"Moore, Ward - Bring The Jubilee" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moore Ward)

If his fantastic reasoning and curious manner of classifying personalities as though they were zoological specimens could relieve me of having to refuse point-blank to join the Grand Army I was content. While this hardly alleviated my disturbance at being, no matter how remotely, accessory to mayhem, kidnapping, and murder I compromised with my conscience by trying to believe I might after all be mistaken in thinking I was being used. There were times when I felt I ought boldly to declare myself and leave the store, but when I faced the prospect of having to find a way to eat and sleep, even if I put aside the imperative necessity of books, I lacked the courage.
Spectator? Why not? Spectators had no difficult decisions to make.


V.

OF WHIGS AND POPULIISTS

A country defeated in a bitter war and divested of half its territory loses its drive and spirit and suffers a shock which is communicated to all its people. For generations its citizens brood over what has happened, preoccupied with the past and dreaming of a miraculous change, until time brings apathy or a reversal of history. The Grand Army, with its crude and brutal philosophy and methods, was pride's answer to defeat.
It was not the only answer; the two major political parties had others. The realistic Whigs wanted to fit the country and its economy into actual world conditions, to subordinate it wholly and openly to the great manufacturing nations and accept with gratitude foreign capital and foreign protection. The immediate result would be more prosperity for the propertied classes; they contended this would mean a gradual raising of the standard of living, since employers could hire more hands, and that indenture, faced by competition with wages, would dwindle away.
This the Populists denied. The government, they insisted when they were out of office, should create industries, forbid indenting, buy up the indentures of skilled workers and offer high enough pay to create new markets, and defy the world by building a new army and navy. That they never put their program into effect they laid to the wily tricks of the Whigs.
The presidential election of 1940 was as violent as if the office were really a prize to be sought rather than a practically empty title, with all real power now held by the Majority Leader of the House and his cabinet of Committee Chairmen. As early as May one of the leading contenders for the Populist nomination was shot and badly crippled; the Cleveland hall where the Whig convention was being held was fired by an arsonist.
I would not be old enough to vote for two years, yet I, too, had campaign fever. Jennings Lewis, the Populist, was perhaps the ugliest candidate ever offered, with a hairless, skeletonlike face; Dewey, the Whig nominee, had a certain handsomeness, which might have been an asset if the persistent advocates of woman suffrage had ever gotten their way.
Traditionally, candidates never ventured west of Chicago, concentrating their appearances in New York and New England and leaving the campaign in the sparsely settled trans-Mississippi to local politicians. This year both office seekers used every device to reach the greatest number of voters. Dewey made a grand tour in his balloontrain; Lewis was featured in a series of short phonotos which were shown free. Dewey spoke several times daily to small groups; Lewis specialized in enormous weekly rallies followed by torchlight parades.
One of these Populist rallies was held in Union Square early in September; outgoing President George Norris spoke, and ex-President Norman Thomas, the only Populist to serve two terms since the beloved Bryan. Tyss indulgently gave me permission to leave the store a couple of hours before the meeting was to commence so I might get a place from which to see and hear all that was going on. Though he characterized all elections as meaningless exercises devised to befuddle, he had been active in this one in some mysterious and secretive way.
The square was already well filled when I arrived, with the more acrobatic members of the audience perched on the statues of LaFayette and Washington. Calliopes played patriotic airs, and a compressed-air machine shot up puffs of smoke which momentarily spelled out the candidate's name. Resigned to pantomime glimpses of what was going on, I moved around the outside edge of the crowd, thinking I might just as well leave altogether.
"Please don't step on my foot so firmly. Or is that part of the Populist tradition?"
"Excuse me, miss; I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"
We were close enough to a light standard for me to see she was young and well dressed, hardly the sort of girl to be found at a political meeting, few of which ever counted much of a feminine audience.
She rubbed her instep briefly. "It's all right," she conceded grudgingly. "Serves me right for being curious about the mob."
She was plump and pretty, with a small, discontented mouth and pale hair worn long over her shoulders. "There's not much to see from here," I said; "unless you're enthusiastic enough to be satisfied with a bare look at the important people, perhaps you'd let me help you to the streetcar. For my clumsiness."
She looked at me thoughtfully. "I can manage by myself. But if you feel you owe me something for trampling me, maybe you'll explain why anyone comes to these ridiculous gatherings."
"Why. . . to hear the speakers."
"Hardly any of them can. Only those close up."
"Well then, to show their support of the party, I guess."
"That's what I thought. It's a custom or rite or something like that. A stupid amusement."
"But cheap," I said. "And those who vote for Populists usually haven't much money."
"Maybe that's why," she answered. "If they found more useful things to do they'd earn money; then they wouldn't vote for Populists."
"A virtuous circle. If everyone voted Whig we'd all be rich as Whigs."
She shrugged her shoulders, a gesture I found pleasing. "It's easy enough to be envious of those who are better off; it's a lot harder to become better off yourself."
"I can't argue with you on that, miss.. . urn.. . ?"
"Why Mister Populist, do ladies always tell you their names when you step on their feet?"
"I'm not usually lucky enough to find feet to step on that have lovely ladies attached," I answered boldly. "I won't deny Populist leanings, but my name is really Hodge Backmaker."
Hers was Tirzah Vame, and she was indentured to a family of wealthy Whigs who owned a handsome modern cast-iron and concrete house near the reservoir at Fortysecond Street and Fifth Avenue. She had used the apt word "curious" in characterizing herself, but it was, as I soon found out, a cold and inflexible curiosity which explored only what she thought might be useful or which impressed her as foolish. She was interested in the nature of anything fashionable or popular or much talked of; the idea of being concerned with anything even vaguely abstract struck her as preposterous.
She had indented, not out of stark economic necessity, but calculatedly, believing she could achieve economic security through indenture. This seemed paradoxical to me, even when I contrasted my "free" condition with her bound one. Certainly she seemed to have minimum restriction on her time; soon after our introduction at the rally she was meeting me almost every evening in Reservoir Square where we sat for hours talking on a bench or walking briskly when the autumn weather chilled our blood.
I did not long flatter myself that her interest--perhaps tolerance would be a better word--was due to any strong attraction exerted by me. If anything she was, I think, slightly repelled by my physical presence, which carried to her some connotation of ordinary surroundings and contrasted with the well-fed smooth surfaces of her employers and their friends. The first time I kissed her she shuddered slightly; then, closing her eyes, she allowed me to kiss her again.
She did not resist me when I pressed my lovemaking; she led me quietly to her room in the big house on my transparent plea that the outdoors was now too cold even for conversation. I was no accomplished seducer, but even in my awkward eagerness I could see she had made up her mind I was to succeed.
That her complaisance was not the result of passion was soon obvious; there was not so much a failure on my part to arouse her as a refusal on hers to be aroused beyond an inescapable degree. Even as she permitted our intimacy she remained as virginal, aloof, and critical as before.
"It seems hardly worth the trouble. Imagine people talking and writing and thinking about nothing else."
"Tirzah dear--"
"And the liberties that seem to go with it. I don't think of you as any more dear than I did an hour ago. If people must indulge in this sort of thing, and I suppose they must since it's been going on for a long time, I think it could be conducted with more dignity."
As my infatuation increased her coolness did not lessen; curiosity alone seemed to move her. She was amused at my pathetic search for knowledge. "What good is your learning ever going to do you? It'll never get you a penny."
I smoothed the long, pale hair and kissed her ear. "Suppose it doesn't?" I argued lazily. "There are other things besides money."
She drew away. "That's what those who can't get it always say."
"And what do people who can get it say?"
"That it's the most important thing of all," she answered earnestly. "That it will buy all the other things."
"It will buy you free of your indenture," I admitted, "but you have to get it first."
"Get it first? I never let it go. I still have the contract payment."
"Then what was the point of indenting at all?"
She looked at me wonderingly. "Haven't you ever thought about serious things? Only books and politics and all that? How could I get opportunities without indenting? I doubt if the Vames are much of a cut above the Backmakers; well, you're a general drudge and I'm a governess and tutor and even in a way a sort of distant friend to Mrs. Smythe."