day together had left her. It persisted, however, as a curious elation.
The ambiguity of words exhilarated her. She felt a sense of mastery. She
wanted also to be tender toward Aubrey, to please and charm him. It was
necessary to do this in order to disarm him. But he had no suspicions.
She was certain of that. Nevertheless it was necessary to make sure he
had none. There were many paradoxical things necessary and most curious
of them all was the necessity of showing Aubrey that she loved him. Her
heart warmed toward him as it hadn't for years. She felt unaccountably
grateful to Aubrey. She would have liked to sit at his side whispering
love names and caressing his hair.
"Well, for one thing, I've been writing."
He looked at her calmly.
"Writing? You mean books? Why, I didn't know!"
Aubrey smiled, recovering a superiority toward her. But his heart grew
heavy almost simultaneously. She had thrown her arms about him and was
exclaiming, "Oh, I'm so glad. I'm so glad you're writing again, Aubrey
darling. I've wanted you to so much."
He pushed her away slowly. She stood pouting.
"Now I can see where I take a back seat," she sighed. "Yes sir, you
won't have time for me at all. But I don't care. As long as you're
happy, darling, I'm delighted. I want you to be happy and I know it
makes you happy to write."
When she left the room Aubrey remained frowning after her. He would
surprise her. He would surprise them all. He would publish the
manuscript under his own name. It would create a sensation. It would
bring him back in the public eye more glorified than he had been in his
literary heyday.
In a few days the idea had grown to obliterating proportions. For a
time he abandoned the contemplation of the inner Aubrey--the
gleaming-eyed Thunderer. This other was nearer reality--an Aubrey hymned
as a rejuvenated literary figure. But he hesitated. His indecision
resulted in a predicament. He had been boasting cautiously of his new
work, letting out hints as to its character. There was Cressy, a
literary critic and a member of the club where he lunched. He had talked
to him about it.
"I'm surprised myself," he explained. "I was rather uncertain whether I
could come back. But the rest was evidently just what I needed. The book
isn't at all in my old style. More direct, sincere and entirely simple.
You'll like it."
Cressy became important in Aubrey's predicament. Cressy was a man whom
Aubrey identified as "the more discriminating public." He yearned for
the approval of this public. And as his decision to have his father's
manuscript printed under his own name grew, Aubrey sought the critic
out. It was pleasant to boast to Cressy, to feel oneself part of the
superior literary world Cressy inhabited.
Cressy had left the university with the determination to write. He had,
however, developed into a scholar, using a knowledge of Greek and Latin
to acquire a baggage of classical erudition. For ten years he had been
contributing literary essays to magazines and newspapers. In these he
wagged his head sorrowfully over the decline of letters. He presented an
impregnable front to all new writers. The names of new novelists in the
book lists irritated him precisely as the names of new celebrities in
the society columns had once irritated Mrs. Basine. He resented them as
intruders and focused a pedantic wrath on them.
In his own mind he pictured himself as being in a continual state of
revolt against the inferiority of modern literature. His attacks,
however, were entirely a defensive gesture. His literary point of view
was inspired by a heroic desire to annihilate contemporary literature.
Contemporary books were an insult and a barrier to his egoism. He
battled against them. His struggle was the quixotic effort to assert the
superiority of his erudition. New novels, new poetries, new philosophies
were a conspiracy to minimize him and he went after them with the zeal
of one engaged in tracking criminals to their lair.
At forty-five he was a stern-faced man with a greying mustache, heavy
glasses behind which gleamed indignant eyes. He was impressive looking.
People who never read his fulminations still felt a high regard for his
scholarship. He was fearless in the pronunciation of French, Latin and
Greek names and invariably functioned as arbiter in all disputes
concerning classical quotations and allusions.
His friendship with Aubrey was based chiefly on the certainty he felt
that Aubrey was an inferior writer. He was not part of the conspiracy
aimed at the minimization of Cressy, the scholar.
"Well, I'm glad to hear that, Aubrey," he congratulated his friend.
"Very glad. Writing is a delight few people understand these days."
"I know. And I think you'll be interested particularly, John, because
the story is of Elizabethan England. I've modeled the technique on
Apuleius and the other later Roman tale-tellers."
"Indeed!" Cressy bristled. "That should be interesting."
"I'd like to have your opinion of it, John. I've always valued what you
say, but this time more than ever. Because I feel I've entered your
field and you're guarding the fences and all that."
Cressy's face relaxed. Quite right. His field. And if the book was any
good he could leap forward as its authentic champion and through it
denounce the base modernism of the day. But how did Aubrey who was a
superficial dabbler come by Elizabethan England?
Aubrey promised to produce the manuscript within a few days and left the
club. A July sun hammered at the streets. The heat added to his inward
discomfort. It was too hot to think. Yet it was necessary to think.
Something was piling up and unless he thought it out clearly, it would
fall on him.
He had made up his mind to publish his father's manuscript as his own.
But in the weeks that had passed he had become aware that he was not
going to carry out his intention. There were things that kept him from
it. A morbid sense that his father was watching him had grown in his
mind. He was afraid. At night in bed he conducted himself with a
scrupulous politeness toward his wife, certain that his every action was
being observed by his father.
There was another restriction. The appearance of the manuscript with his
name to it would be a distasteful anti-climax. He had lost himself so
long and so ardently in the creation of an inner Aubrey--the hawk-faced
Isaiah redeeming men--that the prospect of a frankly sensual volume
signed by Aubrey Gilchrist made him uncomfortable.
In the face of the realities that would ensue--the praise for instance,
of the healthy animalism of the book--he would have to abandon the
secret characterization that had grown almost an essential of his life.
He could not go ahead redeeming men and lifting them toward a life of
asceticism while people were talking and writing about the fact that
Aubrey Gilchrist was a sensual realist. And finally there was a feeling
of dishonesty, inseparable from his fear of his father, but adding its
weight to the restrictions.
As the feeling that he would never dare to publish the manuscript
approached a certainty, Aubrey sought to force his own hand by telling
his friends of the book, boasting of it and promising its early
appearance. In this way he dimly hoped to make it socially necessary for
him to produce the volume and that finally the social necessity of
living up to his announcements would overpower the inner restraints. He
was desperately throwing up bridges in the hope of being driven across
them.
The dilemma slipped out of his mind as he walked toward his home. It was
distasteful. The finding of the manuscript had, in fact, upset him more
than anything which had ever happened. As he neared his residence a
wilted sensation came into his thought. He had been trying eagerly to
recover the full image of the inner Aubrey and derive a few hours of
surcease in the easy contemplation of that great hero's triumphs. But
now it occurred to him that Judge Smith and John Mackay, his partner,
Fanny and her relatives and all his world were buzzing with gossip about
his return to literature. The dilemma crawled wearily back into his
mind.
Yes, they talked about it whenever they came together. There was
Basine, the judge. He had seized Aubrey's hand and pumped it heartily
when he heard of the book.
"That's the stuff. I like a man who can come back. Go to it, Aubrey."
