THE HUMORS OF ELECTION.
When the villa closed the Senator was hopelessly enmeshed in the golden
net which had been so skilfully and genially woven by Anne during the
summer. He believed himself to be the coming man, all his natural
shrewdness and rich experience going for naught before the witchery of
his sister's imagination. In her mind the climax of the drama was a
Dillon at the top of the heap in the City Hall. Alas, the very first
orders of the chief to his secretary swept away the fine-spun dreams of
the Dillons, as the broom brushes into obscure dirt the wondrous cobweb.
The Hon. John Sullivan spoke in short sentences, used each man according
to that man's nature, stood above and ahead of his cleverest
lieutenants, had few prejudices, and these noble, and was truly a hero
on the battle-ground of social forces, where no artillery roars, no
uniforms glare, and no trumpets sound for the poets. The time having
come for action he gave Arthur his orders on the supposition that he
understood the political situation, which he did in some degree, but not
seriously. The Endicotts looked upon elections as the concern of the
rabble, and this Endicott thought it perhaps an occasion for uproarious
fun. His orders partly sobered him.
"Go to your uncle," said Sullivan, "and tell him he's not in the race. I
don't know where he got that bee in his bonnet. Then arrange with
Everard to call on Livingstone. Do what you can to straighten the Mayor
out. He ought to be the candidate."
This dealing with men inspired him. Hitherto he had been playing with
children in the garden of life; now he stood with the fighters in the
terrible arena. And his first task was to extinguish the roseate dreams
of Anne and her gladiator, to destroy that exquisite fabric woven of
moonlit seas, enchanting dinners, and Parisian millinery. Never! Let
the chief commit that sacrilege! He would not say the word whose
utterance might wound the hearts that loved him. The Senator and Anne
should have a clear field. High time for the very respectable citizens
of the metropolis to secure a novelty for mayor, to get a taste of Roman
liberty, when a distinguished member of the arena could wear the purple
if he had the mind.
Birmingham forced him to change his attitude. The man of money was both
good-hearted and large-minded, and had departed from the ways of
commerce to seek distinction in politics. Stolid, without enthusiasm or
dash, he could be stubbornly great in defence of principle. Success and
a few millions had not changed his early theories of life. Pride in his
race, delight in his religion, devotion to his party, increased in him
as he rose to honor and fame. Arthur Dillon felt still more the
seriousness of the position when this man came to ask his aid in
securing the nomination.
"There never was a time in the history of the city," said Birmingham,
"when a Catholic had such a chance to become mayor as now. Protestants
would not have him, if he were a saint. But prejudice has abated, and
confidence in us has increased since the war. Sullivan can have the
position if he wants it. So can many others. All of them can afford to
wait, while I cannot. I am not a politician, only a candidate. At any
moment, by the merest accident, I may become one of the impossibles. I
am anxious, therefore, to secure the nomination this year. I would like
to get your influence. Where the balance is often turned by the weight
of a hair one cannot be too alert."
"Do you think I have influence?" said Arthur humbly.
"You are the secretary," Birmingham answered, surprised.
"I shall have to use it in behalf of my uncle then."
"And if your uncle should not run?"
"I should be happy to give you my support."
Birmingham looked as blank as one before whom a door opens unexpectedly.
"You understand," continued Arthur, "that I have been absent too long to
grasp the situation clearly. I think my uncle aspires...."
"A very worthy man," murmured Birmingham.
"You seem to think he has not much of a chance...."
"I know something of Sullivan's mind," Birmingham ventured, "and you
know it still better. The exploits of the Senator in his youth--really
it would be well for him not to expose himself to public ridicule...."
"I had not thought of that," said Arthur, when the other paused
delicately. "You are quite right. He should not expose himself. As no
other has done me the honor to ask my help, I am free to help you."
"You are more than kind. This nomination means election, and election
means the opening of a fine career for me. Beyond lie the governorship,
the senate, and perhaps higher things. To us these high offices have
been closed as firmly as if they were in Sweden. I want the honor of
breaking down the barriers."
"It is time. I hope you will get the honor," said Arthur gravely. He
felt sadly about the Senator, and the shining ambition of his mother.
How could he shatter their dreams? Yet in very pity the task had to be
done, and when next he heard them vaporing on the glory of the future,
he said casually:
"I know what your enemies will say if you come into contrast with
Livingstone."
"I've heard it often enough," answered the Senator gayly. "If I'd
listened to them I'd be still in the ring."
