The Eagles Gather

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Peter ate and drank and laughed and talked casually. But he saw each face at the table in its entirety. Most of them did not interest him; he did not like the Bouchard women. But he did see his mother, with her jewels and old sprightliness and bare mottled shoulders, and the sight hurt him mysteriously, as though he were ashamed. He remembered that he had kissed her, and had said, his pity making him hypocritical: “You’re younger than ever, mother.” Old Ann was prepared to be haughtily and suspiciously reserved with her youngest son, and there had been a knowing and very hard look in her eye. But at his words she melted, coquetted, and kissed him with real affection. This made him sadder than ever. And then he saw his brothers. Hugo had come up from New York the day before. His buff-colored geniality struck Peter with embarrassed and embittered remembrance. There was Jean, causing his section of the table to be continually convulsed with his stories and remarks. And then Francis, grinning and angular and dry. Then Christopher, and Emile. From these two his eye fell away with a feeling of mental nausea. And then, Armand.

  Peter had had very little contact with Armand in the old days. His remembrance of him was not tinged with dislike and disgust as it was with the others. He had felt that he had some small point of contact with him, though they had seldom met. Wasn’t there a little girl—Annette? Someone had said she was ill. This probably accounted for his offguard expression of somber gloom. And yet Peter observed that Armand kept furtively glancing at Christopher and Emile, at Francis and Hugo, and then the gloomy look would be replaced with one of infinite weariness and aversion. He would listen to their remarks, and then when others would laugh, he would just avert his head. Peter felt more drawn to him than ever.

  Bouchards upon Bouchards. Peter could not keep his relationship with them straight. Cousins and second-cousins and third-cousins, and in-laws and brothers and nieces and nephews and aunts and uncles and grandparents. The whole formidable Bouchard family. Peter reflected: It is incredible, but much of the fate and history and peace and misery of America is at this table tonight. We are told in schools to be glad that we are no longer ruled by “tyrants.” But we are not told that we are ruled by oligarchies of tyrants, much more dangerous and ruthless than the ancient ones, much more intelligent, much more aware of what they want, and much more capable of getting it.

  And yet, they were only mortal men, with flesh and blood, with lusts and wretchednesses, with hopes and impotences, with hatreds and loves. Would Armand, for instance, born in a lower middle-class family, and trained only for minor clerical work, have been able to rise out of his class or accomplish more than a small business man? Were the pillars of dynasty than a petty lawyer, or a shopkeeper? Would Francis have been more than a small business man? Where the pillars of dynasty supported only by mediocre men, instead of the demi-heroes of popular belief? How much did power and greatness owe to inherited opportunity?

  His glance kept wandering sharply about the table. And inevitably it came back to Celeste. There it would pause, and he would smile. She would stare at him blindly for a full moment or two, and then would give him an answering smile, uncertain and confused and bewildered. Across the table their eyes would meet and hold, and a swift and silent exchange of confidences would pass between them.

  After the sixth or seventh such encounter, Peter thought: I wonder what Henri Bouchard is like now? I remember him, a hard-eyed mean brat. Has he changed, or was I merely prejudiced? I hope he’ll be good to her, the pretty little thing! After the tenth encounter, he thought: She is not a Bouchard. And after the twelfth, the thought of her coming marriage gave him an astounding pang.

  And then he became aware that she hardly took her eyes off him, no matter to whom he might be speaking. He tried to avoid glancing at her; something in her eyes, in her small pale face, hurt him; when she smiled at him, a faint frightened smile, he was inexpressibly moved and disturbed. It was becoming evident that she waited only for him to look at her. And then, that swift fugitive smile, like a bewildered child’s, a terrified child’s!

  Suddenly he was enormously happy and excited. He dared not ask himself why. He heard himself laughing and talking, and was conscious of the approval of his relatives. He hardly coughed at all. He could even talk to Christopher lightly and casually, Christopher whom he had always deeply hated, Christopher, the Robot, with chromium wheels instead of human internal organs. Through all the talk and laughter, and the rich courses of the dinner, and the wines, he thought: Will she be looking at me again when I look at her?