Basine was a bounder. The way Fanny and the rest of them idolized him
was disgusting. His mother-in-law--"Oh, the judge told me the most
fascinating things about the situation in Washington." And then for an
hour, an idiotic mumble about what the judge did, what he said, what he
thought, what he hoped. Nobody ever mentioned Henrietta or the children.
As if their existence was not only unimportant but dubious. Basine was
an entity. He needed no background.
Aubrey wondered why his thought turned to his brother-in-law. Whenever
he felt uncomfortable, or found himself in a distressing situation, his
mind usually busied itself with comment on Basine. Anything distressful
that happened, no matter how remote from the judge, always seemed to
remind Aubrey of the man and recall to him the fact that he was a
bounder and an ass and entirely unlikeable.
He entered his home in a dejected mood. Voices attracted him. Fanny was
talking to a man. He paused before the opened door.
"Oh, hello Aubrey," Fanny greeted him. She stood up. Aubrey noticed she
looked pale. Her eyes seemed to follow his observation.
"Isn't it hot though? I'm almost dead. I'm awfully glad you came home.
You remember Mr. Ramsey, don't you?"
"How do you do," said Aubrey. "Yes, I think--"
"At mother's. Long ago. I'm sure you met him. He's an old friend of the
family."
"How do you do, sir," Ramsey echoed, rising. The men shook hands. Aubrey
stared at the dapper, high-strung figure with its flushed face and cool
attire and tried to remember the man.
"If you'll pardon me," he smiled.
"Certainly, Aubrey."
"See you again, I hope," said Aubrey. Ramsey assented with a curious
enthusiasm, accenting the situation uncomfortably. Fanny frowned and
watched her husband walk to the stairs. As his steps died the two
returned to their chairs.
"Oh it's hot," Fanny murmured. "Can't you go away till next month. I'm
almost beside myself."
Her voice was low. Ramsey listened with disdain.
"And besides," she continued in a whisper, "I've given you all I can
get. I haven't any more money."
"Money!" Ramsey snorted. "I'm not talking about money. I'm not asking
for any." He stood up and frowned indignantly at her.
"I know, but--"
"I just dropped in for a talk."
He said this with a meaning smile and lighted a cigarette. He was very
casual. She watched him helplessly.
"Oh, why beat around the bush. I'm sick of it. I can't stand it. How
much do you want? I've given you three thousand. Surely that's...."
"I don't want any, thank you," he answered with mysterious sarcasm. "Not
a nickle."
"Then what do you want?" Her voice was rising despite her fear of being
heard. "This is the fourth time you've ... you've hounded me."
"Oh, I hound you?" Again the mysterious sarcasm.
"If you'd only tell me what you want."
He smiled with the air of a man phenomenally at ease and returned to his
chair.
"Nothing. Not a thing. I just dropped in for a chat, that's all."
His eyes regarded her triumphantly. Fanny returned their gaze. He was
crazy. There was something crazy about him. He had called her on the
telephone the day after seeing her in the hotel with Schroder. She had
gone downtown to meet him. The whole business seemed like an impossible
dream in retrospect. He had whined and begged for money. He was down and
out, living from hand to mouth, his friends gone, his clothes in rags.
He had known her father. She could save him. And he had never once
referred to the incident in the hotel lobby. Neither had she. The
conversation had been purely a needy friend and a philanthropically
inclined woman. She had asked him how much he needed and he answered
$1,500 would start him. A week later he came to her completely
rehabilitated--an elderly looking fop swinging a cane and bristling with
enthusiasms.
Another $1,500 had increased his enthusiasm. He came a third time to
report that he had found employment. She barely listened. Something had
happened to Ramsey.
Now as he sat smiling sarcasms at her she realized what it was. Her
knowledge of the man was casual but the thing that had happened was
unmistakable. He no longer wanted money from her. He was blackmailing
her merely because it gave him a sense of power. They had never
mentioned Schroder or the lobby incident.
She regarded him in silence and the understanding of the man slowly
nauseated her. His polite and affable smiling, his cockiness and his
suavity--all these were part of a pose. He called merely to see her
wince and because her wincing filled him with this sense of power. And
he would go on like that. But she dared not challenge him. He knew about
the day with Schroder. He had never mentioned it and now he tried to
pretend this his dominance over her had nothing to do with blackmail or
Schroder. He tried to pretend it was because of something
else--something involved and mysterious.
"Are you going to stay forever," she murmured.
"Perhaps for dinner," he answered. Fanny sighed. There was her
mother-in-law--a stone faced woman with gimlet eyes. Old, ferreting
eyes. She would sense something. And if they found out. She shuddered.
Her eyes implored.
"Please, Tom," she whispered. "You ... you're torturing me."
"Oh no, not at all," he answered with an idiotic cheerfulness, raising
his eyebrows and pursing his lips in surprise. He was like a farce
actor. She stood up and came to his side. Her hands rested on his
shoulder.
"Won't you leave me alone?" she whispered again. "I feel ill."
He looked at her with concern.
"Indeed," he said. "I'm awfully sorry."
He would go on like this forever. It would always grow worse. He wanted
to make a victim of her. He was like a crazy man with an obsession. His
suavity and politeness almost made her scream. She covered her face and
wept.
"There, there," he consoled her. She had dropped into a chair and he was
patting her back. "It must be the heat. The heat, don't you think? Oh
well, I'll go way now. Are you going to be home Tuesday evening?"
She made no answer. Ramsey stood watching her, a smile in his eyes. As
she continued to weep he appeared to grow more and more elated. A
sternness entered his voice.
"Come now," he ordered her, "sit up."
She obeyed.
"It's ridiculous," he continued. She nodded helplessly. "I'll see you
Tuesday evening," he added. There was a pause. Then, "There's something
I'd like to discuss with you. Very important. Don't forget. Tuesday
evening."
He walked out. Fanny watched him to the door. A rage came to her. He was
play-acting. He was making fun of her, of her fear of exposure. Because
he was crazy. He didn't want money. He wanted to bulldoze and torture
her. He wanted her to think he was somebody--that's why he did it.
She stood up and watched him from the window as he walked down the
street. A dapper, good-natured figure smiling with mysterious
condescension upon the houses he passed. She rushed to her room and
locked the door. Something would have to happen. She had not talked to
Schroder about Ramsey since he left her in the cab that first day. She
would ask him what to do. No, that would make it worse. He might be like
Ramsey. She lay dry-eyed and pondering. The thought slowly grew in
her--she would tell her brother. George would be able to figure out
some way to rid her of this blackmailer. She would tell him everything
and explain to him how she couldn't stand it any longer.
She lay quietly improvising her conversation with her brother. This
brought a relief and she closed her eyes with a sigh.
19
The ballroom of the Hotel LaSalle had been carefully prepared for the
opening of the Vice Investigating Commission's sessions. A corps of
janitors had been active for two days introducing folding chairs,
cuspidors, tables and wastebaskets. Chairs of varying degrees of
importance had been assembled for the witnesses, attorneys,
distinguished visitors and members of the press.
