menu_book Chapter 32

Section 63. Peter did not want to set traps for this mother of Mount Olympus. He didn't want to worm any secrets from her. And as it happened, he found that he did not have to, because she told him everything right away, and without the slightest hesitation.

She talked just as the Wobblies had talked in their headquarters, and Peter, when he thought it over, realized that there are two kinds of people who can afford to be frank in their utterance, those who have nothing to lose, and those who have so much to lose that they cannot possibly lose it. Mrs. Godd said that what had been done to those men last night was a crime, and it ought

to be punished if ever a crime was punished, and that she would like to engage detectives and get evidence against the guilty ones. She said furthermore that she sympathized with the reds of the very reddest shade, and if there were any color redder than red, she would be of that color. She said all this in her quiet, soft voice.

Tears came into her eyes now and then, but they were well-behaved tears. They disappeared of their own accord, and without any injury to Mrs. Godd's complexion or any apparent effect upon her self-possession. Mrs. Godd said that she didn't see how anybody could fail to be a red who thought about the injustices of present-day society.

Only a few days before, she had been in to see the district attorney, and had tried to make a red out of him. Then she told Peter how there had come to see her a man who had pretended to be a radical, but she had realized that he didn't know anything about radicalism, and had told him she was sure he was a government agent.

The man had finally admitted it and showed her his gold star, and then Mrs. Godd had set to work to convert him. She had argued with him for an hour or two, and then had invited him to go to the opera with her. And, do you know, said Mrs. Godd, in an injured tone, he wouldn't go.

They don't want to be converted, those men. They don't want to listen to reason. I believe the man was actually afraid I might influence him. I shouldn't wonder, put in Peter sympathetically, for he was a tiny bit afraid himself. I said to him, Here I live in this palace, and back in the industrial quarter of the

city are several thousand men and women who slave at machines for me all day, and now, since the war, all night too. I get the profits of these people's toil, and what have I done to earn it? Absolutely nothing. I never did a stroke of useful work in my life, and he said to me, Suppose the dividends

were to stop, what would you do? I don't know what I would do, I answered. I'd be miserable, of course, because I hate poverty. I couldn't stand it. It's terrible to think of.

Not to have comfort and cleanliness and security. I don't see how the working class stand it. That's exactly why I'm a red. I know it's wrong for anyone to be poor, and there's no excuse for it. So I shall help to overthrow the capitalist system, even if it means I have to take in

washing for my living. Peter sat watching her in the crisp freshness of her snowy chiffons. The words brought a horrible image to his mind. He suddenly found himself back in the tenement kitchen, where fat and steaming Mrs. Yankovitch was laboring elbow-deep in soap suds.

It was on the tip of Peter's tongue to say, If you really had done a day's washing, Mrs. God, you wouldn't talk like that. But he remembered that he must play the game, so he said, They're terrible fellows, them Federal agents. It was two of them pounded me over the head last night.

And then he looked faint and pitiful, and Mrs. God was sympathetic again, and moved to more recklessness of utterance. It's because of this hideous war, she declared. We've gone to war to make the world safe for democracy, and meantime we have to sacrifice every bit of democracy at home.

They tell you that you must hold your peace while they murder one another, but they may try all they please, they'll never be able to silence me. I know that the Allies are just as much to blame as the Germans. I know that this is a war of profiteers and bankers. They may take my sons and force them into the army, but they cannot take my convictions

and force them into the army. I am a pacifist, and I am an internationalist. I want to see the workers arise and turn out of office these capitalist governments, and put an end to this hideous slaughter of human beings. I intend to go on saying that so long as I live.

There sat Mrs. God with her lovely firm white hands clasped as if in prayer, one large diamond ring on the left fourth finger shining defiance, and a look of calm childlike conviction upon her face, confronting in her imagination all the federal agents and district attorneys and capitalist judges and statesmen and generals and drill sergeants in the civilized world. She went on to tell how she had attended the trial of three pacifist clergymen a week or

two previously. How atrocious that Christians in a Christian country should be sent to prison for trying to repeat the words of Christ. I was so indignant, declared Mrs. God, that I wrote a letter to the judge. My husband said it would be committing contempt of court by writing to a judge during the

trial, but I answered that my contempt for that court was beyond anything I could put into writing. Wait! And Mrs. God rose gravely from her chair and went over to a desk by the wall and got a copy of the letter.

