Wide Is the Gate

by Upton Sinclair

  Lanny answered that the subject of volunteers for Spain had been discussed at the reunion in Paris, and the speakers had called for fighting men. All they had to do was to get to the border, just beyond Perpignan, in Southern France. The trains to Portbou weren’t running, but anybody could walk a mile through the tunnel and the militiamen would welcome him with open arms.

  The only trouble was Alfy’s mother; he wanted Lanny’s help in persuading her. Lanny said: “I rather think she has guessed. I was watching her face while you talked tonight.”

  Poor Nina! Lanny had seen this coming for a long time. The Norns, or whoever had assigned her a birth-date, had been unkind; she had been plunged into grief as a bride, and now again as a mother. But she had shared her husband’s cause, and now her son’s, so she couldn’t try to hold him back. Lanny inquired: “Have you told your father?”

  “I only made up my mind tonight, hearing you talk. I’d like to get several chaps over here tomorrow; if you’ll tell them about it I believe they’ll all go.”

  “That’ll make me popular with the mothers of this neighborhood!” said Lanny. “They’ll want to know why I don’t go myself.”

  “No, no,” said Alfy. “You leave it to us youngsters. You have your job and you’re doing it well.”

  “What is it?” asked Lanny, curious to know how he appeared to the new generation.

  “You don’t know how much you do for the pater, bringing him first-hand news the way you did last night. He finds it hard to get around, you know; his knee bothers him more than he’ll let anybody know. But when you come along, it gives him new heart and he starts work all over again.”

  “It seems to me I’m a pretty depressing messenger,” remarked the older man. “It’s been ages since I’ve had any sort of good tidings.”

  “That’s not your fault. That’s the time we’re living in, and we have to buck up and go to work. We all thought we were going to have things easy, but it’s clear now that we’re not.”

  “Cheerio, Alfy! I buck the pater up, you buck me up, and when the pater bucks you up, the magic circle will be complete!”

  23

  SIC TRANSIT GLORIA

  I

  Lanny went to town to keep his appointment with the chairman of trustees of the Barnes Estate. Uncle Joseph was a tall distinguished-looking gentleman with hair turned silver; he was a devoted guardian of other people’s property, turning over to Irma an income of well over a million dollars a year, and taking for himself, as directed by the will, a salary of one thousand dollars a month. His duties had to do with pieces of printed paper called securities, and in his leisure time he collected other pieces known as half-dime libraries. They had been printed half a century ago and read by armies of messenger-boys, of whom little Joe Barnes had been one. When fresh from the press they had cost five cents each, but now the silver-haired Joe would pay five dollars for any of the missing issues of the adventures of Deadwood Dick, Hawkshaw, or Frank Merriwell.

  “Uncle Joseph”—Lanny assumed that he would still wish to be so addressed—never appeared in public except in immaculate attire, winter, summer, or the seasons between. Right now was the beginning of August, and he welcomed his guest in spotless cream Shantung. Londoners all said that the weather was frightfully hot, but this was a joke to anybody who had lived in New York. So said Joseph Barnes, and they availed themselves of that conversational crutch for a while; Lanny told about the weather in Spain, and the other expressed an unexpected interest in this subject. Evidently he was embarrassed by the errand on which he had come.

  It would be a kindness to help him out; so the nephew-in-law said: “You have a message for me from Irma?”

  “Yes, Lanny.” And then a pause.

  “I have been complying with her wishes, Uncle Joseph, and letting her alone. I hope this has not displeased her.”

  “No; but now she thinks the situation should be regularized.” Then, taking the bit in his teeth: “She wants a divorce.”

  “That was my guess,” said the other, amiably.

  “I am glad you are in accord,” responded the old gentleman, much relieved. “As you know, I have always had the kindest feelings for you, and I hope these will continue.”

  “Certainly, Uncle Joseph. I have no reason to blame you for any of my troubles. Go ahead, please, and tell me what Irma has in mind.”

  The head trustee explained that his niece proposed to establish a residence in some state where a divorce could be had quickly and without serious charges being brought. Florida being out of the question in summer, she had been in correspondence with a reputable law firm in Reno. The most important question was the nature of the complaint she was to make, and it was about this that Uncle Joseph was charged to have a frank talk. Obviously a delicate matter, for few husbands take kindly to having their faults and offenses listed and described in detail.

  “Don’t worry,” said this cheerful offender. “I am aware that I am not an ideal partner for Irma. Let me say that, for reasons important to me, I don’t want my political opinions brought into the action.”

  “Irma understands that.”

  “Very well, then. Tell me frankly what the lawyers think it necessary for me to have done.”

  “The charge will be incompatibility of temperament.”

  “That is agreeable to me.”

  “She will have to complain that you have been unsociable.”

  Lanny thought of the innumerable times when he had wanted to read the paper, or to play the piano, when Irma had wanted to gossip about her friends, her costumes, and her plans for the day. “That is true,” he said.

  “Also that you are, or were with her, extremely uncooperative.”

  “That is also true.”

  “And that you were uncordial to her friends.”

  “A perfect bear, Uncle Joseph.”

