Chambers Robert William
The Crimson Tide: A Novel

CHAPTER XI

When Shotwell arrived, dinner had already been announced, and Palla and Ilse Westgard were in the unfurnished drawing-room, the former on a step-ladder, the latter holding that collapsible machine with one hand and Palla’s ankle with the other.

Palla waved a tape-measure in airy salute: “I’m trying to find out how many yards it takes for my curtains,” she explained. But she climbed down and gave him her hand; and they went immediately into the dining-room.

“What’s all this nonsense about the Red Flag Club?” he inquired, when they were seated. “Do you and Ilse really propose going to that dirty anarchist joint?”

“How do you know it’s dirty?” demanded Palla, “–or do you mean it’s only morally dingy?”

Both she and Ilse appeared to be in unusually lively spirits, and they poked fun at him when he objected to their attending the meeting in question.

“Very well,” he said, “but there may be a free fight. There was a row on Fifth Avenue this evening, where some of those rats were parading with red flags.”

Palla laughed and cast a demure glance at Ilse.

“What is there to laugh at?” demanded Jim. “There was a small riot on Fifth Avenue! I met several men at the club who witnessed it.”

The sea-blue eyes of Ilse were full of mischief. He was aware of Palla’s subtle exhilaration, too.

“Why hunt for a free fight?” he asked.

“Why avoid one if it’s free?” retorted Ilse, gaily.

They all laughed.

“Is that your idea of liberty?” he asked Palla.

“What is all human progress but a free fight?” she retorted. “Of course,” she added, “Ilse means an intellectual battle. If they misbehave otherwise, I shall flee.”

“I don’t see why you want to go to hear a lot of Reds talk bosh,” he remarked. “It isn’t like you, Palla.”

“It is like me. You see you don’t really know me, Jim,” she added with smiling malice.

“The main thing,” said Ilse, “is for one to be one’s self. Palla and I are social revolutionists. Revolutionists revolt. A revolt is a row. There can be no row unless people fight.”

He smiled at their irresponsible gaiety, a little puzzled by it and a little uneasy.

“All right,” he said, as coffee was served; “but it’s just as well that I’m going with you.”

The ex-girl-soldier gave him an amused glance, lighted a cigarette, glanced at her wrist-watch, then rose lightly to her graceful, athletic height, saying that they ought to start.

So they went away to pin on their hats, and Jim called a taxi.

The hall was well filled when they arrived. There was a rostrum, on which two wooden benches faced a table and a chair in the centre. On the table stood a pitcher of drinking water, a soiled glass, and a jug full of red carnations.

A dozen men and women occupied the two benches. At the table a man sat writing. He held a lighted cigar in one hand; a red silk handkerchief trailed from his coat pocket.

As Ilse and Palla seated themselves on an empty bench and Shotwell found a place beside them, somebody on the next bench beyond leaned over and bade them good evening in a low voice.

“Mr. Brisson!” exclaimed Palla, giving him her hand in unfeigned pleasure.

Brisson shook hands, also, with Ilse, cordially, and then was introduced to Jim.

“What are you doing here?” he inquired humorously of Palla. “And, by the way,”–dropping his voice–“these Reds don’t exactly love me, so don’t use my name.”

Palla nodded and whispered to Jim: “He secured all that damning evidence at the Smolny for our Government.”

Brisson and Ilse were engaged in low-voiced conversation: Palla ventured to look about her.

The character of the gathering was foreign. There were few American features among the faces, but those few were immeasurably superior in type–here and there the intellectual, spectacled visage of some educated visionary, lured into the red tide and left there drifting;–here and there some pale girl, carelessly dressed, seated with folded hands, and intense gaze fixed on space.

But the majority of these people, men and women, were foreign in aspect–round, bushy heads with no backs to them were everywhere; muddy skins, unhealthy skins, loose mouths, shifty eyes!–everywhere around her Palla saw the stigma of degeneracy.

