Wide Is the Gate

by Upton Sinclair

The young people, home from school, were coming and going from one house to the next; they came in with eyes shining and cheeks glowing from the cold; they drank hot punch, laughed and chattered and danced, and then raced off to some other place. Alfy followed “Marcy,” as they called her—impossible to say more than two syllables when you were so busy enjoying life. Theirs was a different kind of love from that which Mr. Dingle taught, and apparently it didn’t make you so happy. The young couple got into one of their fusses, and it was off again and on again; Christmas Day they weren’t speaking, and Marcy was telling her mother about it in tears. Lanny thought it was too bad, but they didn’t ask him for help. Beauty said it was part of the process of getting adjusted, but Lanny thought she was too optimistic. “I never had any such troubles with Rosemary,” he said; to which his mother answered: “Yes, but you lost out with her!”

  II

  In one of the attic rooms of this large house lived a stoutish elderly woman whom you would have taken for a retired nurse or housekeeper; she was known to all as “Madame,” and spoke English with a Polish accent Nobody could have been more unobtrusive; she seemed perfectly content to sit in her room and play various games of solitaire, and when Irma’s maid, her friend, came to see her, she would tell how the latest batch of games had eventuated. Never would you have guessed that this dull-seeming, slow-moving old person was the repository of one of the oddest and most bewildering gifts with which a prankish Nature or Providence had seen fit to endow humankind.

  Some member of the Budd family or their privileged friends would send up to her room and ask if she felt in the mood for a sitting; almost always she would say Yes, and would repair to that person’s room, and sit in an easy chair, lay her head back and close her eyes—and then what fantastic events would begin to happen! You would hear the deep bass voice of an Amerindian chieftain, dead a couple of hundred years according to his own account and speaking with a Polish accent! But don’t laugh—for before you had got your mouth open he might be telling you something about your great-uncle, whose very name you would have to look up in the family records; or something about yourself that you had thought was a secret from the whole world.

  Lanny Budd, free-spoken and too humorous, had managed to get himself “in Dutch” with “Tecumseh” by asking persistent questions of a skeptical nature; so it was rarely that the old creature—whoever or whatever he was—could be persuaded to serve him. “Oh, so you’re back again, Mr. Smarty!” the booming voice would say; which certainly didn’t sound Iroquois or Polish. It was unfortunate, because Lanny was one who really wanted to understand these mysteries, and had stood for a lot of ridicule on Tecumseh’s behalf. People wouldn’t make subtle distinctions in matters occult; either you knew it was all tommyrot or else you were a victim of it.

  But Lanny kept on trying, because he had witnessed events which were beyond explanation by what the world was pleased at the moment to consider “normal.” By and by the world might change its mind and decide to include a lot of new things as normal; but they weren’t going to do it at the behest of a playboy, a darling of fortune whom they knew as Mr. Irma Barnes. Lanny held a great respect for science, and it was his hope that some day a really learned man would come along and experiment with Madame Zyszynski and find out how she did these things. He had found scientists who admitted that it was quite remarkable, but that didn’t keep them from going back to their everyday routine, disregarding the possibility that there might be unknown universes all around us, or in us, or through us, trying in vain to let us know about themselves.

  III

  At this time Lanny was persisting, because it seemed to him that if there was a world of spirits, Freddi Robin, newly arrived among them, would certainly be seeking to communicate with his former friends. But Tecumseh had become annoyed by the very idea of “that Jewish fellow” and would have nothing to do with him. A slow, tedious, and for the most part thankless task, probing these dark regions of the subconscious mind! Each of us has his own, and apparently something of other people’s; an ocean of mindstuff in which few soundings have been taken and which is full of creatures stranger than any Loch Ness monster. Put your net down in it, and you may bring up a burden of seaweed and a wriggling mess of jellyfish; you may try time after time with no better luck. But then, just as you are about to quit in boredom, up comes something that shines with an unearthly light—or maybe some writing derived from a lost Atlantis!

