What he should have known was that no Jew can compete with a Connecticut Yankee; but that any half-cast Armenian is master of both. Especially when born in Mexico of a Levantine father.
Now, in spite of Angelo Puma’s agile gaiety and exotic exuberances, his brain remained entirely occupied with two matters. One of these concerned the possibility of interesting Mr. Pawling in a plot of ground on Broadway, now defaced by several taxpayers.
The other matter which fitfully preoccupied him was his unpleasant and unintentional interview with Sondheim.
For it had come to a point, now, that the perpetual bullying of former associates was worrying Mr. Puma a great deal in his steadily increasing prosperity.
The war was over. Besides, long ago he had prudently broken both his pledged word and his dangerous connections in Mexico, and had started what he believed to be a safe and legitimate career in New York, entirely free from perilous affiliations.
Government had investigated his activities; Government had found nothing for which to order his internment as an enemy alien.
It had been a close call. Puma realised that. But he had also realised that there was no law in Mexico ten miles outside of Mexico City; — no longer any German power there, either; — when he severed all connections with those who had sent him into the United States camouflaged as a cinema promoter, and under instruction to do all the damage he could to everything American.
But he had not counted on renewing his acquaintance with Karl Kastner and Max Sondheim in New York. Nor did they reveal themselves to him until he had become too prosperous to denounce them and risk investigation and internment under the counter-accusations with which they coolly threatened him.
So, from the early days of his prosperity in New York, it had been necessary for him to come to an agreement with Sondheim and Kastner. And the more his prosperity increased the less he dared to resent their petty tyranny and blackmail, because, whether or not they might suffer under his public accusations, it was very certain that internment, if not imprisonment for a term of years, would be the fate reserved for himself. And that, of course, meant ruin.
So, although Puma ate and drank and danced with apparent abandon, and flashed his dazzling smile over everybody and everything, his mind, when not occupied by Alonzo D. Pawling, was bothered by surmises concerning Sondheim. And also, at intervals, he thought of Palla Dumont and the Combat Club, and he wondered uneasily whether Sondheim’s agents had attempted to make any trouble at the meeting in his hall that evening.
* * * * *
There had been some trouble. The meeting being a public one, under municipal permission, Kastner had sent a number of his Bolshevik followers there, instructed to make what mischief they could. They were recruited from all sects of the Reds, including the American Bolsheviki, known commonly as the I. W. W. Also, among them were scattered a few pacifists, hun-sympathisers, conscientious objectors and other birds of analogous plumage, quite ready for interruptions and debate.
Palla presided, always a trifle frightened to find herself facing any audience, but ashamed to avoid the delegated responsibility.
Among others on the platform around her were Ilse and Marya and Questa Terrett and the birth-control lady — Miss Thane — neat and placid and precise as usual, and wearing long-distance spectacles for a more minute inspection of the audience.
Palla opened the proceedings in a voice which was clear, and always became steadier under heckling.
Her favourite proposition — the Law of Love and Service — she offered with such winning candour that the interruption of derisive laughter, prepared by several of Kastner’s friends, was postponed; and Terry Hogan, I. W. W., said to Jerry Smith, I. W. W.:
“God love her, she’s but a baby. Lave her chatter.”
However, a conscientious objector got up and asked her whether she considered that the American army abroad had conformed to her Law of Love and Service, and when she answered emphatically that every soldier in the United States army was fulfilling to the highest degree his obligations to that law, both pacifists and conscientious objectors dissented noisily, and a student from Columbia College got up and began to harangue the audience.
Order was finally obtained: Palla added a word or two and retired; and Ilse Westgard came forward.
Somebody in the audience called out: “Say, just because you’re a good-looker it don’t mean you got a brain!”
Ilse threw back her golden head and her healthy laughter rang uncontrolled.
“Comrade,” she said, “we all have to do the best we can with what brain we have, don’t we?”
“Sure!” came from her grinning heckler, who seemed quite won over by her good humour.
So, an armistice established, Ilse plunged vigorously into her theme:
“Let me tell you something which you all know in your hearts: any class revolution based on violence and terrorism is doomed to failure.”
“Don’t be too sure of that!” shouted a man.
“I am sure of it. And you will never see any reign of terror in America.”
“But you may see Bolshevism here — Bolshevist propaganda — Bolshevist ideas penetrating. You may see these ideas accepted by Labor. You may see strikes — the most senseless and obsolete weapon ever wielded by thinking men; you may see panics, tie-ups, stagnation, misery. But you never shall see Bolshevism triumphant here, or permanently triumphant anywhere.
“Because Bolshevism is autocracy!”
“The hell it is!” yelled an I. W. W.
“Yes,” said Ilse cheerfully, “as you have said it is hell. And hell is an end, not a means, not a remedy.
“Because it is the negation of all socialism; the death of civilisation. And civilisation has an immortal destiny; and that destiny is socialism!”
A man interrupted, but she asked him so sweetly for a few moments more that he reseated himself.