She said in a low voice to Jim: “These poor things need to be properly housed and fed before they’re taught. Education doesn’t interest empty stomachs. And when they’re given only poison to stop the pangs–what does civilisation expect?”

He said: “They’re a lot of bums. The only education they require is with a night-stick.”

“That’s cruel, Jim.”

“It’s law.”

“One of your laws which does not appeal to me,” she remarked, turning to Brisson, who was leaning over to speak to her.

“There are half a dozen plain-clothes men in the audience,” he said. “There are Government detectives here, too. I rather expect they’ll stop the proceedings before the programme calls for it.”

Jim turned to look back. A file of policemen entered and carelessly took up posts in the rear of the hall. Hundreds of flat-backed heads turned, too; hundreds of faces darkened; a low muttering arose from the benches.

Then the man at the table on the rostrum got up abruptly, and pulled out his red handkerchief as though to wipe his face.

At the sudden flourish of the red fabric, a burst of applause came from the benches. Orator and audience were en rapport; the former continued to wave the handkerchief, under pretence of swabbing his features, but the intention was so evident and the applause so enlightening that a police officer came part way down the aisle and held up a gilded sleeve.

“Hey!” he called in a bored voice, “Cut that out! See!”

“That man on the platform is Max Sondheim,” whispered Brisson. “He’ll skate on thin ice before he’s through.”

Sondheim had already begun to speak, ignoring the interruption from the police:

“The Mayor has got cold feet,” he said with a sneer. “He gave us a permit to parade, but when the soldiers attacked us his police clubbed us. That’s the kind of government we got.”

“Shame!” cried a white-faced girl in the audience.

“Shame?” repeated Sondheim ironically. “What’s shame to a cop? They got theirs all the same–”

“That’s enough!” shouted the police captain sharply. “Any more of that and I’ll run you in!”

Sondheim’s red-rimmed eyes measured the officer in silence for a moment.

“I have the privilege,” he said to his audience, “of introducing to you our comrade, Professor Le Vey.”

“Le Vey,” whispered Brisson in Palla’s ear. “He’s a crack-brained chemist, and they ought to nab him.”

The professor rose from one of the benches on the rostrum and came forward–a tall, black-bearded man, deathly pale, whose protruding, bluish eyes seemed almost stupid in their fixity.

“Words are by-products,” he said, “and of minor importance. Deeds educate. T. N. T., also, is a byproduct, and of no use in conversation unless employed as an argument–” A roar of applause drowned his voice: he gazed at the audience out of his stupid pop-eyes.

“Tyranny has kicked you into the gutter,” he went on. “Capital makes laws to keep you there and hires police and soldiers to enforce those laws. This is called civilisation. Is there anything for you to do except to pick yourselves out of the gutter and destroy what kicked you into it and what keeps you there?”

“No!” roared the audience.

“Only a clean sweep will do it,” said Le Vey. “If you have a single germ of plague in the world, it will multiply. If you leave a single trace of what is called civilisation in the world, it will hatch out more tyrants, more capitalists, more laws. So there is only one remedy. Destruction. Total annihilation. Nothing less can purify this rotten hell they call the world!”

Amid storms of applause he unrolled a manuscript and read without emphasis:

“Therefore, the Workers of the World, in council assembled, hereby proclaim at midnight to-night, throughout the entire world:

“1. That all debts, public and private, are cancelled.

“2. That all leases, contracts, indentures and similar instruments, products of capitalism, are null and void.

“3. All statutes, ordinances and other enactments of capitalist government are repealed.

“4. All public offices are declared vacant.

“5. The military and naval organisations will immediately dissolve and reorganise themselves upon a democratic basis for speedy mobilisation.

“6. All working classes and political prisoners will be immediately freed and all indictments quashed.

“7. All vacant and unused land shall immediately revert to the people and remain common property until suitable regulations for its disposition can be made.

