A few months ago Kitty had given Francis a long and serious consideration. He was rich; he was powerful; he was frequently quoted in the New York newspapers, though the Times had found him slightly ridiculous and had implied this in sedate prose. It was rumored that he would soon seek the nomination of his party for the Senate. He was not married. He was thought to be a “great catch” in the society news. Though not physically attracted to him, Kitty had attempted a very subtle and skillful seduction of him, for her own purposes. He had not responded. She had some obscene thoughts about him, then, for Kitty knew all the darknesses of the human soul. She directed an attack on him in another direction: She pretended to support all his policies and idealisms and ideas. She agreed with him heartily when he spoke, though she laughed inwardly. She was enthusiastic when he was palely enthusiastic. She was grim when he was grim; she denounced what he denounced. She insisted she had always been a feminist. As much as possible he began to warm towards her. A lady with intelligence was a rare phenomenon.
When Francis asserted, at a dinner party she and Jochan gave for him, that America must go at once to the rescue of the embattled Allies, most of the guests looked at him coldly and condemningly, including the amiable Jochan. But Kitty cocked her head and said in her insistent and emphatic voice, “Francis does know what the sentiment in Washington is; he is privy to counsels we never hear of, and he has Importance and is a Leader. We only know what we read in the press, and it is cautious. But Francis Knows what he Knows, so his opinion must come from a source hidden from us.”
Jochan, who had never been noted before for sarcasm or bitterness, said, “Perhaps that is the trouble.” His usually kind eyes had hardened on Francis. Kitty pretended to meek dejection at her husband’s words, though the guests smiled amusedly. Francis had not been amused. But he saw Kitty’s sympathetic eyes and was grateful. Thereafter, whenever he encountered her he felt that he was in the presence of an understanding friend. A little later Kitty mused on marrying him. Divorce was not quite the stigma it had been in her youth, and she despised Jochan. She now knew all about his mistress and his son. At first she had laughed when Jochan had hinted at divorce, for it pleased her to thwart him and make him miserable and prevent him from marrying the woman he loved, who had been a pretty member of the Floradora chorus.
She might not be able, she would think, to seduce Francis into her bed, for he had the austere tight air of a Puritan. (She even suspected that he was a virgin.) But marriage? That would be a holy and sacred thing to him, or at the very least “proper.” She had long ago discovered that the “reformers” were not full-blooded men with the sexual power of most males. They were priggish, in the main, inclined to a womanishness under all that icy violence they often displayed in their conversations and their writings. They had the innate and relentless brutality of the Puritan, but it was mental and not physical, though Kitty had no doubt that if the opportunity ever came to them they would enforce their ideas with death and oppression, and these without a single qualm, and only a conviction of righteousness. At heart, they were sadists, and Kitty had read enough to know that sadists were usually impotent men and if they possessed any voluptuousness at all it was closely allied with cruelty and hatred, and not buoyantly of the flesh.
As their friendship increased, Kitty thought more and more of marriage to him. A Senator’s wife! Perhaps, later, even a First Lady! She began to hint to him of her own political influence and how she had been much admired in Washington and often invited to the White House. Francis had listened with increasing interest, and made pompous and approving remarks and had even flattered her, not only with his attention but with comments on her astuteness and knowledge. Once he had actually said, “You are a charming lady,” and had colored as if he had made an improper remark.
There was one thing Kitty did not know, that he was in love with Ellen Porter and wanted to marry her. For did he not speak always with disapproval and criticism of Ellen? He confided to Kitty that Ellen really needed a guardian herself. She was unworldly; she was naive; she was not truly educated and had no real intellect. But, after all, one must remember her Unfortunate Background. She needed Guidance. (“Guidance” was one of his favorite words, and he used it often in referring to the Masses.) He approved of nothing Ellen did or timidly said. He thanked Kitty for her affection for “that poor young woman,” and expressed his hopes that Kitty would never desert her. Kitty could Influence her for the better, and soften her gauche manners and give her some Character, a trait she obviously did not possess in spite of all the tutors she had had and all the Advantages for many years. Kitty had bowed her head humbly and had whispered, “I try, I do truly try, Francis, though sometimes—” He had actually touched her thin arm in consolation for an instant.
