The Eagles Gather

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Georges smiled at him with sympathetic amusement. “Perhaps so. But it’s more comfortable that way, isn’t it? Besides, it doesn’t clutter things up. We can move slow sure inches, if we don’t see the chaos outside our windows.

  “Let’s be ‘idiot housewives’ while we go into this matter. It boils down to this, sans romanticism and sentimentality: you want little Celeste, and little Celeste wants you. Obstacle number one: Henri. Backing up this obstacle, Christopher. It doesn’t look complicated to me. All Celeste has to do is to kick Henri out, and take you on. Now, wait a minute; let me finish before you foam again. I’ve got something at stake, too, you know. Your book.

  “You say you’ve not spoken to Celeste, and that she’s fighting something out. Shucks. Women never ‘fight out’ anything they really want. They just go ahead and take it. If they don’t, they don’t want it. Women are absolutely without ethics, dear Peter. Present a woman with an ethic, and she’ll honestly wonder what it is. If it is explained to her, she’ll look at you with pitying contempt, and wonder why you have such a regard for the goddam worthless thing, which seems to serve no other purpose in life than to make men tiresome and obstructionistic. Sometimes they do suffer, bless ‘em; they’re like the legendary donkey who starved to death because he couldn’t make up his mind which of two bundles of hay he’d eat first It’s probably the only thing which makes it possible to keep civilization going, that imbecile inability of a woman to decide between two equally attractive possibilities. And that’s what I think ails our little pet, Celeste.”

  He laughed at Peter’s angered expression and rising color. He wagged a finger at him humorously. “That’s it, exactly. Here is Henri, good-looking, bursting at the seams with virility, competent, knowing what he wants and prepared to steal it if necessary (and by the way, don’t think that quality doesn’t attract women, for it does). He exudes power as a tennisplayer exudes sweat, out of every pore. Celeste may think she doesn’t care anything about money, but even if she doesn’t, consciously, she’s been born in a money-atmosphere, and has breathed it all her life, and it’s part of her flesh and blood. Henri’s got most of the Bouchard bonds, and Celeste’s heard dozens of reverent remarks about it, you can be sure. Then, he’s new. He doesn’t look like the rest of us. He doesn’t talk like us. He makes fun of the Bouchards. She likes that. She’s used to Bouchards, and probably bored to death by us. Not that I blame her.

  “And here are you: a Bouchard, every inch, looking like us, with a voice like ours, and our manners. Even the ‘nice’ qualities she likes about you are only exaggerations of our own feeble consciences. The only asset you have is a family resemblance to her sweet little brother, Christopher, and a little less bloodthirstiness. She doesn’t see, of course, that you’re really more bloodthirsty than all the rest of us are, but that you’ve sublimated it. You appeal to her, for you are like her. Henri isn’t like her, and paradoxically, he appeals to her for that reason, too.

  “So, there you are. You’ve got to leave it to little Celeste, herself. Don’t be so damned romantic: if she wants you, she’ll take you, Christopher or no Christopher. If she finally decides she’d like sleeping with Henri better than with you, you’ll just have to make the best of it. That’s all.”

  Peter’s thin face had turned grim. He stared before him, and made no answer. Georges chuckled. “It looks to me like a struggle between Celeste’s natural human narcissism, which inclines one to love and admire that which is like us, and a natural human curiosity about that which is not like us. Which will win, self-love or monkey-curiosity? I know that doesn’t sound romantic and soulful, but that’s the fundamental struggle going on in Celeste’s wind-swept bedchamber down at that god-awful Crissons.”

  Peter pulled up a few blades of grass and twisted them about his fingers. “That’s all you can see, isn’t it?” he commented bitterly.

  Georges shrugged. “That’s all there is to be seen, Pete. That’s all there is to be seen in any human relationship. With no exceptions. But, naturally, you see pink ribbons and postures; that’s because you are a writer. If you didn’t see the pink ribbons and postures, you’d just be a columnist, or something like us, and just as obnoxious. And that brings me to something much more important than little Celeste’s inclination to incest, or disinclination to it, and that is you, and your writing—”

  Peter flung himself upon the grass with a violent gesture that made Georges smile covertly, and yet with sympathy.