I'll read it to you, she said, and Peter listened to a manifesto of Olympian Bolshevism. To his honor, as I entered the sanctuary I gazed upward to the stained glass dome upon which were inscribed four words, peace, justice, truth, law. And I felt hopeful. Before me were men who had violated no constitutional right, who had not the slightest criminal

tendency, who were opposed to violence of every kind. The trial proceeded. I looked again at the beautiful stained glass dome and whispered to myself those majestic sounding words, peace, justice, truth, law. I listened to the prosecutors.

The law in their hands was a hard, sharp, cruel blade seeking insistently, relentlessly for a weak spot in the armor of its victims. I listened to their truth and it was falsehood. Their peace was a cruel and bloody war. Their justice was a net to catch the victims at any cost, at the cost of all things but

the glory of the prosecutor's office. I grew sick at heart. I can only ask myself the old, old question, what can we, the people, do? How can we bring peace, justice, truth, and law to the world? Must we go on bended knees and ask our public servants to see that justice is done to the

rather than this eternal prosecuting of the world's noblest souls? You will find these men guilty and sentence them to be shut behind iron bars, which should never be for human beings, no matter what their crime, unless you want to make beasts of them. Is that your object, sir?

It would seem so, and so I say that we must overturn the system that is brutalizing rather than helping and uplifting mankind. Yours for Peace, Justice, Truth, Law, Mary Angelica God. What were you going to do with such a woman? Peter could understand the bewilderment of his honor and of the district attorney's office

and of the secret service department of the Traction Trust, as well as of Mrs. God's husband. Peter was bewildered himself. What was the use of his coming out here to get more information when Mrs. God had already committed contempt of court and writing, and had given all the information there was to give to a federal agent?

She had told this man that she had contributed several thousand dollars to the People's Council and that she intended to contribute more. She had put up bail for a whole bunch of Reds and pacifists, and she intended to put up bail for McCormick and his friends just as soon as the corrupt capitalist courts had been forced to admit them to bail.

I know McCormick well, and he's a lovely boy," she said. I don't believe he had anything more to do with dynamite bombs than I have. Now all this time Peter had sat there, entirely under the spell of Mrs. God's opulence. Peter was dwelling among the Lotus Eaters and forgetting the world's strife and care. He was reclining on a silken couch, sipping nectar with the shining ones of Mount Olympus.

But now, suddenly, Peter was brought back to duty, as one wakes from a dream to the sound of an alarm clock. Mrs. God was a friend of Mac's. Mrs. God proposed to get Mac out on bail. Mac, the most dangerous Red of them all!

Peter saw that he must get something on this woman at once. Section 64 Peter sat up suddenly among his silken cushions, and began to tell Mrs. God about the new plan of the Anti-Conscription League, to prepare a set of instructions for young conscientious objectors.

Peter represented the purpose of these instructions to be the advising of young men as to their legal and constitutional rights. But it was McGivney's idea that Peter should slip into the instructions some phrase advising the young men to refuse military duty. If this were printed and circulated, it would render every member of the Anti-Conscription

League liable to a sentence of 10 or 20 years in jail. McGivney had warned Peter to be very cautious about this, but again Peter found that there was no need of caution. Mrs. God was perfectly willing to advise young men to refuse military service. She had advised many such, she said, including her own sons, who unfortunately agreed with

their father in being bloodthirsty. It came to be lunchtime, and Mrs. God asked if Peter could sit at table, and Peter's curiosity got the better of all caution. He wanted to see the God family sipping their nectar out of golden cups. He wondered, would the disapproving husband and the bloodthirsty sons be present?

There was nobody present but an elderly woman companion, and Peter did not see any golden cups. But he saw some fine china, so fragile that he was afraid to touch it, and he saw a row of silver implements, so heavy that it gave him a surprise each time he picked one up. Also, he saw foods prepared in strange and complicated ways, so chopped up and covered

with sauces that it was literally true he couldn't give the name of a single thing he had eaten except the buttered toast. He was inwardly quaking with embarrassment during this meal, but he saved himself by Mrs. James's formula, to watch and see what the others were doing, and then do likewise. Each time a new course was brought, Peter would wait, and when he saw Mrs. God pick

up a certain fork or a certain spoon, he would pick up the same one, or as near to it as he could guess. He could put his whole mind on this, because he didn't have to do any talking. Mrs. God poured out a steady stream of sedition and high treason, and all Peter had to do was to listen and nod.