She had some thoughts about his potency in bed. She doubted not only that he was potent but was capable of potency. It would be like being in bed with an icicle, she would laugh to herself. No matter. It could be endured and there were always other men. That Francis was capable of wild passion she did not believe, for all his secret intensity was reserved for Ellen, and was waiting.
So, while dining with Ellen tonight, and lovingly savoring the excellent dinner, Kitty continued with her conversation about Francis.
“I do wish, Ellen, that you would listen to Francis more. He has only your welfare at heart.”
“I know, I know,” said Ellen with humility. She had hardly touched the fine food and her chronic look of exhaustion increased. “He had always been so kind to me. He was the first person, outside of my aunt, who showed me any interest and concern. But I’ve told you that very often, Kitty. I can never forget it. But why should the children of Jeremy Porter go to a public school in the city?”
“It’s more democratic,” Kitty said, and again laughed in herself at Francis.
For the first time Ellen actually smiled spontaneously. “Jeremy did not believe in democracy. He thought it pretension on the part of the rich, and a trap for the poor, who were envious and resentful. He used to say that democracy was like the beds in Sodom and Gomorrah.”
Kitty was puzzled. “Are you joshing me, Ellen? What in the world does that mean?” She was annoyed that Ellen had made a reference alien to her.
“Well, it seems that in Sodom and Gomorrah they had beds of only one length, and when they caught a stranger in their midst, or an enemy, they would cut off his head, or his feet, to make him fit their beds.”
“How uncivilized,” said Kitty.
“That’s what Jeremy said of democracy,” and Ellen was smiling again. “In some ways I think Jeremy was a monarchist. He said republics never endured; he was quoting Aristotle. They declined into democracies and degenerated into despotisms.”
“How un-American,” said Kitty with tartness.
“No. Jeremy was a realist. And to many, he was a dangerous realist. That is why he was killed.” Her eyes filled with tears; she was not conscious of them. One or two slowly rolled down her white cheeks. She stared into the distance and her throat underwent a spasm.
“And what, may I ask, was his idea of an ideal state?” asked Kitty, making a mouth.
“He said it wasn’t possible, for men are not and never will be ideal. The most we can do, he would say, was to follow the Constitution and outlaw anyone who violated it.”
As Francis was always denouncing the Constitution as “an enemy of the Masses,” and a hindrance to perfect justice, Kitty began to reflect. Of course, Francis Porter was an obvious fool, she thought. But—he was rich and powerful and that overcame any folly. She said, “How extreme of Jeremy. Ellen, you should listen more to Francis. He is a very brilliant man.”
Ellen moved restlessly in her chair. “I suppose so,” she said in her lifeless voice. “But I am a woman and am not really much interested in politics. That is a man’s province, not a woman’s.”
Kitty looked at her curiously. “What do you, Ellen, really live for, if you lack interest in so much?”
??
?I live for Jeremy’s children,” said Ellen.
Who despise you, thought Kitty. And why should they not? “Very exemplary,” she said aloud. “But you should have a life of your own, Ellen.”
Ellen looked at her, and her great blue eyes were stark with anguish.
“My life died with Jeremy.”
“Now, that—” Kitty began. But Ellen was struggling to her feet, her face stark with suffering. “Kitty, please forgive me, please excuse me. I—I must go upstairs. Forgive me. I am not feeling very well.” She pressed her hand over her mouth and ran from the room, while Kitty stared after her.
Well, thought Kitty, that was a low-bred demonstration, my girl! But what else could I expect from a menial?
Alone, she devoted herself to the delicious Austrian torte and her reflections on Francis Porter.
In her bedroom, Ellen threw herself upon her bed, clutching an old coat of Jeremy’s to her breast, soundless with grief and despair. It took some time for Miss Evans to soothe her, induce her to relinquish the coat, undress, and take a sedative.
