The Final Hour

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Henri did not pretend to misunderstand him. ‘I don’t know very much about the publishing business,’ he said, with an answering smile. ‘We’re not in it. Except for newspapers. But I understand that it costs considerable to launch a book. Is there a large advance sale, by the way?’

  ‘I haven’t talked with Mr Dalton, our sales-manager, lately,’ said Mr Hawkins, still watching him. He felt quite perverse. ‘I understand it is about ten thousand, however, though it may be more or less.’

  ‘That’s not enough,’ interrupted Henri, with a frown.

  Mr Hawkins did not speak. Henri put his pen to a cheque, and looked steadily at the other man, his pale fixed eye very intent. ‘How much, Mr Hawkins?’

  ‘For what?’

  Henri’s light thick brows drew together again. ‘To give the book proper launching, and wide publicity?’

  Mr Hawkins leaned back in his chair, which creaked. Mr Hawkins lit a cigarette and puffed at it. Through the smoke his frosty blue eye sparkled a little, but Henri could not tell whether it was with amusement or anger.

  ‘Mr Bouchard,’ began the editor, after a long silence, ‘you’ve said you don’t know much about the publishing business. I agree with you. I suppose it has never occurred to you, has it, that sometimes publishers publish books just because those books have an intrinsic value, above the consideration of sales?’

  ‘No,’ said Henri, smiling, ‘it hadn’t occurred to me. Does that ever happen?’

  ‘Quite often. It would surprise you. Let us say, perhaps, that we do it for the good of our souls. Even if we lose money on it, which we often do. Sometimes, you know, we get sick of publishing trash, even though that trash runs to three hundred thousand copies, and the movies buy it. You haven’t thought that some of us possess integrity, have you?’

  ‘No,’ repeated Henri, frankly, and with a wider smile. ‘Who has?’

  There was a dull and angry burning in Mr Hawkins’ chest. He sat up, abruptly. ‘We don’t need your money, Mr Bouchard. We’ll do the best we can for Peter’s book. We have a large appropriation for it.’

  Henri put away his pen and cheque-book. Now he looked at Mr Hawkins sombrely. ‘I’m afraid you don’t understand. It is very important to me that this book be widely advertised, and widely bought. I don’t think it is necessary to tell you why. That is my own affair. I wasn’t trying to buy you. I was only trying to assure a big audience for the book.’

  He paused. But Mr Hawkins did not speak.

  ‘I suppose you wouldn’t have too much objection if I saw to it that the book was commented upon by certain prominent radio commentators and speakers?’ he asked sardonically.

  ‘None,’ replied Mr Hawkins, coldly.

  ‘And if reviewers gave it prominent notice?’

  ‘Do you think you can buy reviewers, Mr Bouchard?’

  ‘I can try.’ Henri was smiling again, disagreeably. ‘Now, don’t tell me they have “souls,” too. Perhaps some of them have. And again, perhaps there are even more who haven’t I’ve been reading book reviews, lately. Some of the reviewers become quite ecstatic over the damnedest love-sex trash written by nasty women, or by men who ought to have been women. I’ve even read some of the books they’ve wildly recommended. American literature is in a bad way, isn’t it, Mr Hawkins?’

  ‘American literature, Mr Bouchard, is patronized mostly by women,’ said the editor, and now he also smiled.

  ‘Do you think that is the explanation for the emphasis on women and “lahve,” then?’

  ‘Women like to read about women, I admit,’ said Mr Hawkins. ‘They also like to believe that men are engrossed with women, and run their businesses with a bemused aside, an absent flick of their hands. Something they hurry through to get back to women. When men begin to read extensively, then perhaps we’ll have better literature in America, something concerned with the stuff of life. A Thomas Mann, a Feuchtwanger, a Wassermann, won’t be popular in America until men read. Perhaps you can suggest how we can get men to read, Mr Bouchard?’

