The Final Hour

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  It was conscience, or despair, or grief, that sickened the soul, and sickened the flesh. This, the physician was beginning to believe. He was revolted, derided himself for becoming a dupe of Christian Science, or other ‘superstitions.’ But the evidence was growing. He found himself, quite against his will, fumbling with a very new Bible he had recently bought, and angrily reading the New Testament’s accounts of the healings of the sick by Jesus. ‘Take up thy bed and walk,’ Jesus admonished the crippled man. ‘Take up thy bed, have courage, have manhood, and face the world of reality and fight it with bravery and faith,’ He must really have meant.

  The world, to the physician, was becoming filled, despite his ‘enlightened’ resistance, with millions of anguished and despairing souls that could not endure existence in such a frightful place. He observed, too, that as the tension among nations increased, and hatred bloomed like a bloody flower in every habitat of man, and fear blew like a poison gas through every city, disease increased. Death, and the desire for death, were striking the souls of men as blight strikes fruitful trees, blackening them, withering them, killing the flowering branch.

  Once he was on the point of saying to Armand: ‘Give millions, not thousands, to my research laboratory, understanding that you will help science to discover new methods of curing disease, not only for yourself, but for millions of other men. Then, perhaps, you will be cured.’ But he knew that his words would be met with greedy indignation, or a stare of utter incomprehension. He would arouse himself from these speculations with an angry word, or a gesture of contempt. He would go to his research laboratory, and cautiously and in circumlocutions, he would hint at his speculations. He found, to his great surprise, that the young physicians knew all about this, and did a great deal of speculating themselves.

  So it was that with more gentleness than was his usual custom he would listen to Armand’s eager questions, his suggestions, his long and meandering discussions of his disease. Under this flow of self-absorbed words, he would search for a hint of the real cause of this old man’s suffering, the real cause of the refusal of his glands to operate. Finally, he had a hint. Armand lived in chronic fear. Of what was he afraid? Of himself? Of others?

  The List was now Armand’s gospel, the magic which extended his existence. But it was not extending it, the physician knew. Daily, he was becoming weaker. Death, the desire of his soul, would soon end the life of his body. Why was this?

  The physician might have received a hint on a certain night when Armand, in his lonely apartments, was listening to the radio.

  Armand detested radios. A few years ago, he would never have listened to the flow that moves heavily through the ether. But now, in his lonely extremity, he listened. Out from Europe, out from the capitals of the world, came anxious voices, exultant voices, terrified voices, exhorting voices, all concerned with only one thing: the debacle of civilization, the approaching and inevitable war, the tortures and agonies of mankind face to face with its self-wrought dissolution. Some of the voices blamed Hitler, urged the rising of the world against this madman who had been created by the powerful, the lusters, the haters of men. Some of the voices declared that it was the British or the American or the French ‘war-mongers,’ who were bringing this doom upon all. Others decried the self-seekers, the exploiters, the crafty, the conspirators, the ambitious. The pacifists who had kept America unarmed were blamed; the ‘armaments manufacturers,’ others declared, had plotted the coming horror for the sake of profits. None cried out that it was every man everywhere who had conceived, allowed or consented to the rising catastrophe. None asserted that it was in the souls of men that the guilt lay bloodily. The German madness had been there for every man to see, but no one had revealed it to the sight of the world. Some few had seen, but they had been silent, hoping to profit by the disease.

  Now only turmoil came from the air, and through the millions of radios in defenceless homes. But no voice cried out: ‘You, who listen, are guilty of this.’

  Armand listened, crouched in his dark rooms, bending his ear toward the instrument, the dull light that came from it the only light about him. And, as he listened, his face puckered, pursed, his grey brows drew together. In himself he could feel a sudden weakness and disintegration, a dull fever and nameless anguish.

  He suffered as an animal suffers, with wild dull surprise at his own voiceless pain, with incomprehension. And with it was a sick horror and formless guilt. Sometimes he would stare about him in the diffused darkness, and say to himself: Where have I been all this time? What has been happening?