  “Tecumseh,” pleaded Lanny, with abject humility, “do be kind to me. I know that my Jewish friend is in the spirit world now, and he would surely talk to me if you would find him.”

  What was it that brought results after so many failures? The power of some spirit? Or some new train of thought in Lanny’s own subconscious mind? Impossible to say; but on the day after Christmas, sitting with Madame in his own study, the investigator got something that jolted him like a mule’s kick. “There is no Jew here, but there is a young man who says he is a friend. He is tall and has a sort of yellow hair, rather wavy. He is drawing a picture of you and it is good. He says you will know him that way.”

  “Does he give any name?”

  “He says something that sounds like Lood. Do you know him? Lood-veek?”

  “I know him well,” said Lanny, promptly. “I am delighted he has come.”

  “He hears you say that and is happy. He rubs out the mouth in the drawing and makes it smiling.”

  Here was another of those strange, confused, and confusing manifestations! Gertrud Schultz had identified herself to Lanny by means of a drawing, and now her husband was doing the same! Was that because they were two artists with but a single thought? Or was it because Lanny had got the idea fixed in his mind, and now the subconscious mind of Madame was incorporating it into the fantasy-creation which was called Tecumseh? Very certainly Lanny hadn’t mentioned Trudi and her drawing to anybody in this world.

  “Tell him I am most anxious to hear whatever he cares to tell me,” said Lanny; and added, ingratiatingly: “Also, I am deeply grateful to you, Tecumseh.”

  “You will really appreciate me some day. This man writes on the drawing-board that to you he is Ludi. Is that right?”

  “Quite right. Ask him how he is.”

  “He says he has escaped from terrible suffering. He says he never believed in the spiritual life. He used to laugh at you and at me, but he will surely never do it again.”

  “I beg him to come often and tell me about himself. There are reasons why I wish especially to know.”

  “He says: ‘How is my wife?’”

  “She is well.”

  “He asks: ‘Have you seen her?’”

  Something like a lightning flash took place in the mind of Lanny Budd. One cannot lead a double life and not have suspicions of even the most innocent-seeming events. Could it be that the Gestapo was reaching into the spirit realm? Could it be that some agent had managed to make friends with Madame and was using her, with or without her own knowledge? Either idea seemed fantastic, but Lanny couldn’t keep them from his mind—and it was exactly as if he said the words aloud. “You do not trust me!” exclaimed the deep bass voice. “How can I ever help you?”

  “I do trust you, Tecumseh!” exclaimed the secret agent. “Don’t you know the story of the man who prayed: ‘Lord, I believe, help Thou mine unbelief’? Help me now by giving my messages to Ludi. Tell him that I have seen his wife and she thinks only of him.”

  “I would like to communicate with her, Lanny.” It was Ludi himself, speaking directly, something which happened only when a seance went especially well. He used precise English, as he had done in the old days when Lanny had visited the Berlin apartment of the Schultzes to inspect Trudi’s art work.

  “It would be hard to arrange, Ludi; you know the circumstances. Some day, perhaps, but not now—unless you can reach her where she is.”

  “I have tried, but I cannot; there is no channel.”

  “I hope to see her again some day, and I will deliver your message
s. Give me some password, something that will convince her it is really you.”

  “She has a strawberry mark just over her right knee.”

  A curious “psychic phenomenon” indeed! Lanny was always trying to persuade himself that these revelations were a product of telepathy, or mind-reading, or whatever name you chose to give it. He hadn’t told anybody about Monck or what this man had said about Trudi’s birthmark; it seemed to him obvious that at this moment the mind of Madame was taking things out of Lanny’s mind and weaving them into her story. Fascinating to watch, and to a psychologist perhaps as hard to believe as the existence of spirits; but surely it wouldn’t help to convince Trudi that her husband was actually sending her a message!

