The Final Hour

by Taylor Caldwell

  He lifted those gleaming and dancing black eyes of his and looked at Celeste, but spoke to his sister: ‘And when she saw Lancelot, not in the mirror, she died. And the mirror cracked from top to bottom and fell about her in a thousand silver splinters.’

  Annette was quite pale, but smiling. ‘Was she beautiful, the Lady of Shalott?’ she asked.

  ‘So beautiful that she was a legend,’ replied her brother, turning to her again. ‘I’m a fanciful devil, aren’t I, pet? Always the poet. Never mind. Don’t look away from the mirror. It will crack. It always cracks.’ He added, suddenly to Celeste: ‘Has your mirror cracked yet?’

  But she countered with a hard smile: ‘What do you call me, Antoine?’

  He stared at her meditatively, and pretended to concentrate upon her. ‘Once I would have called you “Innocents Abroad.” But, somehow, that doesn’t suit you now.’ He stretched out his hand and patted her on her shoulder, merrily, ‘I’ll find a name for you, don’t worry. Did anyone ever tell you you had eyes like delphiniums, Celeste? No, I’m wrong. They’re blue stones. Blue daggers. That’s better.’

  Celeste said, looking at him fixedly: ‘Do you know your own name? They call you “Understudy”’ She paused, and looked him up and down with deliberate contempt. ‘But, I don’t know. You see, my father, your grandfather, was a gentleman.’

  Antoine’s black eyes narrowed until they were gleaming slits in his brown and diabolic face. Celeste’s smile was unpleasant. She turned to Annette, whose distress was very marked.

  ‘Good-bye, darling,’ said Celeste, kissing her niece with sudden gentleness. ‘I’ll call you soon. You must have luncheon with me.’

  She left the room, walking swiftly and erectly. Antoine stared after her, with a virulent smile. Annette cried: ‘O Antoine! How could you be so cruel? Now, you have hurt her, when I love her so much. I’ve had such a time persuading her to come today, and now she won’t come again.’

  He sat down beside her, put his arm about her childish shoulders. He pressed her to him. Now he was very grave and sincerely quiet.

  ‘Pet, may I give you some advice? Keep away from Celeste. Let her alone. It will be best for both of you.’

  Celeste, moving with numb and awkward feet, got into her small car and deposited the roses beside her. She drove away down the winding parkway of Robin’s Nest, and then out into the hot and lonely road. Then she drew up under a great tree, stopped the car, rested her arms on the wheel. She stared before her with dry eyes for a long time, before she started the car again and returned home.

  She found Peter resting after his day of writing. He greeted her eagerly from his deep chair. But before kissing him she felt his forehead and his hot thin cheek. Her hand was gentle and anxious, and full of tenderness. She sat down near him, after placing Annette’s roses in deep water.

  He asked if she had enjoyed her day. But she saw that he was only being polite and affectionately solicitous. He wanted her to ask him about his work. She did so, and he leaned over to his table and took a sheaf of papers in his hand. Now his exhausted eyes were pathetic in their uncertain exultation.

  ‘It is very hard to condense things,’ he said. ‘It is a matter of sorting and weeding, choosing the highlights, discarding and curtailing. When I wrote my first book, I had a single theme: the making of wars by armaments manufacturers and their bought politicians. The field of their activities was necessarily narrow and well defined. The cleavage between nations was distinct. But now, there are no boundaries, no frontiers. Even in the field of industry, one concern extends into another in one large and intricate root-system of subsidiaries. The industrialists are now the real rulers of the world. I can’t narrow anything down. When I begin with the Bouchards, I find the root-system extending into the Bourse, the Reichsbank, the Bank of England, and then into the I.G. Farbenindustrie, and into a multitude of other industrial concerns all over Europe, all over the world. It is a sinister web. I pull on one small end, and the whole fabric moves. I would need to write a dozen books, and then it would only be the beginning.’

  Celeste took the sheaf of papers from him. She felt drained and sick to death. In a moment he would notice. She said, in a loud clear voice: ‘May I read this, dear? Now?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied, eagerly, and touchingly pleased. He watched her face as she read the closely written papers with every appearance of concentration. After a long time, she put them down and stared at him unseeingly.

