Chapter 53
Timothy Dineen had kept Joseph well informed and up-to-date on Rory's publicity tours throughout the country, via newspaper clippings, ( editorials, Rory's speeches and the public reaction to them. Rory, himself, had coined a phrase: "The New Vision." It had taken the fancy of tens of thousands of people. The New Vision was all things to all men. If some caviled at this or that, they approved of other areas. The employer of many little children in mills and factories might purse his lips at Rory's demand that children not be exploited "for gain and small wages and deprived of their childhood and education." On the other hand that employer was appeased by Rory's fiery exhortations against "governmental interference," growing ominous lately, in the realm of private enterprise. "Private enterprise has made us a great and prosperous country, for individual judgment is superior to the conclusions of cloistered bureaucrats." He denounced the Trusts, and on the other hand he defended the right of companies to merge "so that they may operate efficiently, increase employment, set standards that are just to the employed and the employers, widen markets so that all Americans can participate in a growing era of mechanization and luxury, advance foreign trade and compete in world markets." He expressed sorrow at the "huge Tariffs which deny Americans foreign goods," and then he would suggest that Tariffs be lowered so that cheaper foreign goods would be accessible to the people at large. He laughed at the idea that lower-cost foreign products would put American workmen out of jobs. "Aren't our American workmen superior in skill and productiveness to foreigners?" He teased, cajoled, laughed audiences out of ill-humor and suspicion, was serious and sober and light by terms, depending on the temper of those he addressed-and he always knew in advance. He was controversial only when those who listened to him were controversial and agreed with him. He was pacific or denunciatory, abusive or placating, as the occasion called for, and his natural intelligence informed him what to say. He always concluded in this fashion: If nominated and elected by his Party he would not hide from his people in the White House. He would be open to all suggestions, "even from the most humble." In fact, he invited suggestions from workers and farmers. "All would be given the utmost and dedicated consideration. After all, aren't you the bedrock of America? Whose opinions are more valid?" He never failed to end with a passionate appeal to patriotism, national honor, and power. The band that accompanied him everywhere would follow his last words with a joyous-and loud-flourish of trumpets, and a military march, preferably one by Sousa. Rory always said, "I appeal to the Conscience of the American People. I rely on their sound judgment, no matter their religion or position in society. I appeal to no Special Interests, or Groups. I am an American." They were the words of a born politician. Only Rory knew that he meant them. It was not odd, considering human nature, that this sincerity had less weight than his adroit half-falsehoods, his appeal to local prejudices, his wooing of those he despised, his evasiveness, and his deliberate use of his innate charm and handsome appearance. For when he spoke sincerely he was too simple. When he used his actor's rococo dissimulation he was far more believable. Americans loved to be told that they had pre-eminence in the world of today, though Rory knew quite well that America was still a second- class country, unsophisticated, naive, innocent, childlike, the butt of the jokes of the British and Austria-Hungarian and German empires, the derision of France. She was as immured from reality as was the lowering Russian Empire and its Oriental splendor and lingering despotism. Americans knew little of Europe, but Europe knew a disastrous lot about America. He knew that when he had been a child in school the British had been hated vociferously, and always suspected and lampooned in the American press. To some politicians it might have been strange-as it was-that in very recent years the British were no longer so compulsively loathed. But Rory knew. The "hands across the sea" had been invented by the Committee for Foreign Studies, at the behest of their colleagues in all the European capitals. He also knew why, for his father had told him. I wonder, by God I do, what would happen if I told the American people the truth, Rory would think to himself, with deep wry humor. But he knew that no politician ever told the people the truth. He would be crucified. The people wanted fantasies and flatteries and dreams and excitements , and color. There was one thing on which Rory was determined: If he were to be elected President, America would not be engaged in foreign wars. ( But of that he did not even tell his father. Rory knew when to hold his , tongue which unfortunately Joseph did not always know. Rory had no history behind him of starvation, exploitation, hatred, homelessness and I oppression, and so he could easily refrain from lashing out at dangerous moments. Once Joseph had said to him, "It is said that the happiest nations are those who have no history. That is true of individual men, t also." Rory had guessed the implications of that more than his father knew f or understood. Joseph had manifold drives, many of them deeply and ^ profoundly emotional. Rory had but one drive, not rooted in emotion . but in reason and exigency. He could even be objective about the Committee for Foreign Studies. He courted it and deferred to it charmingly and obediently. He used its material. He thought he had deluded