  “My writing! That isn’t important to me, until I—until this matter about Celeste is settled, one way or the other.”

  Georges made a mocking, admonishing clucking-sound and shook his head. But the expression of sympathy still glittered in his eyes. “Don’t be a fool. When a man talks like that, I suspect his masculinity. Don’t glower at me. But it isn’t quite virile, is it? to be so involved about one woman. Or at least, to be so involved about her that you can’t think of important things. I thought you had cosmic urges, or something, and a passion to save the world, or something equally damfool; not that it’s all gone down the drain because a little brat can’t decide whose bed she’d rather occupy for the next few years.” He tapped Peter on the arm with a gesture reminiscent of Francis. “Publishers like world-savers. They are usually good for ten thousand copies, and make lots of profitable excitement. How about getting down to business?”

  Peter said sullenly: “I’m not in the mood. I thought you’d clarify things for me. But instead, you’ve smeared them all up.”

  Georges asked quietly: “All right, then. What do you want me to do?”

  “I didn’t talk to you about it to suggest something to you! I thought you’d have some ideas. But instead, you talk smartly. Like a half-wit.”

  Georges chuckled. “Well, I’m a half-wit, then. Hell, I suppose we’ll do no business until Celeste decides to wear your favorite color on her nightie, or Henri’s. Sometimes I think—Well, no matter. What can I do? We’re all going to Crissons next week, for a few days. Do you want me to have Marion tell Celeste you’re much nicer than Henri? Well, then, you see how ridiculous it is. My own advice to you is to hang around Crissons until Christopher either kicks you out or Celeste picks you. Be all around her; don’t let her see anyone else. Don’t be romantic about her ‘struggles.’ They’re quite primitive, I assure you, and have no connection at all with high ideals, or honor, or other dish-water, even if she thinks they have. Be masculine around her. Swagger. Be powerful. I can see,” he added, “that I’m doing no good at all.”

  But Peter was laughing, involuntarily. “I’m not so sure. You’ve told me, without knowing it, that I’ve got to be right on the spot. I will be. The pressure on Celeste is too much. She hasn’t had enough experience to decide anything as important as this, herself. Anyway, I’d already decided to fight Christopher.”

  “But you just thought you’d like to talk it over with someone, eh?”

  Peter confessed: “I’m afraid you’re right. I already knew what I had to do, I suppose.”

  “And you’ve wasted all this time. And now, about your book. I read it until three this morning. Finished what you gave me, in fact.”

  Peter waited. But Georges carefully refilled his pipe, and smoked it contemplatively, staring, as he did so, at the waves of light and shadow which were sweeping over the deserted green fields and blowing trees. The sky was the deepest cobalt, hot and empty. The intense shrilling of insects, the low bumbling of bees and the smell of dry heated grass filled all the air.

  Georges took the pipe from his mouth. Still staring into the distance he said, without emphasis: “I think it’s balderdash.” Peter uttered an angry exclamation of deep offense. Georges smiled tranquilly. “Yes, it’s balderdash. The biggest dish of it ever to turn up in this generation, I suppose. Nice, passionate, vehement, tumbling cataracts of mush, accompanied, however, by authentic thunder and some pretty good lightning effects.”

  “Every word of it is true!” exclaimed Peter, aroused. “I saw these
things myself. I spent these eight post-war years in Europe, and I made it a point to go everywhere. If that’s balderdash, damn you!—”

  Georges’ smile broadened peaceably. “I’ve no doubt you’ve written down what you saw, or think you saw. But, the trouble is, you saw too simply, too starkly. Life is never so simple and stark as all that. You’ve seen the crushed and maimed populace of Hungary; you saw Budapest after

  Bela Kun and his bolsheviks and the rest of the hordes. Your heart bled for Hungary. For Germany. For France. For all the members of the European monkey-cage. Well, I don’t blame you. Probably was messy and stinky. But human beings usually are, you know.

