Ceremony of the Innocent (57 page)

“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.”

“I have noticed,” said Charles, “that when any prominent man suggests an international conspiracy is at work, actively now, politicians jeer at him and suggest—what is the term the alienists are now using?—yes, paranoia. The American people don’t want to believe in conspiracies; they want just to be ‘happy,’ and things kept simple and comprehensible. They want their nickelodeons and their ‘full dinner pail,’ and a car, if they can afford it, and a little cozy house and a contented wife and children, and their beer and their card games and their sports and their firecrackers and their occasional slut, and something they call ‘fun.’”

“It wasn’t Nero who ‘fiddled” when Rome burned,” said the Senator. “It was the populace who did, until their own homes were afire.”

“The common people are still more excited about Mary Pickford’s romances than they are about the arsonists who are setting fire to their houses,” said Charles.

The Senator laughed abruptly. “‘Bread and circuses.’ It is the old story. It was designed that way. Keep the people’s minds on their bellies, and their genitals, and you can eventually enslave them. Never let them think. Never let them know the truth. The politicians, and others, know that. Besides, I really don’t believe they want to think or to hear the truth. Remember Cassandra? She tried to arouse her people in Troy, and I believe she met an unpleasant martyrdom. Well, again, there is nothing we can do, Charles.”

“Christ also met an unpleasant end,” said Charles. “Still, He aroused a whole world—”

The Senator shook a finger at him, and his face was grave. “Let me make a prophecy, Charles. The next war will be against Judeo-Christianity, though it won’t be called that. Religion, as you know yourself, stands between man and his oppressors. Ergo, religion will eventually be attacked, ridiculed, and rendered impotent. Perhaps not in my lifetime, but certainly in yours.”

“I know, Senator. Marx called religion the opiate of the people.”

The Senator sighed. “Well, I think it is practically over, unless we can make people realize who their enemies are. The conspirators. Lincoln knew that. I have his whole quotation here. Let me read it to you. The conspirators were beginning to be very active, even in his time:

“‘When we see a lot of framed timbers, different portions of which we know have been gotten out at different times and places and by different workmen—and when we see these timbers joined together, and see they exactly make the frame of a house or a mill, all the tenons and mortises exactly fitting, and all the lengths and proportions of the different pieces exactly adapted to their respective places and not a piece too many or too few—not omitting even scaffolding—or if a single piece be lacking, we can see the place in the frame exactly fitting and prepared to yet bring such piece in—in such a case we find
it is impossible to not believe the conspirators all understood one another from the beginning, and all worked upon a common play drawn up before the first lick was struck
.’ Well, Charles, the people will never ‘believe.’”