He was speaking in a quiet, a too quiet, voice. They could see the sweat breaking out on his forehead. He rose and poured himself a glass of champagne. He saw that the other glasses were empty. He stood there with the bottle in his hand and then gave it to Laskell to fill the glasses. He may have believed that the others would not accept wine from him.
“And never has there been so much talk of liberty while the chains are being forged. Democracy and freedom. And in the most secret heart of every intellectual, where he scarcely knows of it himself, there lies hidden the real hope that these words hide. It is the hope of power, the desire to bring his ideas to reality by imposing them on his fellow man. We are all of us, all of us, the little children of the Grand Inquisitor. The more we talk of welfare, the crueler we become. How can we possibly be guilty when we have in mind the welfare of others, and of so many others?”
“We?” It was Nancy who asked the question.
He sat there gloomily, not answering.
“Why do you say ‘we’? I should think that very distinct differences could be made. Do you mean that we can think of the Nazis, that we can think of the cruelties of the Falangists in Spain—and still we say ‘we’? I should think that very sharp distinctions could be drawn between such people and the decent people.”
He said nothing.
“Don’t you?” she said to awaken him from his silence.
“No.”
They were all relaxed by this. It was now clear that they were not dealing with an opinion but with a condition. They could take it more lightly, or with more pity.
“You really don’t?” said Nancy with an air of having reached the end of the argument.
“The heart—” Maxim said, and for a quick strange moment Laskell vividly saw Emily at his side on the riverbank and heard her, as she spoke of Susan’s illness, refer so to the child’s infirmity. “My heart—” Maxim said, his voice taking on a lyric or elegiac quality, and they were all conscious that the twilight had deepened, that the tops of the trees were being stirred by a breeze that did not move the leaves of the lower branches, so that the trees murmured in a far-off way. The image, or rather the idea, of Emily Caldwell was intensely present to Laskell, and he suddenly felt that it carried him outside the circle of his friends, beyond their dispute and the reasons for it, making strangers of all of them, Nancy and Arthur, Kermit and Maxim. “My own heart,” said Maxim, “is full of hatred and pity. Sometimes I cannot tell one from the other. When I feel the hatred I know it is generated by pity. And when I feel the pity I know it is generated by hatred. And when I do not feel either one or the other, then it is only emptiness, only emptiness. But whenever I feel anything at all, it is for all. All. We are all members one of another. Not in our suffering only, but in our cruelty as well. I have been in Spain, and I have seen Kermit Simpson shot and worse, and Nancy Croom shot and worse, and John Laskell and Arthur Croom. And myself. And I have helped. I have done it. You have helped. And even if I had not been there to see, I would know that I was involved. I am involved in the cruelties I have never seen and never will see. On both sides. You think only of what the other side must do to gain its ends and you feel separated from everything that is foul in them. But I know what ‘our’ side must do, and not merely do; the doing would not be so terrible if we did not have to be what we do, and I know what we must be.”
The voice ceased its lilting, for Maxim had been speaking in a kind of sing-song. They all sat silent. None of them had ever heard anything like this before, this much devastation of spirit.
Laskell wanted to say something quickly. He said, “It seems to me, Giff, that you have lost your sense of community with men in their suffering and goodness and found it only in their cruelty and evil.”
Maxim dropped his eyes as if to consider what Laskell had said, and then raised them and looked at Laskell with his face all exposed. He said simply and conclusively, “Yes.”
It seemed as complete as an admission could be and it made him entirely the object of their hushed regard. It cut him off from them except for their awareness of his self-torture. They could not argue with him. And his aberration was so great and so open that it could not contaminate them. It was as if he had said that he was soon to die of a disease that could not possibly be contagious.
Kermit got up and went to the fire. He put the steak on its wooden board and held it out for them to see. “Ready!” he called. “Sit down.”
“But perhaps,” Maxim went on, paying no attention to Kermit’s call and disregarding the fact that the others had risen to take their places at the table, “but perhaps that will mislead you about the nature of my community. My community with men is that we are children of God.”
