by Howard Fast
Now the Professor was approaching the State House. He halted a short distance from the picket line, studying the people walking by, and there he found, unmistakably, the huge, hulking, untidy form of the Writer, a big man, fat, bear-like in his ambling gate, shaggy-haired, and wrapped in his own brooding introspection as he walked back and forth in the hot August sun. The Professor had no doubts as to whether or not this was the man he was supposed to meet, so apparently was the Writer himself and no one else. Whereupon, he went over and introduced himself, and the Writer stepped out of the line to shake the hand of the Professor of Criminal Law, referring immediately to the excellence of the monograph which the Professor had written about the case of Sacco and Vanzetti.
“I have waited to say this to you personally,” the Writer told him, “because you have performed a great service for me, for the two men in the death house, and for thousands of others. You have taken the heartbreaking complexity of this case and distilled out of it the simple and logical truth. I for one am most indebted.”
The Professor was embarrassed—not because of the praise, but because he felt that today of all days his work should not be praised. He said something to the effect of living in a world which eschewed logic, nodding at the State House and reminding the writer,
“That is hardly a haven for the truth, nor do they welcome logic.”
“No, I don’t suppose they do. We are late for our appointment with the Governor, aren’t we?” the Writer asked. “Has that spoiled our chances of seeing him?”
“We are a little late, but I am sure he will see us.”
“I never understood why he was willing to see us in the first place. It’s all at odds with the man; it’s at odds with his personality.”
“But, you see, he is at odds with himself today,” the Professor explained. “He will see everyone he has time for today, if I am not mistaken. He will sit there in the State House and see everyone and listen to everyone, and he will not move from there until it is all over. He is experiencing his own particular trial and salvation. I think he believes that when today is over, he will be as good as President of the United States, barring only the mechanical problems of nomination and election, which still he in the future.”
The Writer watched the Professor curiously throughout this speech, wondering at the soft yet insistent note of bitterness in the man’s voice; and hearing this note of bitterness, and seeing the man, the Writer thought again of the amazing complex that Boston had become on this strange summer day. Being a writer, he was called upon to observe even himself with a certain amount of objectivity; and as he and the Professor of Criminal Law went into the State House, the Writer composed in his own mind the passage of people and events into which he had plunged since he arrived in Boston a few hours ago.
“Now,” he said to himself, “I am walking into the power of Massachusetts government. In this house here is a small man who has been turned for the day into a god. I must raise to myself, examine, and solve the problem of whether he is to be pitied. I have already speculated upon his wickedness. It is an ancient wickedness, and he sits in his mansion like Pharaoh of long ago, with a heart turned to stone. He is reputed to be worth over forty million dollars. In that sense, he matches Pharaoh, and more. His wealth is not less than the treasures of all Egypt. He rules the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and while he does not possess the secret of giving life, he has the power of taking it away from those who live. He maintains all the trappings of everyday, but he is a fearsome personage. There are many wrongs here, but I wonder whether any wrong is more dreadful than that which puts the decision of life or death into the hands of one individual—”
In that way, the Writer’s mind composed this part of the scene and that part of the scene, into a literary whole. It was his manner of functioning, and he could no more have prevented this creative process from taking place than he could willfully have stopped breathing. For the Professor of Criminal Law, it was different, and in him doubt and fear mixed with tiredness. When reporters gathered around them, asking questions, the Professor of Criminal Law shook his head stubbornly, and said,
“Please don’t stop us now. We had an appointment with the Governor for three o’clock, and it’s already late. What can we possibly tell you until after we have seen the Governor?”
“Is it true that Vanzetti’s sister is coming here?” they wanted to know.
“I don’t know anything about that,” the Professor of Criminal Law replied; but the Writer had already broadened his picture to include a woman who had come from a distant place to plead for her brother’s life, the simple, wonderful drama of it—a drama that only life could paint so boldly—taking hard hold of him.
