Answer as a Man

by Taylor Caldwell

  Jason laughed, the first time he had laughed in weeks. “I’m going to marry you off to a banker. They’re the only powerful men in the world.”

  He thought about the speech he would give in Pittsburgh three days from now. He thought about the New York City Bank. Amazingly, they had not pressed for the usual interest; they had extended his deadline. Jason suspected a plot by the still-unknown buyer of his paper, and was still numb from his despair. “The earthquake will hit when I least expect it.”

  The war was driven from his mind. Patricia, Sebastian, Nicholas, Nicole, Patrick, absorbed his attention. A man was fatally distracted from the world when he had a family. “Hostages to fortune.” Few family men attained eminence; women could inspire a man, but not children. An intelligent man should acquire mistresses and leave his wife to bear children and attend to domestic concerns. The Muslims were wise: uneducated wives to bear offspring and delightful concubines to entertain with astute conversation.

  Jason thought, I’ll give the speech in Pittsburgh on schedule, and the hell with what is to come. I’m faced with the necessity of personal survival.

  One morning soon after his return from Pittsburgh Jason found Saul to be missing. A note was under his bedroom door. Saul had written, “Almighty God does not pervert justice. Who committed the world to his keeping? Who but he established the whole world? If he were to turn his thoughts inward and recall his life-giving spirit, all that lives would perish on the instant and man return to dust.

  “Dear Jason, this is from the book of Job. Remember it. God be with you, dear friend. Do not worry about me. I commit my life to him, blessed be his name.”

  Jason was devastated. He appealed to the police, and to private agencies, for weeks. He was panic-stricken. He expected a letter from Saul, but it did not come. Saul had vanished from those who had persecuted him and also from those who loved him. It was if he had never been.

  Nicole said, “Papa, he had his own life, Mr. Weitzman. But God will be with him and never desert him. He was a good man.”

  Jason said, forgetting Nicole was a child, “God, if he exists, always deserts the good. St. Teresa of Avila said to him, ‘Lord, no wonder you have so few friends. You treat them so badly.’”

  Nicole never uttered a platitude. She smiled lovingly. “Papa. You’ll find out.”

  Edmund Patterson requested an interview with Jason. Jason put up his hands and closed his eyes wearily. “What now? The new hotel opens next week. Your wife and children are already in the house near it. Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind and will go back to New York?”

  “No, Mr. Garrity. New York is not attractive to me any longer.” Edmund’s face shone with determination. He was stately as always, and crisp as always, and resembled a king increasingly, dignified and assured. “I have heard of your … financial troubles.”

  “Who has not? It’s common gossip. Even the dogs and cats have heard of them.” He frowned. “Are you afraid you’ll not get your salary?”

  “Mr. Garrity. You do me an injustice, besides insulting me. I am your friend, though I am black.” Edmund paused.

  “Jesus! Will you never forget that?”

  “America made me conscious of it, sir. Particularly in the past years.”

  “Be glad you’re not drafted as an army cook! You and your holy sauces! Well, what is it?”

  Edmund gazed thoughtfully at Jason’s drawn face. “I have twenty thousand Krugerrand on deposit in South Africa, and fifteen thousand dollars here. I am thrifty, though Sue Ann, like all wives, is inclined to be extravagant.”

  Jason whistled admiringly. “Do you starve Sue Ann and keep her barefoot?”

  Edmund did not smile. He rarely smiled. “Mr. Garrity. I have come to offer you my savings in your troubles.”

  Jason sat up, astonished. “You what?”

  “Without interest. You will repay when you are able.”

  Jason got up and went to the windows, where he looked out blindly. His eyes were moist and he was obliged to blink them. He started to speak, but could only cough. He blew his nose and muttered, “Damn this weather.”

  “The sun is shining and it is mild,” Edmund pointed out.

  “I didn’t notice,” said Jason huskily. He returned to his chair.

  He and Edmund gazed at each other, not speaking for some moments. Then Jason said, “Have a drink. I need one, too.”

  They drank slowly and in silence. Jason fixed his eyes on his glass. He turned in his chair and stared at the wall. “Edmund, you’re the only friend I have in the whole world.”