At this they all paused in their movement and looked at Maxim, who had not yet stirred. There had been nothing to say to Maxim’s reply to Laskell’s question and there was nothing to say now to his further statement. It came as an anticlimax, which was perhaps what Maxim wanted it to be, a remark to be heard and ignored on the way to dinner. They seated themselves at the table, but Maxim stayed where he was, silent, until Kermit called, “Come and partake, Giff, come and partake.” He said to the others, “Now you know what it is I don’t understand.”
Maxim got up and brought his chair to the table and took his place at the end opposite Kermit and between Arthur and Laskell. His words had produced a certain solemnity and from it he himself was not excluded—it seemed that he was nearer to them now that he had shown how very far away he was.
Kermit carved, of course, with great skill, slicing the steak diagonally into inch-thick slabs, and the others did what best suited the situation, they talked about the steak. They praised Kermit for the perfect gradation of its color from black char through brown and pink to red and they went on to talk learnedly of the various theories of broiling steak. It was mooted whether a steak should first be coated with olive oil as some people advocated, and questions were raised about whether the prevailing method of quickly searing the steak was as good as it was said to be. Maxim stayed in the isolation of his announced belief and drank the red wine that Kermit had opened. Once he got up and looked to the coffee that was being prepared in the galley of the trailer and came back and took his place silently and went on eating and drinking. The disagreement had gone beyond the possibility of any further discussion and all of them were able to chat quite easily among themselves.
Yet they were all a little relieved when they heard footsteps and Duck Caldwell appeared in the deepening twilight.
“Don’t want to disturb you folks at dinner,” Duck said.
Kermit had risen and stood in a host’s attitude. The paper napkin in his hand had almost the appearance of damask, so gracious was his stance. Duck looked at Kermit with his mocking self-possession and said, “Don’t disturb. I heard about the trailer and I thought maybe I could get a look for myself.”
Nancy said, “Kermit Simpson, Duck Caldwell,” and made a little gesture with her two hands to bring them together.
Kermit, looking awkward in his size beside Duck, put out his hand and said, “Happy to meet you, Mr. Caldwell. You’re not disturbing us at all.”
For a moment Nancy hesitated and then she said, “Mr. Maxim, Mr. Caldwell.” Maxim remained seated, and if anything was needed to revive Nancy’s antagonism, it was the curt nod that Maxim gave Duck and the almost baleful look from lowered eyes. Kermit was quick, almost too quick, to escort Duck into the trailer, to turn on the lights and then to leave him to his own and the trailer’s devices.
They were silent as Duck inspected the trailer, as if waiting for some verdict for which he had withdrawn. He came out at last and said to Kermit, “Mighty fine thing you have. But that’s no job for a poor man now, is it? That’s no factory job—looks to me custom-built.”
“Well yes, yes it is. Yes, you’re right—it was made to order.” Kermit spoke in admiration of Duck’s cleverness in seeing that it was custom-built. He was feeling the weight of his wealth and privi
lege and the cleverer he could make Duck the less guilty he would have to be. His discomfort made him as explicit as possible. “I worked over the plans with the people at the factory. I worked with a man named Norton, very intelligent man.” He seemed to cling to Norton, for like many wealthy people Kermit liked to conjure up the personality of the artisans who had made the things they owned, speaking of their tailors and cabinet makers in all the odd quirks of their little, ordinary humanity, with the result that the things they owned, their suits and their furniture, seemed to cost nothing at all and derived what little value they had only from the human quality of the men who had made them. “But some of the ready-made jobs are first-rate. They really are, very well designed, very comfortable. There was one I seriously considered for a time and almost took it.”
“But you didn’t,” said Duck with great clarity.
“No. That’s right, I bought this one.”
