Oil, p.47
Oil!, page 47
XIII
So Bunny saw the Russian picture. His beloved was the beautiful bride of a grand duke; the gestures, the kisses, the raptures of love, which had been rehearsed upon himself, were now lavished upon a magnificent, sharp-whiskered personage in a military uniform with many stars and orders. This personage was haughty but high-minded, and his grand duchess was the soul of charity; and oh, such lovely gentle peasants as she had to exercise her charity upon! How sweetly they curtsied, how charmingly they danced, and gathered to cheer and throw flowers after the grand ducal carriage! It was a beautiful, almost idyllic world—one was tempted really to doubt whether any world so perfect ever had existed on earth.
There was only one thing wrong with it, and that was a secret band of villains with twisted, degenerate faces, some of them with wild hair and big spectacles, others with ferocious black whiskers and knives in their boots. They met to concoct anarchist manifestos, intended to seduce the sweet innocent peasants; and to make dynamite bombs to blow up noble-minded grand dukes. They drank in booze dens, and grabbed women by the arms and manhandled them, right out before one another. There was no wickedness these creatures did not do, and their leader, with the face of a rat and the arms of a gorilla, made evident to the dullest mind why the picture was called The Devil’s Deputy.
Then came the young secret service man, clean-cut, smooth-shaven, quick on the trigger. His job was to get messages from the American embassy to the American fleet, and later on to save the treasure of the embassy from the Bolsheviks. For of course you know what happened in Russia—how this band of villains with twisted faces rose up and overthrew the government, and killed the haughty but just grand duke with cruel tortures. It was, of course, the grand duchess that the Devil’s Deputy especially wanted; and first he chased her about the castle, and battered in the doors, and the young secret service hero dashed with her from room to room. Blood ran down his face from a bullet wound, but he carried her out of a window of the castle, and away they flew on horseback, over hills and dales covered with the familiar Russian eucalyptus trees.
And then presently they were trapped in St. Petersburg, and the Devil’s Deputy laid his foul hands on Vee, and tore her lingerie to shreds, as the billboards had promised you he would. But here came the hero with his automatic, and he held the mob at bay, while Vee behind her back made signals to a friend of the hero’s who was preparing one of the villains’ own bombs to throw at them—could you imagine more poetic justice than that? Vee and her savior fled, this time in a motorcar, over roads of the well-known Russian concrete, through the well-known mountains of the suburbs of St. Petersburg, and came to the River Neva, with its eucalyptus groves concealing a speedboat. There was another mad chase, which ended in the capture of the agonized pair, and more tearing of Vee’s lingerie by the Devil’s Deputy.
But—don’t be worried—at the most critical instant came the American Navy, that whole glorious flotilla which we kept in the River Neva during the war. Old Glory floated in the breeze, and the band played “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” and the million-dollar audience burst into enraptured cheering. A launch from a battleship came dashing up, the Devil’s Deputy leaped into the water with one of his own bombs in his mouth, and Viola Tracy and the secret service man stood clasped in an attitude which was familiar to Bunny, and hardly less so to the million-dollar audience.
All the time this story was unfolding, Bunny was privileged to sit and hold the heroine’s hand. Once she leaned to him and whispered, “Is it so very bad?” His answer was, “It is up to standard. It will sell.” It was the formula she had used with Annabelle Ames; and Bunny felt a tight pressure of his hand. It was clever of him, as well as kind!
XIV
The screen was dark, and the cheering died away, and the lights came up, and the moving picture world crowded about Vee Tracy, and Mr. Schmolsky, the producer, and Tommy Paley, the director, and all the rest of the personages whose services had been faithfully cataloged on the film. There was hand shaking and chatter; and meantime the crowds stood about, gaping at the celebrities—it was hard to get the theater empty after a “world premiere.” The throngs in the lobby, and outside in the arcade, were still held back by the police—many had stood for three hours, in order to see their favorites emerge.
