Anton Sosnowski

Anton Sosnowski, from the Shakspeare School         Where he assists the janitor, sweeps and dusts,         The day now done, sits by a smeared up table         Munching coarse bread and drinking beer; before him         The evening paper spread, held down or turned         By claw-like hands, covered with shiny scars.         He broods upon the war news, and his fate         Which keeps him from the war, looks up and sees         His scarred face in the mirror over the wainscot;         His lashless eyes and browless brows and head         With patches of thin hair. And then he mutters         Hot curses to himself and turns the paper         And curses Germany, and asks revenge         For Poland's wrongs.             And what is this he sees?         The picture of his ruin and his hate,         Wert Rufus Fox! This leader of the bar         Is made the counselor of the city, now         The city takes gas, cars and telephones         And runs them for the people. So this man         Grown rich through machinations against the people,         Who fought the people all his life before,         Abettor, aider, thinker for the slickers         Regraters and forestallers and engrossers,         Is now the friend, adviser of the city,         Which he so balked and thwarted, growing rich,         Feared, noted, bowed to for the very treason         For which he is so hated, yet deferred to.         And Anton looks upon the picture, reads         About the great man's ancestry here printed,         And all the great achievements of his life;         Once president of the bar association,         And member of this club and of that club.         Contributor to charities and art,         A founder of a library, a vestryman.         And Anton looks upon the picture, trembles         Before the picture's eyes. They are the eyes         Of Innocent the Tenth, with cruelty         And cunning added - eyes that see all things         And boulder jaws that crush all things - the jaws         That place themselves at front of drifts, are placed         By that world irony which mocks the good,         And gives the glory and the victory         To strength and greed.             Anton Sosnowski looks         Long at the picture, then at his own hands,         And laughs maniacally as he takes the mug         With both hands like a bird with frozen claws,         These broken, burned off hands which handle bread         As they were wooden rakes. And in a mirror         Beside the table in the wall, smeared over         With steam from red-hots, kraut and cookery,         Of smoking fats, fixed by the dust in blurs,         And streaks, he sees his own face, horrible         For scars and splotches as of leprosy;         The eyes that have no lashes and no brows;         The bullet head that has no hair, the ears         Burnt off at top.         So comes it to this Pole         Who sees beside the picture of the lawyer         The clear cut face of Elenor Murray - yes,         She gave her spirit to the war, is dead,         Her life is being sifted now. But Fox         Lives for more honors, and by honors covers         His days of evil.             Thus Sosnowski broods,         And lives again that moment of hell when fire         Burst like a geyser from a vat where gas         Had gathered in his ignorance; being sent         To light a drying stove within the vat,         A work not his, who was the engineer.         The gas exploded as he struck the match,         And like an insect fixed upon a pin         And held before a flame, hands, face and body         Were burned and broken as his body shot         Up and against the brewery wall. What next?         The wearisome and tangled ways of courts         With Rufus Fox for foe, four trials in all         Where juries disagreed who heard the law         Erroneously given by the court.         At last a verdict favorable, and a court         Sitting above the forum where he won         To say, as there's no evidence to show         Just how the gas got in the vat, Sosnowski         Must go for life with broken hands unhelped.         And that the fact alone of gas therein         Though naught to show his fault had brought it there,         The mere explosion did not speak a fault         Against the brewery.          Out from court he went         To use a broom with crumpled hands, and look         For life in mirrors at his ghastly face.         And brood until suspicion grew to truth         That Rufus Fox had compassed juries, courts;         And read of Rufus Fox, who day by day         Was featured in the press for noble deeds,         For Art or Charity, for notable dinners,         Guests, travels and what not.         So now the Pole         Reading of Elenor Murray, cursed himself         That he could brood and wait - for what? - and grow         More weak of will for brooding, while this woman         Had gone to war and served and ended it,         Yet he lived on, and could not go to war;         Saw only days of sweeping with these hands,         And every day his face within the mirror,         And every afternoon this glass of beer,         And coarse bread, and these thoughts.         And every day some story to arouse         His sense of justice; how the generous         Give and pass on, and how the selfish live         And gather honors. But Sosnowski thought         If I could do a flaming thing to show         What courts are ours, what matter if I die?         What if they took their quick-lime and erased         My flesh and bones, expunged my very name,         And made its syllables forbidden? - still         If I brought in a new day for the courts,         Have I not served? he thought. Sosnowski rose         And to the bar, drank whiskey, then went out.         That afternoon Elihu Rufus Fox         Came home to dress for a dinner to be given         For English notables in town - to rest         After a bath, and found himself alone,         His wife at Red Cross work. And there alone,         Collarless, lounging, in a comfort chair,         Poring on Wordsworth's poems - all at once         Before he hears the door turned, rather feels         A foot-fall and a presence, hears too soon         A pistol shot, looks up and sees Sosnowski,         Who fires again, but misses; grabs the man,         Disarms him, flings him down, and finding blood         Upon his shirt sleeve, sees his hand is hit,         No other damage - then the pistol takes,         And covering Sosnowski, looks at him.         And after several seconds gets the face         Which gradually comes forth from memories         Of many cases, knows the man at last.         