Now, as a matter of fact, we had at that time several millions of people out of work in America, and many of them starving.  There must be some intellectuals among them, I suggested; and the critic replied:  “They must have starved for so long that they have got used to it, and can enjoy it—­or at any rate can enjoy turning it into art.  Is not that the final test of great art, that it has been smelted in the fires of suffering?  All the great spiritual movements of humanity began in that way; take primitive Christianity, for example.  But you Americans have taken Christ, the carpenter—­”

I laughed.  It happened that at this moment we were passing St. Bartholomew’s Church, a great brown-stone structure standing at the corner of the park.  I waved my hand towards it.  “In there,” I said, “over the altar, you may see Christ, the carpenter, dressed up in exquisite robes of white and amethyst, set up as a stained glass window ornament.  But if you’ll stop and think, you’ll realize it wasn’t we Americans who began that!”

“No,” said the other, returning my laugh, “but I think it was you who finished him up as a symbol of elegance, a divinity of the respectable inane.”

Thus chatting, we turned the corner, and came in sight of our goal, the Excelsior Theatre.  And there was the mob!

II

At first, when I saw the mass of people, I thought it was the usual picture crowd.  I said, with a smile, “Can it be that the American people are not so dead to art after all?” But then I observed that the crowd seemed to be swaying this way and that; also there seemed to be a great many men in army uniforms.  “Hello!” I exclaimed.  “A row?”

There was a clamor of shouting; the army men seemed to be pulling and pushing the civilians.  When we got nearer, I asked of a bystander, “What’s up?” The answer was:  “They don’t want ’em to go in to see the picture.”

“Why not?”

“It’s German.  Hun propaganda!”

Now you must understand, I had helped to win a war, and no man gets over such an experience at once.  I had a flash of suspicion, and glanced at my companion, the cultured literary critic from Berlin.  Could it possibly be that this smooth-spoken gentleman was playing a trick upon me—­trying, possibly, to get something into my crude American mind without my realizing what was happening?  But I remembered his detailed account of the production, the very essence of “art for art’s sake.”  I decided that the war was three years over, and I was competent to do my own thinking.

Dr. Henner spoke first.  “I think,” he said, “it might be wiser if I did not try to go in there.”

“Absurd!” I cried.  “I’m not going to be dictated to by a bunch of imbeciles!”

“No,” said the other, “you are an American, and don’t have to be.  But I am a German, and I must learn.”

I noted the flash of bitterness, but did not resent it.  “That’s all nonsense, Dr. Henner!” I argued.  “You are my guest, and I won’t—­”