it. He received a telegram from his father when he was in Chicago. Rory and Timothy Dineen were to meet with Joseph in Green Hills before the speeches and appearances in Boston. The telegram was urgent if terse. Rory raised his eyebrows at Timothy, and Timothy shrugged. "Old Joe must have some information we don't have," he said. So they went to Green Hills. Joseph had told Timothy something about the Committee for Foreign Studies, and here he had been discreet for even Timothy must not know too much. But Timothy guessed a great deal with his Irish intuition. He had "felt" a certain subterranean stir in the world, a certain heightening and obscure and hidden movement. The resentment against "the rich" in America had always been there, born of envy and inferiority and failure, just as it was naturally prevalent in other countries. That prejudice had given rise to the war "against the Trusts." (Timothy knew that the Trusts were not disturbed by this.) It was all talk, all propaganda, designed to soothe the envies of the proletariat and make them amenable. But now there was a quickening against "the powers that be." There were the Populists, the "Wobblies," the I. W. W., and now the Socialists, who had elected a number of men, especially from the Middle West, to Congress and the Senate. Timothy did not believe in "natural trends." He knew such trends were always carefully and deliberately invented and manipulated by anonymous and faceless men. If there was growing Socialism in America it had not happened by itself. It had been intruded delicately, and successfully, for a purpose which was still obscure, though Timothy had some thoughts on the subject. He had mentioned them idly to Joseph, but Joseph's face had remained carefully noncommittal. "Don't look for bogeymen," he told Timothy. "Don't search under your bed of a night." He had smiled dourly. Rory and Timothy met with Joseph in Joseph's study, all doors closed, all voices quietly modulated. Rory, who had not seen his father for some time, remarked to himself how the Old Boy had not been diminished in his almost visible aura of potency and power, focus and implacable strength. He had suffered not only the loss of two beloved children, and his best friends, and the earlier loss of his brother and sister: He had had to endure the loss of his mistress whom Rory suspected had had more of his father's love than even his children. Yet, if he suffered the bright and inextinguishable agony of loss, which could never really be dulled, he did not show it as he greeted his last son and Timothy. He was as quiet and as contained as usual, and as direct, as undramatic and as ruthless. The first thing Rory noticed on entering his father's study was the "arsenal" on Joseph's desk. He knew his father kept guns but he had never known Joseph to wear one. Timothy looked at the array of very modern pistols on the desk but did not remark on them. He appeared to accept them as ordinary. There were a dozen of them. There were brandy and whiskey and beer laid out. Joseph waved his hand at them, and at the glasses. Rory and Timothy, suddenly subdued- and always eying the arsenal-filled glasses. Then Joseph filled one for himself, and squirted soda into it. This was most
unusual. Joseph, to their knowledge, rarely drank. "I wouldn't have called you here if it weren't necessary," said Joseph.
"By the way, Tim, you are a genius. The way you have handled Rory's appearances has been masterly." Timothy, white-haired and stocky though he was now, blushed like a young boy. "Joe, we Irish are born politicians. We have an instinct for it. It doesn't call for too much effort, you know. We love it. It's our climate." He toasted Joseph and his eyes were affectionate. "I think we will win in the primaries," he said, "and so the Party will have to take due notice. We've had a little trouble here and there with County Chairmen and State Chairmen-always jealous of their tiny powers-but we-ah-over-' came them. The picture gets clearer and clearer all the time." "Thanks to money," said Joseph. Timothy momentarily looked pained. One knew these things but was it always necessary to mention them? Joseph's irony was sometimes misplaced and unsettling. Then Timothy laughed, and Rory laughed with him. "Even Our Lord would not be heard nowadays unless He had a good Press," said Timothy. Timothy did not always understand Joseph. Yet he did understand the sudden darkening on Joseph's face, the sudden instant withdrawal, which were the result of ingrained Irish prudery, and a hatred-even inJoseph, if unsuspected-of blasphemy. Rory considerately studied his glass. Timothy was abashed. He felt his own crudeness, though he had heard worse among other men. The three Irishmen were silent for a while. "Sad but true," said Timothy at last, and knew he was forgiven, and it amused his Irish irony. An Irishman might declare-and with full personal conviction-that he was "no docile son of the Church," and that he was an atheist and thought "tradition" amusing. He might declare himself emancipated from "priestly superstition." But let even a faintly blasphemous word be uttered, a single deprecation of that which was held holy by most men, and the atheistic Irishman bristled as if just that morning he had made his confession and had received, though probably he had not done this since childhood. It was not a matter of mere teaching. It was a matter of the spirit, to revere the unknowable, to give it silent honor even if the mouth declared it deserved no honor. It made even the church- less Irishman fight to the death against English iconoclasts and military might. Joseph began to talk. "What I must tell you now could be extremely dangerous if anyone outside this room knew of it. I repeat, it could be very dangerous, even fatal. So listen carefully. He told them of his meeting with the Committee for Foreign Studies. Rory listened alertly, with all his concentration. Timothy listened and thought: I suspected what they were, all the time, in spite of Joe's offhand remarks. The hot last sun of summer poured through the windows, as tawny as a lion's pelt, and it shifted imperceptibly as Joseph spoke. Rory and Timothy asked no questions. They said nothing, demanded no clarification. They knew. Lawnmowers clattered outside. There was a distant opening and closing of doors. The trees outside glittered as a breeze stirred them. The draperies at the windows inhaled and exhaled. There was a smell of cut grass, nostalgic and sweet, and the aromatic odor of dust and chrysanthemums. From far away a locomotive howled, melancholy and saddening. Bernadette had begun to play her favorite piano in the music room. She was one who liked the modern music, and her favorite was "Alexander's Ragtime Band." But now she was playing a sonata of Beethoven's, and the strong if mournful notes pervaded the atmosphere like a premonition, like an evocation of things past and things to come. For some reason that music disturbed Rory more than what his father was telling him. For all at once, incongruous, not relevant, he saw Marjorie Chisholm's face, and could not understand why it should come into his grave awareness now, for he had not thought of Marjorie acutely for more than a year. Then Rory said, as his father stopped speaking, "So, I am now unacceptable to them. I would be unacceptable even eight years from now. They want Wilson-that innocent!-who will tamely dance to their music, even if he doesn't know it is their music. They are afraid I wouldn't. How they guessed, I don't know." Joseph said, fixing his small blue eyes on his son: "What do you mean? 'Guessed?' Is there something you haven't told me?" Rory said quickly, "I am just conjecturing. I feel they would be doubtful of my-compliance. They ought not to worry. You've read my speeches. I know they've read them too." He hated himself for that slip of his tongue. He smiled at his father ingratiatingly. "I've never been there without you. Have I said anything 'wrong' to them?" "No," said Joseph, but he continued to eye his son. "It seems incredible to me," said Timothy, "that men in London, Paris, Rome, Geneva, and God knows where else, can decide who is acceptable as an American President!" Joseph gave him a flashing and contemptuous glance, as if an infant had babbled without knowing what he had babbled. He said to Rory, "So, there it is. In 1885 Wilson attacked congressional 'power,' as he called it, with contempt and aristocratic disdain, when he taught at Bryn Mawr. In his subsequent collegiate career he 'democratized' learning and spoke of 'serious readjustments in national government.' What that had to do with academic learning and teaching-for which he was paid-no one has as yet questioned. He has intimated at all times that the American Constitution is 'outmoded,' or at least needs to be 'reformed.' He is an open enemy of conservatism, though he has not yet stated what conservatism is, except that he apparently fears it is rule by the people and therefore despicable. Champ Clark and Underwood, of our Party, laugh at him, but I hear he has William Jennings Bryan, that clown, behind him. Wilson knows no more of human nature than do the dogs we have around this house. He has eclectic notions, all rainbowed, and all unrealistic. Wilson talks of a 'national renaissance of ideals,' but when it comes down to it he also talks vaguely of 'trusts and money interest and privileged Big Business.' Phrases. Words. The Party distrusts him. They don't like prissy fussbudgets, who don't know what the hell they are talking about, and they distrust large nebulous exhortations. All we know up to now is that he is and always was an immured man, and is totally unaware of practical' issues. Therefore, he will be amenable to suggestion, if it is high-flown in words and empty of real content. Therefore, he is the ideal choice of our-friends-we don't want men they suspect might think, and irritate them." "Do I understand that this is the first time they have moved in the direction of electing our Presidents?" asked Timothy. Joseph hesitated. "Well, they had something to do with Teddy, who suddenly realized-something-and so after that was not acceptable. This is their first bold move to elect an American President. They are putting* a lot of money behind Tail and Roosevelt, to divide and weaken the Republican Party and assure the election of Wilson. Tail is against removing the power of Congress to coin money, against-to some extent- a Federal income tax, and the direct election of senators. That was enough to assure enmity, and dismissal. So, they're backing Roosevelt, so Wilson will be elected. It is that simple. He is their man, because he will never know who pulls the strings. He will be surrounded by his fellow 'idealists,' all selected by the Committee." "Will it do any good for you, Joe, and Rory, to expose this?" Joseph looked at him incredulously. "Are you out of your mind? How many of the Democratic Party know anything of all this, anyway? They would laugh. So would the country. What! A quiet non-political Committee in New York determining who shall be elected or not elected? No one would believe it, true though it is. Americans love fantasies, but they are suspicious of any mention of 'plots.' They think it is 'foreign,' part of old monarchal institutions. Why, aren't Americans free men, free to ;» choose their Presidents? Don't they vote in primaries, and choose? The ^ fact that they are given few to choose from doesn't disturb them; they don't even think about it. They are persuaded that these men are 'the best theParty has to offer.' Democrat or Republican: They have no choice. For God's sake, Timothy, where have you been all these years, when you have been working for me?" "Touche," said Timothy, wincing. "If anyone told the American people that the Committee in New York- which is directed and ruled by the international bankers of Europe and America-chooses their rulers, they would say he was insane. Europe! Who cares for Europe, full of kings and czars? The new American arrogance is equal only to American naivete and ignorance. And these things are encouraged." Rory had listened in comparativ
