It was not notable, at first, that those who understood what was taking place were furiously assaulted in print, and often in person, by the men who had a Socialist-Populist background in government, and in private life where they were influential, especially in New York and in Washington. When it was finally discovered it was far too late.
Tens of thousands of American women still objected and wept. They were called “mad,” and many were incarcerated. But the majority of women walked and bustled about with stars in their eyes, and their young daughters were used as shameful and “patriotic” bait for hesitant young men to “show their manhood” and convince them the war was a tremendous adventure.
The American government, as designed by the Russian Communist Lenin, became the enthusiastic servant of the international conspiracy against the people of the world, and delivered them happily to their enslavers. Francis Porter made many eloquent speeches in Congress, and many of those speeches were incorporated in the Congressional Record. He was honored by the White House. This war, he said, was “an adventure of freedom against ancient enemies.” He quoted Karl Marx profusely—without naming Marx. President Wilson said he was a magnificent patriot. He was beyond the draft age. He toured the country, selling Liberty Bonds, as did many other Congressmen and Senators. His face was constantly flushed with fervor, so that he appeared feverish, and his eyes, behind their spectacles, glowed. He posed for newspapers. He was given a special aide who wrote his speeches. That aide was a secret member of the Communist Party. He thought Francis “a poor thing,” but a weapon against the people of America. If he laughed at Francis, the laughter was behind closed doors where the enemy gathered.
“We have American politicians in the palms of our hands,” the American aide, who was a very rich man himself, confided. “The prospects are limitless. We are on the way! As the Germans say, ‘Der Tag.’” Thinking of Francis again, he said, his thin face alight with gleeful malice, “What an innocent! But he and his kind serve our purpose. This autumn—”
That autumn of 1917 Russia withdrew from the war and the Bolsheviks savaged the Russian people—numbed, themselves, by war and desperation—into total slavery. The Russian people had never voted for Communism. It took only a few and cynical men to impose it on them, with the help of international financiers.
“But we,” said the historical enemy, “will not have to force Socialism on other nations, as we did in Russia. They will vote for it, under the heroic phrases of ‘equality and fraternity,’ and ‘social justice,’ which sound so noble though they are only abstract ideas unequated with reality.”
Charles Godfrey understood this as well as did the enemy. He said, quoting Jeremy Porter, “‘Sic transit America.’” But, he would think, perhaps that is all America deserves, after all. A nation is guilty of her own death. He decided that in no manner would he be a martyr. “A man has to live,” he would remark defensively to himself. “Governments come and go, but men must survive, though why I don’t know! What was it the Holy Bible mentioned? The strong tree was thrown down in the gale—but the meek grass bent uncomplainingly and lived.”
However, though the expedient grass survived it was eaten by voracious cattle. The valiant fallen tree scattered its viable seed and new forests rose to defy new gales, and to shelter the earth and fertilize it. Had the Bible really spoken ironically? The Church proclaimed that it grew stronger with the blood of the martyrs. Charles had no desire to replenish his country, though his conscience tormented him. Like too many other Americans, he compromised. But at the end of his life he thought: “To compromise with evil is to sell your soul to death.” Nations did not reach a detente with Hell—unless they desired to live in Hell. They usually did.
(It was not surprising, Charles would think years later, that on his deathbed President Wilson mourned, “I am a most unhappy man. I have ruined my country.”)
C H A P T E R 31
AS FRANCES PORTER WAS incapable, by nature, of honesty with regard to himself, to others, to reality, he did not think: “The best and quickest access to Ellen—and her money—is through her children. Therefore, I must set out to cultivate those children, who will then help me to get what I want.”
That, however, was the cold and pragmatic core of the matter, which he never faced with valid cynicism or brutal candor. He had always prided himself on his “frankness,” though he possessed no true frankness at all. He was also incapable of admitting this even in his deepest reflections; he was a classic case of self-deceit. He was his own mirror, in which he saw an image of uprightness, honor, sobriety, “compassion,” justice, and “concern for humanity.” He was not able to judge himself, or indulge in the slightest self-criticism or doubt or uneasy guilt, or humor. All that he did was impeccable, based on what he considered humanistic impulses. That he was a Grand Inquisitor, really at home with the auto-da-fé and the thumbscrews and the wheel and the lash and the gallows, never occurred to him even in nightmares. As all mankind possesses the latent instinct for cruelty and vengefulness, he possessed this also, but to a larger extent. To be contradicted was to him a personal affront, an affront to his superior intelligence and endowments and judgments and convictions. Excellence should never be challenged, was his subconscious reasoning, and that he was in all ways excellent and above confrontation he never questioned for a single moment. Those who questioned should be, at the very least, condemned; at the worst, punished severely.
He was the new and sadistic man who had begun to emerge into the startled awareness of the world after the French Revolution. He was the fanatic, the “reformer,” the champion of the Common Man, the warrior engaged in a battle to the death against all the powers of reason, judiciousness, tradition, Western Judeo-Christian culture, established religion, law, order, pride, patriotism, temperance, philosophy, balance, and civilization.