  “But, you don’t know the half of it. Rescue these people; set them up again, like tenpins. They’ll stand there, dumb and stupid, and let the iron ball roll down on them again, and knock them flying, and wait patiently to be set up again. They remember nothing, and learn nothing. They can get out of the way; but they don’t, and won’t. They’ve got primitive fragments of minds; they could use them, if they wanted to. But still they don’t, and won’t. Why? Because they like the process of trying to knock hell out of other groups and races, and for the chance of knocking, they’ll let themselves be knocked. That’s all.”

  “You don’t like people, do you?” asked Peter in a low voice.

  “Frankly, I detest them. You see, I’ve known too much about them, Pete. I know what they are. Among intelligent men there are only two groups: those who see humanity completely, and hate it because of what they see, and those who see just as clearly, and are sorry. I belong to the first group, you to the second. And frankly, I think the first is the more intelligent.

  “However, the first group rarely writes best sellers, for people don’t like candid mirrors. They aren’t pretty, and they aren’t heroic. Humanity would rather see itself dressed in velvet tights, and have someone tell it that, though it’s really a stinker of a fellow, there’s a good simple heart beating under the hair on the baboon chest. Or it especially likes to hear that it’s more sinned against than sinning, and all the miseries it’s brought down deservedly on its ape-skull are really the fault of someone else.

  “Successful writers usually take one or the other of these themes. They’re invariably sure-fire. The degree of success, however, rests with the extent of the writer’s passion, singlemindedness, colorfulness, gift of story-telling, and sincerity. That’s why I think you’ll be a marvelous success. You have the two themes: good simple heart under the hair, and more sinned against than sinning. Then, you’ve a natural gift for story-telling, and passion, and sincerity, and lots of drums and lightning offstage, with here and there an excellent and authentic scream.”

  Peter was profoundly humiliated. He said angrily: “You say it’s balderdash, but I gather-you’ll publish it, if I ever finish it. I don’t understand you.”

  Georges laughed. “Publishing business, Pete, is just business. We’re just like any other restaurateur: we give the people what they want to eat. If we don’t, we go bankrupt. If we do, we can put rugs on our office floors and buy lots of chromium, and have size-twelves greeting the customers in the reception rooms.” He regarded Peter with laughing incredulity: “You don’t think we wanted to save the world, or elevate literature, or something, did you, by God?”

  “You must think I’m a fool!” exlcaimed Peter, in a rage.

  “I don’t. Honestly, I don’t I think you are a brilliant writer. I think this book’ll sell a hundred thousand. Look, Pete, we don’t take books unless we dream of at least fifty-thousand copies. We make dozens of mistakes. I’ll show your our stock-room. But we try to learn from mistakes. I don’t think we’ll make a mistake with you; but we can’t tell ahead of time. It’s non-fiction of course, and that’s the worst of handicaps. Cinderella is still a “best seller”; you’ve been unconsciously clever enough to put all of humanity in the Cinderella role, and have conjured up the munitions makers and patriots and diplomatic Judases as the wicked step-mother and her daughters. You’ve produced the Prince Charming and called him Reason, and the fairy-godmother and called her Brotherly Love. Very good. We’ll do it for you. You’ll be a success. What more do you want?”

  Peter compressed his lips. His expression was bitter, and dark with humiliation. For some devastating moments he felt ridiculous and sickeningly mortified. He saw himself as one of those men who are laughed at in secret by the intelligent, though adored by the people at large. For some of those devastating moments it seemed more desirable to be appreciated by the intelligent than worshipped by the unintelligent. He even thought that the worship of the helpless and the simple was degrading, and that the savers of mankind deserved contempt and laughter. He thought: I’ll throw it up.

  Georges was studying him intently. The older man was suddenly disturbed. He put his hand on Peter’s shoulder, and said: “Don’t look like that. I may be wrong, you know. If you think I’m right, you’re ruined.” He smiled. “After all, what is the measure of right or wrong? The good is still that which survives. Those who believe as I do don’t survive. But your kind does. Therefore, you must be right—”

  “Childish reasoning,” commented Peter. He stood up. The sun had crept under the trees. “Let’s go back.”

  “Yes. Come into my study. We’ll go over what you’ve written.”

