I
To begin with, I am going to call things by their real name. At first
glance this statement will give you a shiver of terror, that is, if you
happen to be a maiden lady or a gentleman with reversible cuffs. But
your shivers will be without reason. Prue may read, and modest Prue's
mama; for it isn't going to be a naughty story; on the contrary,
grandma's spring medicines are less harmless. Yet, there is a parable to
expound and a moral to point out; but I shall leave these to your own
discernment.
It has always appealed to me as rather a silly custom on a
story-teller's part to invent names for the two great political parties
of the United States; and for my part, I am going to call a Democrat a
Democrat and a Republican a Republican, because these titles are not so
hallowed in our time as to be disguised in print and uttered in a bated
breath. There is no _lèse-majesté_ in America.
Men inclined toward the evil side of power will be found in all parties,
and always have been. Unlike society, the middle class in politics
usually contains all the evil elements. In politics the citizen becomes
the lowest order, and the statesman the highest; and, thanks to the
common sense of the race, these are largely honest and incorruptible.
When these become disintegrated, a republic falls.
Being a journalist and a philosopher, I look upon both parties with
tolerant contempt. The very nearness of some things disillusions us; and
I have found that only one illusion remains to the newspaper man, and
that is that some day he'll get out of the newspaper business. I vote as
I please, though the family does not know this. The mother is a
Republican and so is the grandmother; and loving peace in the house, I
dub myself a Republican till that moment when I enter the voting-booth.
Then I become an individual who votes as his common sense directs.
The influence of woman in politics is no inconsiderable matter. The
great statesman may flatter himself that his greatness is due to his
oratorical powers; but his destiny is often decided at the
breakfast-table. Why four-fifths of the women lean toward Republicanism
is something no mere historian can analyze.
In my town politics had an evil odor. For six years a Democrat had been
mayor, and for six years the town had been plundered. For six years the
Republicans had striven, with might and main, to regain the power ...
and the right to plunder. It did not matter which party ruled, graft
(let us omit the quotation marks) was the tocsin. The citizens were
robbed, openly or covertly, according to the policy of the party in
office. There was no independent paper in town; so, from one month's end
to another it was leaded editorial vituperation. Then Caliban revolted.
An independent party was about to be formed.
The two bosses, however, were equal to the occasion. They immediately
hustled around and secured as candidates for the mayoralty two prominent
young men whose honesty and integrity were unimpeachable. Caliban, as is
his habit, sheathed his sword and went back to his bench, his desk, or
whatever his occupation was.
On the Republican side they nominated a rich young club-man. Now, as you
will readily agree, it is always written large on the political banner
that a man who is rich has no incentive to become a grafter. The public
is ever willing to trust its funds to a millionaire. The Democrats, with
equal cunning, brought forward a brilliant young attorney, whose income
was rather moderate but whose ability and promise were great. The
Democratic organs hailed his nomination with delight.
"We want one of the people to represent us, not one of the privileged
class." You see, there happened to be no rich young Democrat available.
These two candidates were close personal friends. They had been chums
from boyhood and had been graduated from the same college. They belonged
to the same clubs, and were acknowledged to be the best horsemen in
town. As to social prominence, neither had any advantage over the other,
save in the eyes of matrons who possessed marriageable (and extravagant)
daughters. Williard, the Republican nominee, was a handsome chap,
liberal-minded and generous-hearted, without a personal enemy in the
world. I recollect only one fault: he loved the world a little too well.
The opposition organs, during the heat of the campaign, dropped vague
hints regarding dinners to singers and actresses and large stakes in
poker games. Carrington, his opponent, was not handsome, but he had a
fine clean-cut, manly face, an intrepid eye, a resolute mouth, and a
tremendous ambition. He lived well within his income, the highest
recommendation that may be paid to a young man of these days.
He threw himself into the fight with all the ardor of which his nature
was capable; whereas Williard was content to let the machine direct his
movements. The truth is, Williard was indifferent whether he became
mayor or not. To him the conflict was a diversion, a new fish to
Lucullus; and when the Democratic organs wrote scathing editorials about
what they termed his profligate career, he would laugh and exhibit the
articles at the club. It was all a huge joke. He made very few speeches,
and at no time could he be forced into the foreign districts. He
complained that his olfactory nerve was too delicately educated. The
leaders swallowed their rancor; there was nothing else for them to do.
In Williard's very lack of ambition lay his strength. Poverty would have
made a great man out of him; but riches have a peculiar way of numbing
the appreciation of the greater and simpler things in life.
Carrington went everywhere; the Poles hurrahed for him, the Germans, the
Irish, the Huns and the Italians. And he made no promises which he did
not honestly intend to fulfil. To him the fight meant everything; it
meant fame and honor, a comfortable addition to his income, and
Washington as a finality. He would purify the Democrats while he
annihilated the pretensions of the Republicans. He was what historians
call an active dreamer, a man who dreams and then goes forth to
accomplish things. His personality was engaging.
