Oil (filmed as There Will Be Blood)

by Upton Sinclair

  IX

  It was a day like midsummer, and the windows of the hospital room were open. Next door, some twenty feet away, was an apartment house, and in the room directly across this space, by the open window, was one of the two hundred thousand radio sets which are in use in the state of California. The occupant of the apartment was one of those two hundred thousand housewives who are accustomed to perform their domestic duties to the tune of "Jesus, Lover of My Soul," or else of "Flamin' Mamie, Sure-fire Vamp." There are a dozen broadcasting stations within range, and some are always going, and you can take your choice. This housewife had catholic tastes, and the watchers at Paul's bedside were beguiled by snatches from the Aloha Hawaiian Quartette, and the Organ Recital of the First Methodist Church, and the Piggly Wiggly Girls' Orchestra, and Radio QXJ reporting that a large vote was being cast in the East, and Radio VZW offering secondhand automobiles for sale, and an unidentified orator exhorting all citizens to hurry to the polls, and Miss Elvira Smithers, coloratura soprano, singing, "Ah loves you mah honey, yes Ah doo-oo-oo-oo." There came telephone calls from the Workers' party, and from the wobblies at the harbor. And newspaper reporters, who politely listened to Bunny's indignation at the raid, and made a few notes, but published nothing, of course. The newspapers of Angel City have a policy which any child can understand—they never print news which injures or offends any business interest. A telephone call from Paradise; Meelie Watkins, now Mrs. Andy Bugner, calling. Her father and mother, with Sadie, had gone to attend a revival meeting. Meelie didn't know just where it was, but would try to locate them. How was Paul? And when Bunny told her, she asked had they summoned Eli. Whether they believed in him or not, it was a fact that Eli was a great healer; he had cured all sorts of people, and surely should have a chance with his own brother! So Bunny sent a telegram to Eli at the Tabernacle, telling him of Paul's condition; and two hours later a large and expensive limousine stopped at the hospital door. Eli Watkins, Prophet of the Third Revelation, wore a cream white flannel suit, which made his tall figure conspicuous. He had adopted a pontifical air in these days of glory and power. He did not shake hands with you, but fixed you with a pair of large, prominent, bright blue eyes, and said, "The blessings of the Lord upon you." And when he was in the presence of his brother, he stood gazing, but asking no questions; he was not interested in X-ray pictures of skulls, the Lord knew all that was needed. Finally he said, "I wish to be alone with my brother." There was no evident reason for denying that request, so Bunny and Rachel and Ruth went out. It didn't make any difference to Ruth where she was—there was nothing to do but stare in front of her, with that terrible quivering of her lips, that wrung your heartstrings. A picture of dreadful grief! The doctor of the hospital begged her to drink a little milk, and the nurse brought a glass, and Ruth tasted, but she could not swallow it. There came a rush of tears to her eyes. You couldn't talk to her, or do anything with her at all. Eli went away without saying a word; the ways of the Lord being not always understandable by common mortals. There was no apparent change in Paul's condition. Ruth went back to her vigil; but now the doctor gave an order, she must take a sleeping powder and lie down; he would not permit her to kill herself in his establishment. Being trained to take the orders of doctors, Ruth was led away, and Bunny and Rachel kept the vigil.