The Vice Investigating Commission had been appointed by the governor of
the state. It was comprised of ten members including its chairman, Judge
Basine. The press with its instinctive dramaturgy had centered its
comment around the single figure of Basine. The nine state senators who,
as a result of political wire pulling, had wormed their way into the
Commission found themselves lost in the shadow of Basine.
It was the Basine Commission. As the time for its sessions approached,
the press, having by its own headline reiteration of the man's name
impressed itself with the prestige and popularity of Basine, abandoned
itself without further scruples to its convenient mania of
simplifications. Thus the preliminary deliberations of the Commission
were headlined, "Basine to Summon Department Store Heads." "Basine to
Plumb Vice Causes." "Basine Charges Dance Hall Evil."
The statements elaborately prepared by the nine senators were invariably
attributed in the newspaper columns to Basine. The hopes, plans, fears,
threats of the Vice Commission were blazoned to the world as the mingled
emotions of Basine. Photographs of Basine, his wife, children, and home,
illumined the papers and within a week the name Basine had, in the
public mind, become innately synonymous with an immemorial crusade
against vice.
The crusade itself remained as yet a vague but promising morsel in the
city's thought. The newspapers, enabled by the event to indulge
themselves more legitimately than usual in discussing the ever
fascinating problem of sex from the unimpeachable standpoint of reform,
leaped greedily to the bait.
Photographs of young women boarding street cars and revealing stretches
of leg were printed under the caption, "Indecent Way to Board Car, Says
Basine." Alongside were photographs, less interesting, but vital to the
moral of the layout, showing women boarding street cars without
revealing their legs. The caption over them read, "Correct Way to Board
Car, Says Basine." The text explained that the carelessness and
immodesty of young girls, according to Basine, frequently were the
devil's ally and that the Basine Commission called upon all young women
who had the welfare of the race at heart to board street cars in the
correct way.
Photographs of young women in Indecent Bathing Costumes appeared
accompanied by denunciations from prominent clergymen and contrasted,
with editorial indignation, to photographs of Decent Bathing Costumes
recommended by prominent clergymen. Photographs of abandoned young women
who effected garter purses, slit skirts; who crossed their legs when
they sat down were offered. These were accompanied by outraged
pronouncements against such immodesties from prominent statesmen and
clergymen.
A private auxiliary crusade started by another enterprising newspaper
resulted in a series of photographs of nude paintings to be seen in the
shop windows of the loop and Michigan avenue, and called for immediate
legislation designed to remove this source of moral danger.
Photographs of the deplorably scanty costumes worn by musical comedy,
choruses and dancers in general; photographs pointing out with mute
alarm the decline of modesty as instanced in the comparison of the
fashions of yesteryear with the fashions of today; photographs of
dance-hall scenes showing couples amorously embraced, cheeks together,
bodies riveted to each other--these and others too numerous to tabulate
cried for the reader's indignant attention out of the newspaper columns.
Every conceivable variant of denunciation which might be legitimately
accompanied by a photograph of a woman or a group of women, received
publication in interviews with pious divines, alarmed statesmen and
serious-minded welfare workers. The newspapers, convinced by the twenty
and thirty per cent increases in their week's circulation figures that
the crusade was a vital part of the awakened moral sense of the city,
devoted themselves with heroic disregard of party politics to acclaiming
the Basine commission.
Basine found himself troubled by his sky-rocketing prestige. He went to
bed the first night as a "judicial inquirer into the causes of vice."
He arose in the morning confronted with the fact that he was a "fearless
Galahad on Moral Quest." Before retiring again he found himself a "Vice
Solon Attacking Civic Corruption." And on the following morning he was
"Basine, Undaunted, Flays Vice Ring."
On the day before the opening session he occupied his chambers and tried
to dictate his way through a mass of correspondence that had
accumulated. There were thousands of letters from determined
church-goers, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, all teeming with
excited advice, prayers for success and redundant congratulations. Ruth
waited with her pencil on her note book, her knee pressed warmly against
his thigh and her eyes looking pensively out of the window at the summer
day.
Basine had obtained a three weeks' vacation in order to devote himself
to the work of the commission. His words came unevenly as he dictated.
Newspaper headlines glared at him from the desk--"Modern Lincoln to Free
Vice Slaves." "Basine to Determine Why Girls Go Wrong." "Basine
Threatens Fearless Quiz Into Resorts."
His mind was alive with other headlines. Basine ... Basine ... the city
was throbbing with his name. He had managed to maintain a skepticism for
several days. Doris had kept his mind distressingly clear with her
comments. And her friend, Levine. Her words had continued in his thought
... "marvelous, George. The public is wallowing in an orgy of morbidity.
I confess, it's beyond my pleasantest expectations...."
He had protested. She was wrong. Indignation was being stirred. People
were realizing the menace of underpaid working girls and unlicensed
dance halls. His sister smiled wearily. "Don't be an ass, or you'll
spoil it all. Keep your head clear. Follow the newspapers and outwit
them in cynicism."
And then Levine. He recalled the man's words and edited them into a
rebuking essay--"The public is revelling in the salaciousness of nude
photographs, raw statements and your anti-vice propaganda. They're
utilizing virtue as a cloak for the sensually tantalizing discussion of
immorality. Their indignation is an excuse by which they apologize for
their individual erotic thrills by denouncing evil in others. Yes, the
mysterious others identified as vice rings, white slavers and immorality
in general. The whole business is a cunning debauch offered newspaper
readers, a debauch which enables them to appear to themselves and to
each other not as debauchees but as high crusaders behind the banners of
Basine. And the good clergymen and the statesmen and the welfare workers
rushing into print with revelations of immorality are inspired, by
nothing more intricate than a desire for publicity and an ambition to
pose before the public in the guise of fellow crusaders and civic
benefactors. Their benefactions, you see, consist of offering the public
lurid sex statistics over which it may gloat in secret. And in the
meantime, over these benefactions, over these exciting sex statistics
and sexy photos and over the people who discuss them and roll them over
on their tongue is thrown a protective fog of indignation."
Basine had derived from these talks in his sister's studio an
uncomfortable vision. But the vision had gradually dissolved in his
mind. On the day he had awakened to find himself a "Moral Champion
Promises Vice Clean-up" the dignity and high responsibility of his task
had overcome him. What appeared to him an authentic fervor mounted in
his veins. Hypnotized by the adulatory excitement surrounding his name,
he acquired forthwith the characterization foisted on him by the
headlines. Basine ... Basine ... the city throbbed with his name. The
hope of a great moral rejuvenation was centered upon him. Another St.
Patrick was to drive the snakes of evil out of the community. Another
Lincoln was to do something--something equally ennobling to himself and
his fellowmen.
The change effected his relations with Ruth. For a month he had been
engaged in a species of sinless amour. Long walks, long talks, long
embraces behind the locked doors of his chambers had resulted in nothing
more tangible than a series of headaches and sleepless nights or unusual
tenderness towards his piquantly startled wife.
