Ceremony of the Innocent (71 page)

Mr. Alfred E. Smith, on the contrary, was a clear-eyed cynic with no delusions about the nature of mankind. He also knew a great deal concerning the enemies of his country. He was, in many ways, far more intelligent and realistic than Mr. Hoover, and far less innocent. Like Mr. Hoover, he had been a student of the French Revolution, and Robespierre. But unlike Mr. Hoover, he understood that something desperate and malign was moving against America from many quarters, and he saw the parallel between France of the Revolution and the United States.

He, therefore, was chosen to be defeated by Mr. Hoover. The enemy feared him. He was too pragmatic, too courageous; he could not be deluded or manipulated or “advised.” He lacked trust and naivete.

After the nominations of Mr. Hoover and Mr. Smith by their respective parties, a vicious whispering campaign was inaugurated against the latter. Those powerful Catholics who were part of the conspiracy—but did not believe in or practice their religion—began to “ask” if it were wise to invest a Catholic in the august robes of Chief Executive. “Should a President have a divided allegiance?” some bought editors anxiously inquired in the newspapers. As the average man hardly understood “divided allegiance,” a cruder version was presented to him: “First a Catholic as President, with the Pope directing him, and then a Jew.” Mr. Hoover, a just man, found this disgusting. But Mr. Smith understood without any doubts at all. On a few occasions he hinted at the identities of his enemies—and the enemies of his country—but he could do no more than hint. It would have been incredible to the trusting American, in his innocence, to believe that his death as a man was already designed, and the death of his country.

He did not know that the terrible ghost of Robespierre was looming over America. He was too busy, and too happy when he had a little money to spend, “making whoopee.” He was too elated at the prospect of the Prince of Wales visiting his country to hear the approach of the universal glacier.

It was no surprise to the defeated Mr. Smith when, in 1929, the plotted collapse of the American economy arrived. Mr. Hoover did not, at first, believe it. When he finally did, he ascribed it “to the general depression in every nation as a result of the Great War.” He did not know that the world depression had been well calculated decades before, and that behind his intrepid back and honor the plot was the better concealed—as it would never have been concealed had Mr. Smith been President.

“The poorhouse is vanishing from amongst us,” said Mr. Hoover sincerely. “We shall soon, with the help of God, be in sight of the day when poverty will be banished from this nation.”

He upheld Prohibition. But Mr. Smith made his fatal error when he pleaded for a return to States’ Rights and the Constitution; this, the deadly quiet men could not endure. Mr. Smith also made another error: He warned that permanent prosperity was an illusion and that plans should now be made to prevent adversity, public despair, and depression. Such “plans,” of course, were not on the enemies’ agenda. It was necessary to destroy prosperity and evoke poverty, unemployment, and financial disaster. Hence, social change and revolution.

As the enemies were only human after all, they had made a serious mistake in financing Benito Mussolini and bringing him to power in Italy. Though a number of the plotters were Italians themselves, they forgot the fierce independence of the Italian spirit, its individualism, its intelligence, its diversity. Mussolini might, indeed, embody the Italian elan in operatic flamboyance and color and love of drama and extravagance. Mussolini might, indeed, be determined to alleviate the desperate financial misery of his people following the Great War. But he was first of all an Italian who passionately loved his country. He could never be induced to betray it and enter into the Communist-financier conspiracy. He was no Stalinist.

Yet, astute and intelligent though he was, he failed to comprehend that Communism and Fascism were one and the same thing, and the invention of the malignant forces of the international conspirators. He was too intent on reviving the grandeur of ancient Rome in his country. His enemies took heart at this. They made grandiloquent promises—and he believed them.

Once Mussolini was well established—and beloved of his countrymen—the conspirators turned their attention to Adolf Hitler. The bankrupt and despairing German people were now beginning to believe that this creature of their murderous foes would rescue them from ultimate dissolution. He might still be in prison; he might still be anathema to the more understanding of their present leaders. But he gave them hope that their country could live again.

Their enemies edited his prison-written book, Mein Kampf, and gave him suggestions. His cruel hysteria, his naturally unstable temperament, combined with a shrewd insight though he was obsessed with an insane dream—which they encouraged—made him the perfect weapon for their purposes. Thoughtfully, they considered Sweden. Germany was now without arms and needed the best of steel, which Sweden produced. Swedish bankers were consulted, and a conference was arranged with them to meet with the followers of Hitler. American munitions makers were involved.

They had no trouble, these enemies, with Joseph Stalin. He understood them at once. Pragmatic, dogged, both patriotic and determined on world conquest under the euphemism of “dictatorship of the proletariat,” he was, in all ways, their complete man. They had no need to indoctrinate him. He had known all about them from the very beginning, which was not true of either Mussolini or Hitler.

The final tragedy was somberly under rehearsal though the curtain as yet remained down.

Charles Godfrey, seriously alarmed, had a talk with his pretty young daughter, Genevieve. “Genny,” he said, “I must ask you to see as little as possible of Christian Porter. You don’t understand, in the least, about him—”

She looked at him with her own gray eyes, which were filled with gentle amusement. “But I do, Daddy,” she said. “I know exactly what Christian is. He is great fun and intelligent and I like his company, for he is lively and interesting. But don’t worry that I will consider him as a husband, though he has proposed several times. I know his character, and I wouldn’t marry him for the world. In the meantime, I am only enjoying myself.”

Then she frowned. “But as for his sister, Gabrielle—she is dangerous, Daddy, and I despise her. I think she is in love with him herself.”

Charles was shocked. “Where, in God’s name, did you ever learn about such things?”

Genevieve shrugged. “Daddy, everybody knows about these ‘things.’ Everybody always did. Did you think to keep me in a perpetual kindergarten? Oh, I am nice to Gaby; she is very amusing, too.” The girl hesitated. “There is something going on in that family. I am trying to find out what it is.”

C H A P T E R   38

IN THE MEANTIME, the drugged Ellen Porter, the deliberately disoriented Ellen, submitted to the long “treatment” imposed on her by Dr. Lubish and his colleague. She became increasingly unaware of her surroundings; she never read a newspaper any longer, or a book or a magazine. Her house was a silent prison, with wardens always watching her. The solicitude of her children, the new pampering by her servants, warmed the confused woman, made her confide in them. Deprived of love, except for that of her dead aunt and her husband, Jeremy, she had no resources, no refuge. In her natural human hunger for affection she accepted the spurious brand offered her. She refused to see Charles Godfrey and Maude.

More and more was she convinced that Kitty Wilder was her dearest and only friend, and she clung to her with such strength that it might have moved anyone but Kitty Wilder. As for Francis, he grew dimmer in her consciousness and so she rarely thought of him. He was a shadow that came and went, and when he spoke to her she did not hear him. She only saw that his lips moved, like a shadow’s lips, soundlessly. If he touched her hand, yearningly, she snatched it away, shuddering. She fled when she heard his footsteps, like one threatened.

Her dreams were her only reality and they became more vivid as time passed. She lived in them with Jeremy. Lately, however, to her distress, he seemed to be warning her urgently, but though she heard his beloved voice she could not comprehend his words. Once, in a dream, he grasped her arm and urgently led her to the door of their house and tried to propel her outside. She did catch one word: “Run!” Then again: “Ellen, my darling, run away!” She could not understand and looked at him pleadingly. She saw tears on his face, that face which grew younger all the time in her dreams.

“I think,” said Dr. Lubish to Francis, Gabrielle, and Christian, “that we are now ready for the sad denouement. Mrs. Porter is not improving, I am sorry to say. In fact, she is steadily deteriorating and is a danger to herself. She must be institutionalized, for her own protection. We have good lawyers; we have all the evidence we need. We must have a consultation with Charles Godfrey at once.” The time was the early week of August 1929.

Dr. Lubish said to Francis, “As Mrs. Porter’s husband, ask Mr. Godfrey for a conference with him, without mentioning our names, though I think it wise if you suggest that Mrs. Porter’s children be there also.”

Francis nodded. He was very pale. He wanted only that Ellen be restored to health and sanity. “How long will she be in the institution?” he asked.

Dr. Lubish smiled at him fondly. “Only until she is recovered. It may be some time—but we have hope.”

Charles sighed with exasperated boredom when Francis called him “for a consultation.” He said, “Francis, let’s not go over estate matters any longer. You know it is useless.”

Francis said, “It’s not exactly about the estates. It is something even more important.”

Charles was alerted. “What?”

“Ellen. Please, Charles, let’s not discuss it over the telephone. It’s a very serious matter. Have you seen Ellen lately?”

“No. Not for nearly a year. What’s wrong?”

But Francis repeated his request for an interview, and Charles, with a nameless apprehension, consented at once. That night he said to Maude, “I have the strangest feeling that Ellen is in some awful danger. Never mind. I am getting fanciful in my old age.” He read the newspapers and forgot Ellen. The Stock Market was more exuberant than ever, and Mr. Hoover even more optimistic about “permanent prosperity.” “I don’t like it,” Charles said to his wife. “Something’s in the wind. I wish to God that Jeremy were alive. He knew more about these things than I do. I should have kept up—”

His apprehension about Ellen returned the next day, the day of the conference. He said to Jochan Wilder, “I’d like you to be present.”

The August day was unusually hot, even for New York, and Charles was unaccountably very irritable. He could not concentrate on the papers on his desk. He could think only of Ellen, and her husband. He sweated; the fans did very little good in that sluggish humidity. Charles helped himself to a cold drink, clattering with ice. The whiskey was excellent, for he had a reliable bootlegger. But the whiskey did not calm him as usual. He said to Jochan, “Perhaps it’s only the heat, but I am getting very jumpy, and I don’t know why.”

Jochan, the affable and smiling, said, “So am I. Jumpy. By the way, I’m selling a lot of my stocks. I hope you are, too, Charlie.”

“Yes. Little by little. I don’t like all the optimism in the country. I think it is being deliberately stimulated.”

“Oh, come now. By whom?”

Charles frowned. “I wish Jeremy were alive. He’d know. He told me a lot about—this—before he was killed. Long ago.”

“Crashes always follow booms,” said Jochan. “That’s why I am steadily selling.”

“If everyone felt that way we really would have a bust,” said Charles. “I just read that Professor Irving Fisher said, the other day, that the prices of stocks had reached ‘what looks like a permanently high plateau.’ That’s what is worrying me. When economists are elated it’s time for prudent investors to give the matter some thought. And when politicians are also elated it’s time to head for the cyclone cellar.”

His friend the Senator had died the year before, but earlier than that he had also warned Charles. “Get out of the Market as fast as possible, Charlie, or as much as you can. I am getting hints, though the picture is murkier than ever and more hidden. I think Mussolini and Hitler should be taken more seriously than they are, and Stalin also. Something’s going on; I used to know considerable but I can’t find out anything now. Those men are not the crackpots the newspapers declare they are. And some somebodies are supporting and financing all of them.”

“What have they got to do with the Stock Market, Senator?”

“I don’t know, exactly. But I think they are a part of the whole picture. I know it sounds fantastic, but fantasies are usually based on some secret reality.”

At three o’clock, this hot August day, Francis and Christian and Gabrielle arrived, accompanied, to Charles’ surprise, by three strangers. Francis, whose hands were tremulous, introduced them. Suddenly Charles recognized one of them: A Mr. William Wainwright, of one of New York’s most prestigious law firms. Charles knew him slightly, and his vague alarm increased. The other two gentlemen, according to Francis, were a Dr. Emil Lubish and a Dr. Enright. Now Charles was deeply disturbed. “Medical doctors?” he asked when shaking hands. He studied Dr. Lubish, the heavy man, and the younger and fleshy Dr. Enright.

“Psychiatrists, sir,” Dr. Lubish said, and looked properly solemn.

What the hell? thought Charles. He glanced at Gabrielle, in her blue linen dress and small blue cloche, and at Christian, and when he saw the sobriety of their faces he felt a hard tightening in himself, and a wariness.

“We can make this brief, I believe, Mr. Godfrey,” said Mr. Wainwright. “It’s really a very simple matter. I represent Mr. Porter, Miss Porter, and Mr. Christian Porter. I have here a number of affidavits, by these physicians, and by Mr. Francis and Mr. Christian Porter, three domestics employed by Mrs. Francis Porter, and myself. I have consulted the others and have been present, in the background, when Mrs. Porter was being treated, psychiatrically, by Drs. Lubish and Enright—”