THE CONVENTION
I
The Convention gathered. It was an event signal enough to make an
impress even on the great city. Convention Week was recognized by every
one, hotel men, shop keepers, railroad men, newspapers, pickpockets,
police, students in the great universities at the city’s gates, and the
great subordinate multitude which read the newspapers and accepted the
ruling of politics or commerce, as to which days should be held
apart--Labor Day, Mother’s Day, Convention Week.
The streets were hung with banners, great, swinging canvas pieces of
propaganda, bearing crude likenesses of candidates and still cruder
catchwords supposed to represent their opinions or those of their
opinions likely to excite popular pleasure. In the hotel lobbies men
swarmed. Desk clerks, sated with patronage, gave smiling and
condescending negations to those who applied for rooms. The girls at the
cigar counters and newspaper stands worked steadily, throwing back saucy
rejoinders to the occasional impudences of the men.
It was mostly a gathering of men, a smoky, hot, sweating collection of
men who had a certain kind of training in this game of conventions and
politics. They flung themselves into their parts, gossiping, joking,
occasionally forceful, immensely knowing. No one of them was there who
did not feel himself a commissioned prophet--perhaps not as to ultimate
but as to tendencies anyhow. They spoke the great names with a jesting
respect, the lesser ones with camaraderie or a fillip of scorn--but for
any suggestion of political idealists or of women they had a smile. They
admitted the fact that women had been put in the show but it wasn’t
going to change the show any. They knew.
Here and there in the hotels were groups of women, well dressed for the
most part, some of them handsome, all of them more alert, less careless
than the men--talking wisely too but with more imagination, with a kind
of excited doubt as to the outcome, and despite themselves showing a
delighted naïveté in their bearing towards the whole event. That was on
the first day before the heat had really lowered over the city.
Helen and Margaret had been well provided for. They had long before
engaged rooms in one of the most comfortable hotels where previous
patronage made Helen able to choose her accommodations. Gage who had
come after all, had no reservations anywhere and apparently no
particular worry about them. He could always get in somewhere and he had
no intention of staying at the same hotel with Helen and Margaret. He
breakfasted with them on the train and enjoyed it in spite of himself,
enjoyed being able to watch Helen and to bait Margaret with political
pessimism and a jocular scorn as to the effect of women on the
Convention. When they arrived he saw them to their hotel and left Helen
to her “glory” he said, a little mockingly.
“It’s hot,” he said. “Don’t try to make over the whole Party to-day, my
dear.”
“I won’t,” said Helen. Her eyes met his. For thirty-six hours every
glance, every gesture towards him had been unreal, mechanically
controlled. She was not apparently angry--nor cold. It was rather as if
when she spoke to him she had no feeling. Deep in himself, Gage was
frightened. He guessed the fact that anger is often a denial of loss of
illusion and that in Helen’s utter lack of response there was something
deadly, ominous. A glimmer of respect for her work came as he first saw
her, the morning after their catastrophic night, not moping or storming,
but studying notes for her seconding speech. But the glimmer faded. It
was because she really didn’t care. Shallow feelings, easy to suppress,
he told himself. She had probably told Margaret about the whole thing
and Margaret had tipped her off as to how to behave. That thought struck
him and made him curdle with anger again.
If it had not been for Helen there was no doubt that he would have
regarded the women with a kind of tolerance and with some speculation
regarding their usefulness. There was a chance that they might be
useful. But the intensity of his feelings, starting from his invaded
love for his wife, from that sense of exterior influences over which he
had no control and which he did not trust coming into the privacy of
their relations, mauling those delicacies by weighing, appraising
emotions and loyalties, chipping off a bit here and a bit there,
bargaining, discussing, leaving a great imprint of self-consciousness of
the whole, had spoiled all that. Gage was confused. He was in revolt
against a hundred, a thousand things, and that he was not quite sure of
the justice of his revolt made it none the easier for him.
He was in the lobby of the Congress Hotel, turning away from the cigar
counter, alone for the minute, when he felt a touch on his arm and
turned to see Mrs. Thorstad. She was dressed in a neat dark suit and a
tan sailor hat, rimmed precisely with white daisies, looking very
competent and attractive.