He had excused his infidelity to Ruth while embracing Henrietta--he
regarded his exaggerated interest in his wife as a betrayal of the
girl--by assuring himself that it was for Ruth's own good. It lessened
his desire for her and thus decreased the moral danger into which their
love was leading her. In addition to this it was, of course, a
convenient substitute for the emotions Ruth's embraces aroused in him
and for the sense of guilt which invariably accompanied these embraces.
When he became a crusader Basine felt a further confusion in his
attitude toward Ruth. He sat now attempting to dictate letters. Despite
the amiable blur which fame had introduced into his thought and which
for the past two weeks had obscured the details of his day, he found
himself studying the situation before him. The situation was Ruth. He
would have preferred ignoring it. The scent which came from her summery
shirt waist and the coils of her black hair, thrilled him. Her clear
youthful face, the contours of her figure, the familiarity of her
eyes--all this was pleasing and satisfying.
But the new Basine--the crusader, felt ill at ease. He must explain
something to Ruth, explain to her that their love was no more than an
ennobling comradeship and must never be more than that, a comradeship
which would bring them together in this great cause of moral
rejuvenation. He didn't want it put that crudely. But the idea kept
repeating itself in his head. He kept thinking of what Doris and her
friend Levine would say if they ever found out that in the midst of the
Vice Investigation, its chairman had been carrying on with his
secretary. It was distasteful and needed immediate attention.
He took her hand and Ruth laid down her pencil. She smiled expectantly
at him. Since she had first kissed Basine a month ago she had been
trying to understand the situation. The thought of him preoccupied her
and this made her certain she loved him. His caresses aroused her senses
and left her wondering what was going to happen.
At times she reasoned coolly with herself. She was in love with a
married man and the most she could hope for was to become his mistress
and end up by making a fool of herself. Or perhaps of both of them. She
was, in a measure, grateful for the manner in which he respected her
virtue. But, with his arms around her and his keen face alive with
passion and his lips on hers, his reserve struck her as uncomplimentary
and illogical.
She resented the semi-abandonment of his senses because of the
unfulfillment--a physical and spiritual unfulfillment which left her
distracted. It appeared to her later, when the distraction ebbed, as an
affront to her vanity. She was uncertain when thinking of it coolly
whether she would give herself to him. But somehow the affair seemed
unreal, at times even a little like some school-girl flirtation, because
he failed to ask her. She had always prided herself upon her honesty and
spent hours now debating with herself just how much she loved him and if
she loved him at all and why she loved him. The idea of leaving his
employ, however, never occurred to her. The cautious sensualisms of
which she had become an excited victim, held her. There was in these
incompleted manoeuverings behind the locked doors a curious
fascination.
"What is it, George?"
He smiled and shook his head.
"Whew, I'm snowed under." His hands pushed the correspondence from him.
"You mustn't tire yourself, dear."
He nodded and his face assumed a serious air.
"I would like to talk over the work."
"The Commission?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I think it's going to be a wonderful success, George?"
"And you can help me."
He squeezed her hand. This was the note he had been searching for in his
mind. He hesitated a moment, nevertheless, feeling an irritating
incongruity in what he desired to say. But the headlines glaring at him
strengthened him. He was Basine the Moral Champion. The city was
throbbing with his name. A hope centered about his name.
"The work is going to be hard," he began. "I intend to go to the bottom
of the thing. The Commission after its hearings will be able to
recommend legislation that will ... that will...."
"Yes, I know George."
"Wipe out, or at least go a long way toward wiping out...."
His mind seemed to balk at the sentence. The word "immorality" withheld
itself from his lips.
"I'll be glad to help where I can, as you know, dear," she whispered.
"I've subpoenaed all the department store heads to bring their books
into court, I mean to the hearing, and reveal exactly what the wage
scale for shop girls is. I'm convinced it's impossible for a girl to
keep decent on $6 and $7 a week."
He thought of the fact that Ruth was receiving $30 a week and grew
confused.
"You can help me a lot, dear," he added hurriedly.
Ruth stood up. This standing up had become a habit between them. When
they were sitting holding hands, if she stood up, he would draw her to
him and she would lower herself into his lap. They had developed a
series of similar ruses to which they both adapted themselves like well
rehearsed actors and which had for their object the bringing them into
positions convenient for kisses and embraces.
As she sat down in his lap the unhappy thought crossed Basine's mind
that he was chairman of a commission sworn to wipe out just such
incidents as this from the city's life. He winced and her arm around
his neck felt uncomfortable. But he remembered that both doors were
locked and the image of himself as a crusader partially vanished. They
kissed and his hand slipped down to her side and toyed with the hem of
her skirt.
"Do you love me, George? Tell me."
"Yes. Why do you ask that?"
"Oh because. Sometimes I think you're so busy that you haven't time to
love."
He was pleased by this. Flattered, he answered: "I have time for nothing
else. Everything else is sort of part of it. My work, the
commission--it's all you, dearest."
His hand was on her, caressingly. He endeavored to remove the
significance of the gesture by patting her knee as one might pat the
head of a little child, and whispering with an involved frankness:
"You're so nice, darling."
They had sat like this before, sometimes for an hour, whispering to each
other. Their whispering would go on for a time, even their kisses. This
time, however, she murmured unexpectedly:
"Don't, George."
He was surprised.
"Why not?"
"Because, we mustn't."
"But why?"
"Oh please ... don't!"
Her objection seemed to inspire him in a way her previous silences had
failed to do. He grew indignant.
"Please, don't!"
"But why, dearest? I love you."
She paused and he looked at her, aloof arguments in his eyes as if he
were pleading not in his own behalf but in behalf of--a somebody else, a
client. His knees were trembling under her weight. The crusade had
disappeared. A memory of it lingered but in an amusing way. He caught a
glimpse of the headlines on his desk and grinned. There was something
maliciously unreal about life that one could enjoy.
Suddenly he felt her soften. Her lips brushed against his ear and her
arm tightened convulsively around him.
"Please no," she murmured.
Her alarm delighted him. It was a final barrier, this alarm. It enabled
him to enjoy the new conquest without having to be logical, without
having to go on. Her alarm now was a barrier to be played with for a
moment and then utilized. He would stop in a moment but now he could
play with her fear, as if he were intent upon overcoming it.
"Please," she whispered, "don't ... it's no use."
The final words irritated him. No use! He felt offended, as if he had
been trickily defeated in an argument. What was no use? What did she
mean?
"George, please, listen to me. Oh please...."
That was better. But it had come just in time. He could retreat now with
honor. For an instant a panic had filled him. Impossible to retreat on
the explanation "it's no use." Because--well, because the words were a
challenge, not an attack. But now it was easy. He stiffened in his
chair. Ruth slipped from his lap and stood up, flushed. She straightened
her hair and looked away. Basine felt annoyed with her. She had almost
taken him by surprise. She had almost surrendered when the tactics of
the game called for her to protest and thus cover his retreat by making
it the result of her protests. And not of his--well, of his
determination not to forget his position.
But he would restore the tactic she had momentarily abandoned.
"Excuse me," he muttered, a plea in his voice, "I didn't realize. I
didn't realize what I was doing. Forgive me, dearest."
