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spoofing. A few frightened ones might go so far as to beg, imploringly: “Tell us it ain't true, Charlie.” Hardly anyone realizes what a hold this organizing bug has taken on American business. Go into almost any good-sized American office and ask to see an executive. If he is in at all, you may be told that he cannot be disturbed for the present because he is “in conference.” Those words stand high above all others in the office lexicon of to-day. Some of the lesser office employees have heard the word applied so industriously that whenever they see the president talking to anybody they immediately conclude that he is in conference. They have never heard of anyone merely talking; none of the people they know ever fall below the dignity of conferring. I had the word wished on my own office, and in revolt I had to issue an order that anyone who ever said to a visitor that I was in conference was to be discharged on the spot. But in an advanced organization there are now higher reaches than conferences. The conference is only for those who are less developed, and inclined to be informal. The really advanced executives sit with their boards of managers, their committees, or their councils of this or that. One very large company which made a lot of money during the war advanced what it called its organization to such a degree that they had to appoint a kind of liaison officer to arrange committee and manager meetings and to see that each meeting was furnished with a program and that the members were informed as to what was going on in the company. His duties rapidly became so complex that he in turn had to appoint committees to gather and convey information to him. They perfectly organized everything excepting the detail, when the market turned from sellers to buyers, of keeping more money coming in than was going out. However, the financial experts, say that they can reorganize the company. Nobody in the company knew quite what had happened, for nobody was responsible for anything. Everything had been in charge of a board or a committee.
come from a distance to attend. Nobody knows and nobody ever will know, how much time is to-day being spent by the average business man attending conventions. I have made a rough calculation that the attendance upon purely trade or commercial conventions and conferences last year ran to a total of at least a million. Some men went to perhaps only one or two conventions; others went to a dozen. If we put the average expense of attendance at $100 per delegate, which is a very low average, we will find that $100,000,000 in cash has gone out solely for personal convention expenses. The round trip to a convention will average three days, and if these men had average salaries or earnings of only $3,000 a year the mere time cost would be another big item. But few persons earning so little as $3,000 a year can be spared to attend a convention! It is the $10,000, and upward, general managers, vice presidents, and presidents who have to go to these important functions. And if the business executives are not conventioning somewhere, it is the labor unions, or the farmers, or the sturdy proponents of blue, or green, or yellow, or some other kind of laws or economics. We have to-day as a nation performed feats in joining, the like of which the world has never previously been able to imagine. It is a joke in a way, but it is a serious sort of
joke. It began in an honest effort to gain greater.
personal efficiency by that once great word Coordination. A business man used to have trouble in getting out his mail; he would find his desk cluttered with letters that he ought to answer. He groped for some way out and found it in the gospel of the clean desk. It seemed so good to have all letters answered and away by the end of the day— whether or not those letters ought to have been answered that day—that it began to be the rule to clear desks as the first act of the morning. The truly efficient man was supposed to sit at a bare table on which were only such papers as concerned
the work upon which he was then engaged; all other matters were supposed to have been disposed of. It is a pleasant sensation to know that all letters
have been answered even if they have to go out .
in the “dictated-but-not-read” form. But answering letters is not the end of business. Twenty people may turn up in the morning's mail with trivial matters, and I may have one really important affair that I ought to attend to and which will require all of the brains and energy that can be summoned. If I make it a rule to do nothing until my desk is clear, then I find that instead of putting myself at the truly important task I have given over the direction of the best part of my day to those who have written letters to me. I have let my well-intentioned personal organization for work become an obsession that organizes me out of my
function. The plan is perfect. On each subject that arises the men most interested and concerned come into conference. Everybody knows or is put in a position to know what everyone else is doing, and, of course, since two heads are always better than one, consultations must be had on every important matter. The same kind of matters arise frequently; they needlessly take up the time of the meetings." Therefore on such recurring matters the committees develop what are called policies; for each policy there is a routine so that an everyday matter progresses through its proper circles practically without human aid. What is the result? In fair weather when everything is going well nine-tenths of the business falls into the sections covered by policy and routine and the principal executives are left with but
work and into the direction of some one else.
