Capable of Honor

by Allen Drury

  Again there was a great shout of excitement and approval, and into it the Speaker, who at least was in no doubt about what to do with an opportunity like this, cried,

  “Is there a second?”

  “Second!” Cullee Hamilton and Lafe Smith, Esmé Stryke, and Fred Van Ackerman, Joe Smitters, Bob Smutters, John Smotters, Mary Baffleburg, Lizzie McWharter, and half a hundred others all shouted at once from their respective microphones.

  “All those in favor!” roared the Speaker.

  “AYE!” roared the convention.

  “All those opposed!” roared the Speaker, and waited a long, deliberate moment.

  Silence, quivering, ecstatic, exultant.

  “The Ayes have it and the language of the foreign policy plank is hereby adopted!” the Speaker cried, giving his gavel a violent bang! that shook the podium. Instantly another great shout went up, and across the floor Cullee and Lafe exchanged a glance, grabbed their state standards, shouted to their fellow delegates, and began to snake dance along the aisles. At once others fell into line, in a moment the entire convention was in the aisles, and a wild demonstration was under way, led by laughing Jason delegates holding high JASON FOR PRESIDENT placards on which the word “Vice” had been hastily scrawled in above the word PRESIDENT.

  “And so,” said Frankly Unctuous with a warm benignity in the booth above, “this great convention, perhaps one of the most historic in American history, roars to its climax in this joyous demonstration of unity that should, very shortly now, produce what everyone here happily expects and eagerly awaits, the nomination of Governor Edward M. Jason of California to the great office of Vice President of the United States. Thus do we see, Walter, that the American system still works, in its mysterious, wonderful way, and somehow, out of the violent contentions of sincere and dedicated men, there emerges what can truly be called the people’s choice.…This is a thrilling moment, indeed, and you will forgive me a personal note, ladies and gentlemen”—and he smiled, frankly, into the camera—“if I say that it is particularly thrilling for those of us who have been here through all these long and sometimes heated days. It is a real satisfaction to us to witness this great, democratic conclusion to a battle so earnestly yet so honestly fought by all concerned. Don’t you agree, Walter?”

  “Yes, I do,” Walter said. Yet there was in his tone a certain indefinable reserve that might have indicated, to one less enthralled than Frankly by the happy harmony of the moment, that something important was working in his shrewd, experienced brain. What it was actually saying to him was: It’s too pat—it’s too perfect—watch out. But all he had the heart to say aloud to his relaxed and delighted brother-in-arms, and to the many millions who were, he knew, hanging dutifully upon their wise and illuminating words, was, “Perhaps we should see, now, what the President has to say.”

  “If the convention will permit us,” Frankly said with a happy laugh. “Just look at them, Walter! Just look at them!”

  And indeed they were a sight for sore-pressed pundits to see, as they danced and frolicked and whooped and hollered around the Cow Palace in a scream of sound that showed no signs of abating. Whenever it did the Speaker gave a little nod to Cullee or Lafe or Bob Munson or whoever happened to be passing below the podium at the moment, and it started up again. “I want them exhausted,” the calm voice had directed over the red phone a couple of minutes ago from the closely guarded room behind the platform where the candidate waited with Governor Jason. And the Speaker, who, like Walter Dobius, was beginning to get the picture—though in his case with the start of a great inner amusement rather than with Walter’s frantically growing worry and bitter alarm—obliged.

  Eventually, however, even the greatest moments end, and so, eventually, did this. They were close to the limits of endurance by now, they had been in session since 3 P.M. the previous afternoon, had gone through the excitement of the nominations, the demonstrations, the presidential vote, the constant tensions and pressures that a recess filled with a jabbering inability to relax—for who knew what was coming next?—had done little to relieve. Ten hours of it, topped by this last demonstration continuing for almost half an hour, and they were beginning to feel more than a little groggy. The red phone rang and the calm voice said, “Any time you’re ready.”

  “The convention will be in order!” the Speaker shouted, pounding his gavel with a steady thock! thock! thock! of wood-on-wood. “The convention will be in order! Will the delegates please take their seats! Will the delegates please take their seats!…I will say to the delegates,” he roared with a sudden show of anger, “that they are holding up a most important address by someone they’d like to hear, so will they please settle down!”

  That did it. Another five minutes of gradual quieting and settling, and they were ready.

  “It is my great pleasure and high privilege,” the Speaker said solemnly into the restless silence, “to present to you our candidate, the President of the United States.”

  The band swung triumphantly into “Hail to the Chief,” and again there was demonstration, hysterical, delirious, overjoyed, for following closely behind him as he came to the lectern was the Governor of California, smiling and waving, and this was sign enough that God was in his heaven and all right with the world. It could be seen that the President solicitously urged the Governor forward to take a seat to his right, toward the front of the podium, in full view of them all—“I want them to be sure and see you,” he shouted into Ted’s ear over the cascade of sound pouring upon them, and Ted, obviously pleased, nodded and stepped obediently forward—and it could also be seen that from time to time the President looked toward him with a fatherly, satisfied smile, each glance producing a new roar of gratified, ecstatic applause. In the diplomatic section Raoul Barre did take occasion to lean forward and call to Lord Maudulayne, “But where is Orrin? This doesn’t seem to ring quite true, does it?”—and Lord Maudulayne first shrugged, then paused with a thoughtful frown, then looked quizzical and nodded. But this was only the most minor of episodes in the joyous occasion in which all those who saw in Edward M. Jason the harbinger and salvation of their hopes reveled in their moment of triumph at last.

