The Sound of Thunder

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Very necessary, Margaret.” He paused. “How’re Castor and Pollux getting along?”

  “Lively. Your mother has been keeping me company this afternoon.”

  There was a pause. Then he said a strange thing, as if involuntarily, “That’s good. My mother is a wise woman.” Apparently he was surprised at his own words, for he went on in a different tone, “That is, she isn’t as stupid as the rest of the family.”

  Margaret smiled. “He who calls his brother a fool is in danger of hell-fire.” He was tired; she could hear it in his voice. She wanted to cheer him. But he said with grimness, “I’m in it already. Never mind, dear. Don’t worry.” He gave her the name of the hotel in which he usually stayed in Cleveland. “I’m within reach,” he added.

  “I don’t expect you to be away for a month,” she said. “Is it one of the shops?”

  “Two of them,” he said.

  At four o’clock that afternoon he had called George Enreich. That was an hour ago. He had received a telegram from his local manager in Cleveland. Then he had called George Enreich.

  “Two shops this time,” he had said, trying to keep his voice level though his heart was a sickening pain in his chest. “Cleveland. You can’t explain it away this time as you did the Pittsburgh shops, the Albany shops, and the Chicago shops. Jealous and frightened independent grocers and butchers, or hooligans, or thieves. No, no, not this time.”

  George said coldly, “I never believed it myself, my Eddie. The first, yes, but not the others. However, I hoped it would not spread. It is your Committee, naturally.”

  “I know it, but I can’t believe it, George. The Green and White Stores aren’t identified with me. My name doesn’t appear on the letterheads, I’m not known personally in Cleveland or the other cities, to anybody. No one knows we own those shops—”

  “No?” said George, in that same cold voice. “Do not be naïve, Eddie. It is true that only we know the facts, and not even the newspapers. But, my Eddie, the enemy has a thousand eyes and a thousand ears. You are dangerous to them, in their time plan of involving America in that war. How much have you spent so far of your own money in newspaper advertisements, in the name of the Save America Committee? At least twenty-five thousand dollars, is it not? Yes. You have written the advertisements, yes, and they are eloquent. Many times they have been quoted in editorials, in anger or approval. Do you not think the sleepless enemy would make it their affair to discover who was the power behind the Save America Committee?”

  “But I sent in those advertisements in that name, not mine!”

  “So,” said George.

  “Then, I have spies somewhere.”

  “No,” said George. “You underestimate our foes. Who could tell them? I know and William knows, and that tragic Irishman, Padraig. Are you accusing one of us?” He chuckled sourly. “Your advertisements have been paid for in cash, by the banks, who are notoriously discreet, and who themselves do not know you are the donor. Yet eight shops, in different cities, have had their fine plate windows smashed, their products fouled, their tables overturned, the tins opened and emptied. It is a design; it is a warning to you that you can not stop them. Your insurance company has been unpleasant; you have been reimbursed only a fraction of your loss. Eddie, I did not approve of your Committee, though I gave you money. As a matter of friendship. Principle, have you said? But there are few men of principle; the enemy is ubiquitous. Are you to take my advice and desist?”

  “No,” said Edward, wrathfully. “I can stand this. I am going to Cleveland tonight.”

  Now George was alarmed. “It must not be so! You will finally lose concealment. It is true that the foe knows who you are, but do the populace? You will have boycotts to add to your loss.”

  “The American people don’t want war and you know it, George. Most of the letters in the correspondence columns of the newspapers approve my advertisements. So do most of the editorials. It won’t matter if they know, at last.”

