The Final Hour

by Taylor Caldwell

  ‘For, they have decided that you shall lose your freedom, your franchise, your civil liberties, your dignity, your honour, and your manhood. They have created Hitler as a rampart against “Communism.” If the rampart is now threatening to tumble on our own heads, your enemies will look beyond the ruin to the future. They have not wanted war with their creature, Hitler. They have hoped that he might assist them in subjugating and enslaving you. If he will not—if we, the American people, must rise and destroy this monster they have created—then they must swiftly change their plans, they must plot that fascism be not utterly destroyed in Europe, they must make certain that the future bugaboo is Russia, that no man of goodwill shall enter the White House, that a form of hateful and dangerous Naziism be instituted in America. They will work to these ends, sleeplessly, whether there is war or not.

  ‘This book is written to tell you what you do not know. It is planned to cause you to look up from your circuses and your gadgets and your cheap toys, and to fix your eyes upon your real enemies.’

  The pen slowly slipped from Peter’s fingers in a gesture of utter exhaustion. He leaned his head on this thin hand and closed his eyes. He often had such waves of weakness, which came from his soul even more than from his wasting body.

  Behind his eyelids he saw circles and balls of dull fire, whirling nebulæ of blue and crimson and yellow. He pressed his hands against them. Now a familiar faintness overwhelmed him, during which all his thoughts swirled together in a spiral of mist, formed of pain, and floated away from him.

  In the midst of this blowing disintegration, he had only one clear thought: How was it possible to encompass, between the narrow pages of a book, the whole incredible and gigantic story? He could only touch here and there, like lightning glancing on the highest peaks of mountains, but which left the deep clefts of valleys, the oceans and the clamouring rivers, in complete and shadowy darkness. He could make audible only a few thundering voices, coming from various distances. His picture, therefore, must seem disjointed, incoherent, and by reason of this, more and more fantastic and incredible. The people believed only little ordinary stories. They regarded the echoes of giants, the shaking of their steps, their looming silhouettes, as fantasia, the awesome chimera created by writers of fairy stories or epic legends. They might even find such vast images to have a semi-divine or heroic quality, which their meagre souls must admire. The people lusted always for heroes, for the superman, for Olympian gods. He, Peter, must be exhaustively careful that he presented no such images to the public mind, for its childish adulation. The images must be terrible, but also hateful. It must be shown that they were only little men after all, but more endowed than most with lust for power, with mercilessness, with cruelty and rapacity and treachery. But how to do this, when only the tallest peaks could be shown forth by lightning, when only the most stupendous heights could be revealed in the compass of a book?

  He opened his eyes and looked about him. His table was heaped with data, hundreds of pages of it, and letters, and books. He must write a veritable library if he was to give even a two-dimensional story. Moreover, he could not name names, for fear of libel suits. He must give only hints, endow his true characters with strange appellations, twist more than a little, highlight out of proportion, sink other facts into a dark background. He must do all this, if only to have the book published.

  His sister-in-law, Estelle, wife of Francis, had urged him to write ‘something that would attract the attention of Hollywood, Peter, if you really wish to deliver a “message.”’

  How, then, was one to awaken this huge American mob, this singing, sports-loving, eager, selfish, stupid, generous and ignorant mob that loved only mean little pleasures? When he thought this, Peter was seized with an anguish of love and anger and suffering. How great could be America, how noble and strong, if it would but hear and understand and leap to its feet with a shout of indignation and fury?

  His impotence overwhelmed him. So much to say, so much to tell and reveal, and it must all pour out through the thin squeak of his pen and the dribble of vapid ink. The stark and terrible story must be reduced to scrawls which probably would attract the eye of only a small minority. And hour by hour the doom approached more swiftly, unseen amid the glare of Main Streets, unheard amid the darkened delights of moving-picture theatres.

  The Walpurgis Night was closing over mankind, but the prophet gesticulated alone in the deserted bazaars, and his voice echoed back to himself from the empty places. The sellers and the buyers had flocked to listen to the brittle voice of some trollop in the city.