  ‘The story is so horrible, so fantastic, that it won’t be believed, Peter. That is their safety: the enormity of the truth is incredible. Yes, I had an idea of it all, from what I have heard, and what you’ve told me. But even I find it incredible. How, then, will it be accepted by the people?’

  He leaned towards her with sudden passion. ‘In these days, Celeste, moderation is overlooked, prudence is boring. Everything is oversized, gigantic, clamouring. If I wrote with restraint, played down facts, droned on conservatively, the book would have no value, and no audience. As I said, I have highlighted the highlights, exhibited only the larger crimes, revealed only the larger criminals. Perhaps you think that sensational. But only the sensational attracts the attention of the American people. This isn’t a textbook on criminology, Celeste. It is an exposé. One doesn’t remember the revolutionary principles of Luther. One remembers best that he threw an ink-well at the devil.’

  Celeste laid down the sheaf of papers. ‘Will Georges publish this, Peter?’

  He hesitated, became gloomy. ‘I’m afraid not. But he gave me some advice. He suggested that I talk to the editor of Thomas Ingham’s Sons, in New York, Cornell Hawkins. You see, Georges has suddenly become squeamish about the Family. Besides, he’s getting old. And cautious.’ He added: ‘I’ll go to New York on Monday, and see Hawkins. Frankly, I haven’t much hope. I shall be told, of course, that American readers aren’t interested. Or rather, that American women aren’t interested. And American women compose the majority of the readers in this country. They prefer “simple love stories” and other trash, especially if there is an “adorable” heroine.’

  His voice had become thin and bitter. He pushed the papers away with a suddenly desperate hand, and then covered his eyes for a moment.

  ‘I would be interested,’ said Celeste. ‘Surely the American women, whose husbands and sons are to die, will also be interested. It is women, now, who listen to the voice crying in the wilderness. Men are too busy trying to make money. They’ll countenance anything if they are left in peace long enough to accumulate a bank account, or buy gadgets. It seems to me that gadgetry has replaced political interest in America. If the American colonists had been interested in a daily new flood of gadgets, we’d never have had a Revolution. Technological progress has killed the average man’s desire to participate in government.’

  ‘Because it panders to the average man’s childish love for toys,’ said Peter, with quickening urgency. ‘And playing with toys destroys adulthood, the capacity to think. You know, there might be a profound and sinister design in that.’

  Celeste was silent. She gazed through the broad bright windows. Only at sunset was Endur endurable. Then the empty grounds, devoid of foliage and other natural obstructions, offered a wide immensity of view, uncluttered, broad and solemn, of the western sky. That sky was now a lake of palpitating flame, in which floated the red and incandescent sun. The smooth and empty grass was touched with a rosy shadow, like a reflection of the heavens. On that side of the house, the cavalcade of pointed poplars stood against the scarlet sky, sharply black and motionless. The silence was huge, as if all life had been suspended.

  Celeste spoke hurriedly, in a light and toneless voice that was full of repressed pain: ‘Tomorrow let’s drive up to Placid Hills, Peter, and see how our house is coming along. I hate Endur. It’s like a desert. Besides, you’ve noticed that Edith and Christopher are in no hurry to go back to Florida. Edith hinted, this morning, that they might want to return to Endur. Of course, they’d be delighted to h
ave us as permanent guests, she said.’ Celeste’s mouth twisted with some bitterness. ‘I never could endure this place.’

  Peter hesitated. He was about to say that he wished to work tomorrow, and that he was not particularly interested in the rising house on Placid Heights. But something in Celeste’s voice kept him silent. For the first time he saw her clearly. For weeks, now, he had been so engrossed in his thoughts, in the plans for his book, that he had not really seen his wife. Now he was alarmed. He raised himself in his chair a little, and gazed searchingly at her profile. Was it only the stark and ominous sunset light that made her appear so thin, so ill, so distraught and pent? Her features were very sharp, almost pinched. There were mauve shadows under her broad cheekbones, and her lips, usually so blooming and full, were dry and pale. Her nostrils, always delicately flaring, were now so distended that it seemed as if she was perpetually striving for breath. He saw that her fingers were clenched together in attitude of determined self-control.

