Life in the Iron-Mills | Page 8

will
ever end. Think that God put into this man's soul a fierce thirst for
beauty,--to know it, to create it; to be--something, he knows not
what,--other than he is. There are moments when a passing cloud, the
sun glinting on the purple thistles, a kindly smile, a child's face, will
rouse him to a passion of pain,--when his nature starts up with a mad
cry of rage against God, man, whoever it is that has forced this vile,
slimy life upon him. With all this groping, this mad desire, a great blind
intellect stumbling through wrong, a loving poet's heart, the man was
by habit only a coarse, vulgar laborer, familiar with sights and words
you would blush to name. Be just: when I tell you about this night, see
him as he is. Be just,--not like man's law, which seizes on one isolated
fact, but like God's judging angel, whose clear, sad eye saw all the
countless cankering days of this man's life, all the countless nights,
when, sick with starving, his soul fainted in him, before it judged him
for this night, the saddest of all.
I called this night the crisis of his life. If it was, it stole on him
unawares. These great turning-days of life cast no shadow before, slip
by unconsciously. Only a trifle, a little turn of the rudder, and the ship
goes to heaven or hell.
Wolfe, while Deborah watched him, dug into the furnace of melting

iron with his pole, dully thinking only how many rails the lump would
yield. It was late,--nearly Sunday morning; another hour, and the heavy
work would be done, only the furnaces to replenish and cover for the
next day. The workmen were growing more noisy, shouting, as they
had to do, to be heard over the deep clamor of the mills. Suddenly they
grew less boisterous,--at the far end, entirely silent. Something unusual
had happened. After a moment, the silence came nearer; the men
stopped their jeers and drunken choruses. Deborah, stupidly lifting up
her head, saw the cause of the quiet. A group of five or six men were
slowly approaching, stopping to examine each furnace as they came.
Visitors often came to see the mills after night: except by growing less
noisy, the men took no notice of them. The furnace where Wolfe
worked was near the bounds of the works; they halted there hot and
tired: a walk over one of these great foundries is no trifling task. The
woman, drawing out of sight, turned over to sleep. Wolfe, seeing them
stop, suddenly roused from his indifferent stupor, and watched them
keenly. He knew some of them: the overseer, Clarke,--a son of Kirby,
one of the mill-owners,--and a Doctor May, one of the town-physicians.
The other two were strangers. Wolfe came closer. He seized eagerly
every chance that brought him into contact with this mysterious class
that shone down on him perpetually with the glamour of another order
of being. What made the difference between them? That was the
mystery of his life. He had a vague notion that perhaps to-night he
could find it out. One of the strangers sat down on a pile of bricks, and
beckoned young Kirby to his side.
"This is hot, with a vengeance. A match, please?"--lighting his cigar.
"But the walk is worth the trouble. If it were not that you must have
heard it so often, Kirby, I would tell you that your works look like
Dante's Inferno."
Kirby laughed.
"Yes. Yonder is Farinata himself in the burning tomb,"-- pointing to
some figure in the shimmering shadows.
"Judging from some of the faces of your men," said the other, "they bid
fair to try the reality of Dante's vision, some day."
Young Kirby looked curiously around, as if seeing the faces of his
hands for the first time.
"They're bad enough, that's true. A desperate set, I fancy. Eh, Clarke?"

The overseer did not hear him. He was talking of net profits just
then,--giving, in fact, a schedule of the annual business of the firm to a
sharp peering little Yankee, who jotted down notes on a paper laid on
the crown of his hat: a reporter for one of the city-papers, getting up a
series of reviews of the leading manufactories. The other gentlemen
had accompanied them merely for amusement. They were silent until
the notes were finished, drying their feet at the furnaces, and sheltering
their faces from the intolerable heat. At last the overseer concluded
with--
"I believe that is a pretty fair estimate, Captain."
"Here, some of you men!" said Kirby, "bring up those boards. We may
as well sit down, gentlemen, until the rain is over. It cannot last much
longer at this rate."
"Pig-metal,"--mumbled the reporter,--"um! coal facilities,--um! hands