  Peter lifted a letter from the pile near his hand and reread it. It was from his relative, Georges Bouchard, the publisher.

  ‘You will remember, Pete, that your book, The Terrible Swift Sword, was not well received by the public. They aren’t interested in non-fiction, at least, not yet. (Personally, I believe the day is coming when they will be.) They are still not receptive to such books as yours. They are only troubled and disturbed by them, and finally they are incredulous. They don’t want to be annoyed.

  ‘You will tell me that if I had allowed you to use your real name instead of a pseudonym, the book would have attracted more attention from critic and public alike. But, as I told you, there were many drawbacks to this. Bad taste, in the first place, though you won’t agree with me, as usual. The public doesn’t like men who betray their families, even in a “good cause.” Then, there was the libel angle. I still don’t cotton to the idea of my family falling heavily on me, en masse, nor will you, if you give the matter just a little thought.

  ‘Now that brings me to your proposed new book, The Fateful Lightning. I’ve looked over your outline, and given it long and serious thought. And, frankly, it quite terrifies me. What do you expect to accomplish by it? Do you actually think the American public would care for it, consider it, be aroused by it? As a publisher of some years and some standing, I must disagree with you. It will be called melodramatic, insane, turgid and impossible. Besides, there have been whole floods of books written on this very subject before, and they didn’t stir up even a breeze. Then, candidly, your idea of using your own name on it frightens me.

  ‘I’m in a bad position, too. I’m a Bouchard. I simply can’t see myself publishing such a book.’

  He had added wryly (and this Peter could not forgive): ‘It is too bad that we no longer have publishing connections in Germany. I’m sure Goebbels would appreciate The Fateful Lightning. Your book, The Terrible Swift Sword, was very cordially received by him.

  Peter compressed his pale lips. He continued to read the letter:

  ‘However, if you are really hell-bent on publishing such a book, under your own name, I recommend that you see Cornell T. Hawkins of Thomas Ingham’s Sons. This is a strong and conservative old firm of great prestige, and highly respected. In the past, they’ve gone in for the more decorous literature and churchly textbooks, but it seems that a new spirit has recently come to life there. I think that is the influence of Hawkins. You must have heard of him, at least, though you never mentioned meeting him. A great man: a great editor. I might even say, a great democrat and aristocrat, though that sounds paradoxical. Though his background properly would seem to be the austere panelled white walls of some New England mansion, filled with frigid shining furniture and bookcases of old classics, he has a cold yet passionate modern spirit and an astounding intellect. If he does nothing else, he will listen to you sympathetically, and give you the soundest advice. You can trust him. And when I say that, I want to assure you that I’ve rarely said it of another human being.’

  Peter threw aside the letter, and covered his aching head with his hands. His exhaustion became insupportable. Had he been a woman, he would have burst into terrible tears. After a long time, he dropped his hands and stared through the window.

  He winced, as always, at what he saw. From the walls of the house, Christopher’s Endur stretched away, a plain-like sheet of green grass, to distant walls and polished gates.
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  Everything was utterly stark and glaringly brilliant in a hot and sterile wind and under a sun like a blazing ball of glass. No trees cooled those vast lawns, except where on each side of the immense acreage, two identical rows of pointed poplars stood as stiff as painted wood against a colourless summer sky, their sharp purple shadows as rigid as themselves. The radiant scene was empty, unbearable in the intense heat, for Christopher had an aversion to flowers. The view matched the interior of the square white mansion, with its glassy and chromium furniture standing in its own reflections against walls of glass or white wood.

  No curving light of a bird’s wing softened this stage-scene of emptiness and burning radiance. Only the unhampered winds, as dry as air surging from ovens, made any audible sound about the house or grounds. The wind was almost constant. It exacerbated Peter’s nerves. The windows were wide and clear as laboratory windows, and the narrow draperies were set against walls instead of glass, so that one could not escape the blazing austerity of the view.

  As sterile, as dead, as passionless as the owner, himself, thought Peter. He loathed Endur. Its bleakness, its lack of merciful shade, its openness, which seemed the wary openness before a fortress where no enemy can hide, was eloquent of Christopher’s character. But here he must stay until his own home, on Placid Heights, had been completed.