  “‘Blessed is the man who has one friend.’ Old Bantu proverb.”

  “Yes. Come to think of it, it’s true. Pour me another drink. Take one yourself.”

  “There’s the matter of dinner, but thank you, sir.” Edmund got up and replenished Jason’s glass.

  “You smell of soap and eau de cologne, Edmund. A German scent. Careful. You’ll offend patriotic Americans.”

  “Sue Ann buys it for me. Garlic and onions offend her delicate nose. But what would dishes be if not for garlic, onions, and herbs?”

  “What indeed?”

  “I buy her attar of roses occasionally, which she favors. Very expensive. Do you know what it costs an ounce, Mr. Garrity?”

  “No. I never bought attar of roses for any woman.”

  “Wise. It is addictive to ladies.” He meditated. “If I can put up with the stench of attar of roses, Sue Ann can put up with the fragrance of cooking.”

  “Did you tell her so?”

  “No. I cherish domestic harmony.”

  “Coward. Like all husbands.”

  Edmund glanced at his watch. “Mr. Garrity. Will you accept the loan of my money?”

  “Edmund, I need nearly two million dollars. I’m in debt. But in December I have to meet my interest payment. I may have to take you up on your offer.” He drank. “God knows when you’ll get repaid.”

  Edmund smiled again. “I am not a religious man, sir, but King David did say he never found a just man needing to beg for bread.”

  They shook hands fervently. Jason had never kissed a man in his life except his grandfather. He kissed Edmund on the cheek. Edmund returned the salute, his hand on Jason’s shoulder. He looked grave.

  Jason sat motionless for a long time when Edmund had left. Then he called Lionel on the telephone. He said, “You may see Bastie whenever you wish, Lionel.”

  After a moment Lionel said, “What caused you to change your mind?”

  “A friend. But you wouldn’t understand.”

  “A friend?”

  “The only one I have.”

  “Jase, you’re lucky.”

  “That I am. Do you have one?”

  “No.”

  The Bolshevik Revolution exploded in Russia at the predetermined hour, but the rest of the world was aghast. An ally against Germany was lost. The significance escaped the allied nations, which offered the excuse that Russia was weak anyway and that her armies were starving and ill-equipped. The Russian people were confused, terrified, and bewildered. The trained Communist traitors seized power. They were not voted in. The czar was benumbed but after a few days was convinced that his people would turn on the Communists as they had turned on other criminals. War-weary, hungry, desperate though they were, they had a massive common sense and a native cynicism. They would die for Mother Russia gladly, but ideology would not appeal to them. It never had. At once pragmatic and mystical, passionate and stolid, they were prohibited by fluctuating moods from any permanence of conviction. Only icons held their steadfast devotions; icons did not interfere with the business of existence. But the czar did not reckon on those behind the revolution.

  Jason, on hearing the news, thought about the conversation he had had with Nicole.

  He gave another speech in Pittsburgh to two thousand men and women. He quoted Abraham Lincoln: “The money power preys upon the nation in times of peace, and conspires against it in times of adversity. It is more despoti
c than monarchy, more insolent than autocracy more overweening than bureaucracy. It denounces as public enemies all those who question its methods or throw light upon its crimes.”

  Jason said, “All wars are greed for territory and gold, however ‘noble’ the perpetrators shout they are, however vehement their slogans. This war is not an exception. As Benjamin Franklin said, ‘There is no good war or bad peace.’ There are other means for resistance to enemies or invaders. The people should refuse to cooperate. They would suffer fewer casualties than in warfare! And they would win.”

  He was given great applause, but outside the hall he was picketed by youths who shouted to him, “Traitor! Go back to Kraut Land! Coward! Subversive! You should be hanged!” Jason surveyed them; they were all of draft age, and some were in uniform. Their fresh and earnest and indignant faces aroused his compassion. He called to them, “God help you, boys! You’ll need it!”

  A few days later he was quietly visited by a federal officer from Washington, who submitted a card and sat down without invitation. He was a young anonymous-appearing man, the typical bureaucrat, and his face was clean and young.

  “Well?” said Jason, smiling grimly.