Then they were at the Governor’s office, and the Governor’s secretary welcomed them politely and took them inside.
With an expression which denoted neither friendship nor hostility, the Governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts greeted them and examined them. The Governor sat behind his desk—a solid part of a world of small men who sat behind large desks and regarded with manner part querulous, part defensive, part eager, all those who came before them; as well he might—for these were two strange and uncomfortable men who had stepped into the seat of the ancient glory which he ruled.
At first, long, long ago, when the Pilgrim Fathers came to this land, they built their houses of rough-hewn boards; the ceilings were low, and there was a bare and proud dignity in the most humble dwelling place; in time, however, they learned different ways of life, and pride parted company with humility. The State House was old, but not as old as those days of bare pride; and this room wherein the Governor sat was a place of aristocratic beauty and gilded distinction, the lintels cleverly carved, the wainscotting covered with fine white enamel, and each piece of furniture from the hand of a master. It was not such a room that a man with forty million dollars and more would feel ill at ease in; but the Professor of Criminal Law and the Writer from New York City stood in it as awkwardly as if they were both of them culprits in the eyes of the law and prisoners before the bar.
The clothes they wore were wrinkled and stained with perspiration. The Writer, dressed in a suit of ivory summer cloth, seemed as painfully out of place here as a bear would be in man’s attire and man’s dwelling. The Professor of Criminal Law wore his clothes poorly at best, and now he nervously kept turning his straw hat round and round in his damp fingers.
They had come to plead; and the Governor realized that this they had in common with all who entered his office today, large and small, rich and poor—people of fame or those of no consequence in his eyes, they all came to plead, to beg, to whine for the life of two dirty agitators, two men of broken speech and sneaking words, two men who had dedicated their lives to tearing down the beautiful erections of the Governor’s world. This was how the Governor saw it, and this was the substance of what the Governor thought as he looked at these two supplicants. He did not feel very much emotion. For him, today was a day without emotion, bare of it; nor was it easy for him to keep his thoughts from wandering, keep them here with him in his office in the State House, fixed on this dreary business of pleading. At the bottom of everything, he had a sound basis upon which to function; he had a goal; he knew in his own mind where he was going and what he was doing; and therefore, he had decided that he would refuse no one a word with him on this day. Let them all come and bear witness that his mind was not closed.
Whereupon, he listened. He weighed one statement against another statement. He was a patient man, a judicious man, not a cruel man. These, the Professor and the Writer, perhaps like others who had come and gone, would think of him as a cruel man; but in that they would be hitting wide of the mark. Rejection of sentimentality was hardly cruelty. How could he see his own duty, if he saw it as twenty others desired him to see it? Now as he looked at these two uncomely, unattractive men who had appeared so tardily for their appointment with him, the one a Jewish teacher, the other a newspaper writer with a reputation
for eccentricity and radical leanings, he considered with a good deal of self-pity how much of a tortured and abused man he, the Governor, had become since this whole dreadful business began to reach its climax.
“Pontius Pilate,” they called him, not knowing how little of a Pilate he was, he, a simple business man with gastritis, unexplained stomach pains, fear of a heart attack, and a woeful desire to do things easily and painlessly, pleasing those whose opinions he rejected. The fact that he was very rich did not necessarily mean that he was a bad man. Why, just a month ago, he had himself gone to the State Prison across the river and had spoken in person to Sacco and Vanzetti. One would think that they would have been glad to see him, that they would have realized what it meant for him, the Governor of the Commonwealth, to come to a prison to visit two condemned thieves and murderers, and to hear their side of the story. But instead of demonstrating gratitude, Sacco would not even talk to him, but looked at him with eyes full of horror and contempt—so that Vanzetti had to explain apologetically, “He doesn’t hate you personally, Governor, but you are a symbol of those forces he hates.” “What are those forces?” “The forces of wealth and power,” Vanzetti answered calmly. Then they had talked a little, and the Governor saw in Vanzetti’s eyes, as he had seen before in the eyes of Sacco, anger and contempt.