“8. All telephones, telegraphs, cables, railroads, steamship lines and other means of communication and transportation shall be immediately taken over by the workers and treated henceforth as the property of the people.

“9. As speedily as possible the workers in the various industries will proceed to take over these industries and organise them in the spirit of the new epoch now beginning.

“10. The flag of the new society shall be plain red, marking our unity and brotherhood with similar republics in Russia, Germany, Austria and elsewhere–”

“That’ll be about all from you, Professor,” interrupted the police captain, strolling down to the platform. “Come on, now. Kiss your friends good-night!”

A sullen roar rose from the audience; Le Vey lifted one hand:

“I told you how to argue,” he said in his emotionless voice. “Anybody can talk with their mouths.” And he turned on his heel and went back to his seat on the bench.

Sondheim stood up:

“Comrade Bromberg!” he shouted.

A small, shabby man arose from a bench and shambled forward. His hair grew so low that it left him practically no forehead. Whiskers blotted out the remainder of his features except two small and very bright eyes that snapped and sparkled, imbedded in the hairy ensemble.

“Comrades,” he growled, “it has come to a moment when the only law worth obeying is the law of force!–”

“You bet!” remarked the police captain, genially, and, turning his back, he walked away up the aisle toward the rear of the hall, while all around him from the audience came a savage muttering.

Bromberg’s growling voice grew harsher and deeper as he resumed: “I tell you that there is only one law left for proletariat and tyrant alike! It is the law of force!”

As the audience applauded fiercely, a man near them stood up and shouted for a hearing.

“Comrade Bromberg is right!” he cried, waving his arms excitedly. “There is only one real law in the world! The fit survive! The unfit die! The strong take what they desire! The weak perish. That is the law of life! That is the–”

An amazing interruption checked him–a clear, crystalline peal of laughter; and the astounded audience saw a tall, fresh, yellow-haired girl standing up midway down the hall. It was Ilse Westgard, unable to endure such nonsense, and quite regardless of Brisson’s detaining hand and Shotwell’s startled remonstrance.

“What that man says is absurd!” she cried, her fresh young voice still gay with laughter. “He looks like a Prussian, and if he is he ought to know where the law of force has landed his nation.”

In the ominous silence around her, Ilse turned and gaily surveyed the audience.

“The law of force is the law of robbers,” she said. “That is why this war has been fought–to educate robbers. And if there remain any robbers they’ll have to be educated. Don’t let anybody tell you that the law of force is the law of life!–”

“Who are you?” interrupted Bromberg hoarsely.

“An ex-soldier of the Death Battalion, comrade,” said Ilse cheerfully. “I used a rifle in behalf of the law of education. Sometimes bayonets educate, sometimes machine guns. But the sensible way is to have a meeting, and everybody drink tea and smoke cigarettes and discuss their troubles without reserve, and then take a vote as to what is best for everybody concerned.”

And she seated herself with a smile just as the inevitable uproar began.

All around her now men and women were shouting at her; inflamed faces ringed her; gesticulating fists waved in the air.

“What are you–a spy for Kerensky?” yelled a man in Russian.

“The bourgeoisie has its agents here!” bawled a red-haired Jew. “I offer a solemn protest–”

“Agent provocateur!” cried many voices. “Pay no attention to her! Go on with the debate!”

An I. W. W.–a thin, mean-faced American–half arose and pointed an unwashed finger at Ilse.

“A Government spy,” he said distinctly. “Keep your eye on her, comrades. There seems to be a bunch of them there–”

“Sit down and shut up!” said Shotwell, sharply. “Do you want to start a riot?”

“You bet I’ll start something!” retorted the man, showing his teeth like a rat. “What the hell did you come here for–”

“Silence!” bawled Bromberg, hoarsely, from the platform. “That woman is recognised and known. Pay no attention to her, but listen to me. I tell you that your law is the law of hatred!–”

Palla attempted to rise. Jim tried to restrain her: she pushed his arm aside, but he managed to retain his grasp on her arm.