  The ambassador beamed. “That is all,” he said. “You understand, of course, that Irma is required to cite instances in which these characteristics have been manifested.”

  “That goes without saying. You have a copy of the proposed complaint with you, Uncle Joseph?”

  “I have; and we hope you won’t find it necessary to make too many changes, for the allegations represent what the lawyers say is the customary minimum. You understand, it would not do to bring the suit and then have our request denied.”

  II

  While Mr. Joseph Barnes looked over the afternoon paper, Lanny read an essay-on his marital misdemeanors. It filled him with a natural and human desire to answer back; but that would have been contesting the divorce. “That’s all right,” he said. “I plead guilty to those charges. What do I do about it?”

  “You have to have a lawyer to represent you in court and file what is known as a notice of appearance.”

  “And how do I find a lawyer in Reno?”

  “Our own have been good enough to suggest one. All you have to do is to write and employ him, and agree to pay him a hundred dollars for his services. I, of course, will see that you are reimbursed.”

  “Not at all, Uncle Joseph. It is my interest to have this unhappy matter ended.”

  “Irma wishes me to tell you that her attitude on money matters remains what she stated to you in Germany.”

  “I remember it. I do not want any of her money.”

  “There is just one more problem,” began the ambassador, hesitatingly. “Irma would like very much for you to consent that the custody of the child be awarded to her.”

  “I am sorry, Uncle Joseph, but that is out of the question. Irma and I discussed that also in Germany. The custody of the child will have to be shared equally between us.”

  “Will you tell me why you feel that is so important?”

  “Because I am the child’s father, and I think that every child needs a father’s influence as well as a mother’s. I have done nothing to forfeit my rights in the matter and I would not.”

  “Let us talk about it frankly, Lanny.”

  “Certainly. I
have nothing to hide, and Irma gave me every assurance that she respected my rights and trusted me to make a wise and proper use of them.”

  “Just what use would you expect to make, Lanny?”

  “I came to see the child recently and spent some time with her. I should expect to do that from time to time, as might be convenient to me. If you find it awkward to have me at Shore Acres, I’ll be entirely willing to take Frances elsewhere.”

  “No, indeed; that is what Irma fears most of all. She feels that she has made a place where the child is safe. You understand her fear of kidnapers, blackmailers; journalists, and what not.”

  “Irma knows I did everything to help relieve those fears. But as Frances grows older I might feel that those restrictions were hampering her proper development. A human being has to be something more than a safe-deposit box for bonds.”

  Here was one of those unorthodox remarks which had caused a prince consort to be regarded with anxiety by the chairman of an investing trusteeship. But he didn’t want to argue; he wanted to probe and find out what was in the mind of the man who possessed a fifty-per-cent interest in the Barnes heiress, unfortunately named Budd. At somewhat needless length he explained that the members of the Barnes and Vandringham families were deeply concerned not merely because of their love for the child, but because she was their sole heir. Uncle Joseph hoped that Lanny would not take offense—

  “No, no,” said Lanny, a bit impatiently. “Tell me what else you have in mind.”

  “Irma desires to inquire whether there is any sum of money within reason which might induce you to let her have full control of Frances.”

  Lanny replied without hesitation: “There is no such sum. I would not sell my daughter.” And then: “See here, Uncle Joseph, why do we have to be so mealy-mouthed? What is it that is worrying Irma? Is she afraid that Frances might some day come to agree with my ideas instead of with hers? That is a chance that every parent has to take. If our children always thought exactly as we do, how would the world ever make any progress?”

  This was a field of sociological speculation into which a grown-up messenger-boy had never ventured. He replied: “You must know, Lanny, the Barnes fortune is much more to Irma than just a lot of money. It is the heritage which her father left her and to which she owes a duty.”

  Lanny decided that the time had come for him to take the aggressive: “Tell me, is Irma thinking of marrying again?”

  “There is always such a possibility to be thought of,” answered the tactful negotiator.

  “You will understand that my ideas about the child’s future would be greatly clarified if I knew who is likely to become her stepfather.”

  “That is a matter about which I hope you won’t insist on questioning me.”

  “Has Irma instructed you not to tell me?”

  “Really, Lanny—” Joseph Barnes stopped short.

  “I take it from your manner that she has. I don’t know whether you are a minister plenipotentiary or merely an envoy, but I point out to you that I know Irma well and had an opportunity to observe her home-life only a short while ago. You can hardly blame me for wondering whether Frances’s stepfather is going to be the Earl of Wickthorpe or Herr Forrest Quadratt.”

  “I can relieve part of your uncertainty at once. I assure you there is no chance of its being Herr Quadratt.”

  “So far so good; and now, how about Ceddy?”

  “Without departing from my instructions”—here the old gentleman smiled—“will it be sufficient if you notice that I do not deny it might be Lord Wickthorpe?”

  “Present my compliments to Irma and tell her that I discussed this excellent gentleman with my mother, a woman of the world whose judgment we all respect. She agrees that His Lordship would be an ideal person to cause Irma to forget her unhappy experiences with a man so unsocial, uncooperative, and uncordial as myself.”

