Ceremony of the Innocent

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Ah, but you mustn’t leave the poor lady,” said Dr. Lubish in a virtuous tone. “She needs every friend she has.” Not that she has any, he added to himself with some bitter amusement. Well, she’s a natural victim, and victims deserve to be victimized.

  “She don’t have any visitors any more,” said Mrs. Akins. “Not that I blame them. She can’t talk sensible to anybody, and she won’t answer any phone calls and then only when her kids call, and then she cries and cries and begs them to come to her, and she forgets they come at least three, four times a week to see her.”

  “Sad, sad,” said Dr. Lubish with satisfaction.

  Only one was deeply concerned, and that was Francis Porter, and he was beginning to despair. Sometimes, when he was alone at night, he would weep. Ellen was no wife to him, but he loved her, though she now would look at him startled and afraid, when she infrequently saw him. The doctors gave him little hope for the recovery of his wife, “unless she is institutionalized, and we must arrange that as soon as possible.” When Francis was not counting the cost of the psychiatrists he was calculating the fee of Dr. Lubish’s private sanitarium, and pacing his bedroom floor.

  Ellen had been induced not to mention her “therapy” to Charles Godfrey. “You know how he is, Mama,” Gabrielle would say. “He hates to part with a cent. And you’ve never liked his wife, either—that servant. She’s sly, and a plotter. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out that he has been robbing Papa’s estate.”

  As Charles Godfrey always scrutinized Ellen’s bills and expenditures, Dr. Lubish and his colleague discreetly sent her no bill. They were reimbursed by Christian and his sister.

  The drugs which Ellen had been given made her more and more disoriented. She declined rapidly in health and in appearance, and her red hair was thickly streaked with gray. Her face was haunted, old, or blank, and heavily lined and dry.

  C H A P T E R 37

  IN NOVEMBER 1928, Herbert Hoover was elected President of the United States, “by a landslide.”

  The conspirators had done well. Here was a gentleman of the most impeccable character and credentials. There was not a single stain on his reputation. Moreover, he was no Jacobin, no follower of Rousseau, who had always been erratic at the best and mad at the worst. In fact, Mr. Hoover was the very antithesis of Rousseau. He admired excellence, unlike Rousseau, and did not believe that all men were born “equally endowed with intelligence and good character”; he also did not believe that if a man was poor he, per se, was sanctified. Mr. Hoover doubted that “the naked savage,” so eulogized by Rousseau, was superior to civilized man. He was firmly convinced that a man should earn his “rights” as a man, in all areas of society. Property, in the main, except for that inherited, was the just reward of superiority.

  Mr. Hoover had long been a student of the frightful French Revolution, and particularly of Maximilien Robespierre. He was becoming alarmed at a new and insidious tendency in the thoughts of Americans: Once classless in the true meaning of the word, with no established aristocracy and no authoritarian overlords and nobles, the American people had long known that it was the intrinsic worth of a man which was important, whatever his income. But now they were being deceived into believing that a class, amorphous, faceless, called “the Masses,” existed and had sovereign rights above the rights of others. As no American felt that he himself was a part of that strange classification, it gave him a pleasant sensation of virtue to shout that “the Masses” must have something “done” in their behalf. However, he believed that they lived in another part of the country and not in his vicinity, no matter how poor his own resources. He had pride.

  But the conspirators understood, and through their allies, the Communists and the vociferous Socialists, they began to invade the innocent American mind. In addition, they stealthily insinuated that America should no longer boast of her accomplishments, her freedoms, her form of government, her traditions and manliness. Like the France of Robespierre, Americans should, in all sincerity, become ashamed of their country’s genius and drive. This perfidious idea was adopted, not by the workers of America, but by the self-designated “intelligentsia,” and the upper classes. It became quite fashionable to hold this view, and it was earnestly argued in the best parlors, while the speakers sipped, delicately, the illegal wine. For the first time in American history the educated but mentally illiterate, and the effete, began to wonder, soberly, in conversations and periodicals, “if Washington should not intervene to bring about social justice.” This alien thought spread assiduously in the colleges. The average American, however, still preferred that his central government remain far from him and his private concerns and hopeful ambitions, for instinctively he knew, as did the ancient Chinese, that “government is more to be feared than the audacious tiger.”

