menu_book Chapter 10

XXXIV In companies such as this, Peter's education for the role of detective was completed by force, as it were. He listened to everything, and while he did not dare make any notes, he stored away treasures in his mind, and when he came out of the jail he was able to give McGivney a pretty complete

picture of the various radical organizations in American city and the attitude of each one toward the war. Peter found that McGivney's device had worked perfectly. Peter was now a martyr and a hero. His position as one of the left-wingers was definitely established, and anyone who ventured

to say a word against him would be indignantly rebuked. As a matter of fact, no one desired to say much. Pat McCormick was out on an organizing trip among the oil workers. Duggan had apparently taken a fancy to Peter and took him to meet some of his friends who lived in an old deserted warehouse which happened to have skylights in the roof.

This constituted each room a studio, and various radicals rented the rooms and lived here a sort of picnic existence which Peter learned was called Bohemian. They were young people, most of them, with one or two old fellows, derelicts. They wore flannel shirts and soft ties, or no ties at all, and their fingers were always smeared with paint.

Their life requirements were simple. All they wanted was an unlimited quantity of canvas and paint, some cigarettes, and at long intervals a pickle or some sauerkraut and a bottle of beer. They would sit all day in front of an easel painting the most inconceivable pictures, pink skies and green-faced women and purple grass and fantastic splurges of colour which

they would call anything from the woman with a mustard pot to a nude coming downstairs. And there would be others like Duggan writing verses all day, pounding away on a typewriter if they could manage to rent or borrow one. There were several who sang, and one who played the flute and caused all the others to tear their hair.

There was a boy fresh from the country who declared that he had run away from home because the family sang hymns all day Sunday and never sang in tune. From people such as these you would hear the most revolutionary utterances, but Peter soon realised that it was mostly just talk with them. They would work off their frenzies with a few dashes of paint or some ferocious chords

on the piano. The really dangerous ones were not here. They were hidden away in offices or dens of their own, where they were prompting strikes and labour agitations and preparing incendiary literature to be circulated among the poor. You met such people in the socialist local and in the IWW headquarters and in numerous

clubs and propaganda societies which Peter investigated and to which he was welcomed as a member. In the socialist local there was a fierce struggle going on over the war. What should be the attitude of the party? There was a group, a comparatively small group, which believed that the interests of socialism

would be best served by helping the Allies to overthrow the Kaiser. There was another group, larger and still more determined, which believed that the war was a conspiracy of allied capitalism to rivet its power upon the world, and this group wanted the party to stake its existence upon a struggle against American participation. These two groups contested for the minds of the rank and file of the members, who seemed

to be bewildered by the magnitude of the issue and the complexity of the arguments. Peter's orders were to go with the extreme anti-militarists. They were the ones whose confidence he wished to gain, also they were the troublemakers of the movement, and McGivney's instructions were to make all the trouble possible. Over at the IWW headquarters was another group whose members were debating their attitude

to the war. Should they call strikes and try to cripple the leading industries of the country? Or should they go quietly on with their organization work, certain that in the end the workers would sicken of the military adventure into which they were being snared? Some of these wobblies were socialist party members also, and were active in both gatherings.

Two of them, Henderson the lumberjack and Gus Lindstrom the sailor, had been in jail with Peter and had been among his intimates ever since. Also Peter met the pacifists, the people's council as they called themselves. Many of these were religious people, two or three clergymen and Donald Gordon the Quaker, and a varied assortment of women.

Sentimental young girls who shrunk from the thought of bloodshed, and mothers with tear-stained cheeks who did not want their darlings to be drafted. Peter saw right away that these mothers had no conscientious objections. Each mother was thinking about her own son and about nothing else. Peter was irritated at this, and took it for his special job to see that those mother's

darlings did their duty. He attended a gathering of pacifists in the home of a school teacher. They made heartbreaking speeches, and finally little Ada Ruth, the poetess, got up and wanted to know, was it all to end in talk, or would they organize and prepare to take some action against the draft?