  IV

  The investigator thought as hard as he could. He had to step warily, knowing that the querulous chieftain might decide to break off the conversation at any instant. “Ludi,” he explained, “you must realize that your wife goes swimming in summer, and many people see that mark. Can’t you manage to think of something which only she would know?”

  “All right,” replied the strange voice—composite of an old Polish woman, an Iroquois Indian, and a Berlin commercial artist and Social-Democratic party member. “Tell her: ‘Chin-Chin.’”

  “Will she know what that means?”

  “She will know.”

  Suddenly there came from the throat of the old woman a burst of sound, the barking of a little dog; it was so realistic that Lanny could have imagined the creature within a few inches of his ankles, leaping at him in a fury and compelling him to kick it away. This went on for fully a minute, and was followed by silence.

  “Was that Chin-Chin?” inquired the investigator.

  “That was me,” said the spirit voice. Ludi wasn’t required to be perfect in his grammar—and anyhow, there are grammarians who defend that form. “Trudi will tell you about it,” he added. “People do silly things when they are young, and happy, and very much in love.”

  “Of course,” said Lanny, who had been all three. “She will want to know how you came to pass over, Ludi.” The phrase is considered good form among spiritualists.

  “It would be better not to go into that. I was in Oranienburg, I couldn’t stand it any more, so in the night I chewed my wrists until I tore the arteries.”

  “Tell me where you are now, Ludi. You know that will mean a lot to her.”

  “She will come here some day and then she will know.”

  “I want to try to convince her,” persisted the American. “You can help me by explaining matters. Do you have a body where you are?”

  “What would I do with the body I left in Oranienburg and that the Nazis burned in a furnace?”

  “You know all the things you knew on earth. Do you know other things also?”

  “Very many. I am my own mind, but I am other minds, too.”

  “Minds of people on this earth or on your side?” It was an ill-chosen question, which had the effect of breaking up the show. “What’s the use of all that?” burst out the voice of the old-time warrior. “You aren’t going to believe what he tells you; you’re just figuring over the old stuff.”

  “Oh, please, Tecumseh!” pleaded Lanny. “I’m trying so hard to help my friend and his unhappy wife.”

  “He is a good fellow,” announced the chieftain. “For his sake I will tolerate you; but you are no good at all, you just tie yourself up in long words, and you wouldn’t believe it if I should smack you one in the eye.”

  “Try it some day,” said the playboy, spunkily. “It might be good for me.”

  “You sit with Madame in the dark some night, and I’ll show you what I can do. Only you’ll say it’s a teleplasm! Go on about your business now.”

  And that was the end. Lanny knew it would be useless to plead. A long silence; and then Madame began to sigh. When she came out of her trance she inquired, as always: “Did you get good results?”

  “Very good, indeed.” Lanny was happy to say it, because it pleased her. She never asked what you had heard; she had the idea that this was bad form, since people often got embarrassing secrets about themselves or others. Instead she lay back and closed her eyes, resting. Finally she remarked: “I won three games of Patience this afternoon.”

  “You cheated yourself,” he replied. It was his customary jest, at which she never failed to titter. She had adopted him in her heart as an imaginary son, replacing one whom she had borne and lost; every moment that he would spare out of his fashionable life to chat with her was one she would cherish and dream over.

  V

  Robbie Budd was back in Newcastle, but there weren’t any Christmas holidays for him; he was working harder than ever in his life before, bent upon showing his world that he was not merely a great salesman and promoter, but also an executive, in every way the equal of his father, who had failed to appreciate him all his life and had died without atoning for the error. Robbie had collected large sums of money and was going to spend them with a speed and efficiency which would astonish the town of his birth. He was going to build a fabricating plant which would be his own to run, whose products would be his own to market, with no father and no elder brother to hinder or check him. Robbie had made his blunders of overoptimism, but he had learned from them and would not repeat them; there would be no more speculation in Wall Street, only production in Newcastle, and of an article which was in the position of the motor-car thirty years ago. Once more there was a chance to reap fortunes; and in spite of the Bible statement, the race would be to the swift and the battle to the strong.