He recovered his sense of self respect that, oddly enough, had deserted
him, in making this apology. The apology meant that he had ceased only
because she had protested too violently. And not because he had been
afraid.
Ruth listened with a faint smile on her moist lips. She wanted to laugh.
"I didn't mean anything--really," he was saying. "You must forgive me.
Come here--please." An air of soothing innocence rose from his voice and
manner. He was reassuring her that he wasn't dangerous, that he wouldn't
repeat these intimacies. The desire to laugh continued in her. Excuse
him! For what? The laugh almost left her throat. She had given herself
to him ... and he had solemnly retreated for no reason at all.
She continued to smile. For the first time the distraction his caresses
inspired in her was absent. Instead she felt quite normal. She was
becoming indignant but normal. And there was amusement in her anger. She
sat down and picked up her pencil. She was amused. She looked at a man
who had become almost a stranger and nodded--forgiveness.
"Of course, George," she said. "I know you didn't mean anything,
but...."
He frowned. Her tone angered him. She was mocking.
"Hadn't you better answer some of these?" she asked. Basine pursed up
his lips importantly.
"You will be a great help, dear," he answered. "Some day I want to talk
about something with you. But ... but matters are too rushed now. I'm
almost snowed under, I swear." This was putting it all on a different
basis. He was a busy man. That's why he had retreated. He was needed for
other things of vital interest to the community. He felt uncomfortable,
despite the dignity of his frown. She was regarding him with placid
eyes. He turned to one of the newspapers whose headlines were
proclaiming the plans, and threats of Basine. There was the real
Basine--in the headline. This other one, the one who had fumbled and
messed things up with a girl--he ended his thought with annoyance. He
despised himself. For a moment he glowered at her. He would stand up and
seize her. She would realize, then, what his forebearance for her sake
had been. His anger continued in his voice as he resumed the tedious
dictation:
"Dear Governor:
"Everything is prepared for the opening next Monday. I have
arranged special seats for any of your friends who may desire to
attend. We are ready to launch an efficient and systematic inquiry
into the causes of the vice conditions in our city as well as
state. Please...."
20
The excitedly heralded Vice Investigation which, after several thousand
centuries of criminal neglect, was to take up the question of
immorality, discover its causes, determine its remedies and put an end
to this blot upon civilization, opened to a crowded house. The folding
chairs introduced into the ball room by the corps of janitors were
occupied. But they were insufficient. The corps of janitors had
underestimated the extent of the public enthusiasm.
Men and women aflame with the ardor of crusade battled for place within
hearing distance of the witnesses who were to recount, under careful
examination, just why girls went wrong. The ball room was capable of
seating a thousand. Another thousand pried their ways through the doors
and stood six and seven deep against the ornamental walls. The somewhat
mythical portraits of French noblemen, Cupids, Watteau ladies of leisure
smiled urbanely out of the blue and white panels over their heads. The
corridor outside the large room was thronged with still a third thousand
pushing, prying, squeezing, and perspiring all in vain. The police had
been summoned.
The press in its first pen picture of the stirring scene drew a
significant distinction. Those within the ball room who had successfully
stormed the doors and clawed their way into the weltering pulp of
figures were identified as "a distinguished audience of society women,
welfare workers, civic leaders and citizens come to lend their moral
support to the great crusade."
Those who had failed in their efforts to gain entrance and who clung
with patient heroism to the corridor, the lobby downstairs and even the
boiling pavements outside, were dismissed scornfully as "a crowd of the
morbidly curious, hungry for the sensational details promised by the
investigators."
At ten o'clock the Commission itself arrived. The perspiring police
opened a passage through the throng and the commission filed to its
place at the table waiting at the end of the room. Newspaper
photographers immediately leaped into concerted action. The boom and
smoke of flashlights arose.
Delays and preliminaries followed. The room grew terrifically hot.
Collars began to wilt, faces to turn red, feet to burn. But the delays
continued. It was impossible to find out why there was delay. The crowd
grew impatient. A racket of voices stuffed the room. Something had gone
wrong ... why didn't they start ... they weren't doing anything ... what
were they waiting for ... the public was grumbling.
As a matter of fact the commissioners were playing for time. A species
of stage fright had overcome them. Each of them had arrived filled with
a sense of high purpose and benign power. They were men upon whom the
burden of lifting an age-old blot from the face of civilization had
fallen. They had felt no hesitancy in the matter. They were going to
tackle the situation like Americans--red-blooded Americans in whose
heart burned the unfaltering light of idealism. There was going to be no
shilly-shallying, no highfalutin theorizings. They were going to the
bottom of this matter without fear or favor. They were going to find out
just why girls went wrong and, having found this out, they were going to
remove the cause, or causes if there were more than one, and thus put an
end to immorality--at least in the great commonwealth of Illinois.
They were ten undaunted crusaders inspired with the unfaltering
consciousness of their country's power and rectitude. In fact, it was
not the Basine Commission which pushed through the throng but the
Tradition of the United States, the Revered Memory of Abraham Lincoln,
George Washington and Nathan Hale, the Army that had never been licked,
the Government of the People, by the People and for the People, that was
better than any other government on the face of the earth. These walked
behind the policemen through the throng.
But there was a human undertone to this Tradition about to grapple with
the problem of Vice. Like Basine, each of the nine had at the beginning
felt a slight discomfort. Their own pasts and even presents had risen in
their thought to deride them. They were, alas, not without sin
themselves. The dramatic coincidence was even possible that one of the
witnesses called might point to a commissioner as the author of her
ruin. This, in an oblique way, disturbed them. It lay like an
indigestible fear upon the stomach of incarnated Tradition. But as the
patriotic fervor mounted in them, they were able somewhat to master this
selfish fear. Debating the matter vaguely in the silence of their own
bedrooms they had achieved an identical triumph.
Yes, they were after all only men. They had sinned, were sinning
regularly in fact. But they would be fearless. They would strike out
with no reserve and if Vice turned an accusing forefinger upon them,
they would sacrifice themselves. The chances were, however, that this
would not happen. They experienced the inner elation which comes with
non-inconveniencing confession. Regardless of what they were in secret,
they would be able to reveal themselves publicly as men sitting in
judgment upon Vice, as executioners of Vice. In this manner their
material lives became unimportant accidents. They were able within two
weeks to enter the public concept of themselves. Their actual selves
became, in their own eyes, inferior and irrelevant. They had achieved an
idealization.
There was also another change. Once established in their own eyes as
Virgins, like Basine they were soon under the hypnosis of headlines. As
they walked to the hotel this morning they had entirely rid themselves
of their normal individualities. They were no longer even ordinary
virgins, embarked upon a vaguely scientific or social enterprise. They
were, above that, the spokesmen of an aroused public, the dignified
containers of the power of the People.
None of the ten with the exception of Basine had given the actual work
before him any thought. They had not prepared themselves for the task by
study. All of them were serenely, in fact belligerently, ignorant of the
scientific thought of the world on the subject. The involved disclosures
of psychologists, philosophers, economists and other specialists in race
ethics were part of a childish abracadabra beneath their consideration.
