§ 36
"Well," said McGivney one day, "I've got something interesting for
you now. You're going into high society for a while!"
And the rat-faced man explained that there was a young man in a
neighboring city, reputed to be a multi-millionaire, who had written a
book against the war, and was the financial source of much pacificism
and sedition. "These people are spending lots of money for printing,"
said McGivney, "and we hear this fellow Lackman is putting it up. We've
learned that he is to be in town tomorrow, and we want you to find out
all about his affairs."
So Peter was to meet a millionaire! Peter had never known one of
these fortunate beings, but he was for them — he had always been for
them. Ever since he had learned to read, he had liked to find stories
about them in the newspapers, with pictures of them and their palaces.
He had read these stories as a child reads fairy tales. They were his
creatures of dreams, belonging to a world above reality, above pain and
inconvenience.
And then in the days when Peter had been a servant in
the Temple of Jimjambo, devoted to the cult of Eleutherinian
Exoticism, he had found hanging in the main assembly
room a picture labelled, "Mount Olympus," showing
a dozen gods and goddesses reclining at ease on silken couches, sipping
nectar from golden goblets and gazing down upon the far-off troubles of
the world. Peter would peer from behind the curtains and see the Chief
Magistrian emerging from behind the seven mystic veils, lifting his
rolling voice and in a kind of chant expounding life to his flock of
adoring society ladies. He would point to the picture and explain those
golden, Olympian days when the Eleutherinian cult had originated. The
world had changed much since then, and for the worse; those who had
power must take it as their task to restore beauty and splendor to the
world, and to develop the gracious possibilities of being.
Peter, of course, hadn't really believed in anything that went on
in the Temple of Jimjambo; and yet he had been awed by its richness, and
by the undoubtedly exclusive character of its worshippers; he had got
the idea definitely fixed in his head that there really had been a Mount
Olympus, and when he tried to imagine the millionaires and their ways,
it was these gods and goddesses, reclining on silken couches and sipping
nectar, that came to his mind!
Now since Peter had come to know the Reds, who wanted to blow up
the palaces of the millionaires, he was more than ever on the side of
his gods and goddesses. His fervors for them increased every time he
heard them assailed; he wanted to meet some of them, and passionately,
yet respectfully, pour out to them his allegiance. A glow of
satisfaction came over him as he pictured himself in some palace,
lounging upon a silken conch and explaining to a millionaire his
understanding of the value of beauty and splendor in the world.
And now he was to meet one; it was to be a part of his
job to cultivate one! True, there was something wrong with this
particular millionaire — he was one of those freaks who for some reason
beyond imagining gave their sympathy to the dynamiters and assassins.
Peter had met "Parlor Reds" at the home of the Todd sisters; the large
shining ladies who came in large shining cars to hear him tell of his
jail experiences. But he hadn't been sure as to whether they were really
millionaires or not, and Sadie, when he had inquired particularly, had
answered vaguely that every one in the radical movement who could afford
an automobile or a dress-suit was called a millionaire by the
newspapers.
But young Lackman was a real millionaire, McGivney positively
assured him; and so Peter was free to admire him in spite of all his
freak ideas, which the rat-faced man explained with intense amusement.
Young Lackman conducted a school for boys, and when one of the boys did
wrong, the teacher would punish himself instead of the boy! Peter must
pretend to be interested in this kind of "education," said McGivney, and
he must learn at least the names of Lackman's books.
"But will he pay any attention to me?" demanded Peter.
"Sure, he will," said McGivney. "That's the point — you've been in
jail, you've really done something as a pacifist. What you want to do is
to try to interest him in your Anti-conscription League. Tell him you
want to make it into a national organization, you want to get something
done besides talking."
The address of young Lackman was the Hotel de Soto;
and as he heard this, Peter's heart gave a leap. The Hotel
de Soto was the Mount Olympus of American City! Peter
had walked by the vast white structure, and seen the bronze
doors swing outward, and the favored ones of the earth
emerging to their magic chariots; but never had it occurred
to him that he might pass thru those bronze doors, and
gaze upon those hidden mysteries!
"Will they let me in?" he asked McGivney, and the other
laughed. "Just walk in as if you owned the place," he said.
"Hold up your head, and pretend you've lived there all
your life."
That was easy for McGivney to say, but not so easy for Peter to
imagine. However, he would try it; McGivney must be right, for it was
the same thing Mrs. James had impressed upon him many times. You must
watch what other people did, and practice by yourself, and then go in
and do it as if you had never done anything else. All life was a
gigantic bluff, and you encouraged yourself in your bluffing by the
certainty that everybody else was bluffing just as hard.
At seven o'clock that evening Peter strolled up to the magic
bronze doors, and touched them; and sure enough, the blue-uniformed
guardians drew them back without a word, and the tiny brass-button imps
never even glanced at Peter as he strode up to the desk and asked for
Mr. Lackman.
The haughty clerk passed him on to a still more haughty telephone
operator, who condescended to speak into her trumpet, and then informed
him that Mr. Lackman was out; he had left word that he would return at
eight. Peter was about to go out and wander about the streets for an
hour, when he suddenly remembered that everybody else was bluffing; so
he marched across the lobby and seated himself in one of the huge
leather arm-chairs, big enough
to hold three of him. There he sat, and continued to sit — and nobody
said a word!