  He was without imagination, without the ability to analyse himself or others. Yet, within him, the enormous sense of guilt grew, so that he felt his blood hurry faster with a kind of terror. Where was his guilt? He did not know. But the sickness increased in him. He began to see the face of Jules Bouchard, his father, in the illuminated dial of the radio. It was a smiling face, darkly exultant, subtle and ironical.

  When some commentator hysterically cried out against the ‘armaments manufacturers,’ Armand started to his feet and shouted: ‘Damned nonsense! As if a handful of men like myself had anything to do with this!’ He felt the verity of his own words, and was momentarily, if indignantly, comforted. What folly to believe that a few men actually set out to create wars for their own profits! How dared the fool mouth such idiocies! Worst of all, the ignorant and the stupid might believe it.

  He sat down again, trembling with the first hot rage he had felt in many years. He turned off the furious rush of words, and sat panting in the darkness, clenching his fists and beating them on his fat knees. Where were Henri, Christopher, Antoine, Francis, Emile, Nicholas—the whole damned family?—Why did they allow this infernal nonsense? And then he saw their faces, passing slowly before him, and was silent.

  He began to speak aloud, slowly, dully, incredulously: ‘Yes, of course. They are guilty. We are all guilty. Not just us—not only the Bouchards. But people like us, in Germany, in France, in England. People like us, who made Hitler, who armed him, who shipped him matériel of war, who lent him money, who plotted with him, against our own countries, our own people. Why did we plot?’

  His brows drew together, and he gnawed his lips in the darkness. There was a vast trembling in him, so profound that he vaguely thought the whole house was swaying in a vast agitation. He clenched his fists under his chin, and crouched forward on his chair, a stout grotesque figure with a large head partly covered by sparse grey curls. He might have been a fat gnome there, in the darkness, concentrating as he had never concentrated for many years, his mind aching and throbbing, his heart shaking.

  He remembered all those years when he had been Chairman of the Board of Directors, after he had relinquished the presidency of Bouchard & Sons to Henri. Even now, in retrospect, he felt the profound wincing, the sudden sweat, the dry-mouthed impulse to flight, which he had felt during his attendance at the Board meetings. He remembered how his ears had suddenly rung, become deafened, dull, so that the words and statements of others were a blur, and meaningless. But, he had heard, in spite of himself, and what he had heard came back to him now so vividly that they seemed written in letters of fire on the dark walls of the room. His subconscious mind had heard and recorded, and it was like a hand, now, opening inexorable books for him to read.

  Faces, haloed with sinister light, floated before him. He saw their smiles, their lifted eyebrows, heard their low voices. Lips moved soundlessly, then suddenly roared loudly so that he caught every distinct and ominous word before it faded again into silence.

  The voices told of money, food, oil, cotton, pouring into Franco’s Spain, after the collapse and ruin of the Republic, a constant flood which had been denied the starving and valiant people who had thrown off the crushing power of Church and State exploitation. He heard the voice of his relative, Hugo Bouchard, Assistant to the Secretary of State, urging that precious ores and matériel of war be sent to Franco, a request which was granted by the Bouchards and the president
s of their subsidiaries. ‘Of course,’ said Hugo’s voice, shrillingly loud and clear in the hot darkness of Armand’s room, ‘there will be the question from certain vicious radicals why Franco needs such enormous quantities.’ Hugo smiled; there was a dim echo of laughter all about him. ‘It will even be asked if most of this matériel does not find its way to Mussolini and Hitler. Now, we boys employ very expensive public-relations and publicity men, and it is up to them to put the quietus on the thing. They can do it. They’ve done bigger and better jobs than this. They’ll be fools, or worse, if it ever gets out about the real amounts we are sending to Franco. What the hell! We’ve been helping Franco since 1936, you boys in active positions, and I and my friends in the State Department. We’re not stopping now. Hitler needs—’ and the voice sank to a murmur, was lost, for it was at that moment, years ago, that Armand had muttered something incoherent, and had fled the room, followed by the derisive and laughing eyes of the others.