  The first disapproval of him occurred when Francis, in a cleverly satirical voice, announced that Peter was writing “a book.”

  “A book!” exclaimed Ann, with dismay. “But why a book? Haven’t you anything better to do than write a book? Nobody in our family writes books. Nice people don’t write books.”

  When Christopher spoke, Peter knew that here was a deadly and unremitting enemy: “Maybe Peter believes that the pen is still mightier than the sword.”

  Peter regarded them all calmly, before he said quietly: “It is.”

  Emile laughed. “We have the smallest literate public in all the world. The market for trash in America is unsurpassed and unbelievable. Good writing stands little chance of publication, or, if published, it sells about twelve hundred copies. Or maybe you’re going in for love stories, or movie writing, Peter?”

  The other laughed their approval of this wit. Peter waited until the laughter had died down, then he said: “I’m going to write only of the things I have seen. And I’ve seen a great deal. In Europe, and in Asia. Now I shall see America.” Armand, for the first time, showed interest in him. “But what is your subject matter?”

  Peter answered coldly: “The things I have seen. The economic and social conditions of every country I have visited and studied, and a forecasting of the inevitable results of the causes now operating.”

  “Ah, a prophet,” said Jean. “Without benefit of astrology, I hope? Don’t mind us; we’re just jealous. Most of us can’t sign our names legibly. But tell me: what’s going to happen?” Peter regarded him thoughtfully: “I wonder if you really don’t know? Somehow, I think you have a vague idea. I’m sure you all know that we are on the verge of a profound national economic crash. There’s a great deal of pride in modern capitalism, in America and Britain. You think it something new. I tell you, it’s old. It’s outmoded. It’s done with. Its lumbering structure is top-heavy, and nothing you can do can stop it from crashing. We need something new. A new capitalism. The old is as finished as you are.”

  Everyone exclaimed. Jean smiled, his eyes disappearing in the laughter-wrinkles about them. “So, you think we’re finished? I don’t agree with you. I think we’ve just started. As for myself, I don’t feel any symptoms of decay.”

  Several laughed derisively at Peter. But he did not appear to notice this laughter. “But you really are finished, you know. It may take ten or twenty years. But the end is inevitable.”

  “‘Comes the revolution,’” murmured Christopher. Those in his vicinity shouted delightedly. Now all the approval of Peter was gone. He saw only hostility about him. He glanced at Celeste. Evidently she had heard nothing of what tad been said. Her frightened shining eyes were still fixed upon him, as though she were hypnotized. Yet he knew that she was listening to him.

  “Why, Peter, you are a bolshevik!” cried Ann, in angry dismay.

  He replied to Christopher: “No. No revolution. Revolutions are brought about by mobs. Mobs are never intelligent, but cnly brutal and vicious. Like yourselves.” He smiled slightly. “The thing that will demolish you is known as natural change. You’re as outmoded as the brontosaurus. Once you were useful, and necessary. Protestant liberalism created you, and you upheld it. You were, in fact co-creators of each other. Now Protestant liberalism doesn’t need you. In fact, you retard its constant progress towards complete democracy and enlightenment.”

  He added, looking at their angry or derisive or contemptuous faces: “Cheer up. You’ll probably do
a lot of damage before you die. A very big lot. That ought to satisfy you.”

  No one spoke for a moment, and then Alexander cried: “I’ve never heard such stuff! It’s—it’s Communistic! It’s un-American! It’s undemocratic! And unchristian!”

  Peter turned his face to him and studied him thoughtfully. “Ah, “unchristian.’ It would be funny, if it weren’t so terrible, how you have got even religion, the one solace of the wretched and the helpless, to do your rotten work for you. I’m sorry. But you see, though it sounds too strong, it really is true. This isn’t the first time the church has played the whore for you, but it eventually will be found out, too.”

  The scarlet tint of Alexander’s face had deepened to purple. The rest of the family were highly entertained. They despised Alexander, and now they hated Peter. It gave them tremendous enjoyment to watch these two “at each other’s throats.”