  He did not know, this sensible American, that his government was being invaded by Robespierres who were already in his banks and were active among the enormously wealthy. He did not know that he was about to become the victim of revolutions, planned economy, academic theorists, panics, and of “radical social change,” as the assassin Robespierre had called it. He did not know that it was plotted that America commit suicide. He only knew that he was living in “an exciting time,” as the newspapers proclaimed, though his own life was usually grim and dull. His entertainment and titillations came from moving pictures out of Hollywood, full of “glamour,” and of reports of rich and murderous gangsters and bootleggers, and their “molls,” and of the money to be acquired overnight in the Stock Market. He hardly believed any of it; inflation was devouring his poor wages; those he saw on screen or in photographs and police reports were part of a world beyond his comprehension, and it was his only source of color. If the “intelligentsia” were calling themselves “the lost generation,” as they drank coffee in French cafes and mourned that they were expatriates from “American vulgarity, materialism, and exigency,” the average American was unaware of their very existence. He did not know that they were part of the legions of death gathering together to assault the battlements of his very life, and overthrow all his dreams and sanctities.

  Americans were hearing more and more about psychiatrists, and their hedonistic attacks on something they called “Puritanism and maladjustment.” This was strange and foreign to Americans, but curiously interesting. It was not so interesting to American parents, however, that their children were already being corrupted in their schools by advocates of “sex freedom,” and were craftily being induced to despise their parents for “suppressing” them or inhibiting them. They did not know that their children were subtly being taught that authority was evil, and that they should be “free souls.” The seduction of children had begun.

  Mr. Hoover heard all these things, but he thought them abstractions. He was more concerned with “keeping America prosperous—a car in every garage, two chickens in every pot.” He had an uneasy and instinctive suspicion at times, but he was carefully insulated by his enemies. Moreover, he had faith in the sturdy American character. He thought the majority of men were as forthright and honorable as himself. That is why he had been chosen by the conspirators to be President of the United States. He was their ambush.

  Mr. Alfred E. Smith, on the contrary, was a clear-eyed cynic with no delusions about the nature of mankind. He also knew a great deal concerning the enemies of his country. He was, in many ways, far more intelligent and realistic than Mr. Hoover, and far less innocent. Like Mr. Hoover, he had been a student of the French Revolution, and Robespierre. But unlike Mr. Hoover, he understood that something desperate and malign was moving against America from many quarters, and he saw the parallel between France of the Revolution and the United States.

  He, therefore, was chosen to be defeated by Mr. Hoover. The enemy feared him. He was too pragmatic, too courageous; he could not be deluded or manipulated or “advised.” He lacked trust and naivete.

  After the nominations of Mr. Hoover and Mr. Smith by their respective parties, a vicious whispering
campaign was inaugurated against the latter. Those powerful Catholics who were part of the conspiracy—but did not believe in or practice their religion—began to “ask” if it were wise to invest a Catholic in the august robes of Chief Executive. “Should a President have a divided allegiance?” some bought editors anxiously inquired in the newspapers. As the average man hardly understood “divided allegiance,” a cruder version was presented to him: “First a Catholic as President, with the Pope directing him, and then a Jew.” Mr. Hoover, a just man, found this disgusting. But Mr. Smith understood without any doubts at all. On a few occasions he hinted at the identities of his enemies—and the enemies of his country—but he could do no more than hint. It would have been incredible to the trusting American, in his innocence, to believe that his death as a man was already designed, and the death of his country.

  He did not know that the terrible ghost of Robespierre was looming over America. He was too busy, and too happy when he had a little money to spend, “making whoopee.” He was too elated at the prospect of the Prince of Wales visiting his country to hear the approach of the universal glacier.