Would they not at least go out on the street, get up a parade with banners of protest, and go to jail as comrade Peter Gudge had so nobly done? Comrade Peter was called on for a few words. Comrade Peter explained that he was no speaker, after all, actions spoke louder than words, and he had tried to show what he believed.

The others were made ashamed by this and decided for a bold stand at once. Ada Ruth became president and Donald Gordon secretary of the Anti-Conscription League, a list of whose charter members was turned over to McGivney the same evening. Section 35 All this time the country had been going to war.

The huge military machine was getting underway, the storm of public feeling was rising. Others had voted a huge loan, a country-wide machine of propaganda was being organized, and the oratory of four-minute men was echoing from Maine to California. Peter read the American City Times every morning, and here were speeches of statesmen and sermons of clergymen.

Here were cartoons and editorials, all burning with the fervors of patriotism. Peter absorbed these and his soul became transfigured. Hitherto Peter had been living for himself, but there comes a time in the life of every man who can use his brain at all when he realizes that he is not the one thing of importance in the universe, the one end to be served.

Peter very often suffered from qualms of conscience, waves of doubt as to his own righteousness. Peter like every other soul that ever lived, needed a religion, an ideal. The Reds had a religion, as you might call it, but this religion had failed to attract Peter. In the first place it was low.

Its devotees were wholly lacking in the graces of life, in prestige, and that ease which comes with assurance of power. They were noisy in their fervors and repelled Peter as much as the holy rollers. Also, they were always harping upon the sordid and painful facts of life. Who but a pervert would listen to sob stories when he might have all the things that are

glorious and shining and splendid in the world. But now here was the religion Peter wanted. These clergymen in their robes of snow-white linen, preaching in churches with golden altars and stained glass windows. These statesmen who wore the halo of fame and went about with the cheering of thousands

in their ears. These mighty captains of industry whose very names were magic, with power when written on pieces of paper to cause cities to rise in the desert and then to fall again beneath a rain of shells and poison gas. These editors and cartoonists of the American City Times with all their wit and learning.

These people all combined to construct for Peter a religion and an ideal, and to hand it out to him ready-made and precisely fitted to his understanding. Peter would go right on doing the things he had been doing before, but he would no longer do them in the name of Peter Gudge, the Ant. He would do them in the name of a mighty nation of 110 million people with all its priceless

memories of the past and its infinite hopes for the future. He would do them in the sacred name of patriotism and the still more sacred name of democracy. And most convenient of circumstances, the big businessmen of American City who had established a secret service bureau with Guffy in charge of it would go right on putting up their funds and paying Peter $50 a week and expenses while he served the Holy Cause.

It was the fashion these days for orators and public men to vie with one another in expressing the extremes of patriotism and Peter would read these phrases and cherish them. They came to seem a part of him. He felt as if he had invented them.

He became greedy for more and yet more of this soul food and there was always more to be had until Peter's soul was become swollen, puffed up as with the bellows. Peter became a patriot of patriots, a super patriot. Peter was a red-blooded American and no mollycoddle. Peter was a he-American, a 100% American.

And if there could have been such a thing as a 101% American, Peter would have been that. Peter was so much of an American that the very sight of a foreigner filled him with a fighting impulse. As for the Reds, well, Peter groped for quite a time before he finally came upon a formula

which expressed his feelings. It was a famous clergyman who achieved it for him, saying that if he could have his way, he would take all the Reds and put them in a ship of stone with sails of lead and send them forth with hell for their destination. So Peter chafed more and more at his inability to get action.

How much more evidence did the Secret Service of the Traction Trust require? Peter would ask this question of McGivney again and again and McGivney would answer, Keep your shirt on. You're getting your pay every week. What's the matter with you?

The matter is, I'm tired of listening to these fellows ranting, Peter would say. I want to stop their mouths. Yes, Peter had come to take it as a personal affront that these radicals should go on denouncing the cause which Peter had espoused. They all thought of Peter as a comrade.

