Boston a novel
themselves to make peace with Germany, an act of treason to democracy
and liberty? Did they not make matters worse by ransacking the archives
of the tsar, and publishing the secret treaties whereby the allies had
agreed to divide large sections of the earth, without any democracy or
liberty for the inhabitants thereof? There is a story of a Kentucky
colonel who was asked why he had knocked a certain man down. “Did he
call you a liar?” “Worse than that, he proved it.”
With one exception the American newspapers ignored these treaties,
and to Cornelia and the pacifists that seemed treason to the national
welfare. But what could the pacifists do? For any group to circulate
them meant to have offices raided and property destroyed; for
individuals to agitate them meant to be mobbed, to be jailed and held
“incommunicado,” tarred and feathered, beaten with blacksnake whips, in
a few cases strung up to telegraph-poles.
Nor was it protection that you lived within sight of Bunker Hill
monument and “Funnel” Hall. The grandsons of that “broadcloth mob”
that had dragged William Lloyd Garrison through the streets with
a rope about his waist were now out to preserve their French and
British bonds. Nor was it any longer of avail that your city had an
Irish-Catholic vote; the Catholic church was one of the property
interests which had rallied against “Bolshevism.” City policemen,
federal secret agents, and an army of spies and informers in the pay of
wealthy patriots, would break into offices and homes at any hour of the
day or night, and spirit people away and hold them for as long as they
saw fit; in short they would commit all the crimes they were trying to
prevent, and destroy beyond repair the Constitution they professed to
worship.
X
Into this valley of midnight shadow walked Cornelia Thornwell and her
grand-daughter, clasping each other’s trembling hands. They were in no
personal danger, as it turned out; the patrioteers would seldom trouble
rich people, especially those who had “family” behind them. Seen from
the outside this “white terror” appeared a mad frenzy, and it was hard
at first to understand that there were cunning brains guiding it, that
mob-outbreaks were planned by shrewd gentlemen in swivel-chairs. These
gentlemen would be glad to scare the widow of Governor Thornwell and
make her shut up; but failing in that they would not advertise her
treason by arresting her. The reason was that the decision rested with
Henry Cabot Winters and Rupert Alvin, who were contributing large sums
to the defense societies, and sat in at the councils where lists were
gone over and policies determined.
No, what would happen to Cornelia was that her janitress would be
instructed to preserve the contents of her trash-basket every night;
and one of her old-time friends of the Sewing Circle would turn up and
announce herself as a convert to pacifism, and join all the societies
to which Cornelia belonged, and go to meetings with her, and get on
the executive committees, and turn in a detailed report of everything
that went on there, with lists of the members and subscribers, and
manuscript copies of what was being considered for publication.
Included in this mass of information appeared the fact that Mrs. Josiah
Quincy Thornwell was in touch with Italian anarchists of Plymouth, and
exchanged letters with one of the group, a draft-dodger--though so far
there was no evidence that she had helped him to get away. He wrote
to her under the code name of “Nonna,” and a letter she had received
from him, entered in the secret service files under the index number of
1842T36, read as follows:
“Dear Nonna:
“It will be great rivilation for you to see the coming of my
prophecy, the real rivoluzion prevail in Russia. This is greatest
event of history and is to be recognize for beginning of epoch.
It is first opportunity for liberty for worker and peasant of
world. It is hope which can be very brief to endure, and will
depend entirely what shall happen in other country. If will come
rivoluzion in Germany, Austria, Italia, France, England, then will
be possible for building worker society without exploitation; but
if is impossible for achievement rivoluzion in other country, is
little hope for freedom for Russia, and you will see ending of
worker’s control. When Russia must defend self in war, it will
be militarismo, and is impossible for liberty with militarismo.
It will then become Russia government of force like all other
gouvernment, and rivoluzion will be perished. Whatever you can do
for rivoluzion of American worker, that is only way for assistance
of proletarian power in Russia. In Mexico is not much activity, for
lack of language speaking, so Nick and me will make secret return
for propaganda. With sincere esteem and fraternal greetings, Your
friend, Bartolomeo Vanzetti.”
XI
It was in the spring of 1918, with the last German drive in France
under way, that this stolen letter was placed in the hands of Rupert
Alvin. It caused great mental disturbance in a loyal citizen, and
he came to the apartment and, standing in the middle of the floor,
announced that Cornelia stood in great danger of a term in state’s
prison for persistent and contumacious disloyalty; also that Betty
would bundle up her things and accompany her father to his car
immediately. Whereupon occurred one of those scenes which are so
essentially un-Boston that all Bostonians deny they ever happen.
Perhaps they would not have happened, had not old Josiah married
a bog-trotter’s grand-daughter, and thus introduced an element of
hysterics into the family.
Betty declared that she would not, could not desert her Grannie. The
more sternly she was commanded to obey her father, the louder she
wept and the tighter she clung; even when Grannie herself advised
her gently to go, she relaxed her grip no particle, but sobbed, how
could they demand such a thing of her? The greater the peril in which
Grannie stood, the less possibility that she, Betty, would desert her!