  Now Christopher’s voice, vitriolic and incisive, rose in the darkness: ‘We aren’t deceiving ourselves, I hope, about the immensity of the coming struggle in America, whether or not there is war in Europe. Labour is rapidly getting out of hand, under this Administration. Dogs and swine! We’ve got to get busy, and that without delay. Francis, what are you doing about unions?’

  Emile’s voice: ‘Hitler must win the coming war. Tell me, you fellows, just what have been your shipments to Hitler, through Holland and South America? I have my own figures here, from Bouchard & Sons, but I’m not very familiar with your work. Henri, what about those cartels? What are the production figures?’

  Jean’s voice: ‘I tell you, fascism is the only protection we have against labour. Some of you have wondered about the American masses’ reaction to such a regime. But I tell you now the people don’t want to think. They want to be led, regulated, thought for, even driven, if driven firmly and strongly, ‘‘for their own good.” Do you think the American mob is any more intelligent than the German or Italian? If you do, you’re fools.’

  Alexander’s pompous parson’s voice: ‘We’ve got to have a government by Managers in America, Business Managers. Why, I’ve got Biblical approval of this—!’

  The voice of the President of the American Association of Industrialists: ‘I tell you, it isn’t going to be very easy. It’s fine to say we’ve got to destroy democracy in America. But you must remember there is a noisy if minority group which is all for Jeffersonian democracy, and if they are eloquent enough, and violent enough, there’ll be trouble here. Especially if there is war. We’re strong, I admit that. But what are we doing in a practical way?

  ‘Look at the facts: Kiss-mammy idealists, Marxist college professors, New Deal politicians, vociferous and ideal-drunk newspapers are already bellowing and breaking down public trust in our business structure. We’re “fascist, conservative, reactionary, and Tories.” They’ve got a following, and that following can grow among the stupid masses. Look at labour gains, since that rascal has been in the White House! Do you think that labour is going to relinquish its rights so easily, and quietly let us destroy its goddam precious democracy? You’re confounded asses if you think so!’

  Jean’s soft and smiling voice again: ‘We can give them something more colourful. We’ve already organized strong minorities, reactionary and safe. What is that new organization of yours, Chris, when war breaks out in Europe? The America Only Committee? We’ll have five million members’ overnight, all sound blimps who will hate anything we tell them to hate: “war-mongers,” Jews, radical statesmen, snottynosed idealists. Anything. While they are hating so vigorously, we can bring out our own Guardians of America, the lawful and white-washed successor to the Ku Klux Klan. Don’t forget, too, we’ve got the American Legion with its hatred for Communists. All we need now is a few good slogans, and our publicity boys ought to be able to find them. We have sufficient committees, I believe, to befuddle and disorganize the stinking masses long enough to let Hitler win in Europe and keep America out of the mess. Then, when Hitler has cleaned up the balance of Europe, we’ll demand that he assist us here. It’s the least he can do, after all we’ve done for him.’

  Then Antoine’s voice, accompanied by his dark and glittering smile: ‘I’ve seen enough in France, among my elegant associates, to know that France, with all her fervent patriotism, and her “devotion” to liberté, égalité, fraternité, will fall easily during the first few months of German assault. It’s all settled, there. A faint show of resistance, to throw off public suspicion, then an “insupportable” situation which will end in immediate capitulation. The French leaders have done their work excellently, even in such a homogeneous country where the masses profess to adore France. It will be easier in America. Who loves America? The descendants of Germans, Italians, Poles and God knows who other human scum? The American people, too, are the most stupid and ignorant in the world. They will allow fascism to gain dominance here much quicker than the French will allow it. I agree with Jean. A few active committees and organizations, all hating something or other with that single-hearted delight that animates the American-Neanderthal man, a few induced lynchings, blackmailings, libelling, and a good splash of rich vulgar ridicule, and the work is done? Labour is too illiterate, too greedy, too gross and animalistic to lift a hand, labour leaders to the contrary. When we take over the Government under the new Nationalism, labour will simply love to work twelve hours a day for just enough to keep its gaunt belly filled.