  ‘Celeste,’ he said, in alarm. ‘My dear, you look ill. What is the matter?’ He reached out and covered her taut hands with his own. He felt their hardness and coldness. But her smile, when she turned to him, was quite calm, full of tenderness. However, there was an opaqueness in her eyes, and she did not look at him directly.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong, darling. Perhaps I’m tired. It’s been so hot, you know. I can’t tell you how anxious I am for us to have a home of our own.’

  She stood up suddenly, gently pushing his hand away. She laughed a little, tensely. ‘Do you know something, Peter? I’m afraid I can’t stand seeing the Bouchards much more. They—smother me. That’s a horrible thing to say about one’s family, isn’t it? Antoine came in today, just when I was leaving Annette. He’s a horrible creature, full of innuendoes and malice. He never liked me, and I’m afraid now, that I hate him.’

  ‘“Innuendoes”?’ repeated Peter, slowly, looking at her intently. ‘What “innuendoes,” Celeste?’

  She was frightened. Peter’s eyes, fixed on her, were so clear and steady, so perceptive. She could not move or speak in her fear, and Peter’s regard seemed to strip her, to examine her. She looked at his emaciated and intellectual face, at his veined temples and thin light hair. He was defenceless, this good and honourable man, who loved her, and whom she had so betrayed. Who could compare with Peter? Peter, who thought never of himself, whose sole passion and concern was for all mankind, and its suffering, and its despair? She felt unclean, degraded, unfit to be seen by him. Remorse was a metallic heat in her mouth, a blazing pain in her heart, which she could not endure. She gazed at him speechlessly, her eyes wide with her torment, the sockets strained.

  ‘You mean, “innuendoes” about me?’ he went on. He smiled a little sadly. ‘Does that matter, darling? I never cared, you know. I don’t like Antoine. He reminded me, in a way, of your father, and Jules and I were always at odds. There, I’ve offended you,’ he added, as the torment increased in Celeste’s eyes.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Oh no, Peter. You could never offend me.’

  She dropped on her knees beside him, but did not touch him. Her look implored him, passionately, despairingly. He was both alarmed and puzzled. Then he smiled again, with infinite love, and gently touched her hair. She dropped her head to his knee, and was very still.

  CHAPTER XXII

  ‘No, you misunderstand me,’ said Peter, with that feverish urgency which was increasing in him. ‘I have tried to show that all this villainy, all this ruthless and rapacious plotting, all this interrelated industrial empire which knows no national boundaries, no loyalties, no idealism, does not operate apart from the rest of mankind. I have tried to show that it is the world’s indifference, private greed and stupidity, lack of humanitarian values, which has permitted, and is permitting, the growth of this industrial international empire which is bent on enslaving all other men. If these monsters and villains, these plotters, finally succeed—and I am ominously afraid they might—the guilt will lie with all men everywhere, not with only a few.

  ‘You have only to look at America. At one time, in the early days of the Republic, politics was the chief concern of the young American people. That is why we elected the Washingtons, the Adamses, the Jeffersons, the Jacksons, the Lincolns. Each candidate was scrutinized by his constituents. We had an illustrious parade of Presidents. But now we have abandoned politics to the politicians. Politics operate above and beyond the people, who don’t want to be disturbed, but wish to be left to enjoy their mean and childish sports and pleasures, and their multitudinous toys, which have been given them to distract their attention. Since Lincoln, what President have we had who was a nobleman, a statesman, a man concerned with the welfare of his people, and the welfare of the world? You might name Wilson, Mr. Hawkins. But it was the American politicians who killed him. Had the people been awake, aware, and not stupid and dull and entranced by the stock-market and easy little profits and toys, Wilson would have succeeded in his plans to regenerate the world, to awaken it to moral and spiritual responsibility for its neighbours. How can a hero succeed if his people are ignorant, selfish and blind and deaf? And, it is the plan of their new masters to keep them so. So it is that what is to happen to all mankind in the near future is the guilt of the American people, the British people, the French people, not only of the German people.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Mr Hawkins, ‘that the people create their own destroyers and oppressors?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Peter. He was silent a moment, pressing his hands on the brief-case which held part of his manuscript. His expression darkened. ‘And then, there is another matter, which I have thought of. In the early days of the Republic, the American people were a homogeneous race. They had inherited the political awareness and interest of their British forbears. And this, combined with the “high thinking and plain living” of the Puritans, gave them a sense of national responsibility and a universality of perception. They were the best of peoples: simple but intelligent men of idealism and rationality. They understood that the world could not live half-slave and half-free. That is why they enthusiastically supported and aided the French Revolution. For instance, if we had Negro slavery still in the South, I doubt very much that the American people could be aroused, in these days, to indignation, to a crusade against that slavery.