“Well,” said Duck, not much inclined to press his advantage, “if you ever get tired of it, let me tell you where you can apply—right here.” And he poked his chest with his forefinger. “That’s living, a thing like that. If I had a car and a set-up like you got here, I could get me out to California the right way.”
“Oh,” said Kermit, relieved that Duck had his own freedom and plans for pleasure. “Are you thinking of going to California?”
“I’m thinking,” said Duck. “But that’s all I’m doing.”
He was so apart from them all. He stood there small and resistant and envious. Things were going on inside his head and at this moment he was not justifying himself to anyone. He was not making a connection with any of them, and not trying. He did not even, just now, have a connection with Arthur and Nancy. They all sat before him, except Kermit, who stood. Their good will was not enough to overcome their superiority. Kermit, who defended Duck’s liberty to say what he pleased; Arthur, who, if the talk was true, might be one of Duck’s servants in Washington; Nancy, who conceived for Duck the saving myth of his oppression, honesty, and inner strength—none of them could make the connection. Maxim, who had once had a gift for “making contact” with the underprivileged, just sat and glared at this slight, tight, excluded figure. Why Maxim seemed so hostile Laskell could not guess, but he knew that the others were being held at bay by the accusation Duck was subtly making, which had reference to the steak and the wine and the salad bowl and the trailer. Perhaps of them all it was John Laskell who came closest to Duck at that moment.
Nancy made an effort but she did not do very well. In fact, she went quite off her usual line. She said, “Who knows? Maybe with luck, some day—” It was like a mother carelessly trying to pacify a child with the offer of a hope she knows is vain, and it made the moment worse.
“No, not the way things are, Mrs. Croom. There have to be big changes before I get anything like that.”
Well, he had a kind of courage—he looked straight at Kermit Simpson, looked at him meaningfully, out of his isolation and bitterness. He had the courage to know in his subtle way that these people were ashamed before him, especially Kermit. So he stood and looked at Kermit. There was no theory in the look, just a personal measuring, and Kermit standing with his napkin must have had the sense that he was a great deal too tall as well as a great deal too wealthy.
They heard Emily Caldwell’s voice saying, “Good evening!” She came with Susan in her wake. Nancy seemed almost glad to see her, glad perhaps for Duck to have someone close to him here. She said most cordially, “Oh, good evening, Mrs. Caldwell.” She made the introductions and Kermit offered Emily his chair. Emily said that she must not disturb them, but that she had come only because Susan wanted to see the trailer, but Laskell saw how her glance went to the wine bottles and the glasses and he knew that she had her own reasons for coming. She had been afraid that they would start Duck drinking.
This time it was Maxim who rose to demonstrate the trailer. He had responded to this introduction very differently, had smiled with great openness to Emily, and had said to Susan in a very direct way that he was glad to meet her. He put his arm around Susan’s shoulder and put out his hand to help Emily up the steps.
“Won’t you join us in a glass of wine, Mr. Caldwell?” said Kermit.
And Duck screwed his head about and considered and said, “Don’t mind if I do.”
But when Kermit came back from the trailer with the two glasses he went to fetch, Emily Caldwell was with him. Emily firmly took the glasses from him and put them on the table.
“Thank you, it’s friendly of you but we can’t stay,” she said. And she called, “Susan!” She said, “We’d love to stay but we can’t. But I hope we’ll be seeing all of you at our Church Bazaar tomorrow. You gentlemen will be here that long I hope. Do come. Oh, not that it will be anything—it’s nothing really—but you might like to see it.” And she called again, “Susan dear!”
Duck stood with the sour look of a man whose rational pleasures are being interfered with. Susan put her head out of the door of the trailer and said, “Yes, Mother?” and Emily went to her and drew her down the steps though the child was protesting that she had not yet seen everything.
“Oh, let her stay, Mrs. Caldwell!” Kermit pleaded warmly for Susan. “And you and your husband stay and have a glass of wine with us.”
“Yes, Mother, please,” said Susan.
“No, really—” said Emily.
