Wide Is the Gate

by Upton Sinclair

  “I know many of these people, Robbie, and they are the finest of idealists.”

  “I am perfectly willing to concede it; but as I have told you many times, I do not believe that this world can be run by idealists, and I am certain that the idealists are being used as a front for shrewd criminals who stop at nothing to get their way. You see it happening right now in Russia, where the idealists have been shoved aside one by one, and now they are being framed and accused of treason in order to get an excuse for murdering them.”

  Robbie was referring to public trials then going on in the Soviet Union which were the subject of hot controversy in the outside world. Lanny had talked with his Red uncle about them, and with his Red half-sister and brother-in-law—something that his father had not troubled to do. They had convinced Lanny that the Nazis and other sworn enemies of the Reds had been sending their agents into the workers’ republic, well provided with funds and subtle wiles to turn internal controversy into intrigue and sabotage. “It seems to me this was pretty apt to happen,” Lanny said. “And no doubt the Red leaders are as determined to protect their system as you are to protect yours, Robbie.”

  “I recognize it’s war,” was the father’s reply. “I’m going to take my part in it, and naturally I’m sorry to see my son go wandering out into No Man’s Land, inviting both sides to take potshots at him.”

  IX

  All this was an old story to them both, and they knew that discussion was futile. But there was something which Lanny wanted very much to know about, and he thought that this might be a chance to find out.

  “Tell me, Robbie,” said the amateur secret agent. “Suppose—just for the sake of argument—that Roosevelt should be re-elected; and suppose that Hearst and McCormick and the other big gentry who hate him so bitterly should put up the money, and Father Coughlin should supply the eloquence, and our Silver Shirts and Ku Kluxers and Knights of the White Camellia and other native Fascists should join with the Bund and get Lindbergh or somebody like him to lead a revolt, and Hitler and Mussolini should send in arms by way of Mexico, would you sell Budd-Erlings to that crowd and refuse to sell to the New Deal government?”

  “That’s all nonsense, Lanny, and a waste of words.”

  “I beg your pardon, it’s an exact and perfect parallel to what is happening now in Spain. Those are the very elements behind Franco, and the only difference is that we have no Morocco on Long Island, and no Foreign Legion and army of Moors to cross the Sound and besiege New York. Also, our government is a hundred and fifty years old, while that of Spain is not many more days old; otherwise everything is identical.”

  “I’ll decide problems like those when I come to them,” replied the father. “At present I’m busy making airplanes.”

  His son was watching him narrowly. They were old friends, and meant a lot to each other in spite of all this wrangling. Lanny exclaimed suddenly: “Deal fairly with me, Robbie!”

  “I am trying to, my son—”

  “Give me a straight answer to a straight question. Has anybody ever come to you with such suggestions as I have just outlined?”

  Robbie was obviously taken aback. After hesitation that was visible, he remarked: “There are all sorts of crackpots in the world, and they’re not all on one side.”

  “Then somebody has come! Tell me, have there been many?”

  “There have been several.”

  “You would be a shining mark for them, just as I am for the Reds. You realize that?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then the idea of upsetting Washington and putting an end to the New Deal isn’t a product of my cracked pot!”

  “Not entirely.” Robbie tried to smile, but it was rather feeble.

  “Tell me this,” persisted the inquisitor; “when you were over at Irma’s, did you ever meet a poet by the name of Forrest Quadratt?”

  “Yes, I met him.”

  “And did he ever broach such ideas?”

  “Really, Lanny—”

  “Really, my dear father! Do you owe more faith to a hired Nazi agent than to your own flesh and blood?”

  “I don’t think it’s a question of faith. Quadratt is a German, and naturally he voices German ideas.”

  “But Quadratt isn’t a German—he’s an American-born citizen; and when he comes to you whispering Nazi schemes for America, he is certainly a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Of course he’s shrewd as the devil, and he wouldn’t come right out with it; he’d tell you how it was done in Germany, and point out how rapidly the situation is moving to a crisis over here.”