“How do you do, Mr. Flandon?” she asked.
He gazed down at her, smiling. She amused him and intrigued him. When he
watched Mrs. Thorstad he felt convinced that all his protest against the
progress of women was somehow justified. It was his quarrel with
Margaret and the foundation of his dislike of her that he could not get
the same feeling with her and had to build it up with anger.
“I hope you’re well,” he answered, as he shook hands with her.
“I want to thank you for all your kindness to Freda. You’ve given her a
great opportunity to find herself.”
Word slinging, thought Gage. What did she mean by “finding herself?”
“She’s a great addition to my office force.” He wondered what this
little person would say if she knew, as she so obviously did not, of the
tumultuous marriage of her daughter, of the ugly stream of gossip that
was pouring about her feet.
“I have the greatest respect for the woman in business,” went on Mrs.
Thorstad. “Of course I confess I had hoped that Freda would interest
herself in something possibly a little more humanitarian, something
perhaps a little more idealistic--oh, I don’t mean to decry the law, Mr.
Flandon, but we can’t help feeling that the business world lacks certain
great ideals--”
Gage grinned, looking like a great humorous puppy.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to excuse me, if you will. I see a man
over there I must speak to.”
Mrs. Thorstad smiled in acquiescence, leaving her chair herself. She
sent a dutiful postal to Mr. Thorstad and went out on the Avenue in
front of the hotel. She had calls to make. The galling sense of the fact
that her impress on the Convention must be a slight one was undoubtedly
under her gallant, moral little smile. To be sure she had come to the
Convention, she had a seat reserved, she was, as she always would be,
taking what she could get, but if Margaret Duffield had not come West it
might have been more.
None the less she called on Miss Duffield and Mrs. Flandon. She found
them at their hotel where congregated a brilliant circle. Harriet
Thompson, renowned from coast to coast as a leader of women, was there.
She was a rather plain woman of forty-five, lean faced with good brown
eyes and a rather disconcerting way of seeming to leap at you intimately
to discover what sort of person you were. And there were Grace Hawlett,
the novelist, and the wives and sisters of famous politicians. It was a
gay, knowledgeable group. Most of the women knew Margaret and were
instantly attracted by Helen’s beauty and charm of manner. Margaret
introduced Mrs. Thorstad as “one of the best woman organizers in the
Middle West,” and they were all cordial. Mrs. Thompson took the Mohawk
leader aside for a little talk. It was astonishing how much Mrs.
Thompson knew about the situation in St. Pierre--how she had her finger
on the strength of the women and the strength of the organization in the
entire state. She put rapid questions to Mrs. Thorstad and checked her a
little abruptly in the middle of some generalities.
“How did you all like Miss Duffield?” she asked.
“Very much indeed,” answered Mrs. Thorstad, with the slightest pursing
of lips. The keen brown eyes looked at her for a minute. It was not the
answer usually made to a question about Margaret Duffield.
Mrs. Thorstad departed to find her own kind. She knew she was not at
home in that particular group which while it awed her by its sparkle of
mind and personality, yet left her resentful, and she went on the round
of her further calls. She found women with petty lobbying to do, with
little reputations which they wished to secure, airing their platitudes
and generalities to each other in heavy agreement, talking of the new
day and denouncing the vagaries of modernity with a fervor that was half
jealous, half fearful.
Harriet Thompson looked at Margaret after Mrs. Thorstad had left them.
She always liked to look at Margaret. The serenity in her calm face, the
touch of austerity which kept it from becoming placid, pleased her. She
crossed to where she was sitting.
“What did you do to that little person, Margaret?”
“I? I didn’t do anything. She rather wanted to be delegate at large in
Helen’s place, I think. Don’t speak of it to Helen. I told Helen there
was no one else even willing to do it.”
“Your Mrs. Flandon is a lovely person.”
She wondered, as she said that, at the soft flush of enthusiasm which
came over Margaret’s face.
“Isn’t she? She’s just what you want, too. I hope she keeps interested.”