Besides all this (for the secret must be told) Carrington was in love
and wished to have all these things to lay at the feet of his beloved,
even if she returned them. You will regularly find it to be true that
the single man is far more ambitious than his married brother. The
latter invariably turns over the contract to his wife.
Williard was deeply in love, too, with Senator Gordon's lovely daughter,
and Senator Gordon was that mysterious power which directed the
Republican forces in his section of the state. So you may readily
believe that Carrington was forced to put up a better fight than
Williard, who stood high in Senator Gordon's favor. The girl and the two
young men had been friends since childhood, and nobody knew whether she
cared for either of them in the way they desired. Everybody in town, who
was anybody, understood the situation; and everybody felt confident that
Williard was most likely to win. The girl never said anything, even to
her intimate friends; but when the subject was brought up, she smiled in
a way that dismissed it.
Such was the political situation at the beginning of the municipal
campaign. There have been like situations in any number of cities which
boast of one hundred thousand inhabitants or more; perhaps in your town,
and yours, and yours. That bugaboo of the politician, reform, brings
round this phenomenon about once in every eight years. For a while the
wicked ones promise to be good, and you will admit that that helps.
It was amusing to follow the newspapers. They vilified each other,
ripped to shreds the character of each candidate, recalled boyhood
escapades and magnified them into frightful crimes, and declared in turn
that the opposition boss should land in the penitentiary if it took all
the type in the composing-rooms to do it. What always strikes me as odd
is that, laughter-loving people that we are, nobody laughs during these
foolish periods. Instead, everybody goes about, straining his conscience
and warping his common sense into believing these flimsy campaign lies,
these political roorbacks.
When Williard and Carrington met at the club, at the Saturday-night
luncheons, they avoided each other tactfully, each secretly longing to
grasp the other's hand and say: "Don't believe a word of it, old boy;
it's all tommy-rot." But policy held them at arm's length. What would
the voters say if they heard that their respective candidates were
hobnobbing at a private club? Carrington played billiards in the
basement while Williard played a rubber at whist up stairs; and the
Saturday rides out to the country club became obsolete. Only a few
cynics saw the droll side of the situation; and they were confident that
when the election was over the friendship would be renewed all the more
strongly for the tension.
One night, some weeks before the election, Williard dined alone with the
senator at the Gordon home. Betty Gordon was dining elsewhere. With the
cognac and cigars, the senator drew out a slip of paper, scrutinized it
for a space, then handed it to his protégé.
"That's the slate. How do you like it?"
Williard ran his glance up and down the columns. Once he frowned.
"What's the matter?" asked the senator shrewdly.
"I do not like the idea of Matthews for commissioner of public works.
He's a blackleg,--there's no getting around that. He practically runs
that faro-bank above his down-town saloon. Can't you put some one else
in his place?"
The senator filliped the ash from the end of his cigar.
"Honestly, my boy, I agree with your objection; but the word is given,
and if we turn him down now, your friend Carrington will stand a pretty
fair show of being the next mayor."
"You might get a worse one," Williard laughed. "Jack is one of the
finest fellows in the world,"--loyally.
"Not a bit of doubt; but politically," said the senator, laughing, "he
is a rascal, a man without a particle of character, and all that. But
personally speaking, I would that this town had more like him. Win or
lose, he will always be welcome in this house. But this Matthews matter;
you will have to swallow him or be swallowed."
"He's a rascal."
"Perhaps he is. Once you are elected, however, you can force him out,
and be hanged to him. Just now it would be extremely dangerous. My boy,
politics has strange bed-fellows, as the saying goes. These men are
necessary; to fight them is to cut your own throat. No one knows just
how they get their power; but one morning you wake up and find them
menacing you, and you have to placate them and toss them sops."
"I might at least have been consulted."
"I appreciated your antagonism beforehand. Politics is a peculiar
business. A man must form about himself a shell as thick as a turtle's,
or his feelings are going to be hurt. Now, if you would like to change
any of these smaller offices, the health department doesn't matter. What
do you say?"
"Oh, if Matthews remains on the slate, I do not care to alter the rest
of it. But I warn you that I shall get rid of him at the earliest
opportunity."
"Just as you like."
The senator smiled covertly. Matthews was one of his henchmen in the
larger matters of state. His name had been the first to appear on the
slate, and the senator was determined that it should remain there. Not
that he had any liking for the man; simply he was one of the wheels
which made the machine run smoothly. The senator knew his power of
persuasion; he knew Williard's easy-going nature; but he also knew that
these easy-going persons are terribly stubborn at times. He was obliged
to hold on to Matthews. The gubernatorial campaign was looming up for
the ensuing year, and the senator was curious to learn the real power
that went with the seal of a governor of a first-class state.