And studying Sosnowski, Rufus Fox         Divines what drove the fellow to this deed.         And in these moments Rufus Fox beholds         His life and work, and how he made the law         A thing to use, how he had builded friendships         In clubs and churches, courted politicians,         And played with secret powers, and compromised         Causes and truths for power and capital         To draw on as a lawyer, so to win         Favorable judgments when his skill was hired         By those who wished to win, who had to win         To keep the social order undisturbed         And wealth where it was wrenched to.             And Rufus Fox         Knew that this trembling wreck before him knew         About this course of life at making law         And using law, and using those who sit         To administer the law. And then he said:         "Why did you do this?"             And Sosnowski spoke:         "I meant to kill you - where's your right to live         When millions have been killed to make the world         A safer place for liberty? Where's your right         To live and have more honors, be the man         To guide the city, now that telephones,         Gas, railways have been taken by the city?         I meant to kill you just to help the poor         Who go to court. For had I killed you here         My story would be known, no matter if         They buried me in lime, and made my name         A word no man could speak. Now I have failed.         And since you have the pistol, point it at me         And kill me now - for if you tell the world         You killed me in defense of self, the world         Will never doubt you, for the world believes you         And will not doubt your word, whatever it is."         And Rufus Fox replied: "Your mind is turned         For thinking of your case, when you should know         This country is a place of laws, and law         Must have its way, no matter who is hurt.         Now I must turn you over to the courts,         And let you feel the hard hand of the law."         Just then the wife of Rufus Fox came in,         And saw her husband with his granite jaws,         And lowering countenance, blood on his shirt,         The pistol in his hand, the scarred Sosnowski,         Facing the lawyer.         Seeing that her husband         Had no wound but a hand clipped of the skin,         And learning what the story was, she saw         It was no time to let Sosnowski's wrong         Come out to cloud the glory of her husband,         Now that in a new day he had come to stand         With progress, fairer terms of life - to let         The corpse of a dead day be brought beside         The fresh and breathing life of brighter truth.         Quickly she called the butler, gave him charge         Over Sosnowski, who was taken out,         Held in the kitchen, while the two conferred,         The husband and the wife.         To him she said,         They two alone now: "I can see your plan         To turn this fellow over to the law.         It will not do, my dear, it will not do.         For though I have been sharer in your life,         Partaker of its spoils and fruits, I see         This man is just a ghost of a dead day         Of your past life, perhaps, in which I shared.         But that dead life I would not resurrect         In memory even, it has passed us by,         You shall not live it more, no more shall I.         The war has changed the world - the harvest coming         Will have its tares no doubt, but the old tares         Have been cut out and burned, wholly, I trust.         And just to think you used that sharpened talent         For getting money, place, in the old regime,         To place you where to-day? Why, where you must         Use all your talents for the common good.         A barter takes two parties, and the traffic         Whereby the giants of the era gone -         (You are a giant rising on the wreck         Of programs and of plots) - made riches for         Themselves and those they served, is gone as well.         Since gradually no one is left to serve         Or have an interest but the state or city,         The community which is all and should be all.         So here you are at last despite yourself,         Changed not in mind perhaps, but changed in place,         Work, interest, taking pride too in the work;         And speaking with your outer mind, at least         Praise for the day and work.         I am at fault,         And take no virtue to myself - I lived         Your life with you and coveted the things         Your labors brought me. All is changed for me.         I would be poorer than this wretched Pole         Rather than go back to the day that's dead,         Or reassume the moods I lived them through.         What can we do now to undo the past,         Those days of self-indulgence, ostentation,         False prestige, witless pride, that waste of time,         Money and spirit, haunted by ennui         Insatiable emotion, thirst for change.         At least we can do this: We can set up         The race's progress and our country's glory         As standards for our work each day, go on         Perhaps in ignorance, misguided faith;         And let the end approve our poor attempts.         Now to begin, I ask two things of you:         If you or anyone who did your will         Wronged this poor Pole, make good the wrong at once.         And for the sake of bigness let him go.         For your own name's sake, let the fellow go.         Do you so promise me?"             And Rufus Fox,         Who looked a thunder cloud of wrath and power         Before the mirror tying his white tie,         All this time silent - only spoke these words:         "Go tell the butler to keep guard on him         And hold him till we come from dinner."          The wife         Looked at the red black face of Rufus Fox         There in the mirror, which like Lao's mirror         Reflected what his mind was, then went out         Gently to her bidding, found Sosnowski         Laughing and talking with the second maid,         Watched over by the butler, quite himself,         His pent up anger half discharged, his grudge         In part relieved.         There was a garrulous ancient at LeRoy         Who traced all evils to monopoly         In land, all social cures to single tax.         He tried to button-hole the coroner         And tell him what he thought of Elenor Murray.         But Merival escaped. And then this man,         Consider Freeland named, got in a group         And talked his mind out of the case, the land         And what makes poverty and waste in lives: