“Now, for instance,” he went on, relaxing against the velvet upholstery, and shifting his exhausted body into a more comfortable position, “all the thousands of men in our plants and our mills are exempted from military service. Yet, what has happened? We have had to resort to asking the draft boards quietly to reject men who try to enlist. Why are these men willing to face death and suffering and mud and shells? To get away from monotony, sameness, drabness, the old treadmill. Leisure, peace, extra money in their pockets, a new and higher standard of living, automobiles and security, drive them slowly mad. They want action and excitement, the feeling that they are participating in something important. And peace never made anyone feel important; security never gave a young and eager man anything but the feeling that he was slowly atrophying.” He shook his head and grinned faintly. “If Prohibition becomes a permanent law in America, we’ll have to have a war occasionally to keep the people satisfied. Remove alcohol and war, and you’ll have a people appalled and frenzied by the face of reality. Any calamity can happen, any horror, that will offer them escape.”
Georges looked at the buildings smothered in flags, the feverish tempo of the people on the streets. He pursed his lips grimly. “What are you going to give them when the war is over?” he asked. “You’ve got them all stirred up; they won’t settle down for twenty years after this.”
Jules smiled. “When the Kaiser is done with, we’ll have to find them a new devil, I’m afraid. Finding devils, though, has always been the problem of rulers.”
“Yes, I know that. It used to be Jews or heretics or witches, or messiahs.”
“‘Used to be’? You forget that we still have Jews and heretics and witches, and messiahs.”
“Oh, you can’t use that old rot any more. This is America, and the Twentieth Century. The people are more or less literate, and they’ll find your fine Italian hands manipulating the silly old devils.”
“You overestimate the people, my dear Georges. Stupidity is an inheritance just as is the color of one’s eyes. Wise men are never born from generations of fools, and there is nothing so credulous and silly as a literate man whose ancestors burnt books. Given the slightest encouragement. he’ll burn books, too.
“Out of the welter and ruin of this war is bound to emerge something we can give the people to hate. What will it be? It is too early to tell yet. Perhaps it will be a new sort of government in one of the countries that is bound, by novelty or originality or boldness or oddness, to be unpopular and suspect. Perhaps we can stir up a moribund Church to new excesses; religions always get new life from blood spilled in wars. This war is going to have profound repercussions. The people aren’t going to settle down peacefully, as Wilson so nobly prophesies they will. You can’t incite simplicity to rage and hatred, and then ask it to love its enemies and help reconstruct them. That’s asking too much of human nature. For a generation or more, we’ll have rumors of wars, if not actual wars. We’ll have hatred and rages and madnesses and furies on a gigantic scale such as the world has never seen before.”
Georges turned to his uncle and smiled cynically. “And the armaments makers, of course, won’t exactly lose anything by this.”
Jules laughed lightly. “We give the people what they want,” he said. “Beyond that, even God can’t go.”
Georges regarded his uncle for a long moment; his eyeglasses glittered. But he said nothing.
Marion, clad “sensibly” in something vaguely resembling a uniform, greeted Jules with suppressed emotionalism. She had, she informed him, just returned from rolling bandages at the Red Cross. Everyone, she said, must do his bit these terrible days. Georges broke into her speech abruptly and said that Jules was tired and just recovering from an illness. He would probably like to rest in his room until dinner. Georges assigned his valet to assist his uncle, and when Jules, apologizing affectionately to his nephew’s wife, retired, Georges firmly told Marion that should anyone inquire if Jules were there, she was to deny it vigorously. He asked about his father-in-law, who was absent, and Marion listlessly replied that the Professor had gone for his morning walk in the Park. “I’ve told him a dozen times that Uncle Jules was coming,” she said, “but he forgets it as soon as I’ve said it.”
“It’s probably just as well,” remarked Georges. But when his wife demanded to know what he meant by that cryptic remark, he refused to answer.
The Professor was a great trial to Marion. He had been hard enough to keep “respectable” in the old days, and he was worse now. She had to tend him, she said, like a child, almost to dress him, for he wouldn’t allow Georges’ man to come near him. When expecting friends, she would nervously brush him and pull him straight, scold him for spots on his clothing, would repeat over and over to him that he was only to say a word or two to the guests, and then retire. This was very necessary, for occasionally through the fog in which he lived he would catch a glimpse of the outside world, and would say something that would paralyze or excessively amuse strangers.
Before dinner that night, she nervously rehearsed him over and over in the things he must say to Jules, and he listened, blinking his faded eyes solemnly behind his glasses, murmuring courteously from time to time. Because of her almost tearful insistence, he consented to allow Georges’ man to dress him, and he appeared at the dinner table faultlessly dressed, a white tie decorating his immaculate white, winged collar, a silk handkerchief in his pocket. His beard had been combed and brushed; even his glasses had been expertly polished, and his eyes shone behind them with a vague and childlike brightness. Jules had seen him only once, about four years ago, though he had read everything he had written. He was visibly startled when he was asked to remember that this dead old man was the impassioned, lean, and flaming-eyed Professor he had secretly admired and respected; in fact, he seemed actually shocked, and when he replied to the murmured and formal greeting his voice shook noticeably. Georges saw all this; he smiled to himself and narrowed his lids.
The butler unobtrusively assisted the old man at the table, and by silent nudges recalled him to the fact that he was supposed to be eating. For, from the start, he seemed to be fascinated by Jules, and kept smiling vaguely, and blinking his eyes at him. Once in a while he would murmur something stammeringly, some inanity that was totally irrelevant. Finally, he asked Jules when he thought the war would end, but did not seem to hear the other’s conventional reply.
Marion and Georges appeared to forget the old man’s presence; Marion was nervously absorbed in impressing Jules with their elaborate establishment and the perfectly cooked and perfectly served dinner. “Of course,” she said, in her cheery and humorous voice, so clear-clipped and British, “one is so engrossed these days in war work, the Red Cross, and all the Committees, and the excitements, and canteens, that one forgets that one is a wife and housekeeper. Why, there are days and nights when Georges and I hardly have the time to speak to each other!”
The Patriotic League for Freedom, she informed Jules, had a delegate at all the larger camps, inculcating American ideals and patriotism in the soldiers. They also had a large amusement hall and canteen in New York, where soldiers on leave could gather and be instructed and respectably amused. The soldiers, remarked Jules, must enjoy this very much, and be very grateful. Marion smiled, gratified, but Georges’ glasses flashed again, and he smiled lightly. For the first time he began to wonder if his wife weren’t something of a fool.
We aren’t went on Marion seriously, really at war with the German people. Some Americans were rather stupid about that, in fact, most of them were, in spite of the President’s solemn speeches and pleadings. It was a finedrawn distinction, no doubt, but one which an intelligent person could readily see, that America had no enmity against the German people but only against their frightful Government. And it was distinctly obstinate on the part of the Germans not to realize this immediately, not to understand that all the Americans cared about was freeing them from oppression and misery and militarism, and inculcating in them—
>
“The American way of life,” suggested Jules, regarding her blandly.
“Yes, that is it!” responded Marion eagerly. An instant later, on seeing her husband’s suppressed smile, she flushed a little, wondering if she were being “ribbed.” But surely she was not; she was just too sensitive. She had said nothing silly, but only what everyone else was saying.
However, she became a little stiff for a time, and through her fear of Jules, and her gratification at having him in her home, and her excitement, came a small shadow of hatred for him. More and more she became convinced that she had been subtly affronted, but where the affront lay, and what had caused it, she could not tell, though her bewildered mind went round and round. She fixed her lambent gray eyes upon him, and held her chin high and serious as usual, and talked gravely; Georges, with a return of his affection, thought she was infinitely pathetic. But why haven’t I noticed before that she is a fool? he thought impatiently.
The old Professor had definitely stopped eating now; he had fixed his empty yet curiously avid gaze upon Jules, who was resolutely not looking at him. His mouth had fallen open; drops of moisture appeared on the beard around the aperture.
New York, said Marion, was a changed city. No one seemed to care for art any longer, or music. Metropolitan stars were touring the camps all over the country, singing for the soldiers. Everything was war; one breathed it, thought it, read it, heard it, slept in it. The theatres were full of war plays; every novel was a war novel. New York was just a huge armed camp. But no one would want it to end; in spite of anxiety and inconveniences and meatless, heatless, wheat-less days. One had to sacrifice, as well as “our boys.” It could not end, dared not end, until Germany was crushed, and the Allies sat in Berlin and dictated terms. Then, and then only, would the world return to peace, to a new era of joy and happiness; a Golden Age. Why, this was just a purge, a renaissance, portals to a new heaven and a new earth! Her eyes glowed, color appeared in her smooth pale cheeks, her lips brightened. Christ! thought Georges.
“Don’t you think so, Uncle Jules?” she pleaded, gazing at him earnestly.
Jules sipped the excellent sherry and inclined his head. “Most certainly, my dear,” he replied. “Everyone seems to think so, so it must be so. I haven’t the slightest doubt there’ll be a new earth after this. And probably a new hell,” he added, smiling gently upon her.
Marion seemed a trifle jolted; Georges grinned. But he was infuriated. It was bad enough that Jules saw what a fool Marion was, but it was enraging that he should ridicule her so openly in her home and at her own table. Worst of all was her not realizing it.
Unable to resist the temptation, he said to Jules: “We must have made millions out of this, haven’t we?”
Jules smiled with sudden enjoyment as he glanced at his nephew. “Yes, millions—and millions,” he replied urbanely.
Marion looked from one man to the other; a fine wrinkle appeared between her fine straight brows, and her mouth opened a trifle. After that she was silent for some time. It was not until Jules informed his nephew that Peter had enlisted as a private that animation returned to her blank face.
“Peter!” exclaimed Georges, edified. “But then, he was always hot-seated about something! He went in heavily for socialism, didn’t he? Another Catiline, championing the ‘submerged.’ But what a jolt this must be to the family! How do they take it?”
“Like castor oil,” said Jules, “and with the same sort of faces. Anyway, he is at Camp Brixton, and is being put through his paces, I can tell you! If it doesn’t knock all the idealism out of him, I’ll be much mistaken. Orders are out not to spare him; he has a particularly tough corporal over him. Outside of that, he’ll not be in any danger; we’ve seen to that, too.”
Georges burst into ribald laughter, but Marion, a renewed shine in her eyes, exclaimed: “Peter! Isn’t Peter the handsome one, Georges, the youngest one? The son of your poor cousin Honore, who died on the Lusitania? How wonderful, how splendid that is! Why do you laugh, Georges? Can’t you see how it is? Can’t you see he is going to fight to avenge his father?” She turned to Jules pleadingly. “Isn’t that the reason, Uncle Jules?”
Jules stopped smiling, and regarded her benignly. “Of course, my dear, that is the reason.” She smiled back at him tremulously, satisfied. But Georges gloated over his plate, and looked at his uncle with an expression that became more and more ribald and knowing.
Everyone had forgotten the old Professor. He had sat there in a sunken fog of forgetfulness. Nothing that had been said at the table had penetrated that fog. He had sat in his own enchantment, a corpse that breathed and swallowed, and opened and shut its mouth, and blinked its eyes. It held a glass of sherry in its hand; when Georges had laughed, the hand had shaken suddenly, and the sherry splashed upon the table.
Dinner proceeded amiably to a successful conclusion. It was when coffee was served that Jules felt impelled to look at the old Professor. He was somewhat taken aback to see that the other was regarding him fixedly, with eyes that had turned to fire through his fog. He had become horribly alive; he was staring at Jules with a suddenly aware and terrible face. His shriveled hands clutched the edge of the table, and he was leaning forward a little. Through his bearded and parted lips his teeth glittered.