“Comrades,” she said, “I know something about Bolshevism and revolution. I was a soldier of Russia. I carried a rifle and full pack. I was part of what is history. And I learned to be tolerant in the trenches; and I learned to love this unhappy human race of ours. And I learned what is Bolshevism.
“It is one of many protests against the exploitation of men by men. It is one of the many reactions against intolerable wrong. It is not a policy; it is an outburst against injustice; against the stupidity of present conditions, where the few monopolise the wealth created by the many; and the many remain poor.
“And Bolshevism is the remedy proposed — the violent superimposition of a brand new autocracy upon the ruins of the old!
“It does not work. It never can work, because it imposes the will of one class upon all other classes. It excludes all parties excepting its own from government. It is, therefore, not democratic. It is a tyranny, imposing upon capital and labour alike its will.
“And I tell you that Labour has just won the greatest of all wars. Do you suppose Labour will endure the autocracy of the Bolsheviki? The time is here when a more decent division is going to be made between the employer and the labourer.
“I don’t care what sort of production it may be, the producer is going to receive a much larger share; the employer a much smaller. And the producer is going to enjoy a better standard of living, opportunities for leisure and self-cultivation; and the three spectres that haunt him from childhood to grave — lack of money to make a beginning; fear for a family left on its own resources by his death; terror of poverty in old age — shall vanish.
“Against these three evil ghosts that haunt his bedside when the long day is done, there are going to be guarantees. Because those who won for us this righteous war, whether abroad or at home, are going to have something to say about it.
“And it will be they, not the Bolsheviki — it will be labourer and employer, not incendiary and assassin, who shall determine what is to be the policy of this Republic toward those to whom it owes its salvation!”
A man stood up waving his arms: “All
right! All right! The question is whether the sort of government we have is worth saving. You talk very flip about the Bolsheviki, but I’ll tell you they’ll run this country yet, and every other too, and run ’em to suit themselves! It’s our turn; you’ve had your inning. Now, you’ll get a dose of what you hand to us if we have to ram it down with a gun barrel!”
There was wild cheering from Kastner’s men scattered about the hall; cries of “That’s the stuff! Take away their dough! Kick ’em out of their Fifth Avenue castles and set ’em to digging subways!”
Ilse said calmly: “Thank you very much for proving my contention for all these people who have been so kind as to listen to me.
“I said to you that Bolshevism is merely a new and more immoral autocracy which wishes to confiscate all property, annihilate all culture and set up in the public places a new god — the god of Ignorance!
“You have been good enough to corroborate me. And I and my audience now know that Bolshevism is on its way to America, and that its agents are already here.
“It is in view of such a danger that this Combat Club has been organised. And it was time to organise it.
“It is evident, too, that the newspapers agree with us. Let us read you what one of them has to say:
“‘We fully realise the atrocity of the Bolshevik propaganda, which is really the doctrine of communism and anarchy. We realise the perilous ferment which endangers civilisation. But in the countries which have held fast to moral standards during the war we believe the factors of safety are sufficiently great, the forces of sanity are far stronger than those of chaos — —’”
Here, those whose rôle it was to interrupt with derisive laughter, broke out at a preconcerted signal. But Ilse read on:
“‘In a word, as a mere matter of self-interest and common sense, we can only see the people, as a whole, in any country, as opposed to anarchy in any form. In our own land, even granted that there are a hundred thousand “red” agitators, or say a quarter of a million — and we have no real belief that this is so — what are these in a population of one hundred and five millions? Are the ninety and nine sane, moral, law abiding men and women going to allow themselves to be stampeded into ruin by a handful of criminals and lunatics?
“‘We do not for a moment believe it. These agitators and incendiaries have a sort of maniacal impetus that fills the air with dust and noise and alarms the credulous. Perhaps it may be wise to counteract this with a little quiet promotion of ideas of safety and prosperity, based on order and law. It may be well to calm the nerves of the timorous and it can do no harm to set in motion a counter wave of horror and repulsion against those who are planning to lead the world back to conditions of tribal savagery. Educational work is always beneficent. Let us have much of that but no panic. The power of truth and reason is in calm confidence.’”
And now a bushy-headed man got on his feet and levelled his forefinger at Ilse: “Take shame for your-selluf!” he shouted. “I know you! You fought mit Korniloff! You took orders from Kerensky, from aristocrats, from cadets!”
Ilse said pleasantly. “I fought for Russia, my friend. And when the robbers and despoilers of Russia became the stronger, I took a vacation.”
Some people laughed, but a harsh voice cried: “We know what you did. You rescued the friend of the Romanoffs — that Carmelite nun up there on the platform behind you, who calls herself Miss Dumont!”
And from the other side of the hall another man bawled out: “You and the White Nun have done enough mischief. And you and your club had better get out of here while the going is good!”
Estridge, who was standing in the rear of the hall with Shotwell, came down along the aisle. Jim followed.
“Who said that?” he demanded, scanning the faces on that side while Shotwell looked among the seats beyond.
Nobody said anything, for John Estridge stood over six feet and Jim looked physically very fit.
