Broken to the Plow | Page 9

him a little skeptical about the soundness of his
standards. But his moments of uncertainty were few and fleeting, called
into life by such uncomfortable circumstances as touching old
Wetherbee for money or putting his tailor off when the date for his
monthly dole fell due. He had never been introspective enough to quite
place himself in the social scale, but when, in his thought or
conversation, he referred to people of the better class he unconsciously
included himself. He was not a drunken, disorderly, or radical member
of society, and he didn't black boots, or man a ship, or sell people
groceries, or do any of the things that were done in overalls and a soft
shirt, therefore it went without saying that he belonged to the better
class. That was synonymous with admitting that one kept one's ringer
nails clean and used a pocket handkerchief.
Suddenly, with the force of a surprise slap in the face, it had been borne
in upon him that he was not any of the fine things he imagined. He was
sure that his insolent guest, Hilmer, had not meant to be disagreeable at
the moment when he had said:
"Stiffening the backbone of the middle class is next to impossible!"
"The middle class"! The phrase had brought up even Helen Starratt
with a round turn. One might have called them both peasants with
equal temerity. No, Hilmer had not made that point consciously, and
therein lay its sting.
To-night, as he accomplished his accustomed pilgrimage to the tangible
shrine of his ancestors, and stood leaning against the gate which opened
upon the garden that had smiled upon his mother's wooing, he
determined once and for all to establish his position in life... Did he
belong to the middle class, and, granting the premises, was it a
condition from which one could escape or a fixed heritage that could
neither be abandoned nor denied? In a country that made flamboyant
motions toward democracy, he knew that the term was used in
contempt, if not reproach. Had the class itself brought on this disesteem?
Did it really exist and what defined it? Was it a matter of scant worldly

possessions, or commonplace brain force, or breeding, or just an
attitude of mind? Was it a term invented by the crafty to dash cold
water upon the potential unity of a scattered force? Was it a scarecrow
for frightening greedy and resourceful flocks from a concerted assault
upon the golden harvests of privilege?... The questions submerged him
in a swift flood. He did not know ... he could not tell. Unaccustomed as
he was to thinking in the terms of group consciousness, he fell back,
naturally, upon the personal aspects of the case. He was sure of one
thing--Hilmer's contempt and scorn. In what class did Hilmer place
himself? Above or below?... But the answer came almost before it was
framed--Hilmer looked down upon him. That almost told the story, but
not quite. Had Hilmer climbed personally to upper circles or had the
strata in which he found himself embedded been pushed up by the slow
process of time? Had the term "middle class" become a misnomer?
Was it really on the lowest level now? Perhaps it was ... perhaps it
always had been... But so was the foundation of any structure.
Foundation?... The thought intrigued him, but only momentarily. Who
wanted to bear the crushing weight of arrogant and far-flung
battlements?
He retraced his steps, his thoughts still busy with Hilmer. Here was a
typical case of what America could yield to the nature that had the
insolence to ravish her. America was still the tawny, primitive,
elemental jade who gave herself more readily to a rough embrace than
a soft caress. She reserved her favors for those who wrested them from
her...she had no patience with the soft delights of persuasion. It was
strange how much rough-hewn vitality had poured into her embrace
from the moth-eaten civilization of the Old World. Starratt was only a
generation removed from a people who had subdued a wilderness ... he
was not many generations removed from a people who wrestled naked
with God for a whole continent--that is, they had begun to wrestle; the
years that had succeeded found them still eager and shut-lipped for the
conflict. They had abandoned the struggle only when they had found
their victory complete. Naturally, soft days had followed. Was eternal
conflict the price of strength? Starratt found himself wondering. And
was he a product of these soft days, the rushing whirlwinds of Heaven
stilled, the land drowsy with the humid heat of a slothful noonday? He

had never thought of these things before. Even when he had thrilled to
the vision of line upon line of his comrades marching away to