  “Blasphemy!” Alexander’s voice was a strangled gasp.

  Peter looked tired. “Don’t be a fool. I thought you might have had some intelligence; after all, you are a Bouchard.” He turned to the others; his thin face was pale and drawn.

  “I’ve been around a lot, in Europe. I’ve found, for instance, that Britain and France have repaid American financiers for every penny, with interest, that they borrowed. The ‘wardebts,’ about which there is so much noise these days, are owed to the American government only. And why aren’t they being repaid? I’ll tell you why!

  “I’m only reviewing what you already know. But I’d like to have you know I know. You know, for instance, that the German Junkers hate the democratic German government, but they can’t destroy it, and bring back militarism to Germany, without the help of British, French and American financiers. They can’t make Germany a good customer of the Bouchards, and the Robsons-Strongs, and the Schultz-Poirets and the Skedas, unless Germany stops paying reparations. And so, one of these days, as you have all already plotted, a ‘moratorium’ is going to be called on reparations. And then Germany will use the money for rearmament, and the financiers will lend her money to buy more armaments, and all the rest of Europe will have to re-arm against Germany, and then the golden blood will begin to circulate among the whole criminal gang, among all of you.”

  There was not a sound in the room. Peter’s eyes went slowly from one hating or contemptuous or derisive or startled face to another. It came to rest on Armand’s. Armand’s face was gray. His eyes were fixed. He had drawn in his under-lip against his teeth.

  “Yes,” said Peter musingly, speaking to them all, and seeing only Armand. “You’ll do a lot of damage yet. You’ll bring the world to the end of civilization, or close enough to it to be horrible. But this will be the last of you. Maybe it will take centuries to undo what you’ve done. But maybe this time men will learn that their enemies are not their neighbors, but you. You and your hirelings, and your traitors, and your bottomless-bellies, and your haters of mankind, and your politicians and professional soldiers and clergymen and ‘patriots.’”

  “Ahah!” cried Alexander jubilantly, in the thick hotly lit silence of the dining room. “There you have it! The way you speak of ‘patriots.’ Bolshevik jargon, every bit of it. We’ve got you now.”

  But now Jean spoke, in his soft reasonable voice: “Peter, you’re being unreasonable. The causes of international conflicts and hatreds are not so simple as you make out. Nations naturally hate each other. Oh, I know, you’ll talk about propaganda. But remember this: no nation accepts propaganda which it isn’t already conditioned to accept. Propaganda is merely the national prejudices become articulate. You will say we shouldn’t play up to it. But let’s be realistic: we’ve inherited this business. If we didn’t supply armaments, others would. And besides, the fundamental emotion of mankind is hatred. Personally, I’ve never liked people,” and he smiled humorously around the table. “Personally, I wouldn’t mind if every last man and woman was kicked off the planet. They stink. The history of man has been a stench. I can’t see any real value in keeping stenches active. Can you?”

  “That’s right,” said Alexander, approvingly. “You’ve got to look at things from a broad basis.”

  But Peter replied to Jean only: “I grant you that the masses are fools, and even imbeciles. I grant you that little can be done for them by appealing to reason. But, if they can be taught wrongly, to their death, and be instilled with hatred, they can be taught rightly, to their life, and be instilled with decency. Of course, they will not react, with reason, to good propaganda; they will react emotionally. And, they might just as well react emotionally to goodness as to evil. The world, at any rate, will be a safer place in which to live, especially for the minority which is intelligent, humanitarian and progressive.”

  Emile, chuckling, said: “But you forget a fundamental thing about the masses: the dears do love their trumpets and their pretty colors, and they do love to kill those they’re envious of. How are you going to get around human nature?”

  Peter smiled without malice. “By outlawing you. By making it an international criminal offense to dispense racial and religious hatreds. By making greed punishable by the highest penalty. In this way, we’ll keep the masses pacific. If they have nothing to gain by murder, they won’t murder.”