They were most friendly to him. But Peter had the knowledge of how they would regard him when they knew the real truth and this imagined contempt burned him like an acid. Sometimes there would be talk about spies and informers and then these people would exhaust the vocabulary of abuse and Peter of course would apply every word of it to

himself and become wild with anger. He would long to answer back. He was waiting for the day when he might vindicate himself and his cause by smashing these reds in the mouth. Well, said McGivney one day, I've got something interesting for you now.

You're going into high society for a while. And the rat-faced man explained that there was a young man in a neighbouring city reputed to be a multi-millionaire who had written a book against the war and was the financial source of much pacifism and sedition. These people are spending lots of money for printing, said McGivney, and we hear this

fellow Lackman is putting it up. We've learned that he is to be in town tomorrow and we want you to find out all about his affairs. So Peter was to meet a millionaire. Peter had never known one of these fortunate beings, but he was for them.

He had always been for them. Ever since he had learned to read, he had liked to find stories about them in the newspapers with pictures of them and their palaces. He had read these stories as a child reads fairy tales. They were his creatures of dreams belonging to a world above reality, above pain and inconvenience.

And then in the days when Peter had been a servant in the temple of Jim Jambo, devoted to the cult of a Lutheranian exoticism, he had found hanging in the main assembly room a picture labelled Mount Olympus, showing a dozen gods and goddesses reclining at ease on silken couches, sipping nectar from golden goblets and gazing down upon the far-off troubles of the world.

Peter would peer from behind the curtains and see the chief Magistrian emerging from behind the seven mystic veils, lifting his rolling voice and in a kind of chant expounding life to his flock of adoring society ladies. He would point to the picture and explain those golden Olympian days when the Lutheranian cult had originated.

The world had changed much since then, and for the worse. Those who had power must take it as their task to restore beauty and splendour to the world and to develop the gracious possibilities of being. Peter of course hadn't really believed in anything that went on in the temple of Jim Jambo, and yet he had been awed by its richness and by the undoubtedly exclusive character

of its worshippers. He had got the idea definitely fixed in his head that there really had been a Mount Olympus, and when he tried to imagine the millionaires and their ways, it was these gods and goddesses reclining on silken couches and sipping nectar that came to his mind. Now since Peter had come to know the Reds, who wanted to blow up the palaces of the millionaires,

he was more than ever on the side of his gods and goddesses. His fervours for them increased every time he heard them assailed. He wanted to meet some of them and passionately, yet respectfully, pour out to them his allegiance. A glow of satisfaction came over him as he pictured himself in some palace, lounging upon a silken couch and explaining to a millionaire his understanding of the value of beauty and

splendour in the world. And now he was to meet one. It was to be a part of his job to cultivate one. True, there was something wrong with this particular millionaire. He was one of those freaks who for some reason beyond imagining gave their sympathy to the

dynamiters and assassins. Peter had met parlour Reds at the home of the Todd Sisters, the large shining ladies who came in large shining cars to hear him tell of his jail experiences. But he hadn't been sure as to whether they were really millionaires or not, and Sadie, when he had inquired particularly, had answered vaguely that everyone in the radical movement

who could afford an automobile or a dress suit was called a millionaire by the newspapers. But young Lachman was a real millionaire, McGivney positively assured him, and so Peter was free to admire him in spite of all his freak ideas, which the rat-faced man explained with intense amusement. Young Lachman conducted a school for boys, and when one of the boys did wrong, the teacher

would punish himself instead of the boy. Peter must pretend to be interested in this kind of education, said McGivney, and he must learn at least the names of Lachman's books. What will he pay any attention to me? demanded Peter.

Sure he will, said McGivney. That's the point. You've been in jail. You've really done something as a pacifist. What you want to do is try to interest him in your anti-conscription league.

Tell him you want to make it into a national organization. You want to get something done besides talking. The address of young Lachman was the Hotel De Soto, and as he heard this, Peter's heart gave a leap. The Hotel De Soto was the Mount Olympus of American City.

Peter had walked by the vast white structure and seen the bronze doors swing outward and the favored ones of the earth emerging to their magic chariots, but never had it occurred to him that he might pass through those bronze doors and gaze upon those hidden mysteries. Will they let me in? he asked McGivney, and the other laughed.