e silence, frowning, bent forward over his glass. "All right, Pa," he said at last. "Do you want me to withdraw, and the hell with the country?" Joseph frowned deeply. "I don't know what you mean by 'the hell with the country.' What has the country got to do with it? I want you to be President of the United States. I will make you President of the United States. That's what I told them in New York. I will spend the last penny I have." He touched the guns on his desk. "I want you and Tim to carry one of these all the time. I want your immediate bodyguard to carry them, too." Rory sat back noisily in his chair and stared at his father in smiling disbelief, his eyes inverted crescents of laughing incredulity. "For God's sake, Pa, who would take a pot shot at me?" A heavy darkness spread over Joseph's face. He said, slowly and quietly, "I don't think you've really listened after all, nor listened in New York, London, Paris, Rome, Geneva. I think it was all wasted. You are as naive as the average American, I am sorry to say. Have you forgotten Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, all shot by those the newspapers called 'anarchists?' Did you think, as the newspapers said, that these murderers were insane zealots of something or other, and acted alone? Do you think these assassinations occurred in the tiny little minds of obscure little men, driven only by private individual passions? I thought you were taught better. The hand that fires the gun was directed from far away, perhaps in some European capital. When Czar Alexander was assassinated by an 'anarchist,' for God's sake, it was Communism which ordered it, and you've been told that a dozen times by me. It was planned months, years, before. He was a humane man intent on reforming and establishing the Duma and relieving the Russian people of tyranny and serfdom. So-he would remove the cause of catastrophic revolutions. So-he had to die. Christ! You knew that." " 'Elemental, my dear Watson,'" Timothy murmured, and looked hard at the guns. Rory studied his father. His ruddy color had diminished. He said, "Pa, if they want to get me, to kill me, they know they can surmount any guards or guns we have. They can kill me anywhere-if they want to. On the street, in halls, even in church, or in my bed." "Ah, so you've finally realized," said Joseph. "You've finally accepted what they are. But that doesn't mean they will 'get' you, as you say. I hate slang. Forewarned is forearmed. I don't think they will dare- They will only move very soon to discredit you, to make fun of you, to pour out more and more money for Wilson, to use propaganda against you. Your religion, for instance. Or, maybe not. There are millions of Catholics in America, of every race. They will find something, no doubt, besides guns. You aren't the President, yet. Still, we must be prepared. Rory, take one of those pistols. You've been taught how to fire." He remembered what Mr. Montrose had taught him. He said, "Never raise a gun unless you intend to shoot. Never shoot unless you intend to kill.": "Oh, Jesus," Rory muttered. But he took a compact heavy pistol and dropped it into his pocket. He felt foolish. But Timothy seriously studied the guns and finally selected one. Timothy looked straight at Joseph and said, "I will watch Rory every minute, Joe." "Good," said Joseph. He did a rare impulsive thing. He reached over shook hands with Timothy and Timothy reddened with pleasure. "And the bodyguard must have guns, too," said Joseph. He refilled his glass, and sipped at it slowly. "Tim, you might mention to, the bosses in Boston just exactly what that poor serious innocent of a Wilson is. Do they want a dreamer as President, who will disrupt the country? Do they want a man who will meddle in international affairs, to the detriment of America? I have prepared a whole dossier here, about him. Talk to the men in Boston. There are a lot of Irish there. They suspect high-flown idealists, men like Wilson. They don't like to be pushed. They suspect Europe. Without revealing your sources, you can have quiet talks with ; them. Hints. Raised eyebrows. Jokes. Ridicule. Have copies of this dossier made. Distribute them widely, before Rory speaks there." He looked at his son and Timothy with care. "No man wants to believe in the reality of grave issues. He wants to believe only in frivolous ones. We will try something unique. We will give the voters a grave issue, even if their instinct is to follow soap bubbles. We will show them that the Pied Piper, the singer, Wilson, will lead their children to death. Be discreet. But too discreet. Don't reveal your sources. But let your sincerity shine out. You know the truth. Imply it." The atmosphere in the room was so heavy that Timothy tried for;» flippancy. "And may God have mercy on our souls."
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