It was barely seven when they reached Union Square. It was already
packed by a dense crowd of good-natured cheering men and women.
Seventy-five thousand was a conservative estimate. The air was electric
with contagious enthusiasm.
“We’ll hear the apostle of peace first,” Vassar said to Zonia, pushing
his way slowly through the crowd toward a platform with three-foot
letters covering its four sides:
PEACE! PEACE! PEACE! PEACE!
The Reverend A. Cuthbert Pike, president of the Peace Union of America,
was delivering the opening address as the chairman of his meeting. He
was a funny-looking little man of slight features, bald and decorated
with a set of aggressive side whiskers. His manner was quick and
nervous, electric in its nervousness, his voice in striking contrast to
the jerky pugnacity of his body. The tones were soft and dreaming, as if
he were trying to subdue the tendency of the flesh to fight for what he
believed to be right.
He leaned far over the rail of the platform and breathed his words over
the crowd:
“Two great powers contend for the mastery of the world, my friends,” he
was saying. “The spirit of Christ and the spirit of Napoleon. The one
would overcome evil with good. The other would hurl evil against evil.
One stands for love, humility, self-sacrifice. The other stands for the
hate, pride and avarice of the militarism of today--”
Vassar lost the next sentence. His mind had leaped the seas and stood
with brooding wonder over the miracle of self-sacrifice of a thousand
blood-drenched trenches and battlefields where millions of stout-hearted
men were now laying their lives on the altar of their country--an
offering of simple love. They had left the selfish pursuit of pleasure
and wealth and individual aggrandizement and merged their souls and
bodies into the wider life of humanity--the hopes and aspirations of a
race. Was all this hate and pride and avarice? Bah! The little fidgety
preacher was surely crazy; the thing called war was too big and terrible
and soul-searching for that. Such theories were too small. They could
not account for the signs of the times.
The preacher was talking again. He caught the quiver of hate in his
utterance of the name of the great German philosopher.
“In Nietzsche’s words we have the supreme utterance of the modern
anti-Christ in his blasphemous rendition of the Beatitudes. Hear him:
“‘Ye have heard how in olden times it was said, Blessed are the meek for
they shall inherit the earth; but I say to you, Blessed are the valiant,
for they shall make the earth their throne--”
“Militarism, my friends, is the incarnate soul of blasphemy! It is
confined to no country. It is a world curse. The mightiest task of the
times in which we live is to cast out this devil from the body of
civilization. We demand votes for women because we believe they will
help us in the grim battle we are fighting with the powers of Death and
Hell--”
Vassar turned with a sigh and pressed toward the next platform. The
Honorable Plato Barker, silver-tongued orator of the plains, was soaring
above the heads of his enraptured listeners. His benevolent bald head
glistened in the sputtering rays of the arc light. He was supremely
happy once more. He had resigned the cares of office to ride a new hobby
and bask in the smiles of cheering thousands. He had ridden Free Silver
to death and grown tired of Prohibition. He had groomed a new steed. His
latest hobby was Peace. He too was demanding votes for women because
they would save the world from the curse of war.
Vassar listened to the man whom he had once cheered and followed with
growing wonder and weariness. With pompous pose and high-sounding phrase
he inveighed against arms and armament. In the next breath he denounced
his old opponent for the attempt to abolish armaments by an
international organization to enforce peace through a central police
power. He demanded that America should stand alone in her purity and her
unselfish glory. He believed in America for the Americans. But he would
not fight to maintain it--nor would he permit an entangling alliance
with any nation which might make safe the doctrine without a fight. We
would neither fight nor permit anyone else to fight for us. He demanded
that we should not arm ourselves for defense and in the next breath
declared that he was not in favor at present of dismantling the forts we
now possessed or of disbanding the army. He denounced all arms and all
wars and yet favored being half armed and half ready for an inadequate
defense. He asked that we stand absolutely alone in the world and half
armed maintain the guardianship of the Western Hemisphere against the
serried millions of veteran soldiers of armed Europe. He demanded that
we uphold international law and order and yet ridiculed any organization
for that purpose.
Each empty platitude the crowd cheered. Each preposterous demand for
the impossible they cheered again with redoubled power.
His last proposition was evidently his favorite. He dropped his voice to
low persuasive tones:
“Even suppose the unthinkable thing should happen. Suppose that some
misguided nation in an hour of madness should send a hundred thousand
soldiers across three thousand miles of sea and attempt to invade this
country--what then? This country, mark you, peopled by a nation of
vastly superior numbers, equal intelligence, mechanical genius and
political organization--”
He paused and thundered:
“What would happen?
“Those hundred thousand invading soldiers would never see their old
homes again--”
Tremendous cheers rent the air.
