The Lusitania Murders Read Free

passengers,” Rumely put in, “might react similarly, if they happen to know of our man’s acid reputation.”
    McClure said to Rumely, as if I were not present, “Is he aware of the other potential interviewees?”

    “I thought we would discuss that after you’ve taken your leave, Sam,” Rumely said.
    McClure had already announced that his attendance at our little gathering would be abbreviated, as he was meeting with his wife and a group of theater-goers to attend D.W. Griffith’s new moving picture, Birth of a Nation , at the Liberty Cinema on Forty-second Street. It was said the show elevated that nickelodeon novelty to the level of art—which I sincerely doubted, though I did relish the thought of the theater’s new cooling system, as stifling summer months lay ahead.
    “Just so we understand each other,” McClure said, his hard gaze travelling from Rumely to me. “I suppose you know that I consider myself a Progressive.”
    “I do,” I said, and I did—from backing Teddy Roosevelt to extolling the virtues of health foods, McClure was if anything a freethinker.
    “So is my friend Edward here,” McClure went on, and placed a hand on the bulldog’s shoulder. “We share many interests. . . . We met when my son was attending the Montessori school Edward ran for a time in LaPorte, Indiana . . . Edward agrees with my current campaign, for example, to form an international organization that would guarantee peace among all nations, world round.” *
    “How interesting,” I said, not really caring. Politics were anathema to me.
    “You see, my sympathies in the current struggle are with Great Britain . . . and Edward’s are with Germany. As reasonable men who can agree to disagree, we havestruck a bargain—the News will air both points of view, but ban the propaganda of both.”
    “I wish more newspapers would take a neutral position on the war,” I said. “I’m appalled by these crude British-slanted atrocity stories—Belgium children mutilated, women raped, shopkeepers murdered . . . tasteless rabble-rousing trash.”
    “I agree wholeheartedly,” McClure said. “But I will not tolerate a pro-German point of view, either . . . is that understood, sir?”
    So that was the real heart of tonight’s matter.
    “I will take the same neutral stance as the News, ” I assured him.
    He took a final sip from his stein. Too casually, he said, “I have learned that a book of yours is about to be published.”
    I shifted in my chair. “That is true.”
    “ The Teachings of Nietzsche ? Huebsch is bringing it out, I take it.”
    “Actually, sir, it’s entitled What Nietzsche Taught  . . . and much in your tradition, I seek only to guide the general reader to a better understanding of an important philosopher’s much-maligned, much-misunderstood writings.”
    He dabbed a napkin at himself, cleansing his mouth and mustache of beer foam. “There are those who say Nietzsche is to blame, in some degree, for this war—that he was the Prophet of the Iron Fist and the Teutonic Superman . . . the enemy of common, decent people.”
    “Which is why my book is so important, Mr. McClure. Nietzsche wasn’t interested in the acquisition of land for the state, or glory for the Kaiser . . . but in each man’s ability to find within himself strength, confidence,exuberance and affirmation in life . . . a life intensified to its highest degree, charged with beauty, power, enthusiasm. . . .”
    I didn’t realize it, but I was sitting forward now, my voice raised somewhat, and what seemed at first an awkward silence followed . . . until McClure’s grim countenance broke into an unexpected grin.
    “I like the sound of that,” he admitted. “And I like your spirit . . . and your mastery of the English language.” He gathered his coat and hat, stood and offered me his hand, which I shook. He shook hands with his publisher, and then pressed through the bustle of waiters and patrons,