  “I don’t think there is anything to be gained by discussing him, Lanny. I do not admire him or share his ideas.”

  “Very well, then, how about my new brother-in-law, the Capitano? Have you met him?”

  “Naturally. Marceline could hardly fail to bring him to see us. And besides, he’s an aviator, and we have many interests in common.”

  “They have gone to California, I understand; the Capitano is speaking to Italian-Americans—he’s a war hero and a celebrity, and I’m told that his expenses and a lot more are being paid by the Circolo Mario Morgantime, which is another name for Mussolini’s government in New York. Now tell me, did he ever discuss these ideas with you?”

  “He explained his own viewpoint, naturally. I was interested to hear it from one who speaks with authority.”

  “He’s younger than Quadratt and not so subtle, and he’d probably come right out with it. The way by which you can end all your troubles! Smash the labor unions once for all, and make it impossible for the C.I.O. ever to break into your plant! Keep the New Deal from taking most of your income and the excess profits of your company! Vittorio will help to win over the aviators; you will furnish the planes, and they will seize the airfields over night; the tank-corps will join them, and they will take possession of the government arsenals, and soon have the whole country under control. Is that the line?”

  “You know, Lanny, you have always had a keen imagination—”

  “I didn’t imagine one bit of it, Robbie—I listened in drawing-rooms, including my mother’s and my wife’s. You yourself heard Ambassador Child tell about Mussolini’s coup, and how he, Child, had got financial backing from Wall Street. You know how Thyssen and Hugenberg and the rest of them financed Hitler—they told you themselves. I’m sure you know the men who are putting up the cash for this raid upon the Spanish people. If Juan March hasn’t sent a representative to you for planes—tell me, has he done so?”

  Robbie didn’t like to lie to his son. And besides, there was a part of his mind which couldn’t help admiring this erratic idealist. By God, what didn’t these Reds manage to find out!

  X

  Lanny went to call on the Hansibesses, as he called them. They had their baby, and Lanny stood over the crib looking down upon a pair of large dark eyes which moved slowly here and there, inquiring about this strange world into which babies are so startlingly projected. The inquiry would succeed to a limited extent, but never completely. The proud parents were calling this new arrival Freddi; so gradually the name would begin to take on new meaning, happier than the old, the uncle hoped. “If we can keep Nazis out of this part of the world!” he thought; but he didn’t put it into words.

  Lanny telephoned to the Murchisons, had the Comendador stowed in the station-wagon, and set out early one morning up the valley of the Newcastle River and through the hills to the Hudson. He followed the course of that great stream to Albany and then continued north through lovely farming-country. It was early autumn and the farther he went, the more the foliage had progressed in those changes which are magnificent but also sad because they are steps toward death. The deeper he got into the Adirondacks, the less he saw of this recurrent tragedy, for the pines and firs and junipers have devised for themselves little hard sharp leaves which can retain their chlorophyll in spite of winter blasts. In the valleys were flaming reds and yellows, but the mountain slopes would stay green until they turned suddenly wh
ite.

  The plateglass man and his family had their “camp” on a remote little lake, and were staying later than their neighbors because they loved the sharp bracing air and the walks on woodland pathways floored with mosses and ferns. The hunting-season was nearing, and the partridges were drumming at sunset and the deer whistling and blowing at night. There were log fires burning in all the rooms, and Lanny thought of Karinhall—but what a difference in two civilizations! He told his friends about it, laughing; here the game was wild and the people tame, while among the Nazis it was the other way around. “But don’t quote me!” he said.

  The Murchisons were far less pretentious persons than the Budds and Vandringhams. Harry would always be the rather naive and kind-hearted fellow who had fallen head over heels in love with the luscious Beauty Budd and had come so near to carrying her and her little son off to Pittsburgh at the outbreak of the World War. Adella, who knew the story, would always find Lanny a romantic figure, a fountainhead of culture at which she had been happy to drink. Now Harry was growing stout, and his wife was at that “dangerous age” where she was looking about restlessly for something new and different. Lanny would serve for a few days, but in a purely platonic way; Lanny was art and music, Lanny was Europe, to which an idle rich woman’s thoughts turned nostalgically.