And so, too, with the or: ganization of corporate activities. A company soon gets too big for one man. No one man is ever competent fully to direct the complete activities of a large company. He is a better president if he knows how to pick good men for various sections of the work than if he tries to do all of these sections himself. He is a still better president if he picks these men and then lets them do their work. That is what Carnegie did, that is what Harriman did, that is what all the men have done who achieved busi-. ness success in a very large way. The late J. P. Morgan added something to the formula. When he was searching for a president for the United States Steel Corporation he admitted that it was not so difficult to find a man with the ability as to find a man who could spare the time from the spending of the large salary that the position carried with it to attend to those duties for which the position was created. He selected Charles M. Schwab.
But selecting men capable of directing sections of work and then letting them work is not organization—that is business. True organization is much more complex than that. Before you form one you must have a plan. One way to make something that looks like a plan is so amusing that it has become a sort of executive's office game. You start with a silver dollar and an assortment of small change. You make a circle with a silver dollar and write in it “president.” Then you draw a horizontal line underneath and on it hang an appropriate number
minor duties. They also find that since minor questions settle themselves, and major questions are always settled by interminable discussion in meeting, personal initiative is dangerous. It is much better to let a meeting decide than to decide for yourself, for if you decide for yourself and the things do not turn out as they should, you get the blame, while if you let that matter be decided by the proper board or committee you cannot be blamed. Should the buck, by any chance, happen to drop into your lap you can quickly pass it on into the next circle.
In Chorus Formation
HEN you take personal initiative and responsibility out of business and substitute for it a kind of impersonal communal irresponsibility you are well on the way to bureaucracy. And bureaucracy, when the even flow of life changes, never finds itself able to change. First it tries to put things back to where they were, and failing in that—for things always go forward and never stand still—it calls for help from the outside. That is what business is doing to-day. We see it in great companies standing helplessly by and asking for government aid. We see it particularly in the trade organizations which, formed as aids to initiative, are now in many cases being asked to take the place of individual initiative. If business men appear only in chorus formation in their own affairs, they take easily to appearing similarly in trade associations. It was necessary for everyone to do that during
of half-dollar circles and label them “vice president in charge of production,” “vice president in charge of sales,” and so on until you cannot think of any more vice presidents. Then under each of the half-dollar circles you put horizontal lines and make twenty-five-cent circles denoting the divisions of the vice-presidential functions. Around each of these you cluster ten-cent circles showing furthe. subdivisions, and thus you continue until you have a circle representing every possible activity. Finally you have completed what is called the visualization of your organization and you are in a position to decide which of the circle occupants have interests in the various matters which from day to day may arise. Thus you form your committees. The chairmen of these committees, or the vice presidents, according to the form which best meets your needs, compose the board of managers. Then, and not until then, is your organization ready to
the war; war is not a time for personal initiative. It is a time in which to take orders. The War Industries Board controlled industry largely through the cooperation of trade organizations. That was the formation in which the army behind the lines drilled. The president and the secretary of the association brought the members into line and announced what was expected of them and at what prices. The control of wages passed from factory owners to outside bodies of employers working in connection with Government boards and union officers. Nearly everything that a man in business did was regulated from some place other than his own office. He carried the growing internal corporate organization into external organization and into national life. The idea of control budded and flowered. At one time the British made a proposal that we combine with them to control the raw (Continued on page 22) Some of 'em covers their white faces with their hands and devotes themselves to wishin' it was over, and some of 'em stamps their feet on the floor as excited as the hoarsely bellerin'stevedore on one side of 'em and the wheezin’ corporation lawyer on the other, and hollers shrilly: “Knock him out! Knock him out!” I ain't got the slightest intention of gettin' mixed up in no argument as to whether it's proper or no for a member of the adjoinin’ sex to be a part of the yowlin', cussin’ mob which watches one guy endeavor to knock another one stiff for pennies. In the first place, anything any Jane does is O. K. with me. In the second place, I know nothin’ what
Round IX of The Leather Pushers
| ATELY you'll find a lot of women at prize fights.
the so ever about the girls except I am practi
cally certain that if it wasn’t for them we'd all be throwin’ coconuts at each other in the tops of the trees to-day. But to get back to the original subject, the bloodiest prize fight I ever seen since I been pilotin’ leather pushers was deliberately staged by a woman, because she hated the game. Sounds odd, hey? Well, listen! After Kid Roberts, with me at the wheel, had win the world's heavyweight title, we tell the ambitious young men which is clamorin’ for first punch at the new monarch of the maulers that we have declared a armistice for a year at the smallest as far as vulgar fistycuffs is concerned. We have a movie agreement which would make the charmin' Mrs. Fairbanks raise her equally charmin’ eyebrows and a circus contract runnin’ into as beautiful figures as Ziegfeld ever seen. The circus portfolio comes first and calls for the appearance of the Kid twice the day durin' a tour of the country. He's down on the menu to punch the bag, pull the weights, skip rope, shadow-box and step a couple of frames with his sparrin' partners. The big wow at the finish is a offer to take on any man, woman, or child in the audience for three rounds.