“And what’s more, dear friends, they would never desire to see their
homes again. We would march out to meet them with smiles and flowers. We
would bid them welcome to our shores. We would give to them the freedom
of our city and greet them as brethren!”
Again the cheers leaped from the throats of thousands.
To John Vassar with the bitter memories of the might of kings that yet
shadowed the world the scene was sickening in its utter fatuity. He
mopped the perspiration from his forehead and hurried on.
He passed the platform on which Jane Hale stood repeating in monotonous
reiteration the plea for peace which she vainly spoke into the ears of
Europe on her tour during the war. The speakers’ stand was draped in red
and behind Miss Hale’s solid figure the young statesman recognized the
familiar faces of the Socialist leaders of the East Side.
How vain this Socialist symbol of the common red blood that pulses from
every human breast! How pitifully tragic their failure in the hour when
the war summoned the world to the national colors. The red flag faded
from the sky. It was all talk--all wind--all fustian--all bombast--all
theory. Men don’t die for academic theories. Men die for what they
believe. And yet these American Socialists were as busy with their
parrot talk as if nothing had happened in the world since that fatal day
in July, 1914, when old things passed away and all things became new.
Vassar pressed past the crowd around the Socialist stand and saw beyond
the platform from which the woman leader of the new Anti-Enlistment
League was haranguing the mob. She too was a suffragette for peace
purposes--an aggressive fat female of decisively militant aspect. Her
words were pacific in their import. Her manner and spirit spoke battle
in every accent and gesture. She was determined to have peace if she had
to kill every man, woman and child opposed to it.
She waved the pledge of the League above her head and recited its form
in rasping, challenging, aggravating notes.
“I, being over eighteen years of age, hereby pledge myself against
enlistment as a volunteer for any military or naval service in an
international war, and against giving my approval to such enlistment on
the part of others.”
She paused and shouted:
“The Anti-Enlistment League does not stand for puny non-resistance! We
appeal to the militancy of the spirit--”
John Vassar looked at his watch.
“We’ve yet time to hear brother Debs. I like his kind. You always know
where to find him.”
“No-no--Uncy,” Zonia urged, “we must hurry to our stand--”
“_Our_ stand, eh?”
“Yes--you mustn’t miss a word Miss Holland says. She doesn’t speak
long--but every word counts--”
“She has one loyal follower anyhow,” Vassar smiled.
“I’m going to win her for you, Uncy dear--”
“Oh, that’s the scheme?”
“Yes--”
“I don’t think it can be done, little sweetheart. I never could like a
hen that crows--”
Zonia waved her arm toward the big platform of the Woman’s Federated
Clubs.
“There they are now!” she cried--“Marya and Grandpa--they’re sitting on
the steps--”
“So I see--“ Vassar laughed.
Old Andrew Vassar was beaming his good-natured approval on the throng
that surged about the stand, his arm encircling his little granddaughter
with loving touch.
The younger man watched him a moment with a tender smile. His father was
supremely happy in the great crowd of strong, healthy, free men and
women. He knew nothing of the meaning of the meeting. He never bothered
his head about it. The thing was a part of the life of America and it
was good. He was seventy years old now--lame from an old wound received
in Poland--but had a fine strong face beaming generous thoughts to all
men. He had landed on our shores thirty years ago broken, bruised and
ruined. He had dared to lift his voice in Poland for one of the simplest
rights of his people. A brutal soldier at the order of their imperial
master had sacked his home, murdered his wife and daughter before his
eyes, robbed him of all and at last left him in the street, bleeding to
death with a baby boy of five clinging to his body. His older son had
smuggled him aboard a ship bound for New York. He had prospered from the
day of his landing. A tailor by trade he had proven his worth from the
first. For ten years he had been head cutter for a wholesale clothing
house and received an annual salary of ten thousand dollars. Ten years
ago the might of kings had gripped the son he left behind. His goods too
were forfeited, his life snuffed out and his children orphaned. Big free
America had received them now, and the old man’s strong arm circled
them. The little terror-stricken boy, who had clung to him the day the
soldiers left him in the street for dead, was the Honorable John Vassar,
the coming man of a mighty nation of freemen.
Old Andrew Vassar made no effort to grasp the current of our social or
political life. It was all good. He went to all the political meetings,
Democratic, Republican, Socialist, Woman’s Suffrage. He liked to test
his freedom and laugh to find it true.
He caught John’s eye, waved his arm enthusiastically and lifted Marya
high above the heads of the crowd that she might throw him a kiss.
Zonia answered with a little cry of love and they quickly pressed
through the throng to a position directly in front of the speaker’s
stand.
Waldron had just risen to make his opening address. His automobile had
brought him quickly from another important engagement with a committee
of Western bankers who had met in the stately library of his palatial
home on the heights of upper Manhattan.
