The Final Hour

by Taylor Caldwell

  ‘Let me think about it for a moment,’ said Henri, in a curiously stifled voice. ‘The trust fund has already been created? And I now have power of attorney?’

  He stood up, and began to walk up and down the room. The nostrils of his short and powerful nose had dilated, because breathing had become so difficult. Exultation filled him like a bright and expanding gas, threatening to burst its confines. He could not believe it. He lifted his head and clenched his fists. Now, he had everything, and not merely by the grace of Armand Bouchard. His power had been the slothful Armand’s, only. Now, it was his own.

  He stopped by Armand’s chair and looked down at the fat and shapeless bulk sprawled in it. Armand’s face was lifted. It wore an expression of complete peace and content. The eyes were closed, Henri, who had been about to speak, was silent. He slowly and thoughtfully bit his index finger.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Peter’s book was developing with feverish rapidity and fluid ease. He was like a man who works swiftly and anxiously the while the sky darkens and he glances over his shoulder at the first intimations of thunder, and the first red flashes of lightning. Despite his reason, which told him that men rarely cogitate, almost never understand, he had that intoxicating faith of the crusading author that the printed word might divert the fury and calm the ignorant passions of mankind. Only when he wrote like this did he even for a moment believe that the pen was mightier than the sword. Was it not Voltaire’s pamphlets which had destroyed the oppressors of France? Was it not his word that had overthrown the golden throne and set up the guillotine in the market-places? Behind the cry of his written and impassioned sentences came the rumble of the tumbrils and a whole continent awoke from its slumbering lethargy at the blazing trumpet of his soul.

  Then Peter experienced bottomless despair. A nation enchanted by baseball and comic strips, by painted Hollywood trollops and automobiles, could not possibly feel the ancient and mystical urge of an ideal. Such a nation is by nature timid and conservative, suspicious and dull, easily hating the weak, easily submissive to the strong. Only among the New Englanders, perhaps, and among the decaying aristocracy of the Southern States, could there be found a man similar in feature and mind to the noblest forbears.

  Should he awaken and disturb such men (and how few there were in America), what could they do? For the first time in his life Peter had a sickening doubt of democracy, where the voice of the ox is as important as the voice of the wise man. He might arouse a hundred thousand enlightened men to the terrible danger that was blowing up like a hurricane over the rooftops of the world. They might rise up, crying aloud. What could they do, in a nation of one hundred and thirty millions of dolts and ignoramuses who would gape without comprehension at stern and portentous faces, and listen apishly to warning cries? He had no illusion that these few men possessed any considerable power in America in politics and in public places. American democracy, itself, held ability and mental aristocracy suspect, was inimical to superiority, and placed in power only those gross charlatans, those bumbling clowns, those sly and inferior minds, that most resembled the majority of the people.

  All his adult life Peter had disliked the policy of the Roman Church, which had apparently kept millions in mental serfdom, and elevated only a few (in those countries in which it was potent) to positions of power and authority. Now he began to wonder if the Church was not possessed of a subtle and ancient wisdom, and if it did not fully understand that the majority of men are still in the dark dawn of civilization, and that any attempt to thrust them into the full light of significant history threw a whole world out of perspective and made for grotesque chaos and fury and misery.

  But, fascism was not the answer to the bewildered and brutish ignorance which seemed so integral a part of democracy. Nor was the passionate affirmation of foolish idealists that men needed only bookish ‘education’ to make them walk on their hind legs, valid and adequate, or even intelligent. What, then, was the answer? How could a way be found so that superior men, of integrity, compassion, purity of mind and heart, subtlety and ability, would be elected to fill the powerful halls of Congress and the seats of authority? The greatest obstacle was that such men lacked that theatrical dash, that roaring basso, that agile buffoonery, that cheap and colourful noisiness, so beloved of the masses.

  At these thoughts, Peter’s pen would grow so heavy in his thin fingers that it would drop impotently to his desk, and he would stare wretchedly into space for a long time. Impotence would paralyze all his muscles. There was really no solution, he thought. Many brilliant men had acknowledged this, with sadness. His warning of danger would be heeded only by those who already knew the danger. And they, too, were impotent.