  ‘Besides, haven’t we the Church to rely on in America, with its gospel of work, propagation, family, obedience and ignorance, for the masses? God knows, we’ve subsidized it enough! Then, we’ve got our newspapers, our chains. I think they will justify our faith in them.’

  The voices came quickly now to Armand’s shrinking ears, vicious, gloating, laughing, conspiring. And now the voice of Mr Douglas Flannery, publisher of the Detroit Clarion which boasted four million readers not only in the Detroit area, but far beyond it:

  ‘My paper has gained over a million readers during the last six months. Doesn’t that signify anything to you gentlemen? I’ve slashed everything, from the New Deal in Britain, France and Spain, from labour leaders to Communists, and I’m proud of the record. I’ve emphasized that we need in Washington sound and conservative business men who will put the needs of America before the Marxist needs of European radicals. I’m not afraid!’ continued the pompous and rumbling voice triumphantly. ‘I’m the only newspaper in America that dares to attack the Jews and the Negroes, and in the event of any dissatisfaction or confusion in America, which might interfere with the plans of you gentlemen, a pogrom, an epidemic of lynching, can easily be arranged. These will distract the public mind. Look at my columnists! I can truly say these boys are doing their work excellently. If Roosevelt has the audacity to seek a third term, which he won’t do of course, we’ll rip him wide open. We can quote Washington with the best of ’em!’ he added, on a roar of laughter.

  In the darkness, Armand suddenly slapped his hands to his ears and rocked desolately on his chair. His wrinkled forehead was wet and cold as ice.

  Now the voices became a confusion in the hot silence of the room, voices of conspiracy against America, against the world, against all mankind. Voices of greed and cruelty and rapacity and immense cunning. Voices that told of the rearmament of Germany, of fellow conspirators in England and in France, the conservatives, the Tories, the plotters on English country estates and on the French Riviera, of vast loans to Hitler, of the intricate maze of international cartels that would restrict the arming of America, and the conversion of her economy into effective war-production, of the division, under these cartels, of South America between German and American companies, of the suppression of competition, under these same cartels, and the monopolizing of the markets of America, of the exchange of vital patents with Hitler, of propaganda throughout the world which served as apologia for Naziism and eulogized the gains made in fascist countries over labour and “decadence,” of
arrangements for shipments of vital war matériel to Hitler in the event of war, through South America and other neutral countries. The voices rose like a storm, like a hurricane, so that the sick man listening to them as he rocked desolately on his chair thought that the very dome of the sky echoed with them,threw them back to the duller echoes of earth.

  And then, they faded away on a last shrill note. But the air of the world vibrated with them, quivered like plucked strings, which though now silent, still trembled with unheard reverberations.

  Armand lifted his head from his chest and stared about him, blindly. His mouth had fallen open, and he was panting. His sickness was devouring him like a tiger.

  The years of his life marched before him, those confused, frightened and formless years, filled with shrinking and fear. He had had such a small and wounded integrity, which had never been enough for anything but to induce this lethal disease in him. All those years, when he might have done something! Instead, his weak conscience had gnawed at him, devouring the cells of his flesh, petrifying the vital forces in him, delivering him up at last to this desolation and this feeble despair, this loneliness and lost hopelessness, this bewilderment and torture.

  He did not regret; he merely suffered. What could I have done? he whimpered to himself. I never really cared. Why, then,was I tormented? Why did I run away?

  He stood up, and his whimper broke from his lips: ‘I really was a good man! I hated it. I was better than they. I really had the capacity—’

  Now his terror inundated him, and he clasped his fat hands together convulsively, and glared about him, affrighted.

  He had never had any patriotism. His sole loyalty had been to himself, to his family. He could not understand. Even now, he consciously felt no fear for America, no concern for the world. He was only aware of a terrible and engulfing dread and horror.