I. like to have anybody which come in late and missed the preliminary bouts shake hands with Kid
Roberts. That was the nom during of Kane Halliday, ex-Yale football star, ex-millionaire kid, and, in the opinion of a guy who's met a lot of real people, the handsomest, most regular he-man which ever pulled on a shoe! The Kid had toyed with the padded mitts a bit at the fast growin' New Haven academy when he wasn't studyin’ the art of civil engineerin’, so it wasn’t as extryordinary as wireless that he should turn to the prize ring for quick and heavy
money when Wall Street took his dear old dad like Dempsey took Willard. The boy failed to set the river aflame in his first professional clash, and I got him for a hundred bucks from Dummy Carney, which is as good a judge of box fighters as I am of poetry. In less than three years, by usin’ patience in waitin’ for him to develop, judgment in restrainin’ his enthusiasm and not overmatchin’ him, and a pinch of skill in teachin’ him the tricks of a trade which has more angles to it than politics, I made him a world's champion—like anybody else could of done, usin’ the same formula.
Most of the Kid's sugar was goin’ to pay off his father's dumfounded creditors and to lay a foundation for the old gamester's comeback in the street where the tickers grows wild. The Kid figured that with his movie and circus loot, the takin's from a couple of battles defendin’ his brand-new crown would give him enough to quit the assault and battery game forever, and, likewise, whilst he was still young. In his heart the Kid liked prize fightin' as a trade the same way he favored carbolic as a drink.
Not being blonde proof, this second Adonis mis
laid his affections several times durin’ his spectacular career as a boxer. However, he always got 'em back practically like new till Dolores Brewster sat in the game. Then it was all different—but so was Dolores!
MONGST many other things, Dolores was the only daughter of a U. S. senator, and for all I know may of been the reason he got elected to the office. They has been plenty of senators sent to our noted capital for less reason than that. But if such was the case the voters showed intelligence, for Dolores Brewster was reason enough to go the limit in anything. As pretty near everybody has got descriptions of beautiful females from novels, theatrical advertisements, and guys which has just become wed, I ain’t goin’ to drool over what a pulse quickener Dolores was, but will merely remark that had she "een current in Anthony's day she could of made a ligger Mark out of the well-known Roman than Cleopatra ever did. I have viewed a raft of fascinatin' young women in my time, boys and girls, and few of 'em has caused me to stagger on in a daze— but this one was unnervin'. One flash at Dolores and Solomon, for instance, would of filed exactly one thousand suits for divorce! Kid Roberts met Dolores Brewster on the skiff which took us to Europe, where we knocked a couple of these foreign “wonder men” stiff. Although the boat docked as usual on the other side, the Kid was still at sea when we got there, and so was Dolores, as far as that goes. The senator himself, a good
“Ladees and gent-tel-men, I have the great pleasure of intreeducin’ to you one and all the world's champeen heavyweight boxer, Kid Roberts!”
old scout, knew the Kid's father as well as he knew the alphabet, and he was also a 36-carat fight fan. Well, you know what happened with the regards to the Kid and Dolores. That's right, they become engaged. At the time this round opens, Dolores had gone to Washington with her father, which had been suddenly called there as the Senate had decided to begin playin' practical jokes on the President again. Me and Kid Roberts with our kingly retinue was fittin' through the train-stops-on-signal-only burgs, knockin’ the natives cold with our forty-minute demonstration that self-defense is not only a plea, but a art.