  Fifteen minutes later the Speaker began to pound insistently for order, and five minutes after that he had it. Without further introduction or formality the President began to speak in a clear and solemn voice.

  “My fellow countrymen, delegates to this great convention: I accept with pride and determination your decision that I be your candidate for President of the United States.”

  They greeted this with the customary roar, touched by his forgiveness, unified and at one now that the battle was over and they could go forward together again; pleased and delighted by his good-sportsmanship, the necessity for which a near-majority of them had forced upon him most ruthlessly; relieved and happy, in some curiously childlike and irresponsible way, that Daddy wasn’t mad at them after all, in spite of what they’d done.

  “At another time,” he said, “and at another place—probably on Labor Day in Lansing where I first entered politics—I shall make a formal speech of acceptance. But I wanted to talk to you this morning at once, for there are matters of urgency which concern us.

  “I shall conduct this campaign as vigorously and forcefully as I know how.

  “I shall continue—and,” he added with a quiet firmness that began to give a few of them pause even as they yelled approval—“I shall strengthen the policies which I have followed and which I believe best for the security of the United States and the peace of the world.

  “We have now, I think, a platform which adequately and honestly expresses those policies, and adequately and honestly expresses the honorable duty and unflinching determination of this nation and its people.

  “I pledge it my full support, and I expect those who help me in this battle for a strong and fearless America to give it their full support.”

  Again there were shouts of approval, and it could be seen that Governor
Jason, half-smiling yet grave and judicious, was nodding and applauding vigorously with the rest.

  “The crisis we face—the long-continuing crisis we have faced ever since the resumption of aggressive Communist imperialism after the end of World War II—does not permit a place for the half-hearted, the half-doers, the half-committed. It does not permit a place for those who do not wholeheartedly, with every fiber of their hearts and beings, support and advance the policy of unyielding, unbelligerent, and unafraid firmness which is, I believe, the only salvation for this country and the free world.

  “There is no place for the half-committed in the ranks,” he said, and suddenly his voice rang with a sternness that brought a sudden hush and the first stirrings of a general doubt across the floor, “and there is no place for them at the head of the ranks.

  “This army throughout must be an army of the convinced and the committed. Otherwise it will fail.”

  He paused, and it was quite obvious that a good many in his audience were uneasy now. Could Daddy be mad after all? It was against all the rules, no matter what had been done to him. How dare he be mad? It just wasn’t right.

  But perhaps he wasn’t, really. Now he was going on, for a moment humor was back in his voice, he sounded more relaxed and fatherly, the way they liked to think of him—good old Harley!

  “Certainly no one can say that you have reached your decisions here under compulsion from anyone.”—and there was an appreciative laugh from all around the hall. “No one can say that there has not been a free, indeed a very vigorous, exchange of ideas and arguments. No one can honestly claim that we have not washed all our linen in public this time!”—and now the laughter was warm and unrestrained, for it was apparent that he was not resentful, he was a marvelous sport, they loved him so and it was going to be all right.

  “But—” and the way he said it brought a sudden cessation of laughter—“but—the time for that has passed. The decision has been reached. We face now, as our friends up there in the booths have been telling us in the last couple of hours”—and he gave them a friendly little wave—or was it friendly? Nobody knew and the laughter which greeted it was uncertain, uneasy, and perhaps a little guilty—“the task of binding up the party’s wounds and going forward in unity.

  “I submit that this will be impossible if those who cannot be relied upon to act with honor are given too great a hand in what we do.

  “It will be impossible if those of faint heart and clouded purpose are allowed to enter the places of leadership.”

  It could be seen by those who avidly looked, and all did, that Governor Jason’s face was impassive, though his color seemed a little paler and the line of his jaw might be said to be a little tense. But no one could really conceive that he had any reason to worry. The imperatives of the situation gave the President no room to maneuver, and his remarks now must be taken for what they obviously were, a human little reaction, natural enough, a fatherly warning that he would expect the loyalty which they were all, of course, eager to give him.

  “You have nominated me as your candidate for President. Not, I will admit”—he smiled wryly and there was a sharp little bleat of laughter, suddenly very nervous—“in quite the way, or under quite the circumstances, that I had anticipated.

  “Had you done it as I anticipated, I intended to follow the policy I announced earlier and make no attempt to influence you in the selection of a vice presidential candidate—even though every presidential candidate, it seems to me, assumes his role with the immediate obligation to assist in the selection of the man he believes best equipped to succeed him should the necessity arise.

  “But,” he said gravely, and now nobody at all was laughing, from Governor Jason on down they were giving him an absolute desperate attention, “you did not act as I had expected, and so I think I am relieved of the obligation to act as I originally announced.