For they were the incarnated power of Tradition and of Public
Opinion--two grave forces which needed no guilding light from such
sources.
This power buoyed them and brought a stern light into their eyes. They
believed in the People, and therefore in themselves as Spokesmen. Ten
shrewd, wire-pulling politicians whose careers were identically darkened
with chicanery and crude cynicism, they were able by the magic of faith
to rise above themselves. They were able to feel the nobility of the
phrases which they had so often utilized as cloaks for their private
greeds and private spites. These were the phrases of Democracy which
proclaimed to an awed populace that it, the populace, was Master and
that its will was a holy and unassailable force for progress and piety.
As spokesmen of the people these commissioners were concerned with
furthering the great idealization of themselves which the people
worshipped as their god. Reason was at war with this idealization.
Reason was the species of morbid and inverted vanity which inspired man
to disembowel himself as proof of his stupidity. It grappled with his
illusions, crawled through his soul, hamstringing his complacency. It
raised insidious voices around him, wooing him. To denude himself of
hope, faith and charity--in short to become intolerable to himself.
The commissioners, as spokesmen, turned their back upon it. There was a
happier outlet for the energies of man than the repudiation of himself
as the glory of God. There was the unreasoning struggle for
idealization--the miracle by which man, seizing hold of his boot straps,
hoisted himself into Heaven. This struggle, arousing the guffaws and
sneers of reason, was its own reward. It was the virtue that rewarded
itself.
The perspiring little scene in the hotel ball room was a startling
visualization of this happier struggle. Regardless of their sins, their
greeds, hypocrisies, idiocies, the people desired to see themselves as
incarnations of an ideal. This ideal had been carefully elaborated. Of
late it had taken on a life of its own. It had grown like a fungus
feeding upon itself. Man staring at the heaven he had created was
becoming awed by its magnificence and extent. More than that this heaven
was threatening to escape him, to become incongruous by its very
vastness. There was danger that his idealization, fattening upon a logic
of its own, would become a bit too preposterous even for worship.
Already this idealization proclaimed him as an apostle of virtue, as a
moralist first and a biological product afterward; as believing in the
credo of right over might, in the equality of blacks, whites, poor and
rich; as a sort of animated sermon from the triple pen of a martyr
president, martyr husband and martyr Messiah. Lost in a difficult
admiration of this heaven, the people struggled in the double task of
keeping the idealization of themselves from becoming too preposterous
and of persuasively identifying themselves with their image.
The result of this struggle was apparent in the puritanizatron of idea
becoming popular in the country. A spirit of martyrdom was prevalent.
Men and women were enthusiastically martyring themselves--passing laws
and formulating conventions in opposition to their appetites and
desires--in an excited effort to overtake this idealization of
themselves. Righteousness was becoming a panic. The Christ image of the
crowd was slowly obliterating its reality. His halo was running away
with man. Overcome with the necessity of keeping pace with the
artificial virtues he had created as his God, he was converting himself,
to the best of his talents, into an outwardly epicene, eye-rolling
symbol of purity. There was this mirror alive with his own God-like
image. And he must now be careful not to give the lie to the
idealization of himself created partly by him and partly by the activity
of logic.
The members of the Vice Investigating Commission entered the crowded
room serene in the knowledge that reason was their enemy and that
God--that mysterious cross between public opinion and yesterday's
errors--would vouchsafe them the power and keenness to cope with the
problem before them.
They were innocent of intelligence but they had faith in the principles
of their country and the principles of their country were founded upon
the great truth that what the people willed must come to pass. Today the
people of the commonwealth of Illinois willed that vice and immorality
be abolished from their midst. Therefore it must come to pass that the
ten citizens lowering themselves into the seats behind the table were
ten irresistible instruments animated by the strength of public opinion.
For several minutes after they had seated themselves the commissioners
remained staring with dignity at the throng. A vague and pleasant
delirium occupied their minds. The Vice Investigating Commission had
assembled and the business of removing the blot from the face of
civilization would begin at once. The commissioners sat, pompously
inanimate, waiting for it to begin.
The spectacle before them, the thousands of eyes focussed upon their
little group at the long table, slowly awakened an uncomfortable
disillusion in the commissioners. In fact, a little panic swept their
minds. They had, of course, discussed the issues, passed resolutions and
laid plans for grappling with the situation. But all these efforts had
been part of the curious hypnosis which had overcome them. The sense of
their power hypnotized them into fancying that their star chamber
babblings were in themselves thunderblots. The sweeping promises, the
all-embracing statements and resolutions passed and issued for
publication had filled them with an exalted sense of success. They had
entered the ballroom under the naive conviction that the whole business
had been already successfully consummated. They were taking their seats
at the table not to launch upon a task but to receive the plaudits of
the public for great work already accomplished; in fact to reap reward
for the noble utterances attributed to them by the press.
But now with the pads of paper, the sharpened pencils, the businesslike
cuspidors at their feet, the ominous wastepaper baskets under their
hands, the commissioners faced the ghastly fact that the blot was still
on the face of civilization, untouched by their thunderbolts. And some
millions of people whose delegates were staring at them were waiting
excitedly for it to be removed.
It occurred as if for the first time to the commissioners that something
would have to be done about it. Their expressions underwent a change. A
pensiveness crept into their heavy faces. A bewilderment dulled the
dignity of their stares. The room was unbearably hot. It was impossible
to do any work in such a crowd. One could hardly hear oneself think
above the noise. The commissioners frowned and whispered among
themselves. Gradually a nervous jocularity came into their manner.
"Well, here we are. All set."
"Hm, I think we'd better call some witnesses."
"That's right. Call some witnesses. Where's Judge Basine?"
"Talking over there."
"Huh, why don't he do something?"
Yes, why didn't Judge Basine take charge of his flock. It was his
commission. The papers all said it was the Basine Commission. Then why
didn't he start something. Instead of gabbing around with reporters.
"Good God! What a heat! Hasn't the management provided any fans?"
"Where's a bellboy? We'll send him after some fans. Think a dozen'll be
enough?"
"Nothing doing. Three or four dozen at least. I'll wear out a dozen
myself before this day's over, believe me."
"Say, ain't that right!"
"Oh Judge ... Judge...."
"Yes, what is it, Senator?"
"What about the witnesses? Are we going to have any witnesses?"
"Of course. I'm just getting things ready."
"That's right. There's no rush. Open that window, won't you Jim?"
"God, what a mob. Well, we'd better do something, don't you think?"
"Leave it to Basine. Got a knife, Harry? This pencil's full of bum
lead."
The whisperings and delays continued. Basine, however, began to recover
himself. The eager, focussed eyes of the room were slowly electrifying
him. His gestures were becoming more dignified. His manner acquired a
definiteness.
The eyes regarding him saw a man with sharp features and an imperious
expression moving with what seemed significant deliberation, examining
papers, studying papers, opening papers, extracting papers, returning
papers. Instinctively they felt that here, centered in this cautiously
dynamic figure, was the celebrated Vice Investigation.