The Governor never forgot or forgave that look. He had said to himself then, “All right, you damned reds—think that if you wish to.”
Now supplicants for the “damned reds” came to plead. The whole world was coming to plead with the Governor. Here were a professor and a writer. Before, there had been a clergyman and a poet, and after these, two others, two women, were expected.
The Professor began with apologies for being late. He said that there were certain circumstances which had prevented their being on time, and that he regretted this tremendously, for of all appointments he had ever had, he felt that this was perhaps the most important.
“Why do you say that?” the Governor wanted to know. His ingenuous manner of speaking was not assumed. The conclusion came less quickly to the Professor of Criminal Law; but almost immediately, the Writer realized that the Governor was a stupid man; and it had to be incongruous and unbelievable and in some ways more horrible than any other part of this cursed day, that a man so stupid and beyond the reach of emotion or logic should sit in the State House of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, wielding the quick and final power of death. Therefore, much of what the eyes and the ears of this Writer told him, his civilized sense of reason found impossible to accept. Fools do not sit in the seats of the mighty, his reason assured him, nor are forty million dollars given to foolish men.
“You now have to argue a cause and plead a case,” he pointed out to himself. “Therefore, do not underestimate the shrewdness of this man who sits before you.”
Meanwhile, the Professor of Criminal Law had begun to speak, and was stating forcefully, albeit humbly, that he had not come here today to waste the Governor’s time. He had come because the world granted that fact that he, the Professor of Criminal Law, was a little better acquainted than the average person with the facts of the case of Sacco and Vanzetti, because he had interested himself deeply in those facts over a period of many years, and because those facts clamored for certain new arguments. In this initial presentation of his statement, the Professor appeared to be almost abject in his bearing; and the Writer wondered how a man could be both humble and earnest to such an extent. Causation and motivation of people were, if not the bread, then at least the butter of this Writer’s process of living, and he was as curious to know what terrible necessity drove the Professor of Criminal Law as he was to know what grim urge to take two lives rode the Governor.
“I want to be patient,” the Governor said, “but you must understand that for days now, people have been seeking me out and stating that they either had new evidence or importantly new interpretations of old evidence. I have heard their statements with what I may say is extraordinary patience, but nowhere have they been able to demonstrate that any of the evidence they presented to me was new evidence, or evidence that could radically change my approach to the case. As the result of my study of the record and my personal investigation of the case, including my interviews with a large number of witnesses, I believe with the jury that Sacco and Vanzetti were guilty, and that their trial was fair. The crime for which they are to pay, was committed seven years ago. For six years, through dilatory methods, one appeal after another, every possibility for delay, has been utilized—”
A chill of horror went through the Professor of Criminal Law. He had been very hot before, and now he was suddenly cold and shaken, like a person with a malarial chill. During the past several days he had heard that whoever came before the Governor with a plea for mercy or a plea for a delay in the date of execution, was met with a parrotlike recitation of the Governor’s official decision to proceed with the execution, which he had made public a few weeks before now, on the third of August, and which he had apparently memorized. When he first heard these stories, the Professor of Criminal Law found them beyond normal belief; he dismissed them as the sort of nasty gossip and malicious slander that was bound to be added to all the real sins attributable to the Governor. But here and now he was experiencing the thing himself. He was listening to the Governor of Massachusetts recite from memory a part of his own official decision; and the ordeal of listening to this became one of the most frightening and terrible experiences he had ever had. The moment he realized that the Governor was quoting his own decision, the whole atmosphere of the place seemed to change; the real world shimmered into the unsteady pattern of complete nightmare, and instead of a sturdy if reactionary leader of a mighty Commonwealth, he saw sitting before him a vessel both enigmatic and empty, the human form of which only made the situation more bizarre. It was only with an extreme effort of his will that the Professor was able to collect his thoughts and continue his argument.