  “I think what has happened here in this convention indicates that I indeed have an obligation to give you the benefit of my thinking on the selection of my running mate and potential successor.

  “I know,” he said softly, and it could be seen that Governor Jason’s face became whiter and whiter as he spoke, “what he must not be.

  “He must not be a man who sacrifices honor and integrity and the decent standards of decent men in the cause of his own avid ambition for public preferment.

  “He must not be a man who associates with the worst elements in America to gain his ends.

  “He must not be a man who, condoning violence, attempts with the most devious skill and the most ruthless cynicism to shift the blame for it to someone who is innocent.”

  It could be seen, in the deathly silence that now held the great room, that Governor Jason was very still and his face was very pale.

  “He must not be a man who calls for ‘negotiations’ because it is a popular word, but does not have the honesty to tell you that genuine negotiations demand strength on our part and a willingness to stand firm—not weakness and a readiness to surrender in advance every position we hold.

  “He must not be a man who offers you the outer shell of integrity but has sold himself to unprincipled backers”—and now he finally permitted his eyes to rest finally upon the Governor, who stared tensely back—“inside.

  “He must not, in short,” the President said softly, and now he was staring straight at the Governor as though he had never, really, seen him until this moment—“be a man for whom conscience does not—perhaps never has, but certainly, in the heat of his ambition for office and desire for national power, does not now—decide the issue.”

  At this there was a great gasp from the delegates, yet so astounded were they, so overwhelmed, so delighted, infuriated, happy, aghast, depending upon their personal sympathies, that it was impossible for anything coherent to emerge. Only a strange animal mumbling and grumbling, whose elements were unclear and whose import was uncertain, rose from the floor and descended from the galleries.

  In the midst of it Governor Jason sat absolutely still, absolutely white, immobilized by humiliation and dismay; not yet angry, because what was happening to him was so overwhelming that it really could not penetrate, as yet; not daring, and actually physically unable, to move, so stunned was he and so uncertain as to what might be coming next.

  “I do know a man of honor,” the President resumed, still softly, and there was a sudden burst of applause, nervous yet defiant, from somewhere on the floor, cut off as abruptly as it came.

  “He has served his country and his party without stain or blemish for twenty years.

  “He has occupied high position in his state, in the Senate, in the Cabinet.

  “He has fought hard and valiantly and with great courage all his life for what he believes in.

  “He has made enemies, but they have been enemies honestly made, in battles honestly fought.

  “He has not been devious.

  “He has not been cynical.

  “He has not been cruel.

  “He has not been weak.

  “He is as convinced as I am that only with unflinching firmness and the willingness to accept, and act immediately upon, our international obligations, can this nation, and the free world that depends upon her, survive.

  “He is direct, forthright, courageous—and honorable.

  Like him or dislike him, take him or leave him, there he stands—a man, in all senses.

  “A man,” the President concluded quietly, “I believe the country needs—I believe the world needs.

  “I know I need him.

  “I nominate for the office of Vice President of the United States,” he said, so quietly and calmly that they hardly realized he was doing it until it was over, “a great and honorable American, Orrin Knox of the State of Illinois.”

  His expression became stern in the fantastic hush. It was a moment in which the world could end, so terrible was the tension.

  “I tell you frankly now, I will accept no other.”

  And
with a grave little bow of his head he turned without looking at Ted Jason, shook hands quickly with the Speaker who could not resist giving his arm a quick, delighted squeeze, and walked solemnly from the podium, a portly, comfortable, old-shoe figure who did not look at all fatherly or forgiving any more.

  Of what happened in those next few minutes no one who was there, or anyone who watched it on television, ever retained any coherent memory, so great was the release of emotion that burst from the convention, so furious and contradictory the emotions and reactions that filled the hall and spun outward from it around the earth. From Frankly Unctuous and Walter Dobius, at last too upset to make any attempt to dissemble their horrified disbelief, to Hal Knox, absent-mindedly gripping the Illinois standard and staring transfixed at the platform while tears ran down his face, all were undone and everything was tossed awry. The enormity of it was what overwhelmed the Jasonites; the wonderful audacity of it was what stunned the Knox supporters. The President had defied all the clichés of conventions, had refused to go along with the sickly good-fellowship with which men who hate each other on Wednesday embrace on Thursday for the sake of party unity and the necessities of November; had done, bluntly and honestly, exactly what he believed in doing. It was a deed beyond immediate comprehension, though in days to come many and many a solemn word would be written analyzing its reasons, implications, and effect.

  But right now, for perhaps ten minutes, no one was capable of doing much of anything. It was as though the whole convention were paralyzed. Delegates milled aimlessly about, the galleries gabbled, Walter’s world babbled, nobody took hold. The Speaker, appearing as dazed and uncertain as the rest, stood chatting to Anna Bigelow in a rambling conversation whose content neither of them would ever be able to recall later, no matter how hard they tried. It seemed that no one would act because no one knew how to act.

  The event was temporarily too much.