  In Robbie’s forward-leaping land it was no uncommon thing for a man to raise several million dollars for a new enterprise and then be in a hurry to get it started. There were men who knew how to design industrial plants, and Robbie was now closeted with them day and night. There were men who knew how to dredge tidelands and make docks and a model harbor; others who knew how to grade land, and had tools which would do it with magical speed. Robbie was now making contracts with these, and with others who would come and pour, concrete foundations the moment the frost was out of the ground. Before summer a forest of steel girders would arise where formerly had been marshes and cow pastures. All this was commonplace in the “land of unlimited possibilities.”

  Robbie threw up his job with Budd Gunmakers, and Johannes Robin, coming home from South America, set to work to help with contracts and purchasing. The firm of “R and R,” which had been Lanny’s joke in youth, was now a firmly based reality. Hansi and Bess being married, Lanny having risked his life to save Johannes and Freddi, Robbie having helped Johannes to get on his feet again—all these were ties stronger than any law could have devised. A one-time Jewish money magnate would give his friend the benefit of the skill he had acquired in more than forty years of trading, and would never worry about what he was going to get in return. He could be sure it would be generous and, what was more important, it would be out of reach of the Nazis!

  Mama and Rahel packed their few belongings and departed from Bienvenu, writing letters full of thanks to Mrs. Dingle and Lanny and Irma for their kindness. Irma said nothing to her husband, but he knew what a relief she found this; for how could anybody enjoy the pleasures of social life in the atmosphere of grief and fear which those poor Jewish people inevitably spread around them? Irma was glad also on account of her little girl, because she didn’t want those two children to become too fond of each other; she had no mind to find herself some day in the position of Robbie Budd and his wife, with a Jewish son-in-law and the possibility of a half-Jewish grandchild. All right to have Jewish friends, but mixing your blood was something different.

  VI

  Right after the holidays the Lanny Budds—or the Irma Barneses, as their friends often said it—were planning to return to the Riviera for the winter. Lanny in the meantime had managed to find purchasers for two of Goring’s paintings, and it was a question of how to handle these deals. To Irma it appeared simple to send the money and let the fat Genera
l ship the paintings directly to the purchasers; but Lanny said: “How could I ever know what they got?”

  “You mean you think he’d send them the wrong pictures?” There was a note of indignation in Irma’s voice, as if the governing classes of the whole world were being insulted.

  Lanny explained patiently that there was a great deal of rascality in the art world—he didn’t say in the Nazi world. “Paintings are imitated so cleverly that only an expert can tell the difference. Somebody might do it without even Goring’s knowing it. My duty is not done unless I personally see the painting shipped. Otherwise, if the customer complains, I have no defense, but have to refund his money and take the loss.”

  “That’s going to be a nuisance, your having to go to Berlin all the time, Lanny.”

  “I’ll let these customers wait till the weather gets warmer,” he answered, with a smile. He would have liked to tell Trudi about the seance, but he wanted still more to be fair to his wife and not deceive her any more than necessary.

  However, the day before they were leaving England a letter came, having all those signs which he recognized—the German stamp, the writing, and the cheap envelope. He put it into his pocket with some other mail until he was alone. Then he read:

  Dear Mr. Budd:

  If you should see your friend Schmidt, the art dealer, please tell him that I have some sketches which I should like to show him. They are not the same as the last, but better, I hope, and have to do with interesting personalities. This is important to me. Thanking you for past favors,

  Mueller

  That was all; but it was enough to cause Lanny to reconsider his plans. “Irma, I’ve been thinking about it and I believe I ought to run over to Berlin and get those paintings before I settle down for the winter.”

  “Oh, how provoking!” she exclaimed. “Why do you want to make yourself a slave like that?”