T was at a one-night stand in Chickasha, Oklahoma, that one Joe Kenney—the hero or villain of this yarn, whichever you like—first took a runnin' jump and dove into the spotlight. Followin' the “amazin’ly agile acrobats” and the “extryordinarily
educated elephants,” the cheaper help was chased out
of the arena, givin' Kid Roberts the place to himself. In the middle one of the three big circles a regulation ring was swiftly throwed together before the eager eyes of the awed customers, the tent lights was all dimmed, and a blindin’ calcium was throwed on said ring. Then a special announcer begin a long debate with himself which was mostly blah blah, and wound up with: “. . . and now, ladees and gent-telmen, I have the great pleasure of intreeducin' to you one and all the most scientific, polished, gamest: and hardest hittin' exponent of the manly art of self-defense that the American prize ring has ever preeduced [the cheerin' usually begin about here] —the world's champeen heavyweight boxer, KID ROBERTS!” Whilst the band played “Dixie” on account of the Kid bein’ a born New Yorker, and the mob went hysterical by a large majority, Roberts, caparisoned in a dazzlin' dress suit, circled the arena twice standin’ up in the back of a auto liftin' his hat and bowin' this way and that. Followin' a exhibition of trainin’ stunts which was eat up by the natives, the Kid went two snappy rounds apiece with his sparrin' partners, a good dinge heavy correctly called Dynamite Jackson and Knockout Burns, a tough old war horse. Then, whilst the mob, which has just seen enough to set 'em deleerious, is howlin’ their heads off, the announcer holds up both hands for silence, grabs up his megaphone, and tells the world that Kid Roberts will box three rounds with anybody in the tent outside of the elephants, usin' ten-ounce gloves, which is the same as pillows, to four-ounce mitts for his darin’ opponent. In his hand the announcer waves a little pink slip of paper. “Ladees and gent-tel-men!” he says. “It has been the custom in the past, when champeenstowered the country takin' on all comers, to offer a reward of some sum like a hundred dollars to any man which could stand before the title holder for three or four rounds. The results of this was that a lot of young and inexperienced boys got their heads beat off and took crool and unusual punishment tryin’ to stay on their feet so’s in the order to git that jack. I want to say to you, one and all, this evenin', folks, that Kid Roberts is not that kind of a champeen. He's beneath takin’ the advantage of his soopeerior strennth and skill. But on the behalf of the management I hereby show you a certeyfied check for five thousand dollars, which will be presented to any man in this audience which can knock Kid Roberts off his feet inside of three rounds!” This always goaled the mob. Naturally we had a couple of huskies planted in the attendance which volunteered when the young men was coy about takin’ a chance of stoppin’ the Kid's right with their chin. But now and then that five-thousand-buck offer caused some rustic which would of dove off Washington's monument into a bucket of water for a five-dollar note to come to the fore. Such, gentle readers, was the case that night in Chickasha.
HE announcer had hardly finished when they is a slight commotion in one of the back rows and a growin’ rumble of cheers from the crowd. Up the aisle comes a human mountain which could prob'ly of gazed over the top of Eiffel's Tower without standin’ on his toes, and who was likewise as delicate and sickly lookin’ as the Rock of Gibraltar. Under a mop of black hair, cut high and round in the rear, his weather-beaten, sharply cut features wasn't bad looking in a hick way. I’d guess his age as thirty-five, too old by about fifteen years to take up box fightin’ as a trade. Boxin', boys and girls, is strictly a young man's game. “Woof!” grins Dynamite Jackson to the Kid. “Sure is a tough baby comin' to visit us, boss. Looks like to me you're gonna be compelled to smack 'at boy down!” It looked like to me, too, when this guy puts one mighty paw on the top rope, vaults into the ring with a thump that sent up clouds of dust from the canvas and begins removin' his coat and collar. The mob is with him to a man, and he's blushin' furiously, but game, as he begins rollin' up his sleeves without givin' the smilin' Kid as much as a look. Fin’ly he bends down and ties up a loose shoe lace, takes a couple of reefs in his belt, and faces us. “Le’s go!” he snarls at the Kid, and puts up his hands. Whilst the crowd is still shriekin' I grabbed this dumb-bell's arm with both hands and explained to him that whilst his spirit was O. K., his costume was a trifle out of order for a boxin' bout, and that if he'd step into the dressin’ room with the handlers everything would be jake. At this the man mountain balks. He claims that nothin’ in the wide, wide world will induce him to remove his citizen's clothes and reveal his manly form to the multitude in a brief pair of trunks, as he is on hand to fight—not to go swimmin’. He's also got a kick to register with the regard to wearin’ gloves, on the grounds that nobody could hurt each other with their hands all cushioned up, and he sneerin’ly inquires if the Kid is afraid of him. This cuckoo was a bit rough, hey? Well, we fin’ly talked him into strippin' to ring togs after I have convinced him that Kid Roberts has showed no signs of tryin' to sneak out of town since lookin’ him over, and that he'd be pleasantly surprised in a few minutes at the damage it was possible to do with a pair of boxin' gloves if they was properly applied. The fifteen minutes or so which this bimbo devoted to changin' his costume was nerve-rackin’ on the crowd, and by the time he stepped into the ring again they was all ready to bite nails. A cheer which swayed the tent poles greeted him when he throwed off the overcoat he had draped over his walkin' beam shoulders and walked over to the corner selected for him. He viewed the two circus attendants which was deputized to handle him with open suspicion, and absolutely refused to sit down on the stool whilst waitin’ for the bell. Oh, this baby was rarin’ to go! “What's yer name, feller?” whispers the announcer hoarsely, standin' beside him. “And whereabouts are ya from?” “Joe Kenney,” says the hick in a voice as deep
the Chickasha Bone Crusher!"