  He would tell Celeste of his thoughts. She would listen gravely, mutely. Then one day she said to him: ‘You can only do what you can. And if every intelligent man did what he could, it would be of value, whether he was a clerk in some obscure office or a philosopher in a great university, or a single politician, or a lone industrialist. It’s your job, Peter, to make them see this value, and how, in the aggregate, they might have considerable potency. Even minorities can have some measure of strength.’

  Peter’s egotism as an author, the desire for power which lurks even in the most selfless men, his despair and feeling of inadequacy, were not comforted at this observation. But, it was all he could do. Perhaps the imponderabilities of chance might operate sufficiently to place a few scattered men in positions of authority and power. It was his only hope. He recalled that a few Senators and Congressmen, a few politicians, were already as aware as he of the blackening danger, and though they were attacked as ‘war-mongers, internationalists and interventionists,’ by the suborned press and by crafty enemies of the people, they would not be silenced. He must show them the way, must encourage and hearten them.

  He continued to write.

  In his preoccupation, he was only vaguely and irritably aware that Celeste was becoming excessively pale and silent and abstracted. He was not of a gregarious nature, but he suddenly became conscious that he and his wife rarely accepted any invitations, never took small vacations, or had any other diversions. He remembered, too, that while he and Celeste had lived with Annette and Henri, Celeste was almost always absent and attending some festivity. Now, she lived immured with him in that horrible Endur.

  So it was that one hot August morning, Peter felt that life had become, all at once, acutely unbearable. He had listened for hours to the excited and ominous stream of voices pouring over the radio, crackling with rumours, with accounts of the gathering of German divisions near the Polish border, with the pompous statements of American ‘authorities,’ and the fearful whimperings of cowards. A flat and crushing sense of despondency, of dry weariness, of aversion and disgust, overwhelmed and stupefied him, rendering him unable to think, and awakening in him a passionately hungry desire for some refreshment, some little gaiety and release. All the vague pains and prostrations of his illness came back to him, and though he did not recognize it as such, the last hopeless surging of the will-to-live tormented him.

  He dressed with trembling fingers, conscious of his nameless urgency, his sick desire for escape. When Celeste, as usual, came with his breakfast tray, she was surprised to find him dressed, and standing near the window, looking out with restless gloom at the blazing expanse of grass. The tall poplars of Endur were bending like giant plumes in the hot summer wind, ruffling and whitening and tossing. He closed his eyes for a moment and turned to his wife.

  ‘No,’ he said, irritably. ‘I’m not such a damned invalid.’ He added, more gently: ‘I’ll go down with you, darling. I can’t write today. In fact, I might say: I can’t write.’ He tried to smile.

  Celeste said nothing. She laid the tray on the bedside table, then straightened and scrutinized Peter. He was so thin now, so haggard, that all his flesh appeared translucent and fragile. She suppressed the pang that struck at her heart, and returned his smile.

  ‘How nice,’ she sa
id. ‘You’ve worked too hard, dear. Frankly, I’m tired of eating alone. Shall we go down now?’

  His irritation continued to grow during the meal, which sickened on his tongue. He thrust back his coffee cup, and said with that vague heat and painfulness that distinguish the nervous:

  ‘Look here, Celeste, what have you been doing? We never go anywhere. No one comes to see us. Are we pariahs? I know we’ve never been the darlings of the family, but good God! we can still pay our way. We’re not beggars, my pet. We’re not poor relations. I’ve never loved the family, I know. But why this thick silence?’

  Celeste slowly replaced her coffee cup. An anxious and secretive look came over her face. She glanced about the breakfast room, so stark, so blazing with glass and chromium, so emptily sterile, and shivered a little. She said, not looking at Peter: ‘I didn’t know. I thought you wanted to be quiet, while you worked.’