C H A P T E R 30
IN EARLY FEBRUARY 1917, Charles Godfrey visited his friend the Senator, in Washington. Charles had gone reluctantly; he constantly remembered what had happened to Jeremy Porter. He, Charles, had no desire to be either a martyr or unpopular, for he had the Boston Irish cynicism, though he possessed the Irish tendency to belligerence and indignation. Moreover, though he was married to an English lady he adored, he did not like the Sassenach in general. But Maude was different; she believed with him that it was to America’s advantage to stay out of the European war, and she had no passionate attachment to the politics of England. Wise and without illusions, she understood that it was only on the surface that this was a trade war. It had deeper and more terrible implications. Often she said, “If Jeremy had not been so reckless he might have lived to have had a greater influence than mere rage and disgust. Leaders must exercise prudence, too.”
Charles, who was unusually prudent, said, “In war there should be no prudence, that is, if you expect to win.” To which Maude had replied, “In love and war all things are permissible.” Then she had added, “In the real revolution that underlies this war only bravery and aggression and courage will prevail. Prudence, a euphemism for self-interest, makes cowards of us all.”
Charles had said, “They are too strong for us. We have been sleeping, and we’ll continue to sleep.”
Maude said, “I am thinking of the old poem of Horatius on the bridge. A handful of Romans was powerful enough to defeat the whole army of the enemy.”
Charles had laughed with some bitterness. “I’m afraid we have no ‘old Romans’ in America any longer. If we do have they have internecine quarrels. But there are no quarrels in Hell. And that is its strength.”
“It seems to me, Charles, that after the French Revolution, Hell indeed had its quarrels. They were always guillotining each other in their fight for power. When Hell falls out humanity can profit.”
“If there’s any humanity remaining to profit. Usually, there comes the Dark Ages of chaos and anarchy, and the whole horrible business starts up again.”
“Well,” said Maude, “there is nothing anyone can do to change human nature. That is the one immutable, in spite of the idealists, and Rousseau. For better or worse, we are what we are.”
Charles thought for a while and when he spoke Maude did not consider his remark to be irrelevant: “In the old Roman religion—or was it Greek?—Justice was the last goddess to leave the world and left it to its own destruction. She never returned.”
He went to Washington to talk with the Senator. It was a grim and stormy day of blizzard and wind, and Charles remembered an old Irish saying that when nature was convulsed man was convulsed also. He had never seen such a storm in Washington before, so vicious and formidable; it was also a city in which the Spanish flu appeared to be more virulent than anywhere else. He saw ambulances and hearses everywhere, crowding the streets. Through the gray-white swirling haze of snow the looming monumental buildings appeared mere trembling facades, with nothing behind them, and he gloomily wondered if the illusion were not true. Union Square, in that shivering haze, was populated with a multitude of little black figures which scurried, bent against the power of the storm. There was such a sinister activity in the city now, Charles thought, and it appeared subterranean, and curiously feverish. All my imagination, he told himself, but there was an aura here, pervasive and dangerous. His Irish soul perceived it, for were not the Irish strangely perceptive? They could smell snow long before it appeared and disaster impending in an atmosphere of tranquillity.
Charles had difficulty in the storm in finding a taxicab and had to wait a considerable time. The trains were vomiting out streams of avid-eyed men, all with briefcases, all craning their heads forward with the searching expressions of men who were almost unbearably excited. Many reminded him uneasily of Francis Porter; their faces had zealous gleams discernible even in that shifting haze of snow. He no longer deluded himself that it was all his “imagination.” Scores of voices, muffled partly by the gale, came to him in bursts of fervency. Though it was only three o’clock in the afternoon the streets and the square were dark and lamps were already beginning to pour their blurred lights on the hurrying throngs. Charles, finally snaring a cab, with numbed hands tightly fastened some loose buttons which held the canvas curtains of the vehicle. He was driven to the Senator’s office in the Senate Office Building, after long and considerable sliding on the fast-freezing snow. Washington, always crowded with automobiles, appeared far more crowded than usual.