as the center of the Atlantic. “My place is near Chickasha, and—” “That don't mean nothin'!” snorts the announcer, straightenin' up and facin’ the crowd. “Ladees and genttel-men.” he roars, pointin' to the astonished Joseph. “We have with us to-night Oklahoma's favor-ite son and one of this fair State's leadin’ exponents of the manly art, which has-ah —defeated some of the best men in his class. He will now box Kid Roberts three rounds and attempt to win the five-thousand-dollar prize by knockin' the world’s heavyweight champeen off of his feet. Allow me to preesent to you, one and all, Hurricane Kemmey,
HE mob-howls with joy, and Joe
Kenney's eyes stuck out of his
head till you could of knocked 'em off with a cane when he hears the title which the announcer had bestowed on him, the first time, as I found out later, he had ever stepped into a ring! Whilst our referee is tellin’s the Chickasha Bone Crusher that kickin', bitin', jiu jitsu, or pullin' a knife will disqualify him, a scatterin’ beller of “Weights! Weights!” comes up from the customers, and the announcer again whispers to Joseph, then leans over the ropes.
“The weights!” he hollers. “The weights is: Kid Roberts, one ninetyseven and a half; Hurricane Kenney, two hundred and twenty-six!”
“Wow!” shrieks the crowd. “Knock
him out, Kenney, we're with ya!”
Then the bell rung. Kenney had evidently made up his mind that he would qualify immediately for the “Hurricane” label which had just been gave him, for he charged across the ring at the Kid with a snarl like a famished panther. For a man of his bulk he was really surprisin’ly light on his feet, but the first wild haymaker he let go was the tip off that Joe had never before pushed his knuckles through a boxin’ glove. The Kid lazily blocked the punch and countered with a straight left to the mouth that made
Kenney went clean crazy. He grabbed a chair and brung it down on the Kid's shoulders, crashin’ him to the floor
Kenney say how do you do and brung joyful yelps from the crowd. The Chickasha Bone Crusher then uncorked a wicked right swing to the body, which, although the Kid took it on his elbow, drove him against the ropes and the crowd crazy. Kenney followed the Kid up, pinnin’ him against a ring post with his huge body, and suddenly slidin' one arm around the champ's neck, he begin whalin’ away at the stomach with the other. The big tent fairly quivered with the uproar now, half the mob booin' Kenney and yellin' for the referee to break 'em, and the other half screamin’ for the Bone Crusher to knock (Continued on page 20)
Collier's, The National Weekly
Yourself a Thousand Years from Now
By Lowell Mellett Drawing by M. L. Blumenthal
HE last time you prepared to meet the future you probably thought of it as something five or ten or fifteen years distant, didn't you? Did you ever think of your future in terms of bronze or marble? Suppose you knew that a thousand years from to-day a serious, spectacled schoolmarm will lead a group of earnest-minded children into the Metropolitan Art Museum and, pointing her thumb toward a marble statue of yourself, will say: “This, children, is Woodrow Gamaliel Brown, the great American general [or statesman, as your case may be]. Yes, Ida, that's the way they wore whiskers in those days. It does look funny, doesn't it? But I want you to note particularly the shape of the head, the height of the brow, the lines of the mouth, and the breadth of the bony structure of the face—all those things that reveal Brown's character.” That's what it means to have your portrait done in stone. Your likeness has been made immortal. Other records of your existence may crumble to dust and be absorbed in the maw of the vacuum cleaner, but marble lasts forever. An original bust of Julius Caesar is still extant and as faithful a representation of the man who crossed the Rubicon as it was the day the Roman sculptor laid down his hammer and chisel and called it a day's work. “The die is cast,” said Caesar; that also is what happens to you when you commit yourself to the mercies of a sculptor to-day; you relinquish the last opportunity to hide yourself from posterity, you commit to the endless future the face you are wearing at the moment—and all that lies behind your face.