“Isn’t she very much interested?”
“Yes--but it’s not too easy for her. Her husband’s rather opposed--makes
it difficult.”
“Odd that a woman like that should be married to a reactionary.”
“He isn’t at all an ordinary reactionary,” said Margaret. “He’s a
politician, without any illusions. Hates all the publicity she gets. I
think he wants her to himself you see--most awfully in love.”
“He’ll never have her to himself if she gets into this game. She’s the
sort of woman, from the little I’ve seen of her that we need. Brains and
personality--not a wild woman or an old fashioned suffragist. Did she
reconcile the husband?”
“Not a bit. He’s here. You ought to meet him. But better carry a
weapon.”
“He might be rather interesting.”
“He is all of that.”
“After all, Margaret, it is rather hard on some of these men. I’ve seen
it before. They suddenly have so little of their wives to themselves.
It affects them like the income tax. They hate to give up so large a
share of their property.”
“To a government they distrust. That’s it with Gage. He doesn’t mind
Helen doing any amount of music. But he hates all kinds and forms of
modern feminism. Thinks it’s shameless and corrupting.”
“It is pretty shameless and sometimes a little corrupting. There’s a lot
in the man’s point of view that you never saw, Margaret. They’re
fighting for themselves of course but they’re fighting for the sex too.
It’s all right, too. Man is, I sometimes think, the natural preserver of
sex. Women get along very well without it, or with enough of it to
decently populate the earth. But men are the real sentimentalists. A
woman’s ruthless when she begins to houseclean her sentiments. A man
never likes to throw anything away, you know, according to the
tradition. He doesn’t like to throw away sex. He’s used it badly,
spotted it up and all that--in his lucid moments he’ll even admit it.
But none the less it’s very often the one thing which can excite his
tenderness and reverence and when he sees us invade the home, as he
says, it isn’t that he’s afraid the dishes won’t get washed. He says
that, but what he is afraid of is that we’ll find the secret places of
his sentiment and ravish them. I’m awfully sorry for some of the men.
They’re going through a lot just now. They seem to feel so left out,
under all their loud jocosity and foolish talk--you know,” she ended a
little weakly.
“I know. I’ve been sorry for Gage myself. Terribly sorry for him. But I
don’t see how one can make concessions. What I’m afraid of is that in
his bitterness he’ll break Helen down. And she might give in but she’d
never forgive him now.”
“You’ve done some speedy work, haven’t you? Smashed up homes and
everything. What happened to your own pet Sinn Feiner?”
“He’s lecturing somewhere or other.”
“Is that all off?”
“It never was on.”
“You couldn’t get absorbed in his enthusiasm because you’ve got one of
your own, haven’t you?”
“I have yours.”
Mrs. Thompson patted her affectionately on the arm. Her contacts were
all warm and intimate. With men and women alike, she seemed to get
inside their minds and look out on the world as they saw it.
“You’re a dear girl,” she told her, “but you must remember that humanity
is a bigger thing even than feminism, Margaret. Be a little more tender
towards the poor men. After all, they can’t all be transported.”
All afternoon the crowds swelled. In the evening the great hotel
dining-rooms were filled with people who represented almost
everything--power, wealth, notoriety, ambition. Headquarters were
established. Newspaper men idled to and fro, joking, prophesying,
gossiping. Underneath the fatuousness of much of the pretense that this
was a great popular meeting, most of the people knew that the rules were
already laid down and things would take their course--must take their
course. And yet there was a certain amount of fair speculation as to
whether in some way the great leaders might not be outwitted after
all--whether some new element might not show sudden strength, whether
the unorganized, half formulated hopes and ideals of millions of
ordinary people might this time put themselves across and lead instead
of follow. The Convention, like the world, was attuned to surprises,
revolts, inexplicable overturnings.