  “It will,” said George. “For surely we will go to war with Germany. Tomorrow, next month, next year. But surely we will go. And in the meantime the press is being harassed by men in Washington. Has your Hans not told you? Yes. The press, in the main, is resisting. Newspapers are very jealous of their freedom. But in the end they will succumb, especially if there is a terrible incident. Be certain the incident is being prepared. I have seen signs of it. The German Embassy is pleading with Americans not to go to Europe on British boats, for it accuses the British of carrying contraband in the holds, for our so-neutral country, our so-peace-loving country, has men who manufacture that contraband for a profit, and other more powerful men who want war with Germany for their own ancient and sinister purposes. But do the Americans not sail? Ach, yes. ‘It is fun, it is exciting, it is bold and daring,’ say these fools. They love to be convoyed by British destroyers; they love shrieking that they have sighted a submarine, a U-boat, in the distance; they use binoculars; they prance in exuberance and pass the binoculars to their wives. And the British captains smile darkly. Tell me, my dear American Eddie, why are your countrymen so stupid?”

  “They aren’t,” said Edward, doggedly. “Very few of them.”

  “There is another thing,” said George, ignoring his remark. “When the incident comes, then you will not be an American at all. I have read a few hints in the more vociferous newspapers. There is a name they are calling: the hyphenated American, the German-American. That, you will be called, and your Committee remembered, and teachery attributed to you. Have you not been reading the national newspapers? Have you not seen some of the cartoons? The Kaiser is being depicted as a cannibal; Germans are being depicted as swine-headed monsters. Only here and there, tentatively. But there. It is called the new name—propaganda. But the thing is old, old as the ostrakismos of Greece. My Eddie, I am not a young man; I dislike the shell being placed against me.”

  Now Edward could not contain his fury. “Perhaps,” he shouted, “you’d like not only to stop donating to the Committee, in the name of America, but would like to pull out of all the shops, too?”

  An instant later he was sorry for losing his wild temper. And then, incredibly, he heard George say, “It is possible. Have you my quarter of a million dollars available at this time?”

  Edward jerked the receiver from his ear and stared at it blankly. Then, with a suddenly wet hand, he put it back to his ear. He could only mouth stammering words incoherently. George went on, “It is more than a quarter of a million. There is my next quarter of profits, twenty-five per cent. Yet I am willing to lose future profits. You have only to return the money I have advanced.”

  Edward was silent. He had been planning for a long time to get George out of the business. But the plans had been for the future. Not just now, when he was more heavily in debt than ever, because of the Green and White Stores. He had thought of ten years, fifteen years. Then he would manipulate cleverly. There was a thick congestion in his throat as if his heart had risen there and were bleeding. More than anything else that affected him was George’s ruthless repudiation of their friendship, his casting off of Edward as one would cast off something that had become perilous and noxious. A worthless acquaintance who was now unstable and held in contempt. (Edward forgot in his extremity the fact that he had been planning to relieve himself of the twenty-five per cent paid out to his old friend—in the possible future.) Worst of all, in repudiating Edward, he was repudiating America.

  He said in a dwindled voice, “And you don’t care about helping my country at all?”

  “No,” said George, emphatically. “No, I do not. And why, you will ask, when this country has been ‘good’ to me, as you might sentimentally say? I have worked; in my own fashion I have returned the benefits, if they were benefits. But America will be willingly, and joyfully, through propaganda, prepared to destroy me—as a hyphenated American. When the time comes. So I cannot any longer be connected with the Committee.” He paused. “And with you, Eddie! My quarter of a million d
ollars—”

  Edward closed his eyes on a spasm. Then he said, “One time, long ago, you gave me a gold pen, engraved with the words ‘For the stalwart’—”

  “Yes. But I am not ready to be destroyed with the stalwart. I have told you. I am not young. I love my life and what it gives me.” He laughed, a short harsh laugh. “For that, I will be the American patriot; I will hate the German when I am bidden to hate him. I am a man. I have worked hard. For the years that remain for me I will enjoy myself. Shall I destroy all this, fruitlessly, when America goes mad also? I am not a man to carry banners in a cause already dead.”

  Enormously ill and trembling, Edward said weakly, “You believe the cause is dead. How can you believe that of America?”

  “Because it is true. If not today, then tomorrow. You will see. Are Americans less vulnerable than other nations? No. They are even more vulnerable, because they lack cynicism. They never doubt the invincibility of truth; they are simple. And what they will believe, to them will be the truth. It is the mark of an innocent man. Yet innocent men can be destroyers—in the name of the truth which will be manufactured cunningly for them.”