  ‘I didn’t want to be shut up like some damned monastic eunuch!’ cried Peter, with unusual irascibility. She saw how gaunt was his hand as it lay on the table, so that every bone and vein could be discerned. ‘There, I’m sorry, darling. I suppose it’s my fault, too. So, I must be quiet, eh? The stern and serious author shut away from the world while he writes his momentous claptrap, which is bound to change the face of something or other. What does it matter whether I write or not? Who cares? Maudlin egotism to believe anything matters, in such a frightful time, except wickedness and ruthlessness and greed. Here I sit, like some infernal Lady of Shalott, spinning my idiot webs—’ He paused abruptly, for Celeste had started, and was staring at him with the strangest expression in her eyes.

  ‘What’s the matter, Celeste?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied, after a moment. ‘I just remembered that you told me that Mr Hawkins had a high opinion of what you’ve written. He didn’t seem to think it claptrap, did he?’

  ‘O hell, I’m not interested in what anyone thinks!’ he exclaimed, with increasing exasperation. ‘Wait until he sees the last batch of manuscript. He’ll hold his nose and send it out to the incinerator. Of all the cursed egotism, to believe—’ Celeste was silent. She had dropped her eyes. She sat utterly still. He felt annoyance with himself for hurting her, and perversely, his irritation strengthened.

  ‘Yes, it’s my fault. I gave you the wrong idea. You’re still young, darling, and here you’ve sat, day after day, like a disciple at the feet of some miserable little messiah. And, of course, you’ve never considered that I might want some change. How many weeks have we been shut up in this metallic prison? Without seeing a single soul?’

  Celeste regarded him quietly. ‘What would you like to do, Peter? Shall we have a dinner? And whom would you like to invite? To tell the truth, I’m very pleased to have you come to life like this. It’s a sign your health is returning.’

  ‘I don’t care, dear. Two or three of the family. My brother, Francis, perhaps, and his horsey Estelle. Not my brother, Jean, though. That poisonous mushroom. Have Christopher and Edith gone back to Florida? He’s your darling brother, so I suppose you’d like to have him. He’s in New York, now? Well, that’s a relief. You might invite Annette and Henri, though I could well endure it if he couldn’t come. But I’m fond of Annette. I thought you two were such friends? Is she off us, too?’

  ‘Annette has called up almost every day, but I thought—’ ‘Yes, I know. The great changer-of-the-face-of-the-world mustn’t be disturbed in his history-making labours. So, Henri and Annette ought to be invited. Look here, haven’t you any friends outside of the family?’

  ‘A few.’ Celeste began to count on her fingers. ‘I think it would be nice to have a small dinner. It is more congenial, I think. I don’t care for formal dinner parties.’ Her gestures and voice were lifeless, and too quiet. ‘How about a week from Saturday night?’

  ‘Nearly two weeks! And in the meantime, of course, we’ll continue to stagnate. I can’t write, I tell you. I’m dead inside. I don’t want your consolations and your inspiration, Celeste. Not today, thank you.’ His look and manner were frenetic, and she saw, with alarm, that he was frantically afraid of something. ‘Can’t you make the dinner sooner?’

  ‘I’ll try.’ Her anxiety increased namelessly. She wondered whether she ought to call Peter’s physician. If she did, he must not know, in his present state.

  ‘I suppose it would be highly improper if you called someone and suggested that we would appreciate a dinner invitation within the next night or two, or perhaps for tonight?’

  She had never heard him direct such crude sarcasm to her before, and her fear quickened. ‘For one thing, you know, Peter, I’m supposed to be in mourning. And Armand and Christopher, too, and other members of the family. Never mind, we can have quiet dinners. Would you like to go out for a drive this morning?’

  He agreed, with sullen eagerness. Celeste sighed. A car was brought and she and Peter were driven about the hot brown countryside. The wind was a breath from the infernal regions. They passed wilted fields, corn standing brilliantly in the glaring sunlight, meadows where cattle drowsed. Though Peter was quite still, staring through windows rapidly becoming coated with dust, she felt his aching excitement and wretched exhaustion. But, later, that afternoon, he could not rest in his shaded room.

  He was about to rise from his hot tossed bed, when Celeste softly entered. The shades of the room were drawn, arrows and slivers of golden fire darted through the slats of the Venetian blinds. Yet, even in that hot gloom he could feel a tense strangeness about her, a rigidity.