  As he stared so bitterly through the window, Georges’ letter in his hand, Peter thought suddenly of his father, Honoré Bouchard. It was very strange that he so often thought of his father in these days, and each time the vision he had of Honoré was clearer, sharper, more urgent, more kind. In all the years since Honoré’s death on the Lusitania, his memory had remained with his youngest and favourite son, like the gentle melancholy over an autumn landscape. It was in 1932 that Peter first began to have these warm visions, full of substance and clarity, as though Honoré, in the flesh, stood before him, speaking. He had been only a young collegian when his father had fallen into the grey chasms of the Atlantic, and over the years Honoré’s face and form had become diffuse, uncertain, his voice dimmed and hollow. It was exceedingly strange, then, that Peter saw him again so clearly now, and heard his voice so strongly.

  CHAPTER XX

  It seemed to Peter, as he remembered his father now, that Honoré had always been afflicted with a kind of desperate melancholy, silent, patient, gently smiling, and abstracted. He had never complained, had never been pettish or irritable or distracted, though sometimes given to inexplicable gestures of soundless violence in the very midst of some casual remark. His three older sons, Francis, Hugo and Jean, had found this somewhat amusing; his wife, Ann Richmond, had found it very annoying. But Peter, when he saw these gestures, saw how his father’s kind smile suddenly became fixed, almost a grimace, would feel his heart lurch with a nameless fear and frantic compassion. The Honoré who spoke, who maintained a firm and considerable exterior, who listened attentively and with sympathy, was not the Honoré who lived beneath the surface of the flesh, tormented, desperate, despondent and without hope. This, Peter knew, even when he was still very young.

  No small part of the present success of Bouchard & Sons was due to Honoré Bouchard. Peter, in spite of anxious searchings, could find nothing that might justify his hope that his father had been less unscrupulous, less inexorable, less venal and rapacious than Jules Bouchard, his cousin and friend. It was true that he had been kind and compassionate, that his charities had been large and practically secret, that he had been sympathetic and gentle to all, even to his greedy and vicious wife who must have sickened him often, and that, in a strange way, he had had integrity and character. Nevertheless, he had followed all of Jules’ advice, so far as Peter could see, had listened to Jules, acknowledged his shrewdness and genius. Peter’s searching revealed nothing objective that could lighten his heart and console him. The record of Honoré Bouchard was open to his eyes, and there was no instance where Honoré had set the welfare of America above profits, or the safety of mankind above the rising power of the Bouchard dynasty.

  Yet, Peter could not shake off the memory of his father’s brown deep eye with its expression of desperate melancholy and abstracted brooding. He remembered that round bullet-head with its cropped grey hair, the sturdy, rather short figure, the broad and solid shoulders, the somewhat crooked nose, and the kind and thoughtful smile. There had been a strange stillness about Honoré, as if he were listening to something no one else heard.

  Sometimes Peter had even hoped that his father had been weak, too weak to resist the pressure of his cousin, Jules, and the others, that he had been too kind to oppose them, or that there had been a spiritual or physical listlessness in him which had prevented him from struggling with the other Bouchards. But there had been no weakness, no listlessness, in that strong and homely face, Peter had had to admit with later sadness. He might have a distaste for the greedy and the exigent, the selfish and the cruel (and he had demonstrated this quite vigorously many times in Peter’s presence), but when it became a matter of the Bouchard fortunes and power and profit, he was as relentless as his cousin, Jules.

  What distortion of soul had been in him which had made this usually reserved man voluble when he discovered some personal viciousness, rapacity or cruelty in a member of his immediate family, even to the point of inflicting physical punishment on his young sons, yet which had kept him silent, acquiescent or co-operative when it was a matter of Bouchard wealth, Bouchard profit or Bouchard aggrandisement? No matter, then, if multitudes suffered, if national honour was betrayed, if plots were set in motion against the peace and welfare of a whole nation or a whole world! Peter sometimes saw a gleeful pleasure in his relatives at the success of some abominable scheme, a gloating, a chuckling delight. But he never saw these in his father. Instead, he had observed that the melancholy deepened in Honoré’s eyes; he would become more silent, a little grimmer, a trifle more solitary than usual.