The Senate Office Building’s corridors and rooms were filled with milling politicians and lobbyists and men who were obviously financiers and businessmen. They talked with vehemence in the halls, waving cigarettes and cigars and grasping the latest newspapers which carried very large black headlines. They caught each other, engaged in loud or furtive fast conversations, nodded, went on to other groups. If any felt dismay or anxiety or despair or apprehension, it was not evident. It is like an uproarious fiesta, thought Charles with bitterness. He had to push his way determinedly through the mass, and many glanced at him, but then, not recognizing him, glanced restlessly away, waiting to pounce on friends or acquaintances. A blue fog of smoke hung over everything.
Charles’ friend the Senator seemed strangely isolated in his very quiet offices. His staff was subdued, wore gloomy expressions, and spoke in hushed voices as if something direful had happened. There were no military men swarming here, as there were in the rest of the building. “I am being ostracized,” said the Senator as he shook hands with Charles, and he smiled faintly but without amusement. An aide brought them whiskey and soda, then left the gentlemen alone. “Did you hear the latest about our valiant President? He not only wants to name the terms of any peace, but will demand a superstate, a world union of ‘all nations,’ no doubt with himself or the American government presiding with absolute power. Sometimes I think he has lost his mind.”
“No,” said Charles. “He is just a radical, and from what I’ve overheard in this building just now, the whole damned place is teeming with radicals.”
“All rich, too,” said the Senator in a dry hard voice. “Well, we know what we know.” He gave Charles a cigar and lit it thoughtfully, his handsome face tight, his silken white hair slightly ruffled, his eyes exhausted. “Charles, we’re not all exigent criminals here in this building, among the Senators. Many know what we know, and are resisting. But now the corruption of the sound middle class has begun, they who are always idealistic, somewhat simple, believing in the innate good of humanity. They are being aroused by the hugest propaganda machine I’ve ever seen, aroused against Germany. Millions are demanding the ‘end to the Hun.’ They’re that simple, in spite of all they have been told about this war. But the working class is not that deluded, thank God. Still, it is hopeless—you and I know that.”
“I thought you could tell me something I can do myself.
”
The Senator shook his head, then smiled again. “What, you the prudent Irishman who doesn’t want to be a martyr? What changed your mind?”
“Thinking, a little, about Jeremy Porter. I don’t want to pledge my ‘life, my fortune, and my sacred honor’ in any useless attempt to save my country. But I want to do something.”
“Any ideas of what that something should be?”
“I’ve heard of various organizations who are working against American participation in this war. Which one, of the largest, would you recommend?”
The Senator considered him. “There is our Church. The Church, which is the wisest of all, understands what is behind this war, and is, as diplomatically as possible, opposing it.”
“Too diplomatically, Senator. But then, the Church has to be careful. America is no longer a mission country, but the Church is still widely hated here. We want no fresh outburst of violence against her in America.”
“Prudence, prudence,” murmured the Senator with satire. “Sometimes, in the name of God and humanity, there has to be an end to prudence.”
“‘He who fights and runs away, will live to fight another day,’” quoted Charles.
“Sometimes he runs too far, and the battle for survival has already been lost when he returns to fight again. Remember, from Shakespeare, when a general ran away and then returned to congratulate his king on a victory? ‘Hang yourself, brave Crillon,’ said the king, ‘we fought—and you were not there!’” The Senator’s voice rose, now impassioned. “I think we should say that to the prudent—when they return, softly smiling. But then it will be too late, even for hanging.”
He stared down at his desk. “I will tell you the latest developments here, but in confidence, though.” He laughed abruptly. “There I am myself using ‘prudence!’ As you know, Germany has been recently using unrestricted submarine warfare against our alleged ‘merchant ships,’ which are carrying contraband to England, arms and such—though we are still supposed to be a neutral country. Our government is as ‘neutral’ as Satan! The Kaiser has said that if Wilson wants war—as he truly does—he can have it and let him make it. We will make it, and very soon, Charles. Within a few days Wilson will sever diplomatic relations with Germany and arm our so-called ‘peaceful merchant ships,’ all carrying munitions to England. I often wonder if the British King has any idea himself of what is behind all this. I doubt it. The conspirators in his own government keep him uninformed, I am sure. Still, he did try to make a peace with Germany, and would have succeeded if Wilson had not arrogantly interfered. But that is now history.”