Then a suspicion overcame him, and he cried out bitterly:
"Do you say the same, Artie?"
"Rot. There isn't another like you in the whole world, uncle. If my vote
could do it you'd go into the White House to-morrow. If you're in
earnest in this business of the nomination, then I'm with you to the
last ditch. Now when you become mayor of the first city in the
land"--Oh, the smile which flashed on the faces of Anne and the Senator
at this phrase!--"you become also the target of every journal in the
country, of every comic paper, of every cartoonist. All your little
faults, your blunders, past and present, are magnified. They sing of you
in the music-halls. Oh, there would be no end to it! Ridicule is worse
than abuse. It would hurt your friends more than you. You could not
escape it, and no one could answer it. Is the prize worth the pain?"
Then he looked out of the window to escape seeing the pain in his
mother's face, and the bitterness in the Senator's. He did not
illustrate his contention with examples, for with these the Senator and
his friends were familiar. A light arose on the poor man's horizon.
Looking timidly at Anne, after a moment's pause, he said:
"I never thought of all that. You've put me on the right track, Artie. I
thank you."
"What can I do," he whispered to Anne, "since it's plain he wants me to
give in--no, to avoid the comic papers?"
"Whatever he wishes must be done," she replied with a gesture of
despair.
"The boy is a wonder," thought the Senator. "He has us all under that
little California thumb."
"I was a fool to think of the nomination," he said aloud as Arthur
turned from the window. "Of course there'd be no end to the ridicule.
Didn't the chap on Harper's, when I was elected for the Senate, rig me
out as a gladiator, without a stitch on me, actually, Artie, not a
stitch--most indecent thing--and show old Cicero in the same picture
looking at me like John Everard, with a sneer, and singing to himself: a
senator! No, I couldn't stand it. I give up. I've got as high as my kind
can go. But there's one thing, if I can't be mayor myself, I can say
who's goin' to be."
"Then make it Birmingham, uncle," Arthur suggested. "I would like to see
him in that place next to you."
"And Birmingham it is, unless"--he looked at Anne limp with
disappointment--"unless I take it into my head to name you for the
place."
She gave a little cry of joy and sat up straight.
"Now God bless you for that word, Senator. It'll be a Dillon anyway."
"In that case I make Birmingham second choice," Arthur said seriously,
accepting the hint as a happy ending to a rather painful scene.
The second part of the Chief's order proved more entertaining. To visit
the Mayor and sound him on the question of his own renomination appeared
to Arthur amusing rather than important; because of his own rawness for
such a mission, and also because of their relationship. Livingstone was
his kinsman. Of course John Everard gave the embassy character, but his
reputation reflected on its usefulness. Nature had not yet provided a
key to the character of Louis' father. Arthur endured him because Louis
loved him, quoted him admiringly, and seemed to understand him most of
the time; but he could not understand an Irishman who maintained, as a
principle of history, the inferiority of his race to the English, traced
its miseries to its silly pride, opposed all schemes of progress until
his principle was accepted, and placed the salvation of his people in
that moment when they should have admitted the inferiority imposed by
nature, and laid aside their wretched conceit. This perverse nature had
a sociable, even humorous side, and in a sardonic way loved its own.
"I have often wondered," Arthur said, when they were discussing the
details of the mission to Livingstone, "how your tough fiber ever
generated beings so tender and beautiful as Mona, and Louis, and the
Trumps. And now I'm wondering why Sullivan associates you and me in this
business. Is it his plan to sink the Mayor deeper in his own mud?"
"Whatever his plan I'd like to know what he means in sending with me to
the noblest official in the city and the land, for that matter, the
notorious orator of a cheap banquet."
"I think it means that Quincy must apologize to the Irish, or nominate
himself," said Arthur slowly.
A lively emotion touched him when he first entered the room where the
Mayor sat stately and gracious. In him the Endicott features were
emphatic and beautiful. Tall, ruddy, perfectly dressed, with white hair
and moustache shining like silver, and dark blue eyes full of fire, the
aristocrat breathed from him like a perfume. His greeting both for
Everard and Dillon had a graciousness tinged with contempt; a contempt
never yet perceived by Everard, but perceived and promptly answered on
Arthur's part with equal scorn.
"Mr. Dillon comes from Sullivan," said Everard, "to ask you, as a
condition of renomination, that you take back your remarks on the Irish
last winter. You did them good. They are so soaked in flattery, the
flattery of budding orators, that your talk wakes them to the truth."