  The nearest they came to intimacy was when Adella asked about the break-up of his marriage, and Lanny told her—not the political side, but those charges which Irma was soon to present in court. The plateglass lady who had once been a secretary sighed and remarked that it was somewhat the same in her home; Harry also insisted upon reading the newspaper at the breakfast table and didn’t hear what was said to him; the only solution which had occurred to her was to get two newspapers. Lanny said: “Well, they’re certainly interesting enough these days.”

  He told the story of his visit to Spain, and did not feel it necessary to hide where his sympathies lay. His point of view was new to his friends and they asked many questions. Harry said: “Well, if it has to come I’ll take my chances.” The wife said: “I could always brush up on stenography and support you.”

  Concerning the painting the expert made a little speech: “I am embarrassed to be trying to make money out of you two, and I want you to know exactly how I feel. I enjoy meeting you, and I know you will enjoy looking at the picture; if you want to buy it, all right, and if you don’t, all right, because I’ve already had a couple of nibbles, and it’s possible I might sell it over the telephone from here. I’m on my way to Cleveland to see a couple of clients about other pictures, and one of them may want this one. It’s a genuine Goya, signed by him, and Zoltan Kertezsi confirms this opinion; but unfortunately it’s another Spanish old man, and whether you can stand two of them in the house is a problem. The point is, you must promise not to feel under the slightest obligation; don’t buy it for friendship’s sake, but purely and simply because you want it and think it’s wroth the price. Is that a bargain?”

  “Let me tell you, Lanny,” replied Adella, “those paintings we bought through you are the best investments we ever made. They brought a lot of interesting people to our home, and some of them became our friends. They were people we never would have heard of if we hadn’t got advertised as a pair of art lovers!”

  XI

  So once more the Comendador was brought in, hung up, and ceremoniously unveiled. His coat of light varnish was new and his splendor undeniable; when Adella saw him she caught her breath, so Lanny guessed that his errand was not in vain. The three stood in front of the canvas for an hour or more, while he explained the fine points of the work, with that authority which Zoltan had given him and that charm of manner which he had acquired in half a dozen of the world’s capitals. He pointed out the elements of the design and the color arrangement; he discussed the personality of the subject and the carefully veiled satiric intent. He explained the significance of the orders which the Comendador wore, and the collar with the furisons and double steels; he told about the Spanish Order of the Golden Fleece, founded in Burgundy so many hundred years ago. He described the land of Aragon and told something of its history, and of the broken-down family in which he had found this forgotten masterpiece.

  Also, of course, all about the airplane attack, the bullet holes, and the repair work. He invited them to pick out the damaged places, and watched with amusement while they failed. There happened to be a slight defect in the sash which the old gentleman wore; nearly everyone had picked that out as one of the spots, and it was fun to tell them that it wasn’t. Lanny produced the photographs of the damaged painting, front and rear, and with these before them they still couldn’t see any signs of the repairs. That always impressed people, and provided an interesting subject of conversation.

  The matter was clinched when he told about Robbie’s brilliant ideas. Harry burst out laughing, and exclaimed: “By God, we’ll let Jackson try that some day!” referring to the publisher of the paper which Harry read at the breakfast table. “He could do it for the Red Cross.”

  Adella said: “I think we want that painting, dear.” And it is the rule in most American families of wealth that when the woman wants it, she gets it. Harry wrote a check for twenty-five thousand dollars and Lanny wrote a bill of sale. When these had been exchanged, Adella put in a petition. “If I get in a stenographer in the morning, will you dictate everything that you have told us: the art criticism, the history, and all about how the painting was damaged and the repairs made?”

  Lanny said: “You sit by and ask questions.” He understood that a rich lady hungry for attention was providing herself with another “spiel” for her friends.