Basine arose, a gavel in his hand, and pounded the table. The noises
subsided as if a presence were being expelled from the room. The hush
served to illumine the figure of Basine. The eyes waited. His voice
arose, definite, impelling.
"Fellow Citizens, the Vice Investigating Commission appointed by the
State of Illinois to determine if possible the causes of immorality and
to remove, wherever possible, such causes, is now in session. The
purposes of this commission need no further explanation. We are
assembled here in the name of the people of this state to do all in our
power to grapple with the problem of vice and its many auxiliary
problems.
"This problem is today the outstanding menace to the welfare of our
community. Its dangers touch us all. The immoral man and the immoral
woman, the factors which contribute to their immorality, are our
responsibility. This is no sentimental outburst, no vague uprising but
an organized, official investigation with full powers to uncover facts.
We are not here to dabble in theories, but to deal with facts. And for
that purpose, and that purpose only, we are assembled under the laws of
our state and the constitution of our country. The first witness called
will be Mr. Arthur Core."
Applause thundered. Basine, flushed, sat down. The commissioners on each
side of him breathed with relief. Something had been started. To their
intense surprise Mr. Arthur Core actually arose from one of the witness
chairs and came forward. Mr. Core was head of the largest department
store in the city. Basine with an instinct in which he placed implicit
reliance had summoned him first, thus abandoning the plans the
commission had decided upon in star chamber. It had been decided upon to
save up the big guns for a climax. Basine's instinct warned him as he
stood on his feet talking, that a climax was necessary immediately--a
gesture which would at once reveal the power and fearlessness of the
commission.
Mr. Core was the medium for such a gesture. Venerated as one of the
wealthiest men of the city, the head of its most widely advertized and
magnificent retail establishment, to hail him before the commission and
belabor him with queries would be to capture the confidence of the
public forthwith.
As Mr. Core, accompanied by two lawyers and a secretary laden with
ledgers, advanced toward the table a sudden misgiving struck Basine. How
much would the newspapers dare print about Mr. Core, particularly if the
cross examination placed him and his establishment in an unfavorable
light? Mr. Core meant upwards of $3,000,000 a year in advertising
revenue. Perhaps he had made a mistake in calling him. The press would
turn and fly from the commission as from a plague. There would be no
headlines and the public would fall away.
Basine stood up as Mr. Core approached. He was a smartly dressed man
with a cream-colored handkerchief protruding against a smoothly pressed
blue coat; an affable, reserved face that reminded Basine of Milton Ware
and the Michigan Avenue Club. Poise, suavity, courtesy exuded from Mr.
Core.
"How do you do, Judge," he said with a bow, "and Gentlemen of the
Commission."
Basine extended his hand and promptly regretted the action. He had
caught the emotion of the crowd. He realized that his instinct had not
betrayed him.
Mr. Core was one of the most venerated citizens in the community,
venerated for his power, his success and his aloofness from his
venerators. The summoning of Mr. Core to take his place and be
cross-examined by the Commission had sent a thrill through the crowd.
They felt the elation of a pack of beagle dogs with a magnificent stag
brought to earth under their little jaws.
Mr. Core was rich, powerful, brilliant. But they, the people, were
greater than he. There he stood obedient to their delegated spokesman,
the fearless Basine, and gratitude filled them as they noted Basine was
a head taller than the great Mr. Core, and that the great Basine was not
at all confused by the presence of this famed personage.
Basine as he felt the emotion of the crowd knew simultaneously that the
newspapers, caught between their two vital functions--that of insuring
their revenue by respectful treatment of its source, the advertising
plutocracy,--and of insuring their popularity by the fearless advocacy
of any current crowd hysteria, must follow the less dangerous course.
And the less dangerous course now, as always, was with the beagle dogs
who had brought a stag to earth.
After the handshake Basine looked severely about him. He was pleased to
observe that his colleagues were non-existent. They sat coughing,
sharpening pencils and gazing with vacuous aplomb at objects about them.
He smiled with inward contempt. Little puppets under his hands. And the
crowd before him--a smear of little puppets. Even the all-powerful
newspapers, even the mighty Mr. Arthur Core--he could manipulate them
because there was something in him that was not in other people. A sense
of drama, perhaps. But more than that, an understanding--a vision that
enabled him to see clearly over the heads of people into the future. He
could tell in advance which way people were going to turn and he could
hurry forward and be there waiting for them--a leader waiting for them
when they caught up.
A curious question slipped into his mind. "Why am I like that?" And then
another question, "Why am I able to do things?"
The questions pleased him and as he followed Mr. Core into his chair he
knew that the crowd had noticed that Judge Basine was a man unimpressed
by the greatness of Mr. Core, that the eyes focussed on him had thrilled
with the knowledge that he, Basine, was dressed as well as Mr. Core and
that his own dignity and sternness were more impressive than the poise
of Mr. Core. The great Mr. Core was second fiddle in the show. Basine
was first fiddle and the crowd was thrilled by that. Because Basine was
their man, their leader. And Mr. Core, venerated to this moment, was now
their enemy. Basine was a man in whom the dignity of the people shone
out more powerfully than the prestige of any enviable individual. These
things whirled through Basine's thought as he turned to the witness.
"Mr. Stenographer," he announced, "you will please make accurate
transcription of all questions and answers that follow."
A naive pride filled the attentive commissioners. The Investigation was
after all a success. Regardless of what happened the mere fact that
Arthur Core was to be interrogated on the subject of immorality among
working girls, constituted an overwhelming success. The conviction which
now delighted them was shared by the thousands in the room and by the
newspaper men scribbling at an adjoining table. All present felt certain
that so dramatic a situation as the cross-examination of Mr. Arthur Core
by the chairman of the Vice Investigating Commission was bound to result
somehow in the instant removal of the blot from the face of
civilization. Basine, clearing his throat, began the questioning.
"Your name?"
"Arthur Core."
"Your position?"
"President of Core-Plain and Company."
"That is the retail merchandise establishment in this city?"
"It is."
A full five minutes was consumed in the exchange of profound
introductions. This concluded, Mr. Core was informed what the purposes
of the Vice Investigation Commission were. The information failed to
impress him. Whereupon he was informed that he, as an employer of
thousands of girls, had been called to throw light on a vital question.
First, what wages did his employes' receive. Mr. Core, raising his
eyebrows and looking aggrieved as if he had been asked a very crude and
tactless question, replied that the average wage was $10 a week for the
young women in his employ.
Did he think a young woman could keep virtuous on $10 a week? Alas, he
had never given that phase of the economic system any thought. But if
his opinion as an individual was worth anything, he would offer the
philosophical observation that wages had nothing to do with immorality.