Just walk in as if you own the place, he said. Hold up your head and pretend you've lived there all your life. That was easy for McGivney to say, but not so easy for Peter to imagine. However, he would try it. McGivney must be right, for it was the same thing Mrs. James had impressed upon him many

times. You must watch what other people did, and practice by yourself, and then go in and do it as if you had never done anything else. All life was a gigantic bluff, and you encouraged yourself by bluffing by the certainty that everybody else was bluffing just as hard.

At seven o'clock that evening Peter strolled up to the magic bronze doors and touched them, and sure enough the blue uniformed guardians drew them back without a word, and the tiny brass button imps never even glanced at Peter as he strode up to the desk and asked for Mr. Lackman. The haughty clerk passed him on to a still more haughty telephone operator, who condescended

to speak into her trumpet, and then informed him that Mr. Lackman was out. He had left word that he would return at eight. Peter was about to go out and wander about the streets for an hour, when he suddenly remembered that everybody else was bluffing. So he marched across the lobby and seated himself in one of the huge leather armchairs,

big enough to hold three of him. There he sat, and continued to sit, and nobody said a word. Section 37 Yes, this was Mount Olympus, and here were the gods, the female ones in a state of divine semi-nudity, the male ones mostly clad in black coats with pleated shirt-fronts puffing

out. Every time one of them moved up to the desk, Peter would watch and wonder, Was this Mr. Lackman? He might have been able to pick out a millionaire from an ordinary crowd, but here every male god was got up for the precise purpose of looking like a millionaire.

So Peter's job was an impossible one. In front of him across the lobby floor there arose a ten-foot pillar to a far distant roof. This pillar was of green streaked marble, and Peter's eyes followed it to the top, where it exploded in a snow-white cloud burst full of fascination. There were four cornucopias, one at each corner, and out of each cornucopia came tangled ropes

of roses, and out of these roses came other ropes with what appeared to be apples and leaves and still more roses, and still more emerging ropes, spreading in a tangle over the ceiling. Here and there in the midst of all this splendor was the large placidly smiling face of a boy angel.

Four of these placidly smiling boy angels gazed from the four sides of the snow-white cloud burst, and Peter's eye roamed from one to another fascinated by the mathematics of this architectural marvel. There were fourteen columns in a row and four such rows in the lobby. That made fifty-six columns in all, or two hundred and twenty-four boy angels' heads.

How many cornucopias and how many roses and how many apples it meant defied all calculation. The boy angels' heads were exactly alike, every head with the same size and quality of smile, and Peter marveled, how many days would it take a sculptor to carve the details of two hundred and twenty-four boy angels' smiles. All over the Hotel De Soto was this same kind of sumptuous magnificence, and Peter experienced

the mental effect which it was contrived to produce upon him, a sense of bedazzlement and awe, a realization that those who dwelt in the midst of this splendor were people to whom money was nothing, who could pour out treasures in a never-ceasing flood, and everything else about the place was of the same character, contrived for the same effect. Even the gods and the goddesses.

One would sweep by with a chariot of jewels in her hair, you might amuse yourself by figuring out the number of jewels, as you figured out the number of boy angels' heads. Or you might take her gown of black lace, embroidered with golden butterflies, every one patiently done by hand. You might figure, so many yards of material and so many golden butterflies to the yard.

You might count the number of sparkling points upon her jet slippers, or trace the intricate designs upon her almost transparent stockings. Only there was an inch or two of the stockings which you could not see. Peter watched these gorgeous divinities emerge from the elevators and sweep their way into the dining-room beyond.

Some people might have been shocked by their costumes, but to Peter, who had the picture of Mount Olympus in mind, they seemed most proper. It all depended on the point of view. Whether you thought of a goddess as fully clothed from chin to toes, and proceeded with a pair of shears to cut away so much of her costume, or whether you imagined the goddess

in a state of nature and proceeded to put veils of gauze about her, and a ribbon over each shoulder to hold the veils in place. Twice Peter went to the desk to inquire if Mr. Lackman had come in yet, but still he had not come, and Peter, growing bolder like the fox who spoke to the lion, strolled about the lobby gazing at the groups of gods at ease.