Estridge, standing in the aisle, said in his cool, penetrating voice:
“This club is a forum for discussion. All are free to argue any point. Only swine would threaten violence.
“Now go on and argue. Say what you like. But the next man who threatens these ladies or this club with violence will have to leave the hall.”
“Who’ll put him out?” piped an unidentified voice.
Then the two young men laughed; and their mirth was not reassuring to the violently inclined.
* * * * *
There were disturbances during the evening, but no violence, and only a few threats — those that made them remaining in prudent incognito.
Miss Thane made a serene, precise and perfectly logical address upon birth control.
Somebody yelled that the millionaires didn’t have to resort to it, being already sufficiently sterile to assure the dwindling of their class.
A woman rose and said she had always done what she pleased in the matter, law or no law, but that if it were true the Bolsheviki in America were but a quarter of a million to a hundred million of the bourgeoisie, then it was time to breed and breed to the limit.
“And let the kids starve?” cried another woman — a mere girl. “That isn’t the way. The way to do is to even things with a hundred million hand grenades!”
Instantly the place was in an uproar; but Palla came forward and said that the meeting was over, and Estridge and Shotwell and two policemen kept the aisles fairly clear while the wrangling audience made their way to the street.
“Aw, it’s all lollipop!” said a man. “What d’ yeh expect from a bunch of women?”
“The Red Flag Club is better,” rejoined another. “Say, bo! There’s somethin’ doin’ when Sondheim hands it out!”
* * * * *
Ilse went away with Estridge. Palla came along among the other women, and turned aside to offer her hand to Jim.
“Did you expect to take me home?” she asked demurely.
“Didn’t you expect me to?” he inquired uneasily.
“I? Why should I?” She slipped her arm into his with a little nestling gesture. “And it’s a very odd thing, Jim, that they left the chafing dish on the table. And that before she went to bed my waitress laid covers for two.”
CHAPTER XVI
“Are you worried about this Dumont girl?” asked Shotwell Senior abruptly.
His wife did not look up from her book. After an interval:
“Yes,” she said, “I am.”
Her husband watched her over the top of his newspaper.
“I can’t believe there’s anything in it,” he said. “But it’s a shame that Jim should worry you so.”
“He doesn’t mean to.”
“Probably he doesn’t, but what’s the difference? You’re unhappy and he’s the reason of it. And it isn’t as though he were a cub any longer, either. He’s old enough to know what he’s about. He’s no Willy Baxter.”
“That is what makes me anxious,” said Helen Shotwell. “Do you know, dear, that he hasn’t dined here once this week, yet he seems to go nowhere else — nowhere except to her.”
“What sort of woman is she?” he demanded, wiping his eyeglasses as though preparing to take a long-distance look at Palla.
“I know her only at the Red Cross.”
“Well, is she at all common?”
“No.... That is why it is difficult for me to talk to Jim about her. There’s nothing of that sort to criticise.”
“No social objections to the girl?”
“None. She’s an unusual girl.”
“Attractive?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Well, then — —”
“Oh, James, I want him to marry Elorn! And if he’s going to make himself conspicuous over this Dumont girl, I don’t think I can bear it!”
“What is the objection to the girl, Helen?” he asked, flinging his paper onto a table and drawing nearer the fire.
“She isn’t at all our kind, James — —”
“But you just said — —”
“I don’t mean socially. And still, as far as that goes, she seems to care nothing whatever for position or social duties or obligations.”
“That’s not so unusual in these days,” he remarked. “Lots of nice girls are fed up on the social aspects of life.”
“Well, for example, she has not made the slightest effort to know anybody worth knowing. Janet Speedwell left cards and then asked her to dinner, and received an amiable regret for her pains. No girl can afford to decline invitations from Janet, even if her excuse is a club meeting.
“And two or three other women at the Red Cross have asked her to lunch at the Colony Club, and have made advances to her on Leila Vance’s account, but she hasn’t responded. Now, you know a girl isn’t going to get on by politely ignoring the advances of such women. But she doesn’t even appear to be aware of their importance.”
“Why don’t you ask her to something?” suggested her husband.
“I did,” she said, a little sharply. “I asked her and Leila Vance to dine with us. I intended to ask Elorn, too, and let Jim realise the difference if he isn’t already too blind to see.”
“Did she decline?”
“She did,” said Helen curtly.
“Why?”
“It happened that she had asked somebody to dine with her that evening. And I have a horrid suspicion it was Jim. If it was, she could have postponed it. Of course it was a valid excuse, but it annoyed me to have her decline. That’s what I tell you, James, she has a most disturbing habit of declining overtures from everybody — even from — —”
Helen checked herself, looked at her husband with an odd smile, in which there was no mirth; then:
“You probably are not aware of it, dear, but that girl has also declined Jim’s overtures.”
“Jim’s what?”
“Invitation.”
“Invitation to do what?”
“Marry him.”
Shotwell Senior turned very red.
“The devil she did! How do you know?”
“Jim told me.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 938