  Peter was eternally tormented by the enigma which was his father. The clearest memories he had were of Honoré’s deep kind voice, his gentle and affectionate hand, his sweet and thoughtful smile, his meditative philosophy and wry embittered wit. Honoré, of all the Bouchards, alone was scholarly. He had had an immense library, and would spend endless evenings reading under his quiet lamp. Of all his relatives, oddly enough, he seemed to prefer Jules Bouchard, his cousin, and in Jules’ light and debonair presence he would become almost gay, his laughter unusually ready, his face lighted with real pleasure and comfort.

  Was there something fundamentally alike in these two? Peter would think, in miserable distress. Surely everything that was good and wholesome and decent in Honoré must have been violated by the suave Jules. Yet, if it was violated, there was no sign of it.

  Then Honoré, sent by Jules on some dangerous and secret mission to a Europe suddenly plunged into chaos, had died on the Lusitania.

  Peter remembered that night well. Now, as he remembered, he lifted his hand from his eyes, and raised his aching head. His blue eyes narrowed, became intent, as he stared sightlessly through the blazing window of his room. Something seemed to be forming before his eyes, something significant, something which was about to explain the enigma of his father to him. His hands tightened slowly on the paper before him, as with desperate quietness he tried to concentrate. He saw his father’s face so clearly now, grave, kind, weary and hopeless. He saw his father’s lips move in silent but urgent explanation.

  The news, he recalled, had come to Jules first, by some mysterious route. And Jules had been stricken, at the moment, with the first of his terrible heart attacks. Peter remembered that Leon, Jules’ brother had come to Honoré’s home that night, to tell the newly made widow of her husband’s death. Leon, the surly, the bulky, the sombre of voice, had entered the house, quite undone, his face grey and shaken. He had given the news somewhat incoherently, and Peter remembered that his greatest concern, his greatest preoccupation, had been for his brother, Jules, and that over and over again he had exclaimed, in the midst of
the widow’s tears, that ‘this will kill Jules!’

  Peter, so young then, had listened to Leon, had heard him through a wavering mist of grief. He had felt a dull and aching anger against Leon, that he had dared so to exclaim about Jules. He had felt no wonder that those surly and sunken eyes had been filled with curious tears, that the strong square hands had literally wrung themselves together in a kind of distraction. He had known that Leon had had for Jules a reluctant but deep affection. But it was certainly odd that his sole preoccupation had not been for the tragic death of Honoré, but for Jules’ condition, for Jules’ grief, and that, at the last, he had risen in distraction and declared that he must return at once to his brother.

  Peter had accepted it as grief, as had everyone else. But now, as he sat there thinking with such painful concentration and urgency, he wondered. Jules, it is true, must have felt the profoundest sorrow of his life at the death of his beloved cousin. But, Peter thought, there had been a queer meaning in Leon’s words, in his manner.

  ‘My God!’ he groaned, rubbing his forehead with his knuckles. Something stood there before him, full of explanation, if he could only see and understand. He forced himself to be calm. He saw his father’s face again, so sharply, and he tried to read the silent words on the moving lips.

  Then he remembered something else, and it came up from the grey and shadowy depths of his memory like a mist which slowly took form.

  There had been a witness to the death of Honoré. The lifeboats had been rapidly filled to capacity after the death-blow of the German torpedo. There had been one empty place, and a ship’s officer, slavishly mindful even then in the midst of the catastrophe of the Bouchard power, had urged Honoré to take that place. But he refused. The witness said Honoré had stood on the tilting deck, and had shaken his head slowly and quietly. And that he had smiled in the strangest way. His face had taken on a mysterious look of peace and content, withdrawn and aloof. He had looked about him at the hundreds of frantic and terrified people who would not be saved, who must die. And he had tightened his hands on the deck rail and lifted his head. He had died with them, refusing to live.