A cynical observation. The crowd frowned. It didn't, eh? Lot he knew
about it. And on what did he base this cold-blooded point of view? Well,
on nothing in particular except his common sense. Indeed! His common
sense! Well, well. So he thought that a normal young woman could live on
$10 a week, feed, clothe and house herself on $10 a week and never feel
tempted to earn more money by sacrificing her virtue? Alas, he had not
thought of it in that way. He had merely thought that good young women
were good and bad young women were bad. And wages had nothing to do with
it. It was human nature. What! Human nature to be bad! Mr. Arthur Core
was inclined to a cynicism which, fortunately, the great minds of the
nation did not share. Had he ever sought to determine how many good
girls there were in his employ? No, but he presumed they were all good.
If they weren't he was sorry for them, but it was their own fault.
Thus the see-saw continued while the room grew hotter, while people
packed against each other listened with distended eyes and opened
mouths. Thus the commissioners, recovering from their panic, began to
frown with importances. And Basine, still following the instinct in
him--the sense of contact he felt with the crowd and situation, played
another trump card. The afternoon newspapers were blazoning the news of
Mr. Arthur Core. The morning papers would need an equally dramatic
morsel. Basine adjourned the session to reconvene at 3 o'clock. The
crowd remained. The heat increased. The session reconvened. It was
businesslike now. It was running like a machine. No more delays and
indecisions.
"Call Miss Winona Johnson."
Basine sat amid heaps of documents, ledgers and commissioners, in
charge. It was he who asked the questions, whose face was the
battle-front of the People versus Vice.
Your name? Winona Johnson. Your occupation? A pause. And then in a
lowered voice, a prostitute. What was that?--from Mr. Stenographer. A
prostitute, from Basine clearly and indignantly. Sensation. She was a
prostitute, this yellow-haired, gaudy creature in the witness chair. She
had her nerve. How long have you been a prostitute, Winona Johnson?
Well, two years, I guess. She guessed. As if she didn't know. And before
that what were you? She was a clerk. Where were you employed as a clerk,
Winona? Where? Oh, I worked for Core-Plain and Company. There it
was--the sort of thing that made climaxes. A new lead for the morning
papers--a new thrill for the tired breakfasters. "Tells Tragic Story of
Moral Downfall." And then in smaller headlines, "Former State Street
Clerk Uncovers Snares, Pitfalls of City." And then photographs;
comparisons between Mr. Core's statements and Miss Johnson's statements.
Mr. Core's picture and Miss Johnson's picture side by side so that one
might almost think, unless one read carefully (and who did that?) that
the venerated Mr. Arthur Core had been exposed by the all powerful
Basine Commission as the seducer of the pathetic Miss Winona Johnson.
Through the weltering afternoon the great investigation progressed,
Basine, unaided, carrying the fight. A Champion, an Undaunted One, his
voice growing hoarse, his eyes flashing tirelessly, his questions never
failing; incisive, compelling questions that seemed for all the world as
if they were slowly, tenaciously coming to grips with the Devil.
A great day for the commonwealth of Illinois. A day surfeited with
climaxes. Winona Johnson wept and the courteous voice of Basine pressed
for facts. Here was a mine of facts, here a witness who could reveal
something.... And she did....
That will be all, thank you, from Basine. Winona arose. Eyes devoured
her. A terrible curiosity played over her face and body. Civilization
had been stunned. Everyone knew, of course, that prostitutes sold
themselves to men. But to so many!!! Horrible! A revelation to make
thinking men think, thinking women, too.
If there had been any doubt in the public mind concerning the sincerity
of the Commission, this day had removed it. Two welfare workers and a
second department store owner concluded the bill. The newspapers spread
the questions and answers through the city. A determined light came
into the eyes of the millions who read. The commonwealth was at
grips with evil. Facts had been exhumed in a single session that were
intolerable to a civilized community. A hue and cry would be raised.
Things would be done. The millions reading felt this. Something would
have to be done. Resolutions would be passed. Thunderbolts would be
hurled by civic bodies, lodges, clubs. The thing called for action,
action and more action. But wait and see what the morning papers would
have to say. There would be remedies in the morning papers. Things would
be done overnight by the morning papers to put an end to this
iniquity--prostitution!!!! And there could be no question but that
underpaid workers were driven to lives of shame. And the dance halls,
they hadn't gotten around to them yet. And factories and hotels--wait
till it came their turn. They would all be grilled, quizzed, flayed.
Basine made his way slowly through the throng. Tomorrow's session would
begin at eleven o'clock. He was tired. The work had exhausted him. But
his head felt clear. Without raising his eyes he understood the
admiration of the crowds through which he was moving. They were
repeating his name among themselves saying, there he goes ... that's
him.... He had understood things in this manner all day, without giving
them words.
He felt at peace. He had gone through a test. Now he knew he was a
leader. The thing of which he had been afraid had turned out to be easy.
He smiled, remembering his colleagues. Simple, blundering men who had
floundered around trying to horn in. But this wasn't the private banks
crusade, not by a long shot. Ah, that was playing a long shot--calling
Core like that. But it had worked. Newsies were yelling around him.
Extra--all about! About Basine, of course. About him. Yes, there was
leadership in him. He was a man who could sweep people along with him.
The crowds were going home. All these people belonged to him.
Constituents. He smiled pleasantly at the hurrying figures. It was hot
and they were perspiring. Their eyes were filmed with preoccupations.
But what would happen if they were told suddenly that Judge Basine was
passing them, rubbing shoulders with them? Their eyes would brighten.
They would forget about the things that were worrying them. They would
look up and smile. Perhaps cheer.
Day dreams lifted his thought out of the present. This thing was only a
beginning. He would go on. There was a kinship in him with people. The
memory of the day lay like a love in his heart. He was still young.
Years ahead of him and he would end--where? High up.
He looked around and noticed he was walking toward Doris' studio. Odd,
he hadn't been aware where he was going. But he might as well. He
frowned. She would ridicule what had happened. Well, that was all right.
Her hatred of such things couldn't wipe out what was in his heart now.
He became practical. Think of tomorrow's session. But why? The details
were annoying. He had had enough details for one day. He would take care
of things when the proper time came. This was a sort of reward, to walk
and dream. As for the blot on the face of civilization, yes that would
all be taken care of at the proper time. But the important thing, the
most important thing was Basine--high up.
21
Schroder looked at his watch. Late, perhaps she wouldn't come.
Intellectual women were always the most uncertain. It was twilight.
Summer bloomed incongruously in the small city park.
"She probably didn't mean it, anyway," he thought.
Ruth appeared walking calmly down the broad pavement. He watched her.
She had come, but the business was still uncertain. Amorous affairs
were one thing. Seduction was another. He liked her, of course. But what
if she had notions about things? Love, fidelity, virtue, marriage,
decency. Oh well, he could always step away and say good-bye, I'm sorry.
"Hello," he said aloud. "You're late."
"I wasn't coming."
"I didn't think so, either."
She was one of the kind who made a pretense of frankness. If you let her
she would talk about sex till the cows came home, as if it were a
problem in algebra. He knew the kind. Full of theories....
"Where shall we go, Paul?"
"Let's sit here a while. How's his Honor."
"I don't know. I resigned last week."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, after the Commission adjourned for the summer."
The memory of the commission made him smile.
"Goofy," he said.