  He added: “That’s why you are outmoded: the modern world has no place in it for primitive murder. You’ve got to learn that. But you probably won’t, until all potential murderers are killed off. The sad part, of course, is that the intelligent will probably also be killed off, too, in large quantities.” “And you think you’ll get around human nature by law, do you?”

  “Well, we’ve gotten civilization by law, you know. Not by natural tendency. For instance, the time will come when men will be sufficiently enlightened to regard the soldier as the lowest form of human life.”

  Francis laughed. “I can see where your book is going to be immensely popular with the Daughters of the American Revolution, and the American Legion! But seriously, Peter, if you think these things of us, why did you come home?”

  His brother answered, smilingly: “A very good question! Remember, in a year or so, I’ll be thirty, and I’ll have two-thirds of my fortune. Most of it is in Bouchard stock. I came home to sell it to you. Of course, I could throw it on the Market, but that would be showing a lack of family feeling. So, I’m open to offers.”

  And now indeed there was interest. Christopher, who had been smoking, slowly removed the cigarette from his mouth. Francis and Emile and Hugo glanced at him swiftly. And Jean and Nicholas glanced at Armand, whose eyes were glittering pinpoints. Only Thomas Van Eyck, and Celste, showed no interest in this.

  Then Francis said: “Very nice, and we appreciate the family feeling, Peter. But let’s discuss business arrangements tomorrow, shall we? There is a time for business, but I was never one to consider it important enough to interfere with digestion.”

  As they all left the table, Christopher had a moment to murmur to his sister: “Ask Peter to dinner tomorrow night, Celeste. It’s important.” And he repeated, catching and holding her bemused eyes: “Very important. For me. Don’t let anyone else ask him. Try to get him away from the others, if you can.”

  When they were in the drawing rooms, with the windows wide open to the warm dark night, Christopher manœuvered Celeste into a position beisde Peter. He said, smiling at the other man: “You know, there’s going to be a wedding in the family soon? Celeste and Henri. It’s fortunate, for us, that you are home now.”

  Peter did not answer immediately, and then he said regretfully: “I’m sorry. But I’m afraid that I won’t be here in the fall. I may remain only a week or two.” And he looked briefly at Celeste.

  The girl’s hands closed in a spasm. She would have walked away, but remembered her brother’s request. So she stood beside Peter, miserably; she felt a hard sick throbbing in her throat, and a sense of confusion and unreality. Old Thomas came up and took Peter by the arm. “Young man,” he murmured, “I’m afraid you are among the Philis
tines.”

  “No,” answered Peter, smiling at the others, as well as at Thomas, “just among Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.”

  “Ali Baba,” said Christopher, “came off rather well, if I remember the story rightly.”

  Coffee was brought in. Celeste, more confused than ever, everything a combination of mist and brilliance before her eyes, and remembering Christopher’s demand again, spoke to Peter in a low voice, without lifting her face to his: “It’s hot in here, don’t you think? We’re near the river, you know. Shall we go out?”

  He looked down at her in silence. Then he said gently: “Yes. It will be nice.” They left inconspicuously. As they walked out onto the terrace the fresh warm air struck them refreshingly. Celeste’s soft white chiffon gown lifted and moved in the night wind. Her dark hair blew back from her temples. The light from the room they had left illumined her theatrically, so that she seemed a lighted white statue in the darkness, a heroic statue in a wind that molded white marble about her breast and thighs. She ran ahead of Peter, and was running swiftly down the terrace. Now her dress was only a pale glimmer among the trees. He followed. A strange sense of excitement suddenly hurried his heart, an excitement shot through with pain and a feeling of intense loneliness. Celeste was waiting for him. He could feel, rather than see, the passionate somberness of her eyes, which he knew she had turned on him.

  “Christopher,” she said quickly, in a somewhat smothered voice, “asked me to ask you to dinner tomorrow night.”

  He was startled and a little amused at this abruptness. He tried to see her face, which was like shadowy pearl in the dimness.

  “Thank you. Or should I say, thank Christopher for me?” She did not answer. He was close to her, but he could not hear her breath. He added: “Would you like me to come?”