  “Your speeches, Mr. Garrity, your letters to the newspapers. We are at war; it may have escaped your attention. He who gives aid and comfort to the enemy is a traitor.”

  “I don’t consider the Germans the enemy of my country. Peoples don’t become enemies of other peoples. Governments do; it’s only governments that make war against other governments, for gain or for power. The people fight while the men who instigated the war sit safely behind desks and eventually divide up the spoils. As they planned they would.

  “George Washington said, ‘Eternal vigilance is the price of peace.’ Only weak nations invite attack. I don’t have any objection to my country being strong and invincible. On the contrary, I advocate this. But aggression—no.”

  “Not defense, Mr. Garrity?”

  “Oh, come on! Germany never attacked us! You will talk about sinking our passenger ships. You know as well as I do that they carried arms to the ‘allies,’ in violation of the laws of neutrality, in the face of desperate warnings by Germany. When you carry contraband, you are aiding one nation against another nation who is not your enemy. You know all that as well as I do. But you don’t inform the people. I do.”

  The agent smiled more broadly. “‘My country, may she always be right—but my country right or wrong!’”

  Jason said, “My country is made up of individual men. My country is not its government, who usurps power over individuals without consulting them. Government is alleged to be the servant of individuals, not their master. The Constitution says so. The American people didn’t vote us into this war.”

  “Congress, their representative, did.”

  “On such grave matters, the people should vote nationally, not Congress. Congress isn’t immune to propaganda from the White House.”

  The agent listened with an inscrutable face. Jason smiled. “I will make a rude syllogism: ‘All governments are corrupt. Washington is our government; therefore Washington is corrupt.’ Did you ever hear of Colonel House?”

  “I am personally acquainted with him, Mr. Garrity.”

  “You know, then.”

  “You are Irish, Mr. Garrity?”

  Jason leaned back and contemplated him for a long time. “The government is clamoring that if you call yourself a German-American, an Irish-American, a Polish-American, an Italian- or God-knows-what-American, and if you emphasize your race, you are not an American! I agree. Racial distinctions are a private matter.” Jason grinned unpleasantly. “Doesn’t that answer your question? I am an American. Nothing else. If some men attempt to divide individuals according to race, I’m their enemy, and all decent people should be their enemy—they’re enemies of America. Their aim is to set Americans against Americans—to their own advantage. And to create public disorder. I stand upon my constitutional rights, even in wartime, to dissent. Isn’t this a free country?” asked Jason.

  The agent got up and retrieved his hat from Jason’s desk. He paused by the door and looked back. “What makes you think so, Mr. Garrity?”

  The agent did not visit Jason again, nor was Jason harassed. But the newspapers stated that Jason had been investigated “for possible subversion in connection with his speeches and letters.” That did not add to his popularity. Chauncey Schofield and his wife and Elizabeth spread rumors. Ipswich House was half-empty at the Christmas holidays, and the new hotel had its windows broken. Ice and snow and wind and rain almost ruined its interior.

  “God,” exclaimed Patrick feebly, “and sure you got us in havoc, bucko.” He dropped his head.

  “What’s a man of conscience to do?”

  Patrick sighed. “Take out another loan, if the banks will let you. Conscience is expensive, I am thinking. A man cannot afford it.” He added, and his blue eyes were glaucous, “Any news about your paper?”

  “No.”

  “Pray God something else does not happen. I can’t stomach it.”

  Two nights before Christmas, Jason received a telephone call from Patricia’s sanatorium. “This is Dr. Frosby, one of the attendings. I regret to inform you, Mr. Garrity, that your wife is very ill with the Spanish influenza and pneumonia. She is conscious, but that is all. I am afraid she is too ill to be removed to the hospital. But you and her father should come down at once.”

  Patrick had no words for this fresh calamity, which was the worst of all. He and Jason took the train together. He had no strength even to talk. He sat in the train, tears rolling down his cheeks unheeded, fingering his rosary, which Jason had never seen before. Jason himself was empty of thought and emotion, hands slack on his knees, staring out on the snowy landscape with dead eyes. It seemed distorted to him. The mountains had no reality. Time had no reality. He tried to feel; it was impossible. There was not even a sensation of nightmare.