"I take nothing back," said the Mayor in a calm, sweet voice to which
feeling gave an edge.
"Then you do not desire the nomination of Tammany Hall?" Arthur said
with a placid drawl, which usually exasperated Everard and other people.
"But I do," the Mayor answered quickly, comprehending on the instant the
quality of this antagonist, feeling his own insolence in the tone. "I
merely decline the conditions."
"Then you must nominate yourself, for the Irish won't vote for you,"
cried Everard.
"The leaders would like to give you the nomination, Mr. Livingstone. You
may have it, if you can find the means to placate offended voters for
your behavior and your utterances on St. Patrick's Day."
"Go down on your knees at once, Mayor," sneered Everard.
"I hope Your Honor does not pay too much attention to the opinions of
this gentleman," said Arthur with a gesture for his companion. "He's a
Crusoe in politics. There's no one else on his island. You have a
history, sir, which is often told in the Irish colony here. I have heard
it often since my return home----"
"This is the gentleman who spoke of your policy at the Donnybrook
banquet," Everard interrupted.
Livingstone made a sign for silence, and took a closer look at Arthur.
"The Irish do not like you, they have no faith in you as a fair man,
they say that you are always planning against them, that you are
responsible for the deviltries practised upon them through gospel
missions, soup kitchens, kidnapping industries, and political intrigues.
Whether these things be true, it seems to me that a candidate ought to
go far out of his way to destroy such fancies."
"A very good word, fancies! Are you going to make your famous speech
over again?" said Everard with the ready sneer.
"Can you deny that what I have spoken is the truth?"
"It is not necessary that he should," Livingstone answered quietly. "I
am not interested in what some people say of me. Tell Mr. Sullivan I am
ready to accept the nomination, but that I never retract, never desert
a position."
This young man nettled and irritated the Mayor. His insolence, the
insolence of his own class, was so subtly and politely expressed, that
no fault could be found; and, though his inexperience was evident, he
handled a ready blade and made no secret of his disdain. Arthur did not
know to what point of the compass the short conversation had carried
them, but he took a boy's foolish delight in teasing the irritated men.
"It all comes to this: you must nominate yourself," said Everard.
"And divide the party?"
"I am not sure it would divide the party," Livingstone condescended to
say, for he was amused at the simple horror of Dillon. "It might unite
it under different circumstances."
"That's the remark of a statesman. And it would rid us, Arthur Dillon,
of Sullivan and his kind, who should be running a gin-mill in Hester
street."
"If he didn't have a finer experience in politics, and a bigger brain
for managing men than any three in the city," retorted Arthur icily. "He
is too wise to bring the prejudices of race and creed into city
politics. If Your Honor runs on an independent ticket, the Irish will
vote against you to a man. One would think that far-seeing men,
interested in the city and careful of the future, would hesitate to make
dangerous rivalries of this sort. Is there not enough bigotry now?"
"Not that I know," said the Mayor with a pretence of indifference. "We
are all eager to keep the races in good humor, but at the same time to
prevent the ascendancy of a particular race, except the native. It is
the Irish to-day. It will be the Germans to-morrow. Once checked
thoroughly, there will be no trouble in the future."
The interview ended with these words. By that time Arthur had gone
beyond his political depth, and was glad to make his adieu to the great
man. He retained one honest conclusion from the interview.
"Birmingham can thank this pig-headed gentleman," said he to Everard,
"for making him mayor of New York."
John snorted his contempt of the statement and its abettors. The report
of Arthur disquieted the Chief and his counselors, who assembled to hear
and discuss it.
"It's regrettable," was Sullivan's opinion. "Livingstone makes a fine
figure in a campaign. He has an attractive name. His independence is
popular, and does no harm. He hasn't the interests of the party at heart
though. The question now is, can we persuade the Irish to overlook his
peculiarities about the green and St. Patrick's Day?"
"A more pertinent question," Vandervelt said after a respectful silence,
"would be as to the next available man. I favor Birmingham."
"And I," echoed the Senator.
Arthur listened to the amicable discussion that followed with thoughts
not for the candidate, but for the three men who thus determined the
history of the city for the next two years. The triumvirs! Cloudy scenes
of half-forgotten history rose before him, strange names uttered
themselves. Mark Antony and young Octavius and weak Lepidus! He felt
suddenly the seriousness of life, and wonder at the ways of men; for he
had never stood so near the little gods that harness society to their
policies, never till now had he seen with his own eyes how the world is
steered. The upshot of endless talk and trickery was the nomination of
Birmingham, and the placing of an independent ticket in the field with
the Mayor at its head.