He had noticed a great balcony around all four sides of the lobby, the mezzanine floor as it was called. He decided he would see what was up there and climbed the white marble stairs and beheld more rows of chairs and couches done in dark grey velvet. Here evidently was where the female gods came to linger, and Peter seated himself as unobtrusively

as possible and watched. Directly in front of him sat a divinity lolling on a velvet couch with one bare white arm stretched out. It was a large stout arm, and the possessor was large and stout, with pale golden hair and many sparkling jewels.

Her glance roamed lazily from place to place. It rested for an instant on Peter and then moved on, and Peter felt the comment upon his own insignificance. Nevertheless, he continued to steal glances now and then and presently saw an interesting sight.

In her lap this Juno had a gold embroidered bag, and she opened it, disclosing a collection of mysterious apparatus of which she proceeded to make use. First a little gold hand-mirror in which she studied her charms, then a little white powder puff with which she deftly tapped her nose and cheeks, then some kind of red pencil with which she proceeded to rub her lips, then a golden pencil with which she lightly touched

her eyebrows, then it seemed as if she must have discovered a little hair which had grown since she left her dressing-room. Peter couldn't be sure, but she had a little pair of tweezers and seemed to pull something out of her chin. She went on with quite an elaborate and complicated toilet, paying meantime not the slightest

attention to the people passing by. Peter looked farther and saw that just as when one person sneezes or yawns, everybody else in the room is irresistibly impelled to sneeze or yawn. So all these Dianas and Junos and Hebes on the mezzanine floor had suddenly remembered their little gold or silver hand-mirrors, their powder puffs, and red or gold or black

pencils. One after another the little vanity bags came forth and Peter, gazing in wonder, thought that Mount Olympus had turned into a beauty-parlor. Peter rose again and strolled and watched the goddesses, big and little, old and young, fat and thin, pretty and ugly, and it seemed to him the fatter and older and uglier they

were, the more intently they gazed into the little hand-mirrors. He watched them with hungry eyes, for he knew that here he was in the midst of high life, the real thing, the utmost glory to which man could ever hope to attain, and he wanted to know all there was to know about it. He strolled on, innocent and unsuspecting, and the two hundred and twenty-four white

boy angels in the ceiling smiled their bland and placid smiles at him, and Peter knew no more than they what complications fate had prepared for him on that mezzanine floor. On one of the big lounges there sat a girl, a radiant creature from the emerald isles, with hair like sunrise and cheeks like apples. Peter took one glance at her, and his heart missed three successive beats, and then, to

make up for lost time, he began leaping like a runaway race-horse. He could hardly believe what his eyes told him, but his eyes insisted, his eyes knew. Yes, his eyes had gazed for hours and hours on end, upon that hair like sunrise and those cheeks like apples. The girl was Nell, the chambermaid from the temple of Jim Jambo.

She had not looked Peter's way, so there was time for him to start back and hide himself behind a pillar. There he stood peering out and watching her profile, still arguing with his eyes. It couldn't be Nell. And yet it was.

Nell transfigured. Nell translated to Olympus, turned into a goddess with a pale grey band about her middle, and a pale grey ribbon over each shoulder to hold it in place. Nell reclining at ease and chatting vivaciously to a young man with the face of a bulldog and the dinner jacket of a magazine advertisement.

Peter gazed and waited while his heart went on misbehaving. Peter learned in those few fearful minutes what real love is, a most devastating force. Little Jenny was forgotten, Mrs. James, the grass widow, was forgotten, and Peter knew that he had never really admired but one woman in the world, and that was Nell, the Irish chambermaid of the temple of Jim Jambo.

The poets have seen fit to represent young love as a mischievous little archer with a sharp and penetrating arrow, and now Peter understood what they had meant. That arrow had pierced him through, and he had to hold on to the column to keep himself from falling. End of sections 34-37