Helen was more than excited. A little less than two days ago she had
felt that she could not go on with this--that the personal agony had to
be fought out first. To her amazement she found that Margaret had been
right. Helen had always agreed with her that women were really not
dependent on emotion but that had been because Margaret’s contention
seemed reasonable and to take the other side hardly worthy. An inner
feeling had persisted that after all Margaret was unmarried and
didn’t--couldn’t know the strength of the emotional pull. But now she
found herself breaking through personal emotional wreckage to impersonal
interest--or if not impersonal interest at least interest in which sex
played no part. She had at first kept up the signs of control because
she must. Now she no longer needed the signs. She thought of Gage almost
dispassionately. Now and then the tragedy of the ruined feeling between
them shook her violently. But she could see their situation spread out
before her. She could see it in relation to the children, to other work.
She could see where things must be stopped in that they did not improve.
And most of the time she hardly thought of Gage at all. She was
responding to all the excitement and interest and admiration around her.
She felt part of a great organization about to act in ways which would
affect the world. The great sensibility of her woman’s imagination,
undulled by much experience in the direction of things beyond her
contact, was played upon by a vision of great power which she might help
direct.
For the first time she understood what Margaret meant by the freedom of
women and why she was not content with the formal letting down of the
gates. She understood what some of the others meant when they talked of
the easy contemporary victories as obscuring the real things which women
needed.
The best of them did not talk the lingo of the “new day.” They knew that
any day was not new long enough to get used to its title. They talked
of adjustment of contemporary circumstances to an evolution as old as
that of civilization, as old as that of man--merged with male
development and yet distinct from it again. They avoided catch words and
the flattery which was sprinkled so thickly, avoided it not pedantically
but with humorous knowledge of its purpose.
They dined with Mrs. Thompson and three other women and held a kind of
informal court afterwards in one of the parlors of the hotel. Every
notable man who came into the hotel seemed to want a word with Mrs.
Thompson. She had a way with them that they all liked, a kind of keen
camaraderie, especially effective in a woman who, like Mrs. Thompson,
could never be accused of trying out any arts of sex attraction. They
liked her company and her brisk tongue and there was added interest in
finding such company in a woman. Helen met the Senators--the men whose
names the party conjured with and handled them as she handled most
people--skillfully.
It was a little after nine when Helen saw Gage at the end of the room.
She had been talking with a gray haired, affable Senator who was telling
her what a beneficent influence the women were to have on the Convention
and she was excited, amused and sparkling. She was wearing a dinner
dress of black lace that Gage had always liked and as she caught his
eyes on her that was the first thought which flashed through her mind.
It was followed by a quick appraisal of Gage himself. He was looking a
little untidy and showing clearly the signs of recent strain and worry.
He did not make his way to her at once. He stopped to talk casually to
some men whom he knew. Helen thought suddenly that Gage was not a big
man politically. He did not have nearly as much prestige as Mrs.
Thompson of course, not nearly as much strength as she herself might
have--. She saw Margaret introducing him to Mrs. Thompson. His manners
were bad. He had none of the easy pleasant way with which the other men
had come up to her. He must be making an extremely bad impression. It
humiliated her somewhat. They were still too close for her not to feel
that.
She joined the group where were Gage and Mrs. Thompson and Margaret.
“Have you had a good day, Gage? I called up the house and the children
are fine. Not a trace of their colds, Esther said.”
He nodded gravely. Their eyes met, denying any intimacies of exchange,
coldly, a little cruelly.
“I hear your wife is to make the prize seconding speech to-morrow, Mr.
Flandon,” said Harriet Thompson, bending towards him.
“I have no doubt of it,” said Gage.
“Do your views agree?” asked the older woman lightly.
“Very seldom,” answered Gage. He had not made it light. It was like the
flick of a whip.
Margaret interposed.
“Gage doesn’t believe in women’s progress, Harriet--don’t get him
started, please.”
“I wish he would get started. There are plenty of times when I think
we’re all talking balderdash and it would be a relief to hear some one
give testimony against us. What is the matter with women, Mr. Flandon?”
Gage’s tired, half-haunted eyes looked at her as if he suspected mockery
but he found none.
“According to most belief, there is nothing the matter with them. They
are supremely successful. They’ve got what they wanted. If they don’t
like the taste of their little mess of pottage as they eat it, it will
be unfortunate.”