General Pershing Turns Poet
I. ought to make a man nervous when he takes this slant down the moving stairway of the years. I asked Jo Davidson if this were not true. Jo Davidson ought to know: he has prepared two-thirds of the world's leaders for this species of immortality. All the Allied war leaders and peacemakers have stood or have arranged to stand in his studio to be perpetuated by his chisel. I asked him. He listened and answered: “Naw!” For emphasis, he always pronounces his negative that way. “It doesn't make them nervous, and I don't believe they think a thousand years ahead,” he declared. Having wiped out my theory, however, the sculptor suddenly relented and said he guessed that perhaps some of his subjects did take this breathless squint into the future as they posed for their portraits. He ran his mind over the scores of warriors, statesmen, business men, and artists whom he has done into bronze or marble and finally said: “I believe Pershing is one of those who got the idea you suggest. I believe he sensed the eterrifty of the art. Yes, he must have. In the studio in Paris I was putting the last touches on the marble while he looked on. I heard him mutter and presently caught what he was saying. It was this: “‘Some day I'm going to write an ode to this man [himself]. Some day I'll tell the world the truth about him—his strength—and his weakness.” “Pershing realizes the thing you’ve been talking about, and he realized at the same time the human frailties of the men whom the world picks out to label Great.” But the case of the American hero perhaps was not typical. Clemenceau, for example. With the Tiger it was all in the day's work. Deadly in earnest about his job, absorbed in his one obsession—France —all else to Clemenceau was disillusion. Gay, humorous, often facetious, he laughed in his own sleeve and he laughed in the world's face at the world's efforts to pay him tribute. His own appearance never gave him five seconds' concern. At the end of the first session of the Allied peacemakers at the French Foreign Office, he walked out to the cloakroom with Arthur Balfour of the British peace mission and watched with a smile as Balfour fitted his head into a shining top hat. “Nice hat, Balfour,” he remarked. “Yes,” replied the Englishman, blushing; “my sec
Do great men feel nervous when their likeness is being immortalized in marble? Not so that you could notice it, says Jo Davidson
retary thought I ought to dress for the occasion to-day.” “So did mine,” grunted. Clemenceau, jamming his famous, shapeless, shabby old hat on his own head and holding out his arms for his shapeless, shabby old coat. That much on the physical side. The feeling went deeper. Clemenceau could not take political preferment with great seriousness. “So you are Paderewski, the great pianist?” he said one day. “Yes,” replied Paderewski modestly. “And now you area Paderewski, Poland?” “Yes.” “Mon Dieu, what a comedown Paderewski accepted it as a real compliment. “Who brought this thing in here?” Clemenceau demanded of André Tardieu, as the latter drew his attention to an unfinished bust of himself. “That's not all,” returned Tardieu; “I’ve brought the sculptor too,” and he dragged Davidson forward. “So it's you, Tardieu-traitor' All right, let's get to work.”
“Good for You, Bill White'."