  X

  Night fell. The householder who occupied the apartment opposite their window came home and had his supper, and now, comfortable in his shirtsleeves, with pipe in mouth, he sat in a deep wicker chair in front of his radio set, and proceeded to explore the circumambient ether. So the watchers by Paul's bedside got the news of the election without leaving their posts. Owing to difference in time, California gets returns from the east before it gets its own; but it was all the same this Tuesday evening, east and west, the fifty million dollar campaign fund had done its work, and wherever you listened, you learned that more voters had cast their ballots for the strong silent statesman than for all his opponents put together. And since that was the thing ardently desired by the broadcasting stations, and the great newspapers and churches and temples and tabernacles which own them, there was a tone of jocularity in the announcements, and after you had learned that Massachusetts was going three to one for her favorite son, you would hear the Six Jolly Jazz Boys proclaiming, "Got a hot little gal in a railroad town!"—or perhaps the Chicago Comet, chuckling, "My curie's due at two-to-two!" It made a cheerful atmosphere to die in; but unfortunately Paul wasn't hearing it. The Tabernacle of the Third Revelation on the air. Eli's followers were not concerned with elections, being soon to wing their way to celestial regions which are conducted upon the monarchical principle. They opened with an organ recital, and the householder didn't care for that, but preferred Radio VKZ, program sponsored by the Snow Baby Soap Company, introducing the first appearance in Angel City of the Pretty Pet Trio, singing their latest popular melody hit, "My Little Jazz-baby, Razz-baby Coon." But later the householder tried the Tabernacle again, and there was the bellowing voice of Eli, that all California householders love. So Bunny and Rachel learned what had been the meaning of Eli's visit. "Brethren, the Lord has vouchsafed a wonderful proof of His mercy to me. Glorious tidings He gives to the world tonight! I have an older brother, the helpmate of my boyhood, Paul by name, and he was brought up in the fear of the Lord; the voice of the Most Highest was familiar to him on the lonely hills where we tended our father's flocks together. Shepherd boys we were, sitting under the stars, awaiting a sign of the Lord's mercy, and praying for the lost ones of this world to be saved from the devices of the great Tempter. "Brethren, this brother grew up, and he strayed from the faith of his childhood, he fell into evil company, and became a scoffer at the Lord's Word. The love of our Savior Jesus Christ was no longer in his heart, but hatred and strife and jealousy of those to whom the Lord has revealed His Truth. And, brethren, the ruin which this misguided brother sought to bring upon others has fallen upon his own head, and tonight he lies dying, struck down by the evil passions which he himself incited. It was my painful task to go to his bedside, and see him lying in a stupor. "But oh my friends, who can foresee the Wisdom of the Lord? Who can understand His ways? It was His Will to answer my prayers, and permit my lost brother to open his eyes, and hear the voice of the Lord speaking by my lips, and to answer, and confess his transgressions, and repent, and be healed, and washed in the Blood of the Lamb. Glory hallelujah! Glory! Though thy sins be as scarlet they shall become as white as snow, blessed be the name of the Lord! Brethren, rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost. I say unto you that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance. Hallelujah! Hallelujah!" All through this discourse you were aware of the murmur and stir of a great crowd. They would break into ejaculations at every pause in the prophet's words; and now at the end they drowned him out with a chorus of rejoicing, "Glory! Glory, hallelujah!" And in the doorway of the hospital room stood Ruth Watkins, having awakened from her sleep. She was staring at Bunny with horrified eyes, and whispering, "Oh, what a lie!" Yes, Bunny suspected that it was a lie; but he could not prove it; and even if he could, what then? The radio is a one-sided institution; you can listen, but you cannot answer back. In that lies its enormous usefulness to the capitalist system. The householder sits at home and takes what is handed to him, like an infant being fed through a tube. It is a basis upon which to build the greatest slave empire in history.