“Forgive me, please, your Excellency,” he said. “I feel it is not fair to pre-judge what we bring to you. I asked myself before coming here, whether I would approach you with a plea for mercy or a plea for justice. With some doubts remaining in my mind, I made a decision that I would not ask for mercy—”
“I realized at the outset,” the Governor interrupted him, “that there were many sober minded and conscientious men and women who were genuinely troubled about the guilt or innocence of the men accused, and the fairness of their trial. It seemed to me—”
The insane horror continued to build as the Professor of Criminal Law realized once again that the Governor was quoting from his decision. His heart sank, and he fought against a wave of sickness, a mounting desire to vomit, the culmination of heat, cold, and insanity; he resisted this nausea desperately while he waited for the Governor to finish. When the Governor at last finished quoting, the Professor continued his argument, although he doubted that the Governor was listening to him, or, if listening, had any logical comprehension of what he was saying. The Professor of Criminal Law continued his thesis that he had come there to plead for justice and not for mercy. He enumerated, slowly and meticulously, the roll-call of the most important witnesses who had spoken for Sacco and Vanzetti, pointing out that in all, there were over one hundred witnesses. He repeated some of the statements of those who had sworn under oath that neither Sacco nor Vanzetti could possibly have been at the scene of the crimes of which they were accused. He broke down the stories of the prosecution witnesses. He did not take long, for he had the whole of it at his fingertips, and less than fifteen minutes were needed to make a concise, incontestable, and concrete picture of innocence. Completing this analysis of the evidence, the Professor of Criminal Law said,
“The most bitter irony of it, your Excellency, is that Vanzetti has never in his life been to South Braintree. What a sorrowful thing that is to contemplate—that if he perishes tonight, he will die without ever having laid eyes upon the so-called scene of his crime.”
; The Governor waited politely now to see whether the Professor of Criminal Law had finished. When he saw that he had, the Governor said, very evenly and unemotionally, “It has been a difficult task to look back six years through other people’s eyes. Many of the witnesses told me their story in a way I felt was more a matter of repetition than the product of their memory. Some witnesses replied that during the six years, they had forgotten incidents, and therefore could not remember. You see, it was a disagreeable experience, and for that very reason they have tried to forget it.”
The Governor stopped speaking, and looked inquiringly at the Professor of Criminal Law and at the Writer. The Professor of Criminal Law felt cold, sick and listless, for once again, the Governor had quoted from the memorized decision; and the Professor of Criminal Law found himself unable to continue speaking, but turned to the Writer and looked at him pleadingly, wondering whether he too had recognized the source of the Governor’s thoughtful and controlled eloquence.
“I, however, would ask for mercy,” the Writer said simply. “I would ask for Christian mercy—in the memory of Christ who suffered.”
“This is not a question for mercy,” the Governor answered calmly. “The South Braintree crime was particularly brutal. The murder of the paymaster and the guard was not necessary to the robbery. It is wrong to ask for mercy. These men have had their day in court, Various delays have dragged this case through the courts for six years. I think these delays are inexcusable. I have no reason to delay it any further.”
“My friend here beside me,” the Writer said, his deep voice resonant but muted, “offered logic as reason for postponement. I ask for Christian mercy. Punishment has its dubious validity only in relation to the crime. I would be deceiving you, your Excellency, if I did not say that I myself believe these men are guilty of no crime except their radical beliefs; but even considering that they were guilty, have they not paid sufficiently? God’s precious gift to man was for him to die once, never knowing the time of his going. But for seven years, these two poor men have died again and again. A thousand times, they have gone to their death before today, and what today has been to them, I cannot describe nor can anyone. Doesn’t this touch you, your Excellency? My friend here beside me—both of us are proud people, but we come to you to beg as humbly as if we were slaves offering our lives and our human dignity to our master. We beg for the lives of these two men.”