  Marion had not yet returned from her golf. This was very nice, Georges remarked candidly. He still had a casual affection for his wife, but he could not help disliking fools. He had long ago found out how silly she was. Her father’s death had affected him deeply. With his death, Georges and Marion became virtual strangers. Georges did not quite know why, and he had not cared to analyze the matter. Marion was at first bewildered, but she was not intelligent enough to retain her bewilderment.

  The study was cool and quiet. Through the drawn Venetian blinds Peter could see the smooth green lawns and the great trees sleeping in the sun. Georges sat at his desk, the pile of loose manuscript before him. Peter was suddenly diffident, as well as wretched. Georges was no longer a relative, to be argued with, and fought with, and to be visited, but a formidable publisher who could make a writer’s future, or ruin him. There was something of Francis about him, in his angularity and leanness, and the dryness of his thin hands, and his coloring. There was even something of himself in Georges, thought Peter disinterestedly. All the Bouchards resembled each other. Georges was probably right in a good many things. A spot of subdued radiance, seeping through the blinds, glimmered on the top of Georges’ bend head, which was narrow and partly bald. It glimmered even brighter on his glasses.

  The papers rustled as he turned them. He frowned, chewed the corner of his lips. Peter, in turn, was no longer a younger relative, regarded more or less affectionately, and with sympathy, but one of the pestiferous breed known as authors, a breed so necessary, but so infernal. Sometimes Georges thought of them as putrefactive bacteria, who destroy carrion, and sometimes as the makers of carrion. Either way, they were a smell. Though a profitable smell. Sometimes.

  Peter observed that Georges was shaking his head in dissent. “Look here, Pete, you’ve indicted America’s entry into the world war as totally unnecessary, mercenary, financially manipulated, criminal, cynical, and the result of the machinations of—our family—and others.

  “That’s all nonsense, you know. Surely you realize that while our family, and others, stink pretty badly in the historical mess, there were other factors, some of them quite ethical and civilized, even by your standards.

  “For instance, no one, even under the constant pressure he was subjected to, could have been more peace-seeking than Wilson. He was faced with the basic problem as to whether the United States had the right to use the seas in peaceful commerce, or whether it would surrender those rights at the demand of Germany. We fought the War of 1812 against Britain on that very issue. International law has declared that neutral powers are to be free from attack, if not carryipg contraband or munitions or other war supplies.”

&
nbsp; Peter smiled somberly. “But most of our vessels were carrying contraband and munitions and other war supplies. To the Allies. And using commercial vessels to do it. That’s already been established.”

  Georges pursed his lips. “Well, that’s open to debate. Anyway, in spite of all the pressure, we might have kept out of the war if Germany hadn’t declared, on February 1, 1917, ‘that any ship, of whatsoever nationality, found in a zone one hundred miles at sea from the British coast would be torpedoed by submarines without warning.’ This meant, you realize, that ships not carrying contraband, but any passenger or commercial vessel, bound for any neutral port, would be torpedoed, if passing within British waters. Would you have had us lie down under this outrageous provocation?”

  Peter shook his head slowly. “No. When it got as bad as it did, in 1917, and Germany was doing as she did, there was no other recourse for us but entering the war. I realize that. I also realize that surrendering to force, especially violent and inhuman force, is as bad a wickedness as war itself.

  “But I think I go deeper than that. My attacks are not against the ultimate entering of the war on our side, but against the war-makers who made the war in the first place. We all know very well that it was they who made the provocation, they who made the war, they who made the conditions that forced us to enter. That is what must be destroyed, the manipulating of wars, the jockeying of nations into war, the creating of situations where war is the only answer, and where not-to-war spells suicide.”

  Georges frowned, drew a circle in red pencil around a paragraph. “Again, you’re being too stark. You avoid fundamentals, Peter. Re-read this chapter, and think about it.”

  He added: “We know the German character. For instance, it is very hard to force Chinamen to fight, for the Chinese are naturally pacific, individualistic, independent, and thoughtful. But the Germans are none of these. Characteristics like those of the Chinese dispose a man to peace and to tolerance. But the German characteristics of intolerance, belligerence, mass-movement, dependence and sentimentality dispose a man to fight and to hate, and to want to kill. What are you going to do with a nation like this? Gas it off the map?”