There was no mistaking the poise of the man, his dignity and conscious
reserve power. Vassar studied him for the first time at close range with
increasing dislike and suspicion.
He faced the crowd with a look of quiet mastery. A man of medium height,
massive bull neck, high forehead, straight intellectual eyebrows and
piercing steel gray eyes. There was no mistaking the fact that he was a
born leader of men.
A high collar covered the massive neck well up to the ears, concealing
the lines of brutality which lay beneath; and a pair of glasses attached
to a black silk cord and gracefully adjusted, gave to his strong
features a touch of intellectuality on which his vanity evidently fed.
A curious little smile played about the corners of his eyes and thin
lips as if he knew a good joke that couldn’t be told to a crowd. The
smile brought a frown to John Vassar’s sensitive face. He instinctively
hated a man with that kind of smile. He couldn’t tell why. The smile was
not a pose. There was something genuine behind it. A crowd would like
him for it. But the man who looked beneath the surface for its real
meaning felt intuitively that it sprang from a deep, genuine and
boundless contempt for humanity.
The sound of his voice confirmed this impression. He spoke with a cold,
measured deliberation that provoked and held an audience. His words were
clean cut and fell with metallic precision like the click of a telegraph
key.
“I have the honor, tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” he began slowly, “of
introducing to you the real leader of the women of America--”
A cheer swept the crowd and Zonia stood on tiptoe trying to catch a
glimpse of her heroine.
“She’s hiding behind the others--“ she pressed her uncle’s arm--“but
you’ll see her in a minute, Uncy!”
“Doubtless!” Vassar laughed. “She’s too wise an actress to stumble on
the stage before her cue--”
Waldron’s metallic voice was clicking on.
“Before I present her, allow me as a spokesman of this great meeting to
give you in a few words my reasons for demanding votes for women. The
supreme purpose of my life is to do my part in ushering into the world
the reign of universal peace. The greatest issue ever presented to the
American people is now demanding an answer. Shall this nation follow the
lead of blood-soaked Europe and arm to the teeth? Or shall we remain the
one people of this earth who stand for peace and good will to all?
“The militarists tell us that man is a fighting animal; that human
nature cannot be changed; that nations have always fought and will
continue to fight to the end of time; that war sooner or later will come
and that we must prepare for it.
“I say give woman the ballot and she will find a way to prevent war!
“The alarmist tells us that armaments are our only sure guarantee of
peace. It’s a lie. And that lie is now being shot to pieces in Europe
before our eyes. Armaments provoke war. In the fierce light of this
hell-lit conflagration even the blind should see that armaments have
never yet guaranteed peace.
“Europe in torment calls to us today. O, great Republic of the West,
beware! Armaments are not guarantees of peace. They are not insurance.
Make your new world different from the old. Beware of guns. Down with
the machinery of slaughter. Trust in reason. Have faith in your fellow
men. Build your life on love not hate. Proclaim the coming of the
Lord--the Prince of Peace--”
Vassar glanced quickly over the sea of uplifted faces and wondered why
they did not applaud. Barker’s crowd had gone wild over weak platitudes
poorly expressing similar ideas. The words of this man were eloquent.
The silence was uncanny. Why didn’t they applaud?
He turned his head aside and listened intently. It was the metallic
click of Waldron’s cold penetrating voice that killed applause. There
was something in it that froze the blood in the veins of an
enthusiast--and yet held every listener in a spell.
“Your alarmists,” he went on deliberately, “are busy now with a new
scare. When this war is over they tell us we must fight the victors, for
they will move to conquer us. Let us nail another lie. This war will
leave Europe exhausted and helpless for a generation. We will be the
strongest nation in the world--our strength intact, our resources
boundless.
“Besides, we have the men and the means for arming them instantly if we
are threatened. We have equipped and supplied armies of millions for
England, France and Russia. What we have done for them we can surely do
for ourselves. Our factories are now producing more military supplies
for Europe than we could use for our defense. Our navy is more
efficient than ever before in history. Our chief ports are defended by
great guns that make them impregnable. Our army is small, but I repeat
the Honorable Plato Barker’s axiom as a truth unassailable--‘We can
raise an army of a million men between the suns!’ yes and five million
more within a week if they are needed--”
John Vassar ground his teeth and set his firm jaw to prevent an outburst
of mad protest. As chairman of the House Committee of Military Affairs
he knew that every statement in this subtle demagogue’s appeal was but
half truth, and for that reason the most dangerous lie. The navy _was_
more efficient than ever before--so was every navy in the world. Our
navy was still utterly inadequate to defend us against any first-class
combination of Europe or any single power of the rank of Germany. Our
coast guns were good, but a hostile navy triumphant at sea would never
come in range of them. They would land at their leisure at any one of a
hundred undefended harbors and take our forts from the rear. We could
manufacture ammunition--but to no purpose, because we have few guns for
field artillery and not enough trained artillerymen to man them if we
had the guns. It takes years to train the masters of war machinery. A
million men could be raised between the suns, but they would be mowed
down by fields of hidden artillery beyond the range of our gunners
before we could get in sight.
