Oil (filmed as There Will Be Blood) (46 page)

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 Schmolsky's 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 afterwards, 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 worth while 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 enfuriated 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 sombre. "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 1

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 oil men, 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. 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 oil men, 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! 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 Os-sawotomie. 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 business men who groomed him and paid his way had never failed to tell him what to do. Bunny now dwelt upon an Olympian height, looking down as a god upon the affairs of pitiful mortals. Dad and Mr. Roscoe let him hear everything—being sure that common sense would win in the end, and he would accept their point of view. They had a philosophy which protected them like a suit of chain-mail against all hesitations and doubts. The affairs of the country had to be run by the men who had the money and brains and experience; and since the mass of the people had not sense enough to grant the power freely, the mass of the people had to be bamboozled. "Slogans" must be invented, and hammered into their heads, by millions, yes, billions of repetitions. It was an art, and experts knew how to do it, and you paid them—but by Jees, the price made you sweat blood! The tremendous campaign came to an end, and it was revealed that 16,140,585 Americans had been successfully bamboozled. Senator Harding had seven million more votes than the Democratic candidate, the greatest plurality ever polled in American history. So there were shouting mobs on the streets, and in the expensive restaurants and clubs where the rich celebrated, everybody got hilariously drunk. Yes, even Vernon Roscoe got drunk, because Annabelle was too drunk to stop him; Vee Tracy defied her doctor, and Dad forgot his resolutions, and even Bunny drank enough to make him fear for his idealism. Man is a gregarious animal, and it is hard not to do what everybody you know is doing!

II

Christmas had come, and the quail were calling from the hills at Paradise. There were not so many on the tract, but there was plenty of adjacent land over which an oil prince and his royal sire were welcome to shoot. And once you were out of sight of the derricks, and out of smell of the refinery, it was the same beautiful country, with the same clear sky and golden sunsets, and you could get the poisons of bootleg liquor out of your blood, and the embarrassing memories out of your soul. Tramping these rocky hills, drawing this magical air into your lungs, it was impossible to think that men would not some day learn to be happy! This visit corresponded with a great historic event, which put Paradise upon the map of California. Eli Watkins, prophet of the Lord, had completed the payments for the land upon which his tabernacle in Angel City was to stand, and he celebrated this event by coming back to the scenes of his boyhood, the little frame temple where the Third Revelation had been handed down to mankind, and there holding a novel and interesting performance of his own invention, known as a "Bible Marathon." You see, Eli had read in the papers about Marathon races, and though he didn't know what the word meant, it was romantic-sounding, and he had a fondness for strange words. So the disciples of the First Apostolic Church of Paradise announced that a "Bible Marathon" consisted in reading the Lord's Holy Word straight through without a single pause; they would be told off in relays, and day and. night there would be a little group in the church, and one voice after another would take up the sacred task, regardless of oil wells "on the pump" just outside the door. This was Big Magic. Not only did it thrill the believers, and bring swarms of people to town, but it caught the fancy of the newspapers, and they rushed reporters to write up the event. Many new miracles were wrought, and many crutches hung up; and in the midst of the excitement the Lord vouchsafed a fresh sign of His mercy—Eli, preaching to the throngs outside, announced in the Lord's name that if the reading were completed, Divine Omnipotence would cause the rest of the money to be offered, and the Angel City tabernacle would be erected within a year. After that, of course, nothing could stop the "Marathon," and the epoch-making feat was accomplished in the time of four days, five hours, seventeen minutes, and forty-two and three-quarter seconds—glory hallelujah, praise the Lord! Bunny saw the shouting thousands with their heads bared, their faces uplifted and a searchlight playing upon them; for Eli had money now, and used it for spectacular effects. His "silver band" was mounted upon a platform with electric lights shining upon the instruments; and the prophet would exhort, and then wave his hand, and the musicians would blare forth an old gospel tune, and the crowd would burst into a mighty chorus, and sway and stamp, their souls transported to glory, the tears running down their cheeks. There were many wives of oil workers among the audience, and these would plead and pray, and persuade their husbands to attend. There is not much for a man to do out in a lonely place like Paradise; a third-rate movie was the only form of amusement— and here were the bright lights and the silver trumpets and the heavenly raptures, all free—and with a gambler's chance of heaven thrown in! No wonder many of the men "fell for it"; and Paul and his little bunch of rebels insisted that the employers had hired Eli to come there at this critical time, while the struggle to save the union was impending. Bunny would have thought the idea exaggerated—but then he remembered that five hundred dollars his father had given to Eli! Also, he remembered a remark of Vernon Roscoe at the Monastery—"They can have their pie in the sky, so long as they let me have the oil." Annabelle had given a frightened exclamation, "Hush, Verne! What a horrid thing to say!" For Annabelle knew that the heavenly powers are jealous, and liable to cruel whims. The "wobblies" also were trying to stir the revival spirit in their members, and use the power of song. But feeble indeed was the singing in the "jungles," compared with the mighty blast of Eli's silver trumpets, and the hosannas of his hosts. The operators were not subsidizing the "wobblies," you bet! They had sent their sheriff, and a score of deputies, carrying shotguns loaded with buckshot, and raided the camping place of the rebels, and loaded eleven of them into a motor truck and locked them up in the county jail. There they were now, and Bunny had to hear the tragic tale of Eddie Piatt, one of Paul's friends, who had gone down to San Elido to find out what the bail was, and had been locked up on suspicion of being a member of the outlaw organization. He wasn't, but how could he prove it? Ruth, who told Bunny about it, wanted to know if Dad wouldn't put up the money to bail him out. Did Bunny remember him, a dark-haired young fellow, very quiet, determined-looking? Yes, Bunny remembered him. Well, he was as trust-worthy as a Jewish garment worker, and the food they gave you in that terrible place was full of worms, and the boys hadn't even a blanket to cover them. It was planned to railroad them all to San Quentin, and Paul knew one of the "politicals" who had just come out of there, and oh, the most horrible stories—the tears came into Ruth's eyes as she told how they put the men to work in the jute mill, and the brown stuff filled their lungs, and presently they were coughing, it was the same as a death-sentence. When they could not stand the labor, they were beaten and thrown into the "hole"—and think of fellows that you knew and cared for having to go through such things! Bunny knew the sheriff of San Elido county, and also the district attorney, and knew that Dad had named these officials, and could give them orders. But would Dad butt in on their efforts to protect the oil companies? Would he go against the wishes of all the other directors, executives and superintendents of Ross Consolidated? No, assuredly he would not! All that Bunny could do was to give Ruth a couple of hundred dollars, with which to get food for the prisoners. He went back to take up his work at the university; and inside himself there was a "hole," and his conscience would drag him to it, protesting and resisting in vain, and throw him in, and shut a steel door behind him with a terrifying clang. Yes, even when Bunny was up in the snow-white room with the ivy vines wreathing the window, even while he held in his arms the eager body of his beloved—even then the prison door would clang, and he would be in a tank of the county jail with the "class-war prisoners"!