“Are you crazy?” he whispered.

“That man lies!” she said excitedly. “Don’t you hear him preaching hatred?”

“Well, it’s not your business–”

“It is! That man is lying to these ignorant people! He’s telling them a vile untruth! Let me go, Jim–”

“Better keep cool,” whispered Brisson, leaning over. “We’re all in dutch already.”

Palla said to him excitedly: “I’m afraid to stand up and speak, but I’m going to! I’d be a coward to sit here and let that man deceive these poor people–”

“Listen to Bromberg!” motioned Ilse, her blue eyes frosty and her cheeks deeply flushed.

The orator had come down into the aisle. Every venomous word he was uttering now he directed straight at the quartette.

“Russia is showing us the way,” he said in his growling voice. “Russia makes no distinctions but takes them all by the throat and wrings their necks–aristocrats, bourgeoisie, cadets, officers, land owners, intellectuals–all the vermin, all the parasites! And that is the law, I tell you! The unfit perish! The strong inherit the earth!–”

Palla sprang to her feet: “Liar!” she said hotly. “Did not Christ Himself tell us that the meek shall inherit the earth!”

“Christ?” thundered Bromberg. “Have you come here to insult us with legends and fairy-tales about a god?”

“Who mentioned God?” retorted Palla in a clear voice. “Unless we ourselves are gods there is none! But Christ did live! And He was as much a god as we are. And no more. But He was wiser! And what He told us is the truth! And I shall not sit silent while any man or woman teaches robbery and murder. That’s what you mean when you say that the law of the stronger is the only law! If it is, then the poor and ignorant are where they belong–”

“They won’t be when they learn the law of life!” roared Bromberg.

“There is only one law of life!” cried Palla, turning to look around her at the agitated audience. “The only law in the world worth obedience is the Law of Love and of Service! No other laws amount to anything. Under that law every problem you agitate here is already solved. There is no injustice that cannot be righted under it! There is no aspiration that cannot be realised!”

She turned on Bromberg, her hazel eyes very bright, her face surging with colour.

“You came here to pervert the exhortation of Karl Marx, and unite under the banner of envy and greed every unhappy heart!

“Very well. Others also can unite to combat you. A league of evil is not the only league that can be formed under this roof. Nor are the soldiers and police the only or the better weapons to use against you. What you agitators and mischief makers are really afraid of is that somebody may really educate your audiences. And that’s exactly what such people as I intend to do!”

A score or more of people had crowded around her while she was speaking. Shotwell and Brisson, too, had risen and stepped to her side. And the entire audience was on its feet, craning hundreds of necks and striving to hear and see.

Somewhere in the crowd a shrill American voice cried: “Throw them guys out! They got Wall Street cash in their pockets!”

Sondheim levelled a finger at Brisson:

“Look out for that man!” he said. “He published those lies about Lenine and Trotsky, and he’s here from Washington to lie about us in the newspapers!”

The I. W. W. lurched out of his seat and shoved against Shotwell.

“Get the hell out o’ here,” he snarled; “–go on! Beat it! And take your lady-friends, too.”

Brisson said: “No use talking to them. You’d better take the ladies out while the going is good.”

But as they moved there was an angry murmur: the I. W. W. gave Palla a violent shove that sent her reeling, and Shotwell knocked him unconscious across a bench.

Instantly the hall was in an uproar: there was a savage rush for Brisson, but he stopped it with levelled automatic.

“Get the ladies out!” he said coolly to Shotwell, forcing a path forward at his pistol’s point.

Plain clothes men were active, too, pushing the excited Bolsheviki this way and that and clearing a lane for Palla and Ilse.

Then, as they reached the rear of the hall, there came a wild howl from the audience, and Shotwell, looking back, saw Sondheim unfurl a big red flag.