Vee and her lover went out among the last, greeting this one, greeting that one, the observed of all observers. Bunny saw many he knew, and among them one face he had not expected—Rachel Menzies! She saw him, and he saw that she saw him; and straightway it became a point of honor with a young idealist, he must not fail to treat her as well as anybody else. Rachel, a poor working girl, and class conscious, pitiful in a dingy, worn coat and a faded, out-of-fashion hat—Rachel must not think that he would slight her in this expensive company! He went straight to her. “How do you do, Miss Menzies? I didn’t know you were a movie fan.”
“I’m not,” she answered. “But I wanted to see what they would do to the Russian revolution.”
“There wasn’t much in it for us,” said Bunny; and she answered, grimly, “No, there was not.”
He would have liked to talk with her, but not in this place. “Can I help you out?” he asked; and turned as if to seek a way through the crowd.
But at that moment came Vee! With all the throngs of the great ones about her, with all the praise they poured upon her, there was one thing she really cared about, and that was Bunny—she did not want to be separated from him! And straightway, of course, the honor of a young idealist was still more deeply involved. He must not be unwilling to introduce his dingy working-girl friend to the gorgeous lady of the ermines and pearls! “Meet Miss Viola Tracy,” he said. “Vee, this is Miss Rachel Menzies, a classmate of mine at the university.”
Equally, it was a point of honor with Vee to be cordial. “Oh, how do you do, Miss Menzies?” And she held out her hand. Rachel did not move to take the hand, but stood very stiff and straight, and answered, “How do you do, Miss Tracy.” To Bunny, who knew her, the voice sounded strange and dead; but of course Vee had no means of knowing what her voice ought to be, and the withheld hand might easily be shyness at meeting the most important person in all Hollywood that night. Vee was still cordial as she inquired, “And how did you like the picture?”
Bunny heard that question—more dangerous than any bomb ever made by a Devil’s Deputy! He groped in his bewildered mind for something to say—“Miss Menzies is a Socialist, like me”—anything of that playful sort; but before he could get his tongue to move, Rachel had answered, swift and deadly, “I think it’s the most poisonous thing I ever saw on the screen.”
There was no mistaking that for shyness, or anything else. And Viola Tracy stared at this amazing creature. “Oh, indeed, Miss!”
“Yes, and people who helped to make it will someday have on their conscience the blood of millions of young men.”
Bunny broke in, “You see, Vee—”
But she put out her hand to stop him. “Wait! I want to know what you mean!”
“I mean that this picture is part of the propaganda to get us into a war with Russia, and a woman that lends herself to such work is a disgrace to her sex.”
Vee glared, and fury leaped into her face. “You bitch!” she cried, and her hand shot out, and smack! she landed a blow across Rachel’s cheek.
For one horrible moment Bunny stood numb; he saw the red start to Rachel’s face, and the tears start to her eyes; then he sprang between them, and caught Vee’s hand to stop another blow. “No, Vee, no!” A burly policeman completed the job of blocking the way between the two antagonists, and Rachel faded back into the crowd—something it was easy enough to do, since everybody was pushing to the front. In the confusion Bunny became aware of one hideous thing—a young man jabbing at them and demanding, “What is it? What is the matter? What happened, Miss Tracy? What was the trouble, officer?” Bunny whispered into Vee’s ear, “Quick! It’s a reporter!” He grasped her arm, and they fled through the crowd.
XV
Sitting in their car, with Bunny driving, Vee whispered, “Who is that woman?”
“Her family are Jewish clothing workers. Her father’s the man who got arrested—don’t you remember I told you?”
“Oh! That girl!”
“Yes. You see, you stepped on her class consciousness.”
Vee’s teeth were clenched. “Oh, the odious creature!”
“But Vee! Don’t forget you asked her what she thought.”
“Oh, so insolent! Outrageous!”
“But dear, you take the liberty of saying what you think. Don’t you grant her the same right?”
“Bunny! You are going to defend her!” And before he could reply, she cried, in a voice of fury, “I hate those people, I hate them! They’re nasty, they’re low, they’re jealous—they haven’t an idea but to take away things from people who’ve slaved to earn them.”
There was a long silence. Bunny drove; and when Vee spoke again, it was to ask, “Where are you going?”