Marion, following Jules’ eye, was alarmed at what she saw. Georges looked, too, and became sober immediately. But the old man saw neither of them; he continued to stare at Jules, and it was like the quickening of flame rising to a frightful crescendo to watch him.
At last he spoke, distinctly, clearly and loudly.
“Murderer,” he said.
He had been killed, a little later, while dazedly walking in Central Park. He had been struck by a car, and had died instantly.
As the years went on, no one remembered him, except Georges. It is true that his daughter had a kind of memory of him. But it was a glorified, unreal memory of a man who had never really existed. She quoted him often, and the opinions she alleged had been his were stuffy, platitudinous, portentous and stupid. He was her Scripture. Professor Fitts, thought Georges, would have been considerably surprised at the things Marion affirmed he had said!
But Georges truly remembered him. As year rolled into year, the Professor became a clearer, stronger, more imminent presence for him, his stature increasing, his voice more resonant as it pierced through the confusion of the Nineteen-twenties. It was a prophetic voice, stern yet sorrowful, not bitter, but only sad.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
But that had been several years ago, and now Georges Bouchard, this day in 1927, walked slowly with Peter through the immense stretches of his country estate, Southfield. They were talking earnestly. Occasionally they stopped to admire a view, or examine a small field of new young corn. Southfield was one of the larger country homes of the Dutchess County colony, and one of the most beautiful. The two men paused at the edge of the estate, and Georges pointed out the far-distant red roofs of Jay Regan’s summer home. They had been talking about matters not much related to Jay Regan, but now Georges said:
“You’ve met him, haven’t you? A real feudal baron. I like him. We’ll go over tomorrow or the next day.”
Peter was silent. The sun was hot on his shoulders and bare head. He had coughed hardly at all, this morning. The grass was pungent and thick and dusty. Sometimes, through the trees, he could see the hot dazzle of the Hudson. There was an almost imperceptible roll in the land, and a hundred different shades of green, ranging from olive to the palest golden-jade. Behind them, the old white stone house with its latticed windows was buried in masses of warm motionless trees.
Georges liked Peter, and was vaguely sorry for him. Moreover, he had sympathy and understanding for him, which he concealed very well under a dry and quizzical manner. It had not surprised him that his wife, Marion, did not like Peter, and at times was distinctly antagonistic towards the young man. She was not intelligent enough to guess that he was often disdainfully amused by her, but he unwittin
gly communicated to her his opinion that she was of negligible importance and comprehension. However, he was a Bouchard, and Marion had long ago got into the attitude that she was a sort of earnest “clear-eyed” priestess ministering at the altar of the family. Peter had guessed that someone had told her that she had “candid, clear-eyed opinions,” and was humorlessly living up to the flattery. She annoyed him to the point of acute irritability at times, and he had all he could do to remember her unimportance and feel compassion for her.)
The two men found a seat under a group of hot glittering trees, and sat down. They smoked in silence for some time. Then Peter asked quietly: “So, what am I going to do?”
“I,” answered Georges reflectively, removing his spectacles and polishing them with an absent manner, “would advise you not to have a romantic approach. I think you are suffering from it, very badly. I’ve listened carefully, and I must admit I’ve come to the conclusion that a great part of your apprehension and excitement is based on emotion, without very much proof.” He smiled. “Here and there, we have an authentic romanticism in the affairs of men. But not often. Most affairs are cut-and-dried, and colored a safe nice gray monotone. Look about you: how many lives are there that are exciting and tumultuous? Practically none.”
Peter regarded him with something like anger. “That’s just the trouble! Here we are, one small island of a world in the midst of universal chaos, ruin, noise, the explosion of systems, mystery, danger, fire and death. And what do we do? We try to level our lives down to the amœbæ, where nothing happens but breeding and eating. We’re like idiot housewives determinedly trying to keep house in the midst of earthquakes and tidal waves, and sweeping up cosmic debris with straw brooms. My God!” he added with sudden excitement, “it’s horrible to see how our degrading little minds have tried to reduce space and time to ant heaps!”
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