“You don’t think they will like it?”
“I may be mistaken. It may suit their taste.”
“I’m afraid it won’t but it’s the best food we’re able to provide so
far. Perhaps we’ve overpaid for it.”
“You have.”
He stopped, abruptly conscious of being drawn into discussion in public.
Margaret and Helen had been listening to the brief dialogue, and he
stiffened to the sense of their presence.
“I can’t stay, Helen--I’ve an appointment. Is there anything I can do?”
She walked with him to the end of the room, impelled by a desire to
preserve what she could of appearances but more by an unexpected pain at
having him leave her. She did not want him to stay--she was clear about
that, but she hated to have him go away in that lonely fashion. The
gentleness that welled up only lasted for a moment. He was ugly still.
She could tell by the set of his lips. It brought back her terribly
painful memories.
“Good night, Gage.”
That was all. Towards morning Gage went to bed. He had been drinking
other people’s whisky and he was ill enough to suspect it had not been
good stuff.
II
He did not go to the great Auditorium until the next afternoon. It took
some time to get himself into shape. The heat had begun, heat which
settled thickly on the city for three days and played its own part in
making possible agreements and compromises. By noon the smart look, the
brisk look had gone from everything and everybody and the sticky battle
with the weather had begun. Gage had met some men from his own part of
the country and they entered the great hall where the banners hung limp
from the ceiling and the delegates were already coming back to their
places after the noon recess. Gage did not look for his wife but after a
while he saw her--as usual looking the mistress of herself. His head was
hot and thick and he hated her for the fine mastery of her health and
beauty. He wanted to see her in tears--prostrate--and because he knew
his desire was ugly he slipped down in his own self-respect, which
already was becoming such a frail reed to cling to.
All that day he did not go near her. He watched her furtively sometimes
while he was in the auditorium but most of the time he spent with other
men in hotel rooms which grew hotter in spite of the efforts of electric
fans and all the time the whisky which he drank made his brain hot and
seething with misconceptions and desires and hatreds.
By the afternoon of the second day it had settled down to an endurance
meeting.
Watching the restless, heated crowd, going through the same old
formalities, Gage wondered whether Helen was aware now what kind of game
this was she had chosen to sit in--whether the farce of it was clear. He
did not wonder clearly. It was a kind of vindictive spite which pricked
a muddled brain.
He had not intend to be there when she spoke but in the end he stayed.
He heard the round commonplace phrases of the man who was nominating the
candidate she was working for--a good man, as Gage admitted--better
caliber than most, but without a ghost of a show for nomination. He
listened with irritation to the outburst of applause. Then he saw his
wife before the great crowd. It seemed quite unreal.
He had not guessed her voice would carry like that. He had not known she
would show up like that. She came like a breath of cool air into that
heated place. In her blue linen gown and white feather hat she looked
cool, fresh, immaculate. When she spoke they listened to her and for a
few minutes Gage caught himself listening eagerly. She was talking well.
No nonsense. It was to the point. Just then he heard a man behind him.
“Some looker, isn’t she? That’s the kind of dames we ought to have in
politics all right.”
Blind rage swept over Gage again. He wanted to turn on the man and
fight. But he did nothing of the sort, being held by a thousand
inhibitions. Instead he watched his wife and as she talked he seemed to
see her offering her beauty to the crowd, seemed to see in every man’s
face--as they watched her--amusement, desire, lust.
He heard the burst of applause when she finished, applause with real
enthusiasm and at every hand clap he felt fury rising. Getting up, he
found his way to the door.
If Helen had expected a tribute from him, piled on the many she received
that night, she was mistaken. Men, women, newspapers all congratulated
her on having put some real fire into the speeches. Her speech, printed
and flashed all over the country was given its own share of praise. It
was clear, forceful, new in its outlook. The women of the country had
chosen a good spokesman, said the papers. But from Gage there was only a
note at the hotel, saying briefly that he had thought it best to return
to St. Pierre--the convention was the usual farce.
Helen twisted his note in her hands.
“So he couldn’t stay away from Freda Thorstad even that long,” she
thought. “Well,--”