  ‘Are you awake, dear?’ she asked. ‘Annette and Henri have dropped in, to invite us personally for dinner tomorrow night. Shall I tell them you are too tired to see them just now?’

  ‘No!’ he cried, with alarming violence. ‘For God’s sake, Celeste! I’ll be dressed and down in a minute or two.’ He got up, and forgot the peculiarity of Celeste’s appearance and manner. She left the room in silence.

  But he found himself unusually weak when he descended the empty stairway to the rooms below. He was forced to pause halfway down. The great white and grey and silver hall below was like a hot vacuum to his swimming eyes, and the unshaded sunlight that filled it stung his vision. His wet hand slipped on the chromium balustrade, and he felt himself reeling. It took all his will power to retain his consciousness. He felt an acute nausea at the very sight of the bleak glassy splendour about him.

  When he entered the large living-room, the nausea was strong upon him, and he hated every inanimate object that met his eye. Here, too, all was white and grey and pastel hues and chromium and polished silver, from the pale rug to the blinding pallor of the walls, from the round glass tables to the faint blue divans and dim coral chairs and frameless motionless mirrors. How could he and Celeste ever have endured these weeks within this appalling house? Not even a flower stood in the twisted glass and silver monstrosities that perched on the tables. He looked away from it all to Annette and Henri waiting for him. He hardly saw Celeste at a distance, sitting on a small blue chair, her hands in her lap. For a few minutes he had heard no voices. But when he entered, Henri rose, smiling, as harsh and calm and unshakable as ever.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘We thought we’d come unannounced, so you couldn’t hide from us. How are you? You look much better.’

  His voice was genial and friendly, his pale eye thoughtful and penetrating. He shook hands with Peter, who, relieved of the horror of the house by a human presence, was returning his smile with astonishing pleasure.

  He found it delightful to see even Henri, in spite of what he knew, in spite of the years of violent hatred and enmity between them. He was like a man who has lived for a long time on a desert where the silence has been unbroken except for the cry of a predatory bird and the rush of wind, and then, at last, hears a human voice, and is overcome with joy, even though that voice was once revolting to him. He turned to Annette, and took her soft little hand. They regarded each other with intense fondness, their similar large light-blue eyes shining a
nd moved. Such a dear gentle little creature, he thought, so ingenuous and kind and understanding. Her thin blue dress made her small triangular face almost vivid, and reflected itself in her eyes. The bright fine tendrils of hair curled up about a round white hat like a skullcap. Her air was at once defenceless yet strong, sweet yet firm, intelligent yet innocent. She pressed his hand, answered gently his inquiries about her health, and asked about his own.

  ‘Oh, I am doing splendidly,’ he replied, with unusual buoyancy, almost feverish in its animation. ‘Celeste can tell you that my cough has practically gone. Work seems to agree with me.’

  Henri smiled to himself. Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at Celeste. But she sat in some petrified and abstracted dream, staring before her, her lips very pale and carved in her drawn face. She seemed to hear nothing.

  ‘We’re so interested in your new lovely house on Placid Heights,’ said Annette, smiling at Peter radiantly as he sat down near her. ‘Have you been out there lately, to see how the work is coming on?’

  No, Peter said, with some reserve. He had been so busy, and hadn’t felt like it. He understood that Celeste had gone frequently, however. At this, Celeste stirred, lifted her head sluggishly, and turned her face towards him as if she had only half heard. She said: ‘I was out there a week ago. We expect it to be ready for us by Christmas.’

  Annette was all shining enthusiasm. She glanced at her husband, and exclaimed: ‘You’ll think us prying, or curious, of course, but Henri and I have often gone out, and Henri was quite stern with the workmen and the architect. There was something about copper gutters.’

  ‘You have to watch these people,’ remarked Henri, with bored ease. ‘It’s a good design, Peter. Simple, effective, and not too large. We’re looking forward to the house-warming.’ ‘The view is delicious,’ remarked Annette, moving to the edge of her chair animatedly. ‘The hills all about, and then the valley and the rolling countryside. It will be marvellous in the autumn. I envy you. Not that I don’t love Robin’s Nest, of course,’ and she gave Henri a look of touching adoration. ‘But new houses always excite me.’