His father, with alarm, had guessed this even in Francis’ childhood, for Francis had always been too fervid, too obstinate, too enamored of his own conclusions, too inflexible, too vengeful when opposed, too convinced that he was inevitably right. His teachers had found him difficult, though an excellent scholar. He had plunged into the Spanish-American War with intensity, believing it just. But after that war a phenomenon happened, strange and alien to his nature: He had actually changed his opinion. Walter suspected that the change had come about when his son had been brought rudely to confront reality, and had recoiled in self-protection. Or, perhaps, Walter would think, it was Francis’ first experience with raw humanity, among the soldiers, and he had retreated from it with disgust and hatred. He never really examined this experience with honesty, otherwise he would never have become a Fabian Socialist or developed his own enormous fantasies concerning mankind.
Naturally, he had voted to declare war against Germany, and had made a coldly impassioned speech in favor of such a declaration. In some manner Germany had now become the focus of his frightful hatred for his fellow human beings, and he could use invective against the Germans which was simply invective against all that lived in the form of man, which would not pay obeisance to him and his kind.
So, while the dread war against mankind increased, Francis gave long thought to the “welfare” of Jeremy’s children. It was obvious to him that their mother was too weak in character to “care” for Christian and Gabrielle in a true maternal fashion, or she was, doubtless, too stupid and ill-bred and ignorant. They “deserved better,” these fatherless children. Their characters needed to be “molded” along wider perspectives, their “compassion” stimulated, their duty made evident, their horizons “encouraged” to extend beyond their mere existence. (“Stimulation” and “encouragement” were favorite words of Francis’.) So Francis set out to stand in loco parentis to the children of Jeremy Porter. But subconsciously he guessed that they had an enormous capacity for evil, which did not revolt him. In fact, the more he saw of those children, the more rapport he felt for them, for in Christian he recognized—though subconsciously—his own capacity for ruthl
essness, his own detestation of challenge, his own will to power, his own lack of noble love. He liked Christian more than he did Gabrielle, for Gabrielle had a wicked sense of humor; a sharper aversion for delusion than did her brother, and she was also more clever in dissimulation and pretense. Had Francis ever liked Kipling—in fact, he detested Kipling—he would have quoted, “The female of the species is more deadly than the male ” Too, Francis was more inclined to favor Christian because the youth, in physical appearance, resembled his mother.
Francis became as amiable as possible to Christian during the Easter recess in 1918, in spite of pressing business in Washington. Christian would never respect him, for Christian was far more intelligent than his cousin. But the boy had considered how best he could use Francis for his own advantage, and pretended to a great affection for “Cousin Francis.” He early understood that Francis had a relentless determination to marry Ellen, and Christian gave long thought as to how this could be manipulated. The youth hated Charles Godfrey, who was a stern guardian and not open to cajolery or charm; nor could he be diddled. He refused great increases in allowances; he could never be deceived by such as Christian. Therefore Christian, while he hated and sullenly resented Charles, respected him. But Charles was an impediment to the enjoyment of life, and it was obvious that he had no burning love for the younger members of the human tribe. He was also a disciplinarian, and could persuade Ellen not to grant the more lavish desires of her son. He had only to say, “Jeremy would not approve,” to get Ellen to do what he wished. Christian knew that Francis detested Charles Godfrey, and that Charles despised Francis.
A stepfather, in the person of Francis Porter, would be more amenable, and his wife would be less docile with Charles. Christian knew the sensitivity of his mother, her timidity, her susceptibility to dominance, her guilty desire to please and placate at all costs. She would be helpless before Francis Porter, and Francis Porter, Christian believed, would be helpless before subtle adroitness in Ellen’s children. Gabrielle, after some reflection, heartily agreed. The two children set out to woo Francis as avidly as he was now wooing them. They pretended to agree with all his opinions; they looked at him, with open mouths, when he exhorted them, and would seriously nod their heads. That they laughed even more hilariously at him than they laughed at their mother, he never suspected.
They enlisted the assistance of “Aunt Kitty,” though they well knew that she wanted to marry Francis Porter herself. They carefully concealed from her their knowledge of her own schemes They merely desired her “help” against Charles Godfrey, who was very oppressive and was no doubt paying himself a large fee as administrator of their father’s will, thus robbing two innocent children. As Kitty greatly disliked Charles Godfrey and his “upstart wife,” the children found no opposition in their dear “aunt.” They found an enthusiastic ally. With immense art Kitty began her campaign to get Ellen to mistrust Charles, and as Ellen still did not like Maude, and found Charles somewhat stringent, this was not difficult to accomplish. “You should listen more to Francis, dearest Ellen,” Kitty would say. “He has your best interests at heart, and he adores your children. Such a greathearted man.” She reminded Ellen constantly of the “debt” she owed Francis, to which Ellen somewhat uncomfortably agreed. There were times when Ellen felt guilt that she did not “appreciate” Francis as much as he deserved, and so she forced herself to be very attentive to him in contrition, and listened to him more and more when he reprimanded her—though the reprimands were always delivered in an austerely kind manner, and with a patronizing tenderness. Ellen found herself depending on his advice. He did so cherish her children, she would tell herself, and they needed a man’s guidance, and the children obviously loved him, too. They would tell her so, on endless occasions, their eyes big and trusting.
In the meantime, Francis was busy in Washington. The draft he said, should be extended to include able administrators, even in their forties—such as Charles Godfrey, he would say to himself. In September 1918, Charles, seeing the inevitable, enlisted, was immediately made a colonel in the War Department. This was not to Francis’ liking, but at least it removed Charles from the constant supervision of Ellen, Christian, and Gabrielle for a considerable number of months, thus placing them more and more under the influence of himself.
Francis did not know that Kitty Wilder was determined to divorce her husband, Jochan, and marry him as soon as possible. He found in her only a devoted assistant in the matter of Ellen and Jeremy’s children, and he forgot his former dislike of her. As for Jochan Wilder, Francis considered him a pleasant nonentity, with no social conscience and no intelligence. Francis did not know of a closed codicil in Jeremy’s will: If no executor named in the body of the will survived to the children’s majority, Jochan Wilder and the law firm were to be executors.
“The sweet smell of money,” Jeremy Porter had once said, “has driven millions of good men to the most appalling heights of treachery, madness, betrayal, and greed. It has turned potential saints into devils, and has more crucifixions in its name than have ever been recorded.”
“I wish,” said Christian Porter to his sister in October 1918, “that this war would go on for years and years. Such fun. I wish I were old enough to enlist.”
Gabrielle laughed derisively. “Oh, yes, for the gay uniform and the leather leggings and the cane and the salutes from the ranks, and the new wristwatches for men—for men!—and all the bands and the dancing and the heroism. You’re not of the stuff of heroes, Christian. You just like the stage.”
“You’re a brat,” said Christian, laughing himself. “A thirteen-year-old brat. I could, though, run away and enlist and say I was eighteen instead of fifteen.”
Ellen had opened her house on Long Island for wounded soldiers. Though Francis primly approved he did not honestly like it. One knew what these raw men would do to a fine house, when it was used as a convalescent home, and that lowered property values. Ellen so brought herself out of her apathy that she spent almost all summer in her house, rolling bandages, wearing a gray-and-white uniform, and singing and playing a piano for the suffering young men. Francis had assured her that this was exemplary. Her children, however, no matter her gentle reproaches, would not join her at the house, whose present inhabitants they forthrightly loathed. They preferred the city and their friends and the excitement of the war days.
“They’re old enough to be by themselves,” Francis would say. “You have a good housekeeper there, and even that old Cuthbert, who is becoming very useless, I must say. An ancient pensioner; you should really discharge him, Ellen. Didn’t Jeremy leave him fifteen thousand dollars? Yes, and he has always been paid large wages. No doubt he is financially independent by now.”
“Jeremy would want him to stay with the family the rest of his life, Francis.” Ellen spoke with her usual timidity, but there was that disagreeable echo of iron under her words, an iron which Francis both mistrusted and resented. Who was Ellen, by birth or breeding, to dare assert herself against his better judgment? It was insolence. He had, however prevailed on her a year ago to discharge Miss Evans, who had promptly enlisted as a nurse in the Army and had gone overseas with the troops. She wrote quite regularly to Ellen, and was pleased to hear that her patient had roused herself from her listlessness and had joined “in the war effort,” a new phrase called from English phraseology. (America had become excessively loving towards England by this time. No longer were Fourth of July celebrations filled with tauntings and fervid denunciations.)
Francis had entered the primaries in his campaign to become a United States Senator, and had been defeated. However, he had been re-elected Congressman by a significantly lower majority than in his last campaign, and this had enraged him. Moreover, the mood of the country was changing, and this was also infuriating. There had been a vast decrease in elan and elation as the war had progressed, and especially since the Draft Act had been amended on August 31, 1918, to lower the draft age to eighteen. The war fever considerably cooled wh
en the wounded returned, and the death lists grew longer and longer. There was a new sullen feeling in the national air, and a new anxiety since Russia had fallen to the Bolsheviks and had withdrawn from the war. People, and the newspapers, spoke apprehensively about the Communists. Sometimes there were even blacker and larger headlines in the papers pertaining to Russia than news of the Front. Confused indignation was expressed in behalf of the Czar and his family. Articles began to be printed in national magazines concerning the annihilation of tens of thousands of Russians who opposed the new regime, of peasants hideously slaughtered on their farms and in the little villages, of the mad murder of the middle class and the confiscation of their property.
“If it were not for the Spanish flu decimating this country, and taking up some of the public’s attention, we’d be in difficulties,” said Francis’ friends. “We must pursue our work with deeper attention and dedication. We have come a long way. It is now time to end this war and pursue our objective ruthlessly.”
Consequently, the war did end, and with suddenness, on November 11, 1918, to the innocent jubilation of America.
It was on that day of excitement and delirious relief that Francis proposed marriage to Ellen. He had, quite inadvertently, been forced into this (despite his suspicion that Ellen would refuse him) by Kitty Wilder herself.