HE one sitting made completion of the job possible, though the Premier, once interested, enjoyed his experience sufficiently to suggest that the artist wait until he returned from a proposed trip to Egypt, promising then to give him several sittings. Davidson didn't need the additional sittings; he had been studying Clemenceau for months. Once I had the fun of helping him. He showed up at the entrance to the Quai d'Orsay for the first plenary session of the Peace Conference—without his pass. There was no way in the world of getting another at that late moment. Davidson was wild. “I can get you in,” I suggested. “How?” “Use you as a messenger.” “You’re on. What have I got to do?” “Carry copy out of the conference room and come back for more.” “Sure; I’ll do it.” Other correspondents have used whiskered messengers, but I'll bet none ever got one so high-priced for nothing. He worked earnestly, elbowing his way in and out of the jam around the peace table as though telling the world meant as much to him as it did to the reporters. Complimented on his proficiency as a messenger, he dismissed the matter by recalling that he had worn an A. D. T. cap in his youth. Between errands he devoted himself to sketching the French Premier and sometimes he forgot the crowd behind him. Once his chunky form
“Sit down Sit down l’” Peacemaking paused while the Allied statesmen turned to watch an embarrassed artist of international reputation subside into his seat. A few rows back of him a flushed Emporia, Kas., editor of similar reputation, likewise dropped down into his seat, amid audible whispers of “Good for you, Bill White!” However, the million-dollar messenger wasn't thrown out and was able to finish his sketches before the session adjourned. “I don't think Clemenceau gave much thought to the future,” said Davidson. “I know that his name always is associated with the French demand for vengeance, that it was said he wanted to live only until the humiliation of 1870 was wiped out, but I think that does him injustice. Remember, he opposed war until war was necessary. He believed in fighting to win once the war was on. He knew the feeling of France and knew no man could control it; he rode with it to guide it as wisely as could be done. It was a tremendous task. One day's affairs gave him all one man could think about.” “How about—well, Barney Baruch?” “I don't know. I know he thinks a good deal of the present and he knows a lot about it. I was surprised when I found his face rather difficult to achieve. “‘I thought you were going to be easy,' I said to him. “‘A lot of people have thought I was going to be easy,' he returned, his face skidding into a wide, quiet grin.” “Colonel House, then; he ought to have been hard.” “On the contrary, no.”
Colonel House's Secret
HIS was interesting. Many men who have met the Texas peacemaker time and again have puzzled themselves futilely trying to determine whereabout in his physiognomy he carries the elements that make him a great man. It isn't to be found by the human eye. To meet Colonel House is to pass him by as one of the average. Insignificant as to size, unimpressive as to feature and manner, it needs the tradition of his canny brain to make you look twice. More than once you say to yourself, now I'm going to see the big man that he is, but you never do. You realize it from his conversation, of course, and from the record he has made, but you never can tie that realization up with anything you see in his face. Jo Davidson's bust of the colonel is a faithful physical presentation of the man. Measure them feature for feature and you would find the bronze precisely duplicates the little man's Texas-tanned countenance. But—in the bronze you find the thing you seek vainly in the flesh: a suggestion of power, purpose, and character. “How is that possible?” you ask Davidson. He replies with some embarrassment that he doesn't know. “Unless,” he suggests, “it is due to sympathy. You see, when you’re doing this sort of thing, you are in complete sympathy with the man you are doing. You feel and think as he does—and, well, what you are thinking and feeling somehow comes out in the portrait.” Wherein the artist indicated that art is not so far removed from business, from the business of selling something you believe in, in any event. “It was particularly easy to be in sympathy with Colonel House, because he was in instant sympathy with my wife. Mrs. House wanted to see the bust before it was finished. He thought she oughtn't, but brought her to the studio when I said it would be all right. He brought her in, planted her in front of the bust, and said: “‘Now look at it. anything. again.” Marshal Foch didn't carry my theory forward either—the theory, that is, that watching yourself done into an imperishable substance would inevitably cause you to consider the judgment of future generations. At least, Davidson's observations of the man who commanded all the Allied armies were to that effect. “He is a very simple person,” said the sculptor, "and when I saw him to study him he was completely absorbed in the very immediate present. He seemed little impressed with his own importance. Sitting for his portrait appeared to him only as something that was required of him and had to be gone through with. Yet he gave me all his attention. I first saw him at the French army's general headquarters at Senlis. He was walking about the courtyard deeply absorbed in thought, mechanically responding to the continual salutes. His hand went up and down in a sort of twirling motion that never ceased as he repeated over and over: “Bon jour! Bon jour!’”
Now you’ve seen it. Don't say Now you must go.” And led her out
Mixing Up Steffens with Senator Lodge
AVIDSON could have added that Foch at first glance did not impress others with his importance. The first time I saw him—it was in the street at Provins, when General Headquarters was there—he was walking alone, his eyes on the cobblestones. His uniform was as plain as a poilu's. Seven tiny stars on his sleeve told that his knapsack had yielded up its marshal's baton, but one couldn't see those stars without look in g for them. I started across the pavement to ask of him the way to the marshal's headquarters, but a companion caught me in time to turn me back, explaining breathlessly that the soldier was the marshal himself. “At Senlis,” said Davidson, telling his own experience, “I had to wait until Foch returned from church; it was Sunday. Unexpectedly he was announced by an orderly. General Weygand hurried to the door and his hand on the knob at the same time as the marshal's made it difficult for either to turn it. Foch finally pulled the door Open, saw me, seized me by the hand and gave me a yank that lifted me off my feet. He enjoyed my discomfiture. “He sat for me all day, and during that time he talked a great deal. He knows art. He was proud of the fact that he had persuaded Gustave Doré to make the illustrations for the French edition of Edgar Allan Poe's ‘Raven.” He talked sometimes
pay him tribute.