Instantly the police started for the rostrum. The din became deafening as he threw one arm around Palla and forced her out into the street, where Ilse and Brisson immediately joined them.

Then, as they looked around for a taxi, a little shrimp of a man came out on the steps of the hall and spat on the sidewalk and cursed them in Russian.

And, as Palla, recognising him, turned around, he shook his fists at her and at Ilse, promising that they should be attended to when the proper moment arrived.

Then he spat again, laughed a rather ghastly and distorted laugh, and backed into the doorway behind him.

They walked east–there being no taxi in sight. Ilse and Brisson led; Palla followed beside Jim.

“Well,” said the latter, his voice not yet under complete control, “don’t you think you’d better keep away from such places in the future?”

She was still very much excited: “It’s abominable,” she exclaimed, “that this country should permit such lies to be spread among the people and do nothing to counteract this campaign of falsehood! What is going to happen, Jim, unless educated people combine to educate the ignorant?”

“How?” he asked contemptuously.

“By example, first of all. By the purity and general decency of their own lives. I tell you, Jim, that the unscrupulous greed of the educated is as dangerous and vile as the murderous envy of the Bolsheviki. We’ve got to reform ourselves before we can educate others. And unless we begin by conforming to the Law of Love and Service, some day the Law of Hate and Violence will cut our throats for us.”

“Palla,” he said, “I never dreamed that you’d do such a thing as you did to-night.”

“I was afraid,” she said with a nervous tightening of her arm under his, “but I was still more afraid of being a coward.”

“You didn’t have to answer that crazy anarchist!”

“Somebody had to. He lied to those poor creatures. I–I couldn’t stand it!–” Her voice broke a little. “And if there is truly a god in me, as I believe, then I should show Christ’s courage … lacking His wisdom,” she added so low that he scarcely heard her.

Ilse, walking ahead with Brisson, looked back over her shoulder at Palla laughing.

“Didn’t I tell you that there are some creatures you can’t educate? What do you think of your object lesson, darling?”

CHAPTER XII

On a foggy afternoon, toward midwinter, John Estridge strolled into the new Overseas Club, which, still being in process of incubation, occupied temporary quarters on Madison Avenue.

Officers fresh from abroad and still in uniform predominated; tunics were gay with service and wound chevrons, citation cords, stars, crosses, strips of striped ribbon.

There was every sort of head-gear to be seen there, too, from the jaunty overseas bonnet de police, piped in various colours, to the corded campaign hat and leather-visored barrack-cap.

Few cavalry officers were in evidence, but there were plenty of spurs glittering everywhere–to keep their owners’ heels from slipping off the desks, as the pleasantry of the moment had it.

Estridge went directly to a telephone booth, and presently got his connection.

“It’s John Estridge, as usual,” he said in a bantering tone. “How are you, Ilse?”

“John! I’m so glad you called me! Thank you so much for the roses! They’re exquisite!–matchless!–”

“Not at all!”

“What?”

“If you think they’re matchless, just hold one up beside your cheek and take a slant at your mirror.”

“I thought you were not going to say such things to me!”

“I thought I wasn’t.”

“Are you alone?” She laughed happily. “Where are you, Jack?”

“At the Overseas Club. I stopped on my way from the hospital.”

“Y–es.”

A considerable pause, and then Ilse laughed again–a confused, happy laugh.

“Did you think you’d–come over?” she inquired.

“Shall I?”

“What do you think about it, Jack?”

“I suppose,” he said in a humourous voice, “you’re afraid of that tendency which you say I’m beginning to exhibit.”

“The tendency to drift?”

“Yes;–toward those perilous rocks you warned me of.”

“They are perilous!” she insisted.

“You ought to know,” he rejoined; “you’re sitting on top of ’em like a bally Lorelei!”

“If that’s your opinion, hadn’t you better steer for the open sea, John?”

“Certainly I’d better. But you look so sweet up there, with your classical golden hair, that I think I’ll risk the rocks.”