There fell an intermission to the conversation. Williard smoked
thoughtfully. He recalled the years during which he had accepted the
generous hospitality of this house, and the love he held for the host's
daughter. Only since his return from abroad had he learned the strength
of his sentiment. Heretofore he had looked upon the girl as a sister,
jolly, talented, a fine dancer, a daring rider, a good comrade. He had
been out of the country for three years. On his return he had found
Betty Gordon a beautiful woman, and he had silently surrendered. As yet
he had said nothing, but he knew that she knew. Yet he always saw the
shadow of Carrington, old Jack Carrington. Well, let the best man win!
"I can find a way to dispose of Matthews," he said finally.
"I dare say."
But Williard did not know the tenacity with which some men cling to
office. The senator did.
Here the servant ushered in two lieutenants of the senator's. One was an
ex-consul and the other was the surveyor of customs, who was not
supposed to dabble in local politics.
"Everything is agreeable to Mr. Williard," the senator answered in reply
to the questioning looks of his subordinates. "He vows, however, that he
will shake Matthews when he gets the chance."
The new arrivals laughed.
"We'll put you through, young man," said the ex-consul; "and one of
these fine days we shall send you to France. That's the place for a man
of your wit and wealth."
Williard smiled and lighted a fresh cigar. He did possess the reputation
of being a clever wit, and in his secret heart he would much prefer a
consulate or a secretaryship at the French embassy. He thoroughly
detested this indiscriminate hand-shaking which went with local
politics.
But Matthews stuck in his gorge, and he wondered if Carrington was
going through any like ordeal, and if Carrington would submit so
readily.... Why the deuce didn't Betty return? It was almost nine
o'clock.
Presently her sunny countenance appeared in the doorway, and Williard
dropped his cigar joyfully and rose. It was worth all the politics in
the world!
"Gentlemen, you will excuse me," he said.
"Go along!" the senator cried jovially. "We can spare you."
As indeed they very well could!
In a minute Williard was in the music-room.
"I really do not know that I ought to shake hands with you, Dick," began
Betty, tossing her hat on the piano. "You have deceived me for years."
"Deceived you! What do you mean?"--mightily disturbed.
"Wait a moment." She brought forth a paper. "Sit down in front of me.
This is going to be a court of inquiry, and your sins shall be passed
in review." He obeyed meekly. "Now listen," the girl went on, mischief
in her eyes; "this paper says horrid things about you. It claims that
you have given riotous dinners to actresses and comic-opera singers. I
classify them because I do not think comic-opera singers are actresses."
"Rot!" said Williard, crossing his legs and eying with pleasure the
contours of her face. "Jolly rot!"
"You mustn't say 'jolly' in this country; it's English, and they'll be
accusing you of it."
"Well, bally rot; how will that go?"
"That isn't very pretty, but it will pass. Now, to proceed. They say
that your private life is profligate."
"Oh, come now, Betty!" laughing diffidently.
"They say that you gamble at poker and win and lose huge sums."
"Your father plays poker in Washington; I've seen him."
"He's not on trial; _you_ are. Furthermore," went on the girl, the
twinkle going from her eye, leaving it searching yet unfathomable, "this
editor says that you are only a dummy in this game of politics, and that
once you are mayor, your signature will be all that will be required of
you. That is to say, you will be nothing but a puppet in the hands of
the men who brought about your election."
Williard thought of Matthews, and the smile on his lips died.
"Now, Dick, this paper says that it seeks only the truth of things, and
admits that you possess certain engaging qualities. What am I to
believe?"
"Betty, you know very well that they'll have me robbing the widows
before election." He was growing restless. He felt that this trial
wasn't all play. "If you don't mind, I'd rather talk of something else.
Politics, politics, morning, noon and night until my ears ache!"
"Or burn," suggested the girl. "The things they say about your private
life--I don't care for them. I know that they are not truths. But the
word 'puppet' annoys me." She laid aside the paper.
"Have I ever acted like a dummy, Betty? In justice to me, have I?" He
was serious.
"Not in ordinary things."
"No one has ever heard that I broke a promise."
"No."
"Or that I was cowardly."
"No, no!"
"Well, if I am elected, I shall fool certain persons. I am easy-going; I
confess to that impeachment; but I have never been crossed
successfully."
"They'll know how to accomplish their ends without crossing you. That's
a part of the politician's business."
"If I am elected, I'll study ways and means. Hang it, I wasn't running
after office. They said that they needed me. As a property owner I had
to surrender. I am not a hypocrite; I never was. I can't go honestly
among the lower classes and tell them that I like them, shake their
grimy hands, hobnob with them at caucuses and in gloomy halls. I am not
a politician; my father was not before me; it isn't in my blood. I
haven't the necessary ambition. Carrington's grandfather was a
war-governor; mine was a planter in the South. Now, Carrington has
ambition enough to carry him to the presidency; and I hope he'll get it
some day, and make an ambassador out of me. Sometimes I wish I wasn't
rich, so that I might enjoy life as some persons do. To have something
to fight for constantly! I am spoiled."
He wheeled his chair toward the fire and rested his elbows on his knees.
"He's very handsome," thought the girl; but she sighed.