"Now for the fun," said Grahame. "It's going to be a big fight. If you
want to see the working out of principles keep close to me while the
fight is on, and I'll explain things."
The explanation was intricate and long. What did not matter he forgot,
but the picturesque things, which touched his own life afterwards very
closely, he kept in mind. Trotting about with the journalist they
encountered one day a cleric of distinguished appearance.
"Take a good look at him. He's the man that steers Livingstone."
"I thought it was John Everard."
"John doesn't even steer himself," said Grahame savagely. "But take a
view of the bishop."
Arthur saw a face whose fine features were shaded by melancholy, tinged
with jaundice, gloomy in expression; the mouth drooped at the corners,
and the eyes were heavy; one could hardly picture that face lighted by
humor or fancy.
"We refuse to discuss certain things in political circles here," Grahame
continued. "One of them is the muddle made of politics every little
while by dragging in religion. The bishop, Bishop Bradford is his name,
never loses a chance to make a mud pie. The independent ticket is his
pie this year. He secured Livingstone to bake it, for he's no baker
himself. He believes in God, but still more does he believe that the
Catholics of this city should be kept in the backyard of society. If
they eat his pie, their only ambition will be to live in an American
backyard. No word of this ever finds its way into the journals, but it
is the secret element in New York politics."
"I thought everything got into the newspapers," Arthur complained.
"Blamed if I can get hold of the thing."
"You're right, everything goes into the sewers, but not in a formal way.
What's the reason for the independent ticket? Printed: revolt against a
domineering boss. Private: to shake the Irish in politics. Do you see?
Now, here is a campaign going on. It began last week. It ends in
November. But the other campaign has neither beginning nor end. I'll
give you object-lessons. There's where the fun comes in."
The first object-lesson brought Arthur to the gospel-hall managed by a
gentleman whom he had not seen or thought of since the pleasant
celebration of St. Patrick's day. Rev. Mr. McMeeter, evangelist of the
expansive countenance, was warming up his gathering of sinners that
night with a twofold theme: hell for sinners, and the same, embroidered
intensely, for Rome.
"He handles it as Laocoon did the serpents," whispered Grahame.
In a very clerical costume, on a small platform, the earnest man
writhed, twisted, and sweated, with every muscle in strain, his face
working in convulsions, his lungs beating heaven with sound. He outdid
the Trojan hero in the leaps across the platform, the sinuous gestures,
the rendings of the enemy; until that moment when he drew the bars of
hell for the unrepentant, and flung Rome into the abyss. This effective
performance, inartistic and almost grotesque, never fell to the level of
the ridiculous, for native power was strong in the man. The peroration
raised Livingstone to the skies, chained Sullivan in the lowest depths
of the Inferno, and introduced as a terrible example a brand just
rescued from the burning.
"Study her, observe her," said Grahame. "These brands have had curious
burnings."
She spoke with ease, a little woman in widow's weeds, coquettishly
displaying silken brown hair under the ruching of a demure bonnet.
Taking her own account--"Which some reporter wrote for her no doubt,"
Grahame commented--she had been a sinner, a slave of Rome, a castaway
bound hand and foot to degrading superstition, until rescued by the
noblest of men and led by spirit into the great work of rescuing others
from the grinding slavery of the Church of Rome. Very tenderly she
appealed to the audience to help her. The prayers of the saints were
about to be answered. God had raised up a leader who would strike the
shackles off the limbs of the children. The leader, of course, was Mayor
Livingstone.
"You see how the spirit works," said Grahame.
Then came an interruption. The Brand introduced a girl of twelve as an
illustration of her work of rescue among the dreadful hirelings of Rome.
A feeble and ragged woman in the audience rose and cried out that the
child was her lost Ellen. The little girl made a leap from the platform
but was caught dexterously by the Brand and flung behind the scenes. A
stout woman shook her fist in the Brand's face and called her out of her
name; and also gave the evangelist a slap in the stomach which taught
him a new kind of convulsion. His aids fell upon the stout woman, the
tough men of the audience fell upon the aids, the mother of Ellen began
shrieking, and some respectable people ran to the door to call the
police. A single policeman entered cooly, and laid about him with his
stick so as to hit the evangelists with frequency. For a few minutes all
things turned to dust, confusion, and bad language. The policeman
restored order, dismissed Ellen with her mother, calmed the stout woman,
and cautioned the host. The Brand had watched the scene calmly and
probably enjoyed it. When Arthur left with Grahame Mr. McMeeter had just
begun an address which described the policeman as a satellite, a
janizary, and a pretorian of Rome.