“Don’t forget the Schmolskys’ supper party.”
“No, I won’t go to any supper party, it would choke me. Take me home—right away.”
He obeyed; and when she was in the bungalow, she fled to her room. He followed, and found the ermine cloak on the floor, and Vee in a heap on the bed, without regard to the costliest of embroidered silk gowns. She was convulsed with sobbing, and he made out the words, “It’s going to ruin us!”
Suddenly she sat up, blinded by her tears, and stretched out her arms. “Oh, Bunny, Bunny, don’t let’s have our love killed! Don’t let’s quarrel like all the others! Bunny, I don’t care about those people, they can say anything they please to me, I’ll never mind again! I’ll apologize to that girl, I’ll let her walk on me, I’ll do anything you say! But oh, please don’t let’s stop loving each other!”
It was the first time he had ever seen Vee break down; and of course it always produces a great impression upon the protective male. He took her in his arms, tears and all, without regard to the costliest of broadcloth evening suits. Their love flamed up, and their troubles were melted in the fire, and they swore that nothing, nothing should ever, ever tear them apart.
Long afterward, as they lay in each other’s arms, Vee whispered, “Bunny, that girl is in love with you!”
“Oh, absurd, Vee!”
“Why do you say so?”
“She’s never given the least sign of such a thing.”
“How would you know a sign?”
“But dear—”
“Of course she’s in love with you! How could anybody fail to be in love with you, Bunny?”
It was not worthwhile to try to argue. It appeared to be a peculiarity of women, they were always sure that all other women were in love with their man. When he had told Vee about Henrietta Ashleigh, she had been sure that Henrietta was desperately enamored, and that only her pride of caste had kept her from trying to hold him. Likewise, when he told her about Ruth, she was sure this poor country lass was pining her heart out. That was the reason she was so indifferent to the charms of oil workers, and not because she was wrapped up in Paul. Sisters didn’t make so much fuss over brothers—no, that was rubbish! Bunny remembered that Bertie said this same thing; and strangely enough, Eunice Hoyt had said it also—it had been one reason why she hated to have him go up to Paradise. Bunny decided that it was better not to tell women about one another; and especially not to introduce them, if it could possibly be avoided!
Morning came, and the newspapers were outside the door of their room. Sitting up in bed in silken garments they devoured—no, not the elaborate accounts of the world premiere with details of the gowns worn by the women—that would come later. First, their eyes leaped to the headline:
Star Slaps Rival in Lobby
There it was! The reporter, having been unable to get the real story, had made the inevitable romantic assumption. Another triangle of the screen world! He had written a highly playful article about the world-famous star, emerging in the hour of her glory upon the arm of the young oil prince—about whom so many interesting rumors were being circulated. Seeing him leave her side and join some other woman, the star had rushed over in a fit of jealous fury and smacked the other woman in the face. There was an interview with Officer Tony Reber of the Angel City police department, who had stepped between the infuriated combatants. The star had called her rival an awful name, which the officer’s modesty would not permit him to repeat. “But I’ll say this,” he told the world, “she certainly packs an awful punch, that lady. If I was to hit anybody as hard as that I would sure get canned.”
XVI
Bunny met the other combatant on the campus that same day, and her face was pale and her dark eyes somber. “Mr. Ross,” she began, quickly, “I want to tell you I’m ashamed for what I said.”
“You don’t have to be ashamed,” he replied. “It was true.”
“I know, but I had no right to say it to a friend of yours, and after all you have done for me. It was just that I was so wrought up over that picture.”
“I understand,” Bunny said. “Miss Tracy wishes me to tell you she is truly sorry for what she did.”
“I know, you’d make her sorry. But I don’t care about that—we Jews have been struck many times, and we workers also, and there’ll be more of it before the class war is over. The real harm is one she can never atone for—that hideous picture that’s going out to poison the people’s minds—millions upon millions of them. For that she can never apologize.”
It was an aspect of the matter that had somehow fallen into the background of Bunny’s consciousness during all the excitement. “I’ve nothing good to say about the picture,” he replied, “but I think you must make allowances for Miss Tracy. She doesn’t know as much about Russia as you and I.”