“Please don’t! There’s a deadly whirlpool under them. I’m looking down at it now.”

“What do you see at the bottom, Ilse? Human bones?”

“I can’t see the bottom. It’s all surface, like a shining mirror.”

“I’ll come over and take a look at it with you.”

“I think you’ll only see our own faces reflected… I think you’d better not come.”

“I’ll be there in about half an hour,” he said gaily.

He sauntered out and on into the body of the club, exchanging with friends a few words here, a smiling handclasp there; and presently he seated himself near a window.

For a while he rested his chin on his clenched hand, staring into space, until a waiter arrived with his order.

He signed the check, drained his glass, and leaned forward again with both elbows on his knees, twirling his silver-headed stick between nervous hands.

“After all,” he said under his breath, “it’s too late, now… I’m going to see this thing through.”

As he rose to go he caught sight of Jim Shotwell, seated alone by another window and attempting to read an evening paper by the foggy light from outside. He walked over to him, fastening his overcoat on the way. Jim laid aside his paper and gave him a dull glance.

“How are things with you?” inquired Estridge, carelessly.

“All right. Are you walking up town?”

“No.”

Jim’s sombre eyes rested on the discarded paper, but he did not pick it up. “It’s rotten weather,” he said listlessly.

“Have you seen Palla lately?” inquired Estridge, looking down at him with a certain curiosity.

“No, not lately.”

“She’s a very busy girl, I hear.”

“So I hear.”

Estridge seated himself on the arm of a leather chair and began to pull on his gloves. He said:

“I understand Palla is doing Red Cross and canteen work, besides organising her celebrated club;–what is it she calls it?–Combat Club No. 1?”

“I believe so.”

“And you haven’t seen her lately?”

Shotwell glanced at the fog and shrugged his shoulders: “She’s rather busy–as you say. No, I haven’t seen her. Besides, I’m rather out of my element among the people one runs into at her house. So I simply don’t go any more.”

“Palla’s parties are always amusing,” ventured Estridge.

“Very,” said the other, “but her guests keep you guessing.”

Estridge smiled: “Because they don’t conform to the established scheme of things?”

“Perhaps. The scheme of things, as it is, suits me.”

“But it’s interesting to hear other people’s views.”

“I’m fed up on queer views–and on queer people,” said Jim, with sudden and irritable emphasis. “Why, hang it all, Jack, when a fellow goes out among apparently well bred, decent people he takes it for granted that ordinary, matter of course social conventions prevail. But nobody can guess what notions are seething in the bean of any girl you talk to at Palla’s house!”

Estridge laughed: “What do you care, Jim?”

“Well, I wouldn’t care if they all didn’t seem so exactly like one’s own sort. Why, to look at them, talk to them, you’d never suppose them queer! The young girl you take in to dinner usually looks as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. And the chances are that she’s all for socialism, self-determination, trial marriages and free love!

“Hell’s bells! I’m no prude. I like to overstep conventions, too. But this wholesale wrecking of the social structure would be ruinous for a girl like Palla.”

“But Palla doesn’t believe in free love.”

“She hears it talked about by cracked illuminati.”

“Rain on a duck’s back, Jim!”

“Rain drowns young ducks.”

“You mean all this spouting will end in a deluge?”

“I do. And then look for dead ducks.”

“You’re not very respectful toward modernism,” remarked Estridge, smiling.

Then Jim broke loose:

“Modernism? You yourself said that all these crazy social notions–crazy notions in art, literature, music–arise from some sort of physical degeneration, or from the perversion or checking of normal physical functions.”

“Usually they do–”

“Well,” continued Shotwell, “it’s mostly due to perversion, in my opinion. Women have had too much of a hell of a run for their money during this war. They’ve broken down all the fences and they’re loose and running all over the world.

“If they’d only kept their fool heads! But no. Every germ in the wind lodged in their silly brains! Biff. They want sex equality and a pair of riding breeches! Bang! They kick over the cradle and wreck the pantry.