So it appeared that Rupert had overspoken himself, and he hemmed and
hawed and admitted that the danger of arrest and imprisonment was not
immediate, his influence had been able to avert the calamity; whereupon
Betty said that if that was the case, what was the reason for her
going? And what can a man do in the face of logic like that?
What Rupert did was worthy of his Puritan ancestors, and proved
that the old stock was still sound. He adjudged his daughter guilty
of domestic sedition, and pulled out his watch and gave her three
minutes in which to capitulate; at the end of that time he would go
home and write a will in which she would have no share, and would be
forever forbidden entrance to his home. For three minutes he held the
watch, and Betty clung to her grandmother with such frenzy that not a
finger could be pulled loose. Rupert snapped to the watch--it was the
old-fashioned kind with a gold case and a lid on a hinge--and stalked
out of the room without a word. And Betty wept for an hour or two,
fully convinced that her father meant every one of those cruel words,
and that she was forever an outcast.
Until the doorbell rang again, and there came Deborah, and behind her,
silent and somewhat sheepish, the ponderous and impressive president of
the Pilgrim National Bank. From which it appeared that the old stock
was degenerating in spots! Rupert could rule a board of directors with
an iron rod, but he could not rule the tongue or spirit of his wife.
She declared that he would not do the cruel thing he had threatened;
his sense of patriotic loyalty had caused him to forget the love they
all bore for one another. What Deborah would do was to throw herself
upon the mercy of her mother and her child, and implore them to spare
the family the horror of having either go to jail. So, of course,
there was more weeping--still that Irish blood. Betty cried, what was
the use of trying to talk about it, when they didn’t know what they
were supposed to have done? How could they promise not to do it, until
they knew what? So Rupert had to give hints which nearly betrayed the
secret; he told them they were known to be consorting with anarchists
and draft-dodgers.
So it was a question of their giving up Vanzetti! But they did not
agree with Vanzetti’s ideas, and Vanzetti knew they did not, they had
tried to argue with him, to persuade him to a more American point
of view! Was that treason? Were they forbidden to try to reform the
anarchists, or even to know what anarchists thought? If so, who was to
answer their arguments? Rupert snapped out that the way to answer such
dogs was to string them up to lamp-posts; and then, of course, the fat
was in the fire. What was the use of a Constitution if it didn’t work
in war-time? What was the use of free speech if it applied only to
the things you wanted said? If public questions were to be settled by
stringing people up to lamp-posts, who was to be strung, and who was
to string--how could you decide? Betty cried, and Cornelia cried, and
Deborah cried. Ideas are extremely trying things, devastating in their
effect upon the female nervous organism; there is something to be said
for the point of view of the Clara Scatterbridges, who have nothing to
do with ideas, but stay at home and have eight babies.
Betty and Cornelia laid down their joint program. They had never
advocated violence and never would; but neither would they support
a war. They would advocate the ending of this present war upon terms
of justice to all parties, which included the rights of those peoples
whose lands were going to be handed over as spoils of battle. If it
had become a crime in America to advocate such ideas, then there would
be an old Thornwell lady and a young one in prison. Rupert and Deborah
took their departure, as solemn as if it were an execution they had
attended; and five minutes after they left, the doorbell rang again,
and there stood a humble Italian laborer, wearing a worn suit of
clothes two sizes too big for him, and droopy walrus mustaches equally
out of proportion. That very anarchist draft-dodger who had been the
cause of the family scene!
XII
He stood embarrassed. “I not know if should come--”
“Of course you should come!” and they drew him in.
“Could make trooble for ladies.”
“We are not afraid of trouble,” said Cornelia; and Betty chimed in,
“You are a sight for sore eyes!”--that was the way the new generation
was learning to talk, in spite of Radcliffe.
Vanzetti’s face lighted up--so glad he was to see them, so pathetically
eager for friendship. He was haggard from his wanderings, more somber
than ever with the pressure of the war upon his spirit. His age at this
time was thirty years, but unconsciously Betty took him for old enough
to be her father, while Cornelia took him for her equal. At the same
time he was a little of the child to them--the way of every woman with
a poet and a dreamer, who cannot get himself adjusted to a harsh world.
He had been a wanderer for a year, and had not liked it. He was going
to make propaganda, and take whatever came to him; going back to
Plymouth, to live near the Brinis--not in his old room, because the
children were growing up and would need it. One could not be sure,
but he thought he would not be arrested; the government had plenty of
soldiers, but needed laborers for war construction.
They discussed the world situation. The propaganda for intervention
to put down the Russian revolution was on the point of success. A
shameful thing, said Cornelia. But to her surprise she found that
Bart had already given up interest in Russia; the revolution there
was lost, he said. “Is joost like I write, Nonna--is militarismo,