  ‘Why? Because we are no longer spiritually homogeneous. A great part of our population is composed of immigrants from slave-nations, who have bequeathed their slave philosophy, their spiritual ignorance and sloth, to their children. Education in our public schools has not enlightened them, or increased their passion for freedom, for American ideals. The children of dull German slaves. Slav peasants, Italian starvelings, cannot have in themselves the burning joy in liberty. They cannot, and never will, feel that bright enthusiasm for the rights of man which the early Americans found the most precious thing in life. They did not come to America, as did the American Colonists and Puritans, because they could no longer endure the antagonism of Europe toward their single—hearted hatred for oppression, their desire for freedom. They came to eat, to devour, to ravish, to destroy. And, to betray.’

  He added, sombrely: ‘When the final testing hour arrives for America, how can this slave-mob be aroused to defend our country, to die for it, if necessary? In the hour of our danger, is it not possible that this mob, through the influence of their priests, their masters, their exploiters, will desert, betray and destroy us?’

  ‘That’s a gloomy prospect,’ remarked Mr Hawkins, thoughtfully. ‘You believe it could happen, Mr Bouchard?’

  ‘Certainly. You have only to look at our various foreign-invented organizations. The German-American Bund. The various Italian Fascist organizations. The “White” Ukrainians. The organizations which have given aid and comfort to Franco. What will these do in the final hour? How can the American people survive them? They have bought members of our State Department. They are financed by our great financiers and industrialists. As the tempo rises, aft
er war is declared in Europe, they will become more active, and more dangerous. And as they do so, the people will become more apathetic, more isolationist, more disunified. That is our danger.’

  Mr Cornell Hawkins was silent. He leaned back in his ancient swivel-chair and stared at Peter with his frosty blue eyes. This descendant of New England Puritans, of disciples of Thoreau, of Emerson, was a lean and lanky man in his fifties, grey, hard and thoughtful. His quiet and reflective face, rather pale and sunken, expressed a greatness of intellect which already had acquired fame among scholars and artists. His was not the showiness and brilliance of lesser and more explosive men. His intellect had that spareness, that starkness and cold austerity, of a New England landscape seen under clear winter skies. There was no fuzziness, no confusion, no doubt, in his quiet and penetrating eye, the colour of shadows in the hollows of snow. He possessed that stillness, that awareness, that patrician detachment, which is the sign of the aristocrat. His smile was slow and wry, but gentle; his speech, low and hesitating, but pungent. He laughed only silently, and infrequently, and then his disillusioned mirth lit only his eyes with a brighter and bluer gleam.

  He was both disingenuous and kind, thoughtful and wary, courteous and unswerving. He had the aristocrat’s indifference to sartorial elegance, that mark of the plebeian. He rarely removed his somewhat battered hat, and he had no poses. His hand, eternally holding a smoking cigarette, was lean and beautifully formed. When he heard a phrase that interested or stirred him, all his gaunt features came alive, touched with cold light, brilliant with real pleasure.

  Peter, as he sat at the untidy desk of this great and renowned editor, felt peace. His urgency was no longer hot and confused. He was understood. His incoherencies became coherent under that kind if icy eye. He believed that his fumbling words were disregarded, that his thought was perceived. The dusty windows of the large bare office let in a flood of summer sunshine, sparkling with golden motes. Here was no pretence, no thick rugs and fine furniture to impress the vulgar. Heaps of manuscripts lay on the splintered desk, overflowing ashtrays, disorderly piles of letters, scattered pens and pencils. The floor was grimy, and discoloured. Chairs with squeaking legs were thrust back against the mildewed walls. Yet, out of this disorder, this untidiness and indifference to elegance, had come some of the world’s finest and noblest literature. There was an air about this man, in this casual room filled with stark hot sunlight, of greatness and simplicity. One knew instinctively that the veriest tyro of a frightened author would be accorded the same courtesy and consideration as the most gilded and popular writer who could boast ten or twenty ‘large printings.’