  They reached Wilkes-Barre, still not speaking, and rode to the sanatorium in a station hack. It was very cold, and the streets were slippery with ice. Patrick swayed around in the hack like a loose-jointed rag doll, his eyes closed, tears still running down his cheeks. Jason wished he could comfort him, but he had no words.

  Jason was informed at the institution that Mrs. Garrity wished only to see her father. Jason made no protest. He sat in the waiting room. The day darkened; snow began to fall. There was a Christmas tree in the room, and patients and visitors came in to admire the glittering tinsel and candles and red and green and blue and silver balls. Someone was singing carols; the wind rattled the windows. Somewhere a woman sorrowfully cried. Jason would hear the nurses’ soothing voices and their quick muffled footsteps. He murmured to himself, “Patricia … my wife.” The words had no meaning to him.

  Patrick walked like an old man to his daughter’s room, his face masked. He sat down beside Patricia’s bed and looked at her. This white-skin-covered skeleton with the closed eyes and noisy breathing was not Patricia! God, not his lovely little colleen with her perfumes and grace! He looked at the remote face, dignified by approaching death, withdrawn and aloof, and he tried to find a familiar feature. The braided lifeless hair; this was not his daughter’s hair. This sunken mouth and nose—not Patricia! He sought for the hand lying in the blanket; a fleshless hand. It was cold, ice-cold, and made no response to him.

  “Patricia, mavourneen,” Patrick whispered. “My darling.”

  She opened her eyes. “Dada,” she said almost inaudibly. “I am going to die. Glad. Glad.” Her eyes were a lifeless brown, red-rimmed. “Dada. Be glad for me.”

  “My darling …” Patrick sobbed. “Do you want to see Jason?”

  “No. I did him a wrong, and Sebastian a wrong.… Dada, I’ve confessed. I’ll confess to you. Jason … not Sebastian’s father.”

  Patrick could not speak. But he thought: I knew it, I knew it.

  “Lionel is.”

  Patrick closed his eyes. There was a scarlet whirli
ng before them.

  Now tears floated in the deathly eyes as Patricia found her last strength. “Dada, I married Jason … Lionel could not marry me. He didn’t want to marry me … see that now. Dada, I love him, loved him forever. It’s not his fault; he always wanted … Joan. I … ran after him … ran after him. Forgive me. Forgive Lionel … he didn’t want me. I drank to forget … I didn’t forget. Made you ashamed …”

  Patrick groaned. The hand he held came alive, gripped his. Patricia tried to lift her head from the pillow, and gasped. Her eyes seemed to fill her face. Her whispering was hoarse. “Don’t tell Jason. Make it up to him. Sebastian, too. I hated him, my child. I tried … to hurt him. He came between me and Lionel, I thought. My beautiful child, my good child. He loved me; I hated him. I sent him away, drove him away. God … forgive … me. The priest … absolution. I … don’t forgive myself.… Help me, Dada …”

  Patrick gathered her in his arms and crooned an Irish lullaby remembered from his childhood. He sang of the moon and the dark forest and God’s love for his children, and safety and the arms of the Mother and peace and rest and green meadows and blue rivers, and joy in the morning.

  Patricia listened and smiled and closed her eyes.

  After a while Patrick fell on his knees and whispered the litany for the dying. It was the last thing that Patricia heard in this life. Her face assumed the aspect of a child, and her father held her after she was dead. And rocked her in his arms for a long time, until Jason was there, and the priest, and took him away.

  John Garrity co-celebrated the requiem Mass with Father Sweeney in Belleville, and Jason sat with Patrick and his children in the little cold church. The children cried silently. But Jason felt nothing at all. He had felt nothing at all since the day Patricia died. He could not make himself feel.

  35

  Monsignor John Garrity sat with Father Sweeney in the latter’s shabby study. John was more rigorous than ever, more ascetic, more righteous.

  “Jason brought it on himself, with his godlessness, his selfishness. He thought only of money. Now he is bankrupt, his wife dead, his son in an institution, and his cherished new hotel almost in financial ruins. God will not be mocked. He prepares a snare for the proud and the heedless, the sinful, and the self-absorbed. He lays them low.… He will not be mocked.”