  Edward, out of his numb shock, could only say, “I love my country.”

  “Love her, my Eddie. She will destroy you—in the name of truth. I have warned you. And so I ask, when may I have my money?”

  Edward did not speak for a few moments. Then he said quietly, “When I am prepared to return it to you, and not a minute before. I am the one to decide that. There’s no clause in our contract that binds me to any specific date.”

  George said, almost sadly, “But there is a clause which states that I, if I am not satisfied, may give you six months’ notice. I am giving you that notice now. I will withdraw it—if you halt your Committee.”

  Edward clenched the receiver. His cold dry lips formed the words: “I will not halt the Committee. You may sue me, if you want to, but remember, if you do, I shall give the whole story to the press.”

  “If I sue,” said George, “it will be at an appropriate moment. When the American people have absorbed enough lies, as they surely will. When did ever a people not prefer lies to truth?”

  Edward’s head was shattering in a splintering thunder. “I can’t betray my country. You are asking too much. I have to live with myself.”

  “A man can always live with himself when he has convinced himself that he had acted sensibly. It is a matter of delusion, and such a delusion is not hard. It is really very easy, my Eddie, as is all self-interest.”

  Edward’s grief was almost too much for him, but he said steadily, almost imploringly—and the money did not matter now, “You have always been my friend, and for years you were the only friend I had, George. You have been like a father to me.”

  George said, kindly, and his own voice changed, “I am still that, Eddie. My sole wish is that you do not destroy yourself, that you think of yourself. Do you think this is a matter of no moment to me?”

  Edward’s eyes roved desperately and blindly about his office. Finally he said, “I shall some way find that money for you. And never again will I speak to you or think of you. I’ll wipe you out of my mind, George.”

  He took the receiver from his ear and ignored George’s urgent voice that cried in it. He replaced the receiver, put his elbows on his desk and his hands over his eyes. He was so undone that his whole body felt paralyzed. He had broken with George Enreich, finally, irrevocably. He had done that for America, but still it was a thing too terrible to bear. Then he was full of terror. George would not have said what he had said if he had not been convinced of the truth. He would not have cut Edward off—if he had not tried to save him, and had failed. No, God, said Edward in the first prayer he had offered in many years. No, God. Preserve my country; save her. Give her peace; don’t take her hope and her belief in the moral law from her. She is good and generous and vast, and her simplicity is noble. Don’t abandon her to international plotters, who want to destroy her and overthrow her and enslave and corrupt her. I love my country; I would give my life for her, to preserve her. I would give my life to uphold her principles. I would give my life …

  There was something from Shakespeare; he could not, just now, in his awful confusion and devastation, recall the source. It was something about an English general, pleading with his king that all was lost, and that their armies must retreat. But the king had remained on the battlefield and had won a great victory. The general returned in joy to congratulate him. The king had said with powerful loathing, “Hang yourself, brave Crillon. We fought at Arques. And you were not there.”

  Edward said to himself, in a fainting, childish promise, I must look up the quotation. I must find it. It seemed of the most tremendous importance to him.

  George, in his own office, wiped slow and unfamiliar tears from his cheeks and then cursed himself. After some moments of thought he called New York. There was a long and exasperating delay until he was connected with William MacFadden. George said, in a voice that was hoarse and halting, “William. Eddie must be stopped from going to the press.” He gave William a quick outline of’ what had been said between him and Edward, and William said, “The bucko is daft.”

  George said, “He will call in the press and reveal himself and appeal to what he believes is the American conscience and American indignation—for he loves his country. I must ask you to go to Cleveland at once, in the name of our affection for him.… You sound cheerful. I assure you, my friend, that this is no occasion for cheerfulness. Ah, you have news? Good. But take it to Cleveland; I have made inquiries. There is a train at eleven o’clock; it will bring you from New York to Cleveland in time. He does not know that whatever he does now will do no good. In the end, if he destroys himself, it will do no good.”