  XII

  The salesman, well pleased with himself, continued his motor-trip and interviewed several of his clients, showed them photographs, and told them what he had listed in Spain and Germany, in England and France. He looked at many fine paintings, some of which he had handled in the past. He got several orders and commissions, and had a most agreeable time. It appeared that the episode in Reno wasn’t going to make much difference in his social status. He would be an “ex”—but after all, it was an ex-lion. Nothing altered the fact that he had met the great ones of Europe and that his anecdotes bore the stamp of authenticity. He would still take his high attitude concerning matters of art, and be able to get away with it.

  All the time on these long drives he was thinking: “How am I going to get an airplane for Alfy?” He thought: “I’ll go back to Newcastle and lay the money down before Robbie, and put it up to him that Alfy may lose his life flying some old crate because I can’t get him a decent plane.” I’ll say: “You’ll have him on your conscience the rest of your life.” I’ll say: “It’s a crucial issue with me, a test of everything you have preached to me during your whole life.” But no, Lanny knew his father too well; it wouldn’t work. The issue was crucial with him also. He might suffer ever so much, but he would never give way. And apart from the human and family aspects of the matter, Lanny couldn’t afford to break with such a valuable source of information. Robbie talked freely, because he had such contempt for his opponents in the class struggle that he didn’t care how much they knew.

  All right, then, get some other make of plane, the second best. Lanny knew them all, having listened to his father’s technical conversation. He would drive to the city where they were made, enter the office, and put down the cash. “Gentlemen, here are twenty-five thousand dollars. I want one of your latest pursuit planes.” Would they simply say: “All right, sir, here you are”? Or would they look him over and inquire: “What do you want it for?” Certainly they would ask: “Where do you want it delivered?” And that, too, was something to think about!

  Lanny had been reading between the lines of the newspapers and realizing that it was no simple business matter getting munitions of any sort into Spain. It wasn’t against American law, because the country’s Neutrality Act didn’t apply to civil wars—so the lawyers had discovered, to the embarrassment of a State Department whi
ch was eager to apply it. There had begun a clamor to alter the law lest the shipment of arms involve us in fighting with which we had no concern. Meanwhile, the State Department and all the law enforcement authorities were doing their best to handicap would-be sellers and shippers of arms to the Spanish government. An export license had to be obtained, and this would be delayed, and in the meantime there would be publicity, embarrassing to anyone who was trying to make money in a way displeasing to gentlemen of wealth and fashion in Washington who were playing along with the British Tories, and with Spanish aristocrats like the Duque de Alba, Spanish business men like Juan March, and Spanish soldier-crusaders like Francisco Franco.

  It was what you might call a ruling-class racket. American arms could be sold freely to Germany and Italy, because these were legitimate governments represented by proper gentlemen and noblemen and business men in Washington. When such arms were reshipped to Franco by way of Portugal and Spanish Morocco, the diplomats and statesmen sitting as a “Non-Intervention Committee” would resolutely close their eyes and refuse to see it. But let anybody try to sell or ship anything to Barcelona, and the dealers would be hounded by secret service men and other government agents; the ship-owners would be browbeaten, the insurance companies would threaten them, and so on all the way down the line. When the ships neared Spanish waters, there would be German and Italian planes flying overhead, German and Italian submarines rising out of the sea and demanding to inspect their cargoes. The Nazi-Fascist press was clamoring for the suppression of smuggling, piracy, and everything in the world that interfered with Nazi-Fascist doings.

  The only nations manifesting sympathy for the Spanish government were Russia and Mexico. The former was a long way off, and Lanny didn’t know anybody in the latter, or how to find anybody who could be trusted. He considered going to the Mexican embassy in Washington. But suppose he ran into some gentleman sympathetic to the gentlemen’s cause instead of to the cause of the workers? The same might happen if he went to the Spanish embassy. How was any foreigner to sort out the Franco agents from the Loyalists?