  XI The householder shifted his dial. The returns from California were beginning to come in. "Radio VXZ, the Angel City Evening Howler, Angel City, California." The announcer had a soft, caressing voice, worth a thousand dollars a month to him; it had a little chuckle which caused the children to adore him—he went by the name of "Uncle Peter," and told them bed-time stories. Now he was applying his humor to the returns. "Rosario, California. Hello! The home town of Bob Buckman, secretary to the Chamber of Commerce! Let's see what Bob's been doing! Rosario, 37 precinc
ts out of 52 give LaFollette 117, Davis 86, Coolidge, 549. Well, well! If Bob Buckman is listening in on VXZ, congratulations from Uncle Peter—you're a great little booster, Bob!" And then, startling the watchers by the bedside—"Paradise, California. Now what do you think of that? The location of the Ross Junior oil field, owned by Bunny Ross, our parlor Bolshevik! Bunny's the boy that bails out the political prisoners, as he calls them; he publishes a little paper to dye our college boys and girls pink. Let's see what Little Bunny's town has to say to him. Paradise, California, 14 precincts out of 29 give LaFollette 217, Davis 98, Coolidge 693. Well, well, Bunny—you've got some more boring from within to do!" The householder shifted again. "Radio QXJ, the Angel City Evening Roarer, banjo solo by Bella Blue, the Witch of Wicheta." Plunkety-plunkety—plunkety-plunkety—plunk-plunk-plunk-plunk! Paul's lips were beginning to move. There was a trace of sound, and Ruth bent close to him. "He's coming back to life! Oh, call the doctor!" The hospital doctor came, and listened, and felt Paul's pulse; but he shook his head. It was merely a question of what areas of the brain were affected; the speech areas might be uninjured. The sounds were incoherent, and the doctor said Paul didn't know what he was saying. He might stay that way for days, even for a week or two. But Ruth continued to listen, and try to catch a word. Paul might be there, somehow, trying to speak to her, to convey some request. She whispered, in an agony of longing, "Paul, Paul, are you trying to talk to me?" The sounds grew louder, and Rachel said, "It's a foreign language." Bunny said, "It must be Russian"—the only foreign language Paul knew. It was strange, like a corpse talking, or a wax doll; the sounds seemed to come from deep in his throat. "Da zdravstvooyet Revoliitziya!" over and over; and Bunny said, "That must mean revolution." And then, "Vsya vlast Sovietam!"— that must have something to do with the Soviets! For an hour that went on; until suddenly Ruth exclaimed, "Bunny, we ought to find out what he's saying! Oh, surely we ought to—just think, if he's asking for help!" Rachel tried to argue with her; it was just a delirium. But Ruth became more excited—she didn't want Rachel to interfere. Rachel had saved her man, and what did she know about suffering? "I want to know what Paul's saying! Can't we find somebody that knows Russian?" So Bunny got Gregor Nikolaieff on the phone, and asked him to jump on the car and come down here. When Bunny returned to the room, Paul was talking louder than ever, but still moving only his lips. The Angel Jazz Choir were shouting, "Honey-baby, honey-baby, kiss me in the neck!" And Paul was saying again and again, "Nie troodyashchiysia da nie yest!" "Oh, Bunny," pleaded Ruth. "We ought to write down what he says! He might stop—and never speak again!" Bunny understood— Ruth had been brought up to believe in revelations, in words of awful import spoken on special occasions, in strange languages or other unusual ways. The doctors might call it delirium, but how could they be sure? Things that were hidden from the wise were revealed to babes and sucklings. So Bunny got out his notebook and fountain-pen, and wrote down what Paul's words sounded like, as near as he could guess. "Hlieba, mira, svobody!" And when Gregor came in, an hour or so later, he was able to say this meant, "Bread, peace, freedom," the slogan of the Bolsheviks when they took possession of Russia: and "Dayesh positziyu!"— that was a war-cry of the red army, commanding the enemy to give up the position. The other things Paul had been saying were phrases of the revolution, that he had heard first in Siberia, and then in Moscow. No, Paul was not trying to talk to his sister; he was telling the young workers of America what the young workers of Russia were doing!

  XII "Radio VXZ, the Angel City Evening Howler, Winitsky's orchestra, in the main dining-room of the Admiralty Hotel, broadcasting by remote control." And then presently "Radio QXJ, the Evening Roarer," giving election returns—big figures now. "Republican Campaign Headquarters in New York, in a bulletin issued at 1 A.M., estimates that Calvin Coolidge has carried Massachusetts by 400,000 plurality—hooray for the Old Bay State! And New York by 900,000—three cheers for the Empire State—ray, ray, ray! And Illinois by—wait a minute there, somebody's knocked my glasses off—they're pulling the rough stuff in this studio. Behave yourselves, girls, don't you know the world's listening in on QXJ tonight? Illinois by 900,000. Whoopee! That noise you hear is the Chicago Comet yelping for his home state! It's time we heard the Chicago Comet again—sing us a hot one, Teddy—that little warble about the street car comin' along. You know what I mean?" A broad, jolly Negro voice answered, "Yessah, Ah knows! Yessah, hyar Ah goes!" Plunkety-plunk—

  "Ah had some one befoah Ah had you An' Ah'll have someone aftah you's gone, A street car or a sweetheart doan' mattah to me, There'll be another one comin' along!"