  Maria showed no signs of leaving Margaret alone, as usual, for her late afternoon coffee and little cakes. The house was very silent. Only Sylvia remained of the children. Ralph and Violette were in Mexico, a long way, Margaret would reflect complacently. Sylvia, at this moment, was brooding in her own room; she preferred tea and her own company. Since almost a year ago she had shown only the slightest interest in her theater, which Edward had bought for her at such expense. She had delegated her duties, in the name of invalidism, to a young and vigorous woman who was bringing successful plays to Waterford. But Margaret was puzzled by the fact that Sylvia was almost always engaged with mysterious large pads of paper, paint, and pencils. Was it possible that Sylvia was trying to attract the attention of prominent producers in New York? If so, Margaret would think, I hope she succeeds and will leave this house permanently.

  Pierre brought in the silver tray which held a steaming coffee pot, cups and saucers, and a plate of dainty cakes. Margaret noticed the two cups. She had not requested the extra cup. But Maria was tranquilly pouring, a little to Margaret’s vexation. She liked this, twilight hour alone. Then she was ashamed of her annoyance. It had been very good of Maria, and most unusual for her, to devote all this afternoon to her daughter-in-law, leaving even her husband and not visiting Sylvia. Is it possible she really likes me? Margaret asked herself with discomfort. Is it possible that she likes anybody, coming down to it?

  “The coffee is strong and hot,” Maria said approvingly. “Is it cream and sugar for you, Margaret?” Then she looked fully at the girl and said, “I have told nobody. But my mother’s name was Marguerite. It is a name I love. If the children are girls, perhaps you would consider naming one of them Marguerite Gertrude, my mother’s full name?”

  Margaret was touched. “No one likes her own name,” she said frankly. “So I would not want to call a girl by mine. But Gertrude shall be the name of one, if both are girls.”

  “My father’s name was Robert,” said Maria. “You will have this napoleon?”

  I’m sure they know their sex, and who they are, thought Margaret, dreamily. But I, their mother, don’t know a thing about them. Oh, I’m getting mystical! The stab of pain in her side came again, and she winc
ed and cowered a little, under Maria’s alert eyes. But the children were not expected for another month; this must just be another of the discomforts a mother must suffer. When a great pain seemed to crush her back for a moment or two, she trembled. It was a while before she could straighten up. Then her forehead was moist, and a trickle of water ran between her shoulder blades. The fire on the hearth seemed, suddenly, too hot, and the air in the room too oppressive.

  Pierre entered the room silently, and the women started. “I am sorry, Madame,” he said to Maria. “I ought to have knocked. But Mr. David has returned. I have just conducted him to his room. He wishes to join the ladies, if they have no objection.”

  “David!” exclaimed Maria, and her puffy face colored with pleasure. “He said nothing! He did not send a telegram!” She rose, and her black dress rustled. “Send him in at once, Pierre.”

  David! Margaret was all sick confusion and embarrassment. But she thought, for all our sakes I must be casual and friendly. Besides, David has probably forgotten me entirely by this time. She set her face in an appearance of pleased and sisterly expectation, though her color rose, and her inner embarrassment moistened the palms of her hands. She was hardly aware of another wave of pain in her back.

  David, smiling, came into the room, and his mother went to him and put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his face. “My son,” she said gently. She rarely, if ever, had kissed her children, even when they had been very young, and they did not expect it. But her eyes caught the slightest nuances of their expressions, the slightest involuntary gesture. David, in turn, put his hands on his mother’s arms, lightly. She was almost as tall as he, and they exchanged an eloquent glance in which everything was asked and everything answered, as much as David permitted himself to answer in that poignant silence.

  Margaret’s first thought was that David seemed excessively thin and very haggard and that his once-arrogant profile with the aquiline nose had softened and matured. The girl felt a rush of sadness for him, remembering his kindness and devotion and his love, which had asked nothing of her but had only wanted to give. She was no longer much perturbed; she wished she knew what to do for this young man. Part of her feeling was based on his very faint resemblance to Edward, and part on her real affection for him. She did not resent, very much, his air of dignity and elegance, his quick but harmonious movements which came from some inner assurance.