  Joseph Barnes brightened, and summoned the courage to say: “I might point out to you that in thinking about the future of Frances, it would help us to know whether you contemplate presenting her with a stepmother.”

  “Your suggestion is quite reasonable, Uncle Joseph. You may tell Irma that since she left me to my own devices in the world I have found myself enjoying the conversation of two ladies. But unfortunately there appears to be a husband in the way in both cases, so I am afraid our little daughter will have to get along without the luxury of a stepmother for a while.”

  III

  Lanny went for a visit to Margy’s place, where his mother had been resting from the labors of the season before taking a steamer for New York. He told her about the interview, and listened while she raged at the whole Barnes-Vandringham clan; then she said that she and her husband must go at once, so that little Frances might not forget the Budd-Dingle clan. She still couldn’t make up her mind to let anybody but her intimate friends know about Lanny’s impending calamity; as if the intimate friends hadn’t already whispered it to their intimate friends! A couple of days later the New York papers reported the queen of all heiresses on the point of leaving for Reno—and of course all the world knows there is only one reason why anybody would ever leave for Reno. The story was cabled to London, and all the smart people within reach had it by their breakfast plates next morning; those who were in Scotland or Biarritz or Davos would receive it in due course, perhaps specially marked by some friend.

  Lanny took his dethronement with good grace. He played tennis, rode Margy’s fine horses, danced, or played bridge, and when anyone asked about the break-up he said: “Irma and I are different sorts of people.” It happened that one of the leaders of the so-called Oxford group came for a house-party—so they called their sessions—and it was natural that he should give special attention to a playboy whose heart was presumed to be in a vulnerable condition; everybody hoped that Lanny might be “changed,” and do what the group called “sharing”—that is, reveal what it was that he had done to drive his wife away. But the provoking fellow only listened and then told the story about the sinner who came home from one of these house-parties so changed that his dog bit him.

  This new wave of religion had been started by an American named Buchman, and was now having some vogue in England. It had held sessions in Oxford and so had taken to calling itself the Oxford group, to the speechless indignation of academic circles in a staid university. But Buchman and his followers went blandly ahead to appropriate a historic name which carried great prestige. They followed a practice called God-guidance, listening to the inner voice and doing what it told them; as a rule the instructions appeared to be that they should go after the richest and most socially prominent persons in every country, and, having won their adherence, exploit their names for publicity purposes.

  The voice had recently sent their founder to enroll prominent Germans, and he had come home exclaiming: “Thank God for Adolf Hitler!” So now the Oxford and the Munich movements were rapidly assimilating, and noble ladies and gentlemen who met in one another’s drawing-rooms and told publicly about their sexual errors and how God had rearmed them morally—these same titled persons opened their arms to Herr Ribbentrop, the Nazi champagne salesman, and heard him tell how a God-guided Fuhrer had come to bring peace to Europe and a new order to all mankind.

  IV

  Lanny was interested to observe, that Parsifal Dingle, his stepfather, manifested little enthusiasm for these new spiritual exercises. Apparently God did not say the same things to a retired real-estate operator from Iowa as to the darlings of the smart world of London. Parsifal, like Lanny, listened politely, but when he was alone with his stepson he brought to memory an ancient injunction, that when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut the door, pray to thy Father which is in secret.

  Madame Zyszynski was at Bluegrass, and some of the guests had become interested in
experiments with her; she, too, had acquired prestige, having been lent around to Zaharoff, Lady Caillard, and other wealthy persons. She remained quite unspoiled, having been brought up a servant and desiring nothing beyond that. She had been deeply touched by Parsifal’s kindness, and was always happy to sit with him. Now he told Lanny about a series of revelations which he had been getting for the past month, supposed to come from a long-since deceased inmate of the Buddhist monastery of Dodanduwa in Ceylon. Parsifal had never read or heard anything about Ceylon that he could recall, and had no idea why the Bhikkhu Sinanayeke should have put the finger upon him from the other world. Parsifal was taking steps to find out if there had ever been such a monastery, and if it was still in operation he meant to write and inquire as to the correctness of the details.

  Very curious, Lanny said. But his mind was on Spain these days, and he didn’t suggest traveling to Ceylon to carry on psychic researches. He listened to elaborate notes concerning the ritual and daily life of very dark-skinned Aryans who wore cotton robes of saffron color and bore long Tamil names; also to the details of various Buddhist hells, in which sinners were burned in roaring fires, dashed about by fierce winds, pierced by javelins, and otherwise bothered according to the gravity of their offenses.

  But then came a note which caused Lanny to sit up. The Bhikkhu Sinanayeke had inquired if Parsifal Dingle knew a man named Ludi. This man, according to the statement, insisted that he had once met Parsifal, but failed to say where.

  “I know a Ludi,” declared Lanny; “and what’s more, I’m pretty sure that you have met him. I won’t refresh your memory until you try again and see if your monkish friend can’t bring the person into the light.” Parsifal accepted the suggestion, and Lanny added: “Better if I don’t attend, because you know how Tecumseh is when I’m around.”