“You mean she doesn’t know there were hideous cruelties in old Russia—that the Tsardom was another word for terror?”
“Yes, but then—”
“She doesn’t know that the men she portrays as criminals have most of them been in the dungeons of the Tsar for the sake of their faith?”
“She may not know that, Miss Menzies. It’s hard to realize how ignorant people can be, when they read nothing but American newspapers and magazines.”
“Well, Mr. Ross, you know that I’m not a Bolshevik; but we have to defend the workers of Russia from world reaction. That picture is a part of the white terror, and the people that made it knew exactly what they were doing—just as much as when they beat my brother over the head and started to deport my father.”
“Yes,” said Bunny, “but you must understand, an actress does not write the story, and she’s not always consulted about the parts she plays.”
“Ah, Mr. Ross!” Rachel’s face wore a pitying smile. “She would tell you that, and you’re so anxious to believe the best about people! Well, I’m going to tell you what I think, and maybe you won’t ever speak to me again. A woman who makes a picture like that is nothing but a prostitute, and the fact that she’s highly paid makes her all the more loathsome.”
“Oh, Miss Menzies!”
“I know, it sounds cruel. But that’s a murder picture, and that woman knew it perfectly well. They paid her money and jewels and fur cloaks and silk lingerie, and her face on the billboards and in all the newspapers; and she took the price—as she’s done many times before. I don’t know one thing about her private life, Mr. Ross, but I’ll wager that if you investigate, you’ll find she’s sold herself, body as well as mind, all the way from the bottom up to the pedestal she’s on now!”
And so Bunny decided that he had better postpone for a while the plan he had had in mind, of having Vee Tracy and Rachel Menzies meet and understand each other!
CHAPTER XV
THE VACATION
I
All this summer and fall, Dad and Mr. Roscoe had been carrying a heavy burden—they were helping to make over the thinking of the American people. A presidential campaign was under way; and the oilmen, having made so bold as to select the candidate, now had to finish the job by persuading the voters that he was a great and noble-minded statesman. Also they had to pay a part of the expense, which would come to fifty million dollars, so Bunny learned from the conversations at Paradise and at the Monastery.[1] This was several times as much as would get recorded, since the money went through local and unofficial agencies. It came from the big protected interests, the corporations, the banks—everyone that had anything to get out of the government, or could be squeezed by politicians; the process was known as “frying out the fat.” The oilmen, having grabbed the big prize, were naturally a shining mark for all campaign committees, county, state and national. Dad and Mr. Roscoe received visits from Jake Coffey, and from the bosses of the state machine, and listened to hair-raising stories about the dangers of the situation.
It was necessary to persuade the American people that the Democratic administration for the past eight years had been wasteful and corrupt, ignorant and fatuous—and that was easy enough. But also it was necessary to persuade them that an administration by Senator Harding was likely to be better—and that was not so easy. Naturally, the chairmen of campaign committees wanted to make it appear as difficult as possible, for the more money that passed through their hands, the larger the amount that would stick. As the campaign drew to its close, Bunny had the satisfaction of hearing his father swearing outrageously, and wishing he had taken his son’s advice and left the destinies of his country to the soap manufacturer who had put up the millions for General Wood![2]
The Senator from Ohio was a large and stately and solemn-faced person, and conducted what was called by the newspapers a “front-porch campaign.” That is to say, he did not put himself out to travel on trains and meet people, but received deputations of the Hay and Feed Dealers of Duluth, or the Morticians of Osawatomie. They would sit in camp chairs upon his lawn, and the statesman would appear and read an imposing discourse, which had been written by a secretary of Vernon Roscoe’s selection, and given out to all the press associations the day before, so that it could be distributed over the wires and published simultaneously on fifty million front pages. That is a colossal propaganda machine, and the men who run it have to lose a lot of sleep. But the majestic candidate lost no sleep, he was always fresh and serene and impassive; he had been that way throughout his career, for the able businessmen who groomed him and paid his way had never failed to tell him what to do.