  It was no surprise to the defeated Mr. Smith when, in 1929, the plotted collapse of the American economy arrived. Mr. Hoover did not, at first, believe it. When he finally did, he ascribed it “to the general depression in every nation as a result of the Great War.” He did not know that the world depression had been well calculated decades before, and that behind his intrepid back and honor the plot was the better concealed—as it would never have been concealed had Mr. Smith been President.

  “The poorhouse is vanishing from amongst us,” said Mr. Hoover sincerely. “We shall soon, with the help of God, be in sight of the day when poverty will be banished from this nation.”

  He upheld Prohibition. But Mr. Smith made his fatal error when he pleaded for a return to States’ Rights and the Constitution; this, the deadly quiet men could not endure. Mr. Smith also made another error: He warned that permanent prosperity was an illusion and that plans should now be made to prevent adversity, public despair, and depression. Such “plans,” of course, were not on the enemies’ agenda. It was necessary to destroy prosperity and evoke poverty, unemployment, and financial disaster. Hence, social change and revolution.

  As the enemies were only human after all, they had made a serious mistake in financing Benito Mussolini and bringing him to power in Italy. Though a number of the plotters were Italians themselves, they forgot the fierce independence of the Italian spirit, its individualism, its intelligence, its diversity. Mussolini might, indeed, embody the Italian elan in operatic flamboyance and color and love of drama and extravagance. Mussolini might, indeed, be determined to alleviate the desperate financial misery of his people following the Great War. But he was first of all an Italian who passionately loved his country. He could never be induced to betray it and enter into the Communist-financier conspiracy. He was no Stalinist.

  Yet, astute and intelligent though he was, he failed to comprehend that Communism and Fascism were one and the same thing, and the invention of the malignant forces of the international conspirators. He was too intent on reviving the grandeur of ancient Rome in his country. His enemies took heart at this. They made grandiloquent promises—and he believed them.

  Once Mussolini was well established—and beloved of his countrymen—the conspirators turned their attention to Adolf Hitler. The bankrupt and despairing German people were now beginning to believe that this creature of their murderous foes would rescue them from ultimate dissolution. He might still be in prison; he might still be anathema to the more understanding of their present leaders. But he gave them hope that their country could live again.

  Their enemies edited his prison-written book, Mein Kampf, and gave him suggestions. His cruel hysteria, his naturally unstable temperament, combined with a shrewd insight though he was obsessed with an insane dream—which they encouraged—made him the perfect weapon for their purposes. Thoughtfully, they considered Sweden. Germany was now without arms and needed the best of steel, which Sweden produced. Swedish bankers were consulted, and a conference was arranged with them to meet with the followers of Hitler. American munitions makers were involved.

  They had no trouble, these enemies, with Joseph Stalin. He understood them at once. Pragmatic, dogged, both patriotic and determined on world conquest under the euphemism of “dictatorship of the proletariat,” he was, in all ways, their complete man. They had no need to indoctrinate him. He had known all about them from the very beginning, which was not true of either Mussolini or Hitler.

  The final tragedy was somberly under rehearsal though the curtain as yet remained down.

  Charles Godfrey, seriously alarmed, had a talk with his pretty young daughter, Genevieve. “Genny,” he said, “I must ask you to see as little as possible of Christian Porter. You don’t understand, in the least, about him—”

  She looked at him with her own gray eyes, which were filled with gentle amusement. “But I do, Daddy,” she said. “I know exactly what Christian is. He is great fun and intelligent and I like his company, for he is lively and interesting. But don’t worry that I will consider him as a husband, though he has proposed several times. I know his character, and I wouldn’t marry him for the world. In the meantime, I am only enjoying myself.”

  Then she frowned. “But as for his sister, Gabrielle—she is dangerous, Daddy, and I despise her. I think she is in love with him herself.”

  Charles was shocked. “Where, in God’s name, did you ever learn about such things?”

  Genevieve shrugged. “Daddy, everybody knows about these ‘things.’ Everybody always did. Did you think to keep me in a perpetual kindergarten? Oh, I am nice to Gaby; she is very amusing, too.” The girl hesitated. “There is something going on in that family. I am trying to find out what it is.”