  Six or seven years ago the people of the United States in their sovereign wisdom had passed a law forbidding the sale of alcoholic liquor for beverage purposes. But the advocates of law and order reserve to themselves the privilege of deciding which laws they will obey, and the prohibition act is not among them. All ruling class America celebrates its political victories by getting drunk. Bunny knew how it was, having got drunk himself four years ago when President Harding had been elected; he could smile appreciatively when the announcer of QXJ tripped over his syllables—"Thass not polite now, Polly, quit your shovin' this micro-hiccrophone!" The householder next door was a workingman, or clerk, or such humble being, denied the royal privilege of breaking the law at ten dollars a quart for gin and thirty for champagne. But he could sit here till after midnight, and turn from one studio to another, and enjoy a series of vicarious jags. "Radio VXZ, the main dining-room of the Admiralty Hotel." A chanteuse from the Grand Guignol in Paris was singing a ballad, and you could hear the laughter of those who understood the obscenity, and those who pretended to understand it, and those who were too drunk to understand anything but how to laugh. Bunny was there in his mind, because it was in this dining-room that he had been drunk, and Dad had been drunk, and Vee Tracy and Annabelle Ames and Vernon Roscoe—and Harvey Manning sound asleep in his chair, and Tommy Paley trying to climb onto the table, and having to be kept from fighting the waiters. There were three hundred tables in that hall, all reserved a month in advance, and all with occupants in the same condition; the tables stacked with hip-pocket flasks and bottles, strewn with the ashes of cigarettes, the stains of spilled foods, flowers and confetti, and little rolls of tissue-paper tape thrown from one table to another, covering the room with a spider's web of bright colors; toy balloons tossing here and there; music, a riot of singing and shouting, and men sprawling over half naked women, old and young, flappers, and mothers and grandmothers of flappers. There would be election returns read, more of those triumphant, glorious majorities for the strong silent statesman; and a magnate who knew that this victory meant several million dollars off his income taxes, or an oil concession in Mesopotamia or Venezuela won by American bribes and held by American battleships—such a man would let out a whoop, and get up in the middle of the floor and show how he used to dance the double shuffle when he was a farm-hand; and then he would fall into the lap of his mistress with a million dollars worth of diamonds on her naked flesh, and the singer from a famous haunt of the sexual perverts of Berlin would perform the latest jazz success, and the oil-magnate and his mistress would warble the chorus:

  What do I do? I toodle-doodle-doo, I toodle-doodle-doodle-doodle-doo!

  XIII

  Paul moved one hand: and again Ruth cried in excitement—he was coming back to life! But the nurse said that meant nothing, the doctors had said he might move. They must not let him move his head. She took his temperature, but told them nothing. Paul's hands were straying over the sheet that covered him; aimlessly, here and there, as if he were picking at insects on the bed. His voice rose louder—Russian, always Russian, and Gregor would tell what the words meant. They were in the red square, and saw the armies marching, and heard the working masses shouting their slogans: they were on the playing fields with the young workers; they were in Siberia, with Mandel playing the balalaika, and having his eyes eaten out by ants. "Da zdravstvooyet Revolutziya!"—that mea
nt "Long live Revolution!" "Vsya vlast Sovietam!—All power to the Soviets!" And from there they would be swept to the ballroom of the Emperor Hotel, Angel City, Radio RWKY, the Angel City Patriot broadcasting by direct control. Or was it to the heart of the Congo, where the naked savages danced to the music of the tomtom, their black bodies, smeared with palm oil, shining in the light of blazing fires? For a hundred centuries these savages had paddled the river, and never to the mind of one of them had come the thought of an engine; they had stood on the shores of mighty lakes, and never dreamed a sail. The weight of nature's blind fecundity rested upon them, stifling their minds. And now capitalist civilization, rushing to destruction with the speed of its fastest battle-planes, cast about to find a form of expression for its irresistible will to degeneracy, and chose the tomtom of the Congo for its music, and the belly-dances of the Congo for its exercise, and so here was America, Land of Jazz. A voice from the megaphone, raucous, shrill, and mocking: "There's where mah money goes, Lipsticks and powderpuffs and sucha things like that!"