shaded, and it seemed there wasn't an hour of the day you couldn't see a pack of neighborhood children there frolicking
.