  C H A P T E R 38

  IN THE MEANTIME, the drugged Ellen Porter, the deliberately disoriented Ellen, submitted to the long “treatment” imposed on her by Dr. Lubish and his colleague. She became increasingly unaware of her surroundings; she never read a newspaper any longer, or a book or a magazine. Her house was a silent prison, with wardens always watching her. The solicitude of her children, the new pampering by her servants, warmed the confused woman, made her confide in them. Deprived of love, except for that of her dead aunt and her husband, Jeremy, she had no resources, no refuge. In her natural human hunger for affection she accepted the spurious brand offered her. She refused to see Charles Godfrey and Maude.

  More and more was she convinced that Kitty Wilder was her dearest and only friend, and she clung to her with such strength that it might have moved anyone but Kitty Wilder. As for Francis, he grew dimmer in her consciousness and so she rarely thought of him. He was a shadow that came and went, and when he spoke to her she did not hear him. She only saw that his lips moved, like a shadow’s lips, soundlessly. If he touched her hand, yearningly, she snatched it away, shuddering. She fled when she heard his footsteps, like one threatened.

  Her dreams were her only reality and they became more vivid as time passed. She lived in them with Jeremy. Lately, however, to her distress, he seemed to be warning her urgently, but though she heard his beloved voice she could not comprehend his words. Once, in a dream, he grasped her arm and urgently led her to the door of their house and tried to propel her outside. She did catch one word: “Run!” Then again: “Ellen, my darling, run away!” She could not understand and looked at him pleadingly. She saw tears on his face, that face which grew younger all the time in her dreams.

  “I think,” said Dr. Lubish to Francis, Gabrielle, and Christian, “that we are now ready for the sad denouement. Mrs. Porter is not improving, I am sorry to say. In fact, she is steadily deteriorating and is a danger to herself. She must be institutionalized, for her own protection. We have good lawyers; we have all the evidence we need. We must have a consultation with Charles Godfrey at once.” The time was the early week of August 1929.

  Dr
. Lubish said to Francis, “As Mrs. Porter’s husband, ask Mr. Godfrey for a conference with him, without mentioning our names, though I think it wise if you suggest that Mrs. Porter’s children be there also.”

  Francis nodded. He was very pale. He wanted only that Ellen be restored to health and sanity. “How long will she be in the institution?” he asked.

  Dr. Lubish smiled at him fondly. “Only until she is recovered. It may be some time—but we have hope.”

  Charles sighed with exasperated boredom when Francis called him “for a consultation.” He said, “Francis, let’s not go over estate matters any longer. You know it is useless.”

  Francis said, “It’s not exactly about the estates. It is something even more important.”

  Charles was alerted. “What?”

  “Ellen. Please, Charles, let’s not discuss it over the telephone. It’s a very serious matter. Have you seen Ellen lately?”

  “No. Not for nearly a year. What’s wrong?”

  But Francis repeated his request for an interview, and Charles, with a nameless apprehension, consented at once. That night he said to Maude, “I have the strangest feeling that Ellen is in some awful danger. Never mind. I am getting fanciful in my old age.” He read the newspapers and forgot Ellen. The Stock Market was more exuberant than ever, and Mr. Hoover even more optimistic about “permanent prosperity.” “I don’t like it,” Charles said to his wife. “Something’s in the wind. I wish to God that Jeremy were alive. He knew more about these things than I do. I should have kept up—”

  His apprehension about Ellen returned the next day, the day of the conference. He said to Jochan Wilder, “I’d like you to be present.”

  The August day was unusually hot, even for New York, and Charles was unaccountably very irritable. He could not concentrate on the papers on his desk. He could think only of Ellen, and her husband. He sweated; the fans did very little good in that sluggish humidity. Charles helped himself to a cold drink, clattering with ice. The whiskey was excellent, for he had a reliable bootlegger. But the whiskey did not calm him as usual. He said to Jochan, “Perhaps it’s only the heat, but I am getting very jumpy, and I don’t know why.”