Laskell saw her deep apprehension, saw Duck standing there smiling and grim. She was not now the woman he had known on the bank of the little river, she was confused and distracted. Yet she was that woman and he stood up and went to Susan. “You can come back tomorrow, Susan, and work all the gadgets. Mr. Simpson and Mr. Maxim will be glad to have you. I’ll come too and you can make tea for us on the stove if you’d like. Would you like that?”
“Yes, I would,” Susan said decisively.
So it was settled and Emily Caldwell was able to sweep her family together and away from the dinner party. She was fussy and nervous and her “Good night—good night all” rang without gratification in Laskell’s ears. And he got no pleasure from her air of social authority as she said to Nancy, “Mrs. Croom, you will bring all your friends to the Bazaar, won’t you?”
When they had gone, a fresh heaviness descended on the failure of the dinner party.
“Are they natives here? Are they farming people?” Kermit said.
“He is native, but she’s not,” Nancy said. “She comes from Hartford.”
“Are they farming people?”
“Not exactly.” Nancy said it defensively. “He works at odd jobs. He’s a very good carpenter.”
“The little girl is sweet,” said Kermit.
“The husband is a very remarkable person. But the wife—” And Nancy shrugged.
Maxim spoke. “Remarkable, yes. I know the type—the criminal personality with the strong, narrow streak of intellect.” He spoke with a remote objectivity, as if from notes. “It’s a modern type and extremely useful in making revolutions. It has to be liquidated eventually, either by changing its character or by—or in other ways. Some examples of it can be converted into small bureaucrats. But others like their revolutionary role too much. You see something of the same sort of thing in the middle class too. But in the middle class the deep, narrow envy runs more to intellect, to the envy of ideas and of personalities.”
“Oh, Giff, come off it,” said Kermit.
Maxim shrugged.
Nancy spoke from such depths of revulsion that her voice was scarcely agitated. And what she said almost seemed to be spoken in friendliness. “Oh, something terrible has happened to you,” she said. “It has—something terrible. You have only to hear someone speak with a sense of his class and you hate him and traduce him. What kind of change has taken place in you? What do you think men are? Only a few months ago you would have been interested in that man,” and she pointed in the direction Duck had gone, “and you would have admired him and tried to politicalize him. Now you call him a cri
minal type—exactly because you see the determined quality in him. If he had your class advantages, or any of ours, he would be something positive, a leader. Of that I’m sure. He’s wasted here, I admit that—he never had a chance and his wife is a fool. But to you he’s nothing but a criminal type.”
“Look here—” Laskell had broken in. It was impossible for him to hear Emily spoken of so disparagingly.
“Nevertheless—” said Maxim stolidly.
But Laskell was not heard and Nancy was not to be stopped. “When John told me what had happened to you, I could scarcely believe it, I was horrified. Then, when I read that article of yours, I thought, ‘John did not get things quite straight.’ I thought that the man who wrote that might be wrong in many respects, or confused, but such a man could not be actually counter-revolutionary. He knows that things cannot be judged by absolutes, that a great social experiment must be judged by new standards, that it has to be considered realistically.”
Maxim’s face seemed to have lightened and he leaned forward as if now for the first time he did not have to deal with something that was old and stale. His leaning forward was not the preface to an interruption but an invitation to Nancy to go on.
“You seemed to be admitting that certain things could not be judged by mere liberal standards. A ship, a state that is surrounded by enemies, cannot afford the liberal notions of justice. And I thought, ‘Maxim isn’t one of those weak souls who has got all upset by the trials—and—and things like that.’ But now I see I was wrong. You’re worse than I thought.”
“Nevertheless,” Maxim said, “your man is a criminal type.” He stopped just long enough to drive home his point. “At least to the extent that he’s gone off with a pint of Kermit’s whisky.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Not that it is important, I’m sure Kermit will agree. But there were five pint bottles of bourbon in the locker and now there are only four. As I saw when I showed the trailer to the little girl.”
The Middle of the Journey Page 29