Mrs. God would understand that his mouth was too full for utterance. After the luncheon, they went out on the broad veranda, which overlooked a magnificent landscape. The hostess got Peter settled in a soft porch chair with many cushions, and then waved her hand toward the view of the city with its haze of thick black smoke. That's where my wage slaves toiled to earn my dividends, said she.

They're supposed to stay there, in their place, as it's called, and I stay here in my place. If they want to change places, it's called revolution, and that is violence. What I marvel at is that they use so little violence, and feel so little. Look at those men being tortured in jail. Could anyone blame them if they used violence, or if they made an effort to escape?

That suggested a swift, stabbing idea to Peter. Suppose Mrs. God could be induced to help in a jail delivery. It might be possible to help them to escape, he suggested. Do you think so? asked Mrs. God, showing excitement for the first time during that interview. It might be, said Peter.

Those jailers are not above taking bribes, you know. I met nearly all of them while I was in that jail, and I think I might get in touch with one or two that could be paid. Would you like me to try it? Well, I don't know, began the lady, as a little girl.

Do you really think? You know, they never ought to have been put in at all, Peter interjected. That's certainly true, declared Mrs. God. And if they could escape without hurting anyone, if they didn't have to fight the jailers, it wouldn't do any real harm.

That was as far as Peter got with his impromptu conspiracy. Suddenly he heard a voice behind him. What does this mean? It was a male voice, fierce and trembling with anger. And Peter started from his silken cushions and glanced around, thrusting up one arm with

the defensive gesture of a person who has been beaten since earliest childhood. Bearing down on him was a man. Possibly he was not an abnormally big man, but certainly he looked so to Peter. His smooth shaven face was pink with anger, his brows gathered in a terrible frown and his hands clenched with deadly significance.

You dirty little skunk, he hissed. You infernal young sneak. John, cried Mrs. God, imperiously. But she might as well have cried to an advancing thunderstorm. The man made a leap upon Peter, and Peter, who had dodged many hundreds of blows in his

lifetime, rolled off the lounging chair and leaped to his feet and started for the stairs of the veranda. The man was right behind him, and as Peter reached the first stair the man's foot shot out and caught Peter fairly in the seat of his trousers, and the first stair was the only one of the ten or twelve stairs of the veranda that Peter touched in his descent.

Landing at the bottom, he did not stop even for a glance. He could hear the snorting of Mr. God. It seemed right behind his ear, and Peter ran down the driveway as he had seldom run in his life before. Every now and then Mr. God would shoot out another kick, but he had to stop slightly

to do this, and Peter gained just enough to keep the kicks from reaching him. So at last the pursuer gave up, and Peter dashed through the gates of the God estate and onto the main highway. Then he looked over his shoulder, and seeing that Mr. God was a safe distance away, he stopped and turned and shook his clenched fist with the menace of a street rat, shrieking,

Damn you! Damn you! A whirlwind of impotent rage laid hold upon him. He shouted more curses and menaces, and among them some strange, some almost incredible words.

Yes, I'm a Red, damn your soul, and I'll stay a Red! Yes, Peter Gudge, the friend of law and order, Peter Gudge, the little brother to the rich, shouted, I'm a Red, and what's more, we'll blow you up some day for this. Mack and Meal put a bomb under you! Mr. God turned and stalked with contemptuous dignity back to his own private domestic controversy.

Peter walked off down the road, rubbing his sore trousers and sobbing to himself. Yes, Peter understood now exactly how the Reds felt. Here were these rich parasites, exploiting the labor of working men and living off in palaces by themselves. And what had they done to earn it?

What would they ever do for the poor man except to despise him and to kick him in the seat of his trousers? They were a set of willful brutes. Peter suddenly saw the happenings of last night from a new angle, and wished he had all the younger members of the Chamber of Commerce and the Merchants and Manufacturers

Association right there along with Mr. God so that he could bundle them all off to the devil at once. And that was no passing mood, either. The seat of Peter's trousers hurt so that he could hardly endure the trolley ride home, and all the way Peter was plotting how he could punish Mr. God.

He remembered suddenly that Mr. God was an associate of Nell Sacrament, and Peter now had a spy in Nell Sacrament's home, and was preparing some kind of a frame-up. Peter would see if he couldn't find some way to start a dynamite conspiracy against Mr. God. He would start a campaign against Mr. God in the radical movement, and maybe he could

find some way to get a bunch of the Wobblies to carry him off, and tie him up, and beat him with a black snake whip. End of sections 63 and 64.