of the Germans, always referring to them as l'ennemie—never as the boches, the Huns, or even as the Germans. Before I had finished, he called in General Weygand. - - - “‘Dit domc/ Weygand,” he cried, “sculpture isn’t as difficult as all that! Look at it!’” Another who doesn't seem to take seriously what either the present or the future thinks of himself is Davidson. Into his Paris studio wandered Larry Hills, European manager of the New York “Herald.” “When did you do this bust of old Lodge?” he inquired, irreverently, pointing to an unfinished bust. “That isn't Lodge, that's Lincoln Steffens,” replied Davidson with a pained grin. Then he laughed. “Gosh! That's a good joke on Steffens!”. “And Lodge,” supplemented Hills. “And me!” Davidson completed. However, if there is, anything in our assertion that a good sculptor brings out the inward mental processes of his subject, Steffens’s bust will not cause anybody to confuse it with Henry Cabot Lodge's when it is finished.
What Brandes Thinks of Secretaries
ENERAL DIAZ must be put down as one of those who give thought to what posterity will think. The Italian warrior failed to leave the authority of the battle field behind him when he entered the studio. “The head is too big. Make it smaller,” he commanded the sculptor, in the manner of one addressing an army, when he got his first view of his own clay bust. The command was disobeyed. Israel Zangwill may have been another who sought
promptly opined, continuing out of the depths of his art ignorance: “but it seems to me there is too much color in the face. The most marked characteristic of your face is what is usually called ‘intellectual pallor.’” Pilchowski returned. “I think,” said Zangwill, “and Mr. Mellett agrees with me, that the face is too pale.” “It’s a funny ting,” replied the artist, calmly dabbing away at the canvas with his brush, “but anyt'ing anybody else t'inks, it don't make any difference to me.” He allowed this to sink in before he explained that it was necessary to put the color on first and then to take it off in order to get the right effect. You couldn’t blame Zangwill—though naturally you’d have preferred to have him leave you out of it—for, after all, most of us might with real reason wish to put our best face forward as we confront the future. Think how it is, if you have big ears and a negligible chin and a mouth you are trying to hide behind a scrawny mustache, to realize that this may be all the world will see. The world won't see
His own appearance never gave him five seconds thought
Foch seemed little impressed with his own
importance. Sitting for his portrait ap
peared to him only as something that had to be gone through
the giant intellect beneath all these discouraging features—unless, indeed, the artist really is an artist, and there is always the possibility that he may fail to be in your particular case. Art does reveal. Davidson once recalled this to Georg Brandes, the famous Danish critic,
to take the job into his own hands, for Davidson had nothing to say concerning his experience in immortalizing the great Jewish writer's features. His silence a rous e s suspicion that, he had met with an experience similar to that of Pilchowski, the Polish artist, when the latter was painting Zangwill's portrait in London. Zangwill was being interviewed for the American press at the same time. - Pilchowski left the studio for a few moments, and in his absence Zangwill asked the reporter what he thought of the portrait. “It’s a fine likeness,” the bright young man
Uncle Joe Cannon's quizzical expression immortalized by Davidson, who has prepared two-thirds of the world’s leaders for this species of immortality
who, sitting for his portrait, regaled the sculptor with philosophy. “He’s a lucky man who's fond of wine,” said Brandes, “but it costs him a lot of money. He's luckier who's fond of art—but that also is expensive. He's luckiest who is fond of himself; that costs him nothing.” “Ye-e-eh,” drawled the sculptor; “but it may cost him a lot of pain if he sees himself in marble or bronze.” “I’ve got to hurry home and write a lot of letters,” said Brandes on another occasion. “Why not have your secretary write them?” “Segretaries!” exploded the Dane. “I hate the breed! Ven you die they write von book to show you stole all their ideas.”