“Wifehood? Played out! Motherhood? In the discards! Domestic partnership?–each sex to its own sphere? Ha-ha! That was all very well yesterday. But woman as a human incubator and brooder is an obsolete machine. Why the devil should free and untramelled womanhood hatch out young?

“If they choose to, casually, all right. But it’s purely a matter for self-determination. If a girl cares to take off her Sam Brown belt and her puttees long enough to nurse a baby, it’s a matter that concerns her, not humanity at large. Because the social revolution has settled all such details as personal independence and the same standard for both sexes. So, a bas Madame Grundy! A la lanterne with the old régime! No–hang it all, I’m through!”

“Don’t you like Palla any more?” inquired Estridge, still laughing.

Jim gave him a singular look: “Yes… Do you like Ilse Westgard?”

Estridge said coolly: “I am accepting her as she is. I like her that much.”

“Oh. Is that very much?” sneered the other.

“Enough to marry her if she’d have me,” replied Estridge pleasantly.

“And she won’t do that, I suppose?”

“Not so far.”

Jim eyed him sullenly: “Well, I don’t accept Palla as she is–or thinks she is.”

“She’s sincere.”

“I understand that. But no girl can get away with such notions. Where is it all going to land her? What will she be?”

Estridge quoted: “‘It hath not yet appeared what we shall be.’”

Shotwell rose impatiently, and picked up his overcoat: “All I know is that when two healthy people care for each other it’s their business–their business, I repeat–to get together legally and do the decent thing by the human race.”

“Breed?”

“Certainly! Breed legally the finest, healthiest, best of specimens;–and as many as they can feed and clothe! For if they don’t–if we don’t–I mean our own sort–the land will be crawling with the robust get of all these millions of foreigners, who already have nearly submerged us in America; and whose spawn will, one day, smother us to death.

“Hang it all, aren’t they breeding like vermin now? All yellow dogs do–all the unfit produce big litters. That’s the only thing they ever do–accumulate progeny.

“And what are we doing?–our sort, I mean? I’ll tell you! Our sisters are having such a good time that they won’t marry, if they can avoid it, until they’re too mature to get the best results in children. Our wives, if they condescend to have any offspring at all, limit the output to one. Because more than one might damage their beauty. Hell! If the educated classes are going to practise race suicide and the Bolsheviki are going to breed like lice, you can figure out the answer for yourself.”

They walked to the foggy street together. Shotwell said bitterly:

“I do care for Palla. I like Ilse. All the women one encounters at Palla’s parties are gay, accomplished, clever, piquant. The men also are more or less amusing. The conversation is never dull. Everybody seems to be well bred, sincere, friendly and agreeable. But there’s something lacking. One feels it even before one is enlightened concerning the ultra-modernism of these admittedly interesting people. And I’ll tell you what it is. Actually, deep in their souls, they don’t believe in themselves.

“Take Palla. She says there is no God–no divinity except in herself. And I tell you she may think she believes it, but she doesn’t.

“And her school-girl creed–Love and Service! Fine. Only there’s a prior law–self-preservation; and another–race preservation! By God, how are you going to love and serve if girls stop having babies?

“And as for this silly condemnation of the marriage ceremony, merely because some sanctified Uncle Foozle once inserted the word ‘obey’ in it–just because, under the marriage laws, tyranny and cruelty have been practised–what callow rot!

“Laws can be changed; divorce made simple and non-scandalous as it should be; all rights safeguarded for the woman; and still have something legal and recognised by one of those necessary conventions which make civilisation possible.

“But this irresponsible idea of procedure through mere inclination–this sauntering through life under no law to safeguard and govern, except the law of personal preference–that’s anarchy! That code spells demoralisation, degeneracy and disaster!.. And the whole damned thing to begin again–a slow development of the human race, once more, out of the chaos of utter barbarism.”