There was no escape from the deep conviction that the cold-blooded
thinker who was smiling into the face of this crowd knew these facts
with a knowledge even clearer than his own.
What was the sinister motive back of that frozen smile?
Again and again Vassar asked himself the question. He was still puzzling
over the mystery of Waldron’s motive when a ringing cheer burst from the
crowd and Zonia pressed his arm.
“There she is, Uncy--there she is!”
Waldron was leading to the rail a blushing girl.
“No, no--sweetheart--that’s someone else--can’t be the Amazon--”
“Of course, you silly--she’s not an Amazon--she’s my heroine. Isn’t she
a darling? Now honestly?”
Vassar was too dumfounded to make reply.
Waldron was introducing her, the same cold smile on his thin lips, the
same metallic click of his voice.
“Permit me, ladies and gentlemen, to present to you tonight a new force
in the world--a real leader of modern women, our Joan of Arc, the
President of the Federated Clubs, Miss Virginia Holland!”
Again the crowd burst into applause.
The little head bowed with the slightest inclination and a smile of pure
sunlight illumined an exquisite face. The Amazon he had hated stood
before him a gentle creature of delicate yet strongly molded features,
her high smooth forehead crowned with a tangled mass of auburn blonde
hair.
Vassar laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all. Such a woman couldn’t
be the leader of the brazen mob of clamoring females he had grown to
hate. It was too preposterous for words. She was speaking now. He didn’t
know what she was saying. No matter. It was her personality that held
him in a spell. Her voice was the most startling contrast to
Waldron’s--soft and clear as the round notes of a flute. Its volume was
not great and yet the quality was penetrating. It found the ear of the
farthest listener in the wide circle of the crowd and at the same time
the depths of his inmost being.
There was no resisting her personal appeal.
Before she had spoken two sentences Vassar was ready to agree to any
proposition she might make. She seemed so sweet and sane and reasonable.
Her appeal was to both the head and the heart of her hearers.
The young statesman mopped his brow in a vague panic. If this was the
leader who had marked him for defeat the situation was serious. If she
and her kind should make a personal canvass of the voters of his
district, he would have to rise early and go to bed late if he ever
expected to see the Capitol at Washington again.
And yet it was not the fear of defeat that really disturbed him. It was
the confusion into which her personality had thrown all his preconceived
ideas. Great God! If this sort of woman had gotten into the movement
where would it end? How could she be denied? He laughed again at his
preconceived ideas of the leader of Amazons and the sweet reasonableness
of this gentle, brilliant, exquisite girl on whose words the crowd hung
breathless.
He was stunned. It was impossible for the moment to adjust his thinking
to the situation. He was missing all her speech. For the life of him he
couldn’t recall a sentence. He pulled himself up with a frown and
listened.
“I am not sure, dear friends, that we can prevent war,” she was saying,
“but I am sure that we will try. And I am absolutely sure that the
clothing of women with the sovereign power of the ballot will introduce
into the councils that decide peace or war a new element in human
history. Man alone has failed to keep the peace. Surely if we help we
can do no worse. I have an abiding faith that we can do better--”
She paused and a look of enraptured emotion illumined her face as she
slowly continued:
“If a city were besieged and soldiers were defending its strong places,
and a breach had been made in the embattlements, the men within would
close that breach with the first thing at hand. They would not spare
even the priceless marble figure on which an artist had spent years of
loving toil--unless the defending soldier were the artist who created
the masterpiece! He could not hurl this treasure into the breach to be
crushed into a shapeless mass. He would find another way or die in the
effort.
“Man is woman’s masterpiece. For twenty-five years she broods and
watches and works with loving care to fashion this immortal being. Give
to her the decisive voice in war and she will find a better way to fill
the breach. She will not hurl her masterpiece into this hell. Man has
failed to find a better way. May not we who love most and suffer most at
least have the chance to try?”
The sweet penetrating voice died softly away and she had taken her seat
before the crowd realized that she had stopped.
A moment’s dead silence and then cheer after cheer swept the throng.
An excited man lifted high his hand and shouted:
“We’ll give you the chance. Yes--yes!”
Zonia’s grip tightened suddenly on John Vassar’s arm.
“You’ll let me introduce you, Uncy?”
Vassar laughed excitedly.
“Will I? Be quick, girl--before she gets away!”