"They're doing a very neat job for Livingstone," said Grahame. "Maybe
there are fifty such places about the town. Little Ellen was lucky to
see her mother again. Most of these stolen children are shipped off to
the west, and turned into very good Protestants, while their mothers
grieve to death."
"Livingstone ought to be above such work."
"He is. He has nothing in common with a kidnapper like McMeeter. He just
accepts what is thrown at him. McMeeter throws his support at him. Only
high-class methods attract a man like Livingstone. Sister Claire, the
Escaped Nun, is one of his methods. We'll go and see her too. She
lectures at Chickering Hall to-night ... comes on about half after
nine--tells all about her escape from a prison in a convent ... how she
was enslaved ... How sin thrives in convents ... and appeals for help
for other nuns not yet escaped ... with reference to the coming election
and the great deliverer, Livingstone ... makes a pile of money."
"You seem envious," Arthur hinted.
"Who wouldn't? I can't make a superfluous cent being virtuous, and
Sister Claire clears thousands by lying about her neighbors."
They took a seat among the reporters, in front of a decorous, severe,
even godly audience, who awaited the coming of the Escaped Nun with
religious interest. Amid a profound stillness, she came upon the stage
from a rear door, ushered in by an impressive clergyman; and walked
forward, a startling figure, to the speaker's place, where she stood
with the dignity and modesty of her profession, and a self-possession
all her own.
"Stunning," Grahame whispered. "Costume incorrect, but dramatic."
Her dress and veil were of pale yellow, some woolen stuff, the coif and
gamp were of white linen, and a red cross marked the entire front of her
dress, the arms of the cross resting on her bosom. Arthur stared. Her
face of a sickly pallor had deep circles under the eyes, but seemed
plump enough for her years. For a moment she stood quietly, with
drooping head and uplifted eyes, her hands clasped, a picture of beauty.
After a gasp and a pause the audience broke into warm applause long
continued. In a sweet and sonorous voice she made her speech, and told
her story. It sounded like the _Lady of the Lake_ at times. Grahame
yawned--he had heard it so often. Arthur gathered that she had somewhere
suffered the tortures of the Inquisition, that innocent girls were
enjoying the same experience in the convents of the country, that they
were deserted both of God and man, and that she alone had taken up their
cause. She was a devoted Catholic, and could never change her faith; if
she appealed to her audience, it was only to interest them in behalf of
her suffering sisters.
"That's the artistic touch," Grahame whispered again. "But it won't pay.
Her revelations must get more salaciousness after election."
Arthur hardly heard him. Where had he seen and heard this woman before?
Though he could not recall a feature of her face, form, dress, manner,
yet he had the puzzling sense of having met her long ago, that her
personality was not unfamiliar. Still her features baffled the sense. He
studied her in vain. When her lecture ended, with drooping head and
clasped hands, she modestly withdrew amid fervid acclamations.
Strange and bewildering were the currents of intrigue that made up a
campaign in the great city; not to mention the hidden forces whose
current no human could discern. Arthur went about exercising his talent
for oratory in behalf of Birmingham, and found consolation in the
sincere applause of humble men, and of boys subdued by the charm of his
manner. He learned that the true orator expresses not only his own
convictions and emotions, but also the unspoken thoughts, the mute
feelings, the cloudy convictions of the simple multitude. He is their
interpreter to themselves. The thought gave him reverence for that power
which had lain long dormant in him until sorrow waked its noble
harmonies. The ferment in the city astonished him. The very boys fought
in the vacant lots, and reveled in the strategy of crooked streets and
blind alleys. Kindly women, suddenly reminded that the Irish were a race
of slaves, banged their doors, and flirted their skirts in scorn.
Workmen lost their job here and there, mates fought at the workbench,
the bully found his excuse to beat the weak, all in the name of
Livingstone. The small business men, whose profits came from both sides,
did severe penance for their sins of sanded sugar and deficient weight.
The police found their nerves overstrained.
To him the entire drama of the campaign had the interest of an
impossible romance. It was a struggle between a poor people, cast out by
one nation, fighting for a footing on new soil, and a successful few,
who had forgotten the sufferings, the similar struggle of their fathers.
He rejoiced when Birmingham won. He had not a single regret for the
defeat of Livingstone, though it hurt him that a bad cause should have
found its leader in his kinsman.