  When Henri did not answer, Mr Hawkins continued: ‘When American men stop thinking that making money is the only thing for which they were born, then the arts of America will have a new lease on life, a new vitality, and a real immortality. Then we’ll have a vital and valid literature, and true greatness in books. But so long as men don’t read in America, our literature is bound to be a reflection of the stuff that appears in the women’s magazines, with the emphasis on “women’s love and marriage problems,” and the cavortings and skirmishings of adolescents—books dealing with romanticized sex-encounters. And worse. We have a few great women writers like these,’ and he lifted a volume from his desk and handed it to Henri. ‘This has already sold three hundred and fifty thousand copies. Hollywood paid two hundred thousand dollars for the picture rights, yesterday. It is going to be a play, also.’

  Henri examined the book distastefully. It was entitled: The Angry Four. By Ralph Coniston.

  ‘It is about the love and sex problems of four women,’ said Mr Hawkins, with a disagreeable smile. ‘We published it. What few men there are in the story are all shallow cardboard, in two dimensions. Like paper-doll cut-outs. Very unimportant creatures, with no life of their own except when they come to violent sex-encounters with the four engaging ladies. We have just received another order for thirty thousand copies. The women love it.’

  He added: ‘American men don’t love it. They don’t read it. At least, we’ve got to credit them with some taste. But I can tell you this, and it is very encouraging: men are beginning to buy non-fiction books about Europe, and the war, in steadily increasing quantities. We published another book recently, called Thirty Days in Germany. An RAF flyer wrote it. He was shot down over German territory and some simple obscure German peasants helped him to escape from the Nazis. It is very popular, among men. American men are taking a new interest in the world, beyond American concerns. This is very encouraging.’

  He went on: ‘You won’t be able to buy all reviewers, Mr Bouchard. Strange to say, many of them have integrity. That is a good thing for the future of American literature.’

  Henri said: ‘Well, let us see, then. I’ll have a number of prominent radio commentators mention Peter’s book. I’ll have a greater number of newspapers mention it editorially, and in other ways. No objection?’

  ‘None,’ said Mr Hawkins. ‘We also like to sell books, you know. And I should particularly like to see this book extremely popular, and not for the money’s sake, either.’ Henri ignored this, and Mr Hawkins’ thin lips tightened. ‘I’ll want a thousand copies for myself,’ said Henri. ‘For personal distribution, discreetly, of course.’

  He rose, and smiled. ‘Will you have lunch with me. Mr Hawkins? I’d be very glad if you would.’

  Mr Hawkins hesitated. Then all at once he felt the urgent need for a drink, for several drinks. He pulled his battered hat over his forehead, and rose, slowly.

  ‘How about the Ritz?’ asked Henri.

  But Mr Hawkins shook his head. It was sentimental, of course, but he could not sit with Henri Bouchard where he had sat with Peter. It was very foolish, but if he sat with Henri, there, he would see Peter’s face too clearly.

  CHAPTER XLIV

  Annette entered the cool dusky-blue of the hall of the house on Placid Heights, and was met by Edith Bouchard, wife of Christopher, who greeted her with more affection and warmth than she usually extended to members of her family.

  ‘Dear, you shouldn’t have come, especially after you have been so ill,’ said Edith. ‘How are you now?’

  ‘It was just the grippe, really, Edith, and it affected my nerves,’ replied Annette, removing her white gloves, and taking off her small hat. The June day was warm and close, wiith a hint of coming thunder in the air. Annette smiled. Her little triangular face was wan, but her large blue eyes were steadfast and shining. ‘How is Celeste?’

  Edith hesitated. Her expression became closed and reserved. ‘Well, she still won’t see anyon
e or go anywhere, except to the cemetery. We try to tell her she’s morbid, but she doesn’t seem to care. She hasn’t been out of the house for days, now, and only goes into the garden in the morning and just before dark. Lots of her friends have come to see her, but she hides from them. Of course, she will get over it eventually, but there is no use pressing her just now. That’s why I don’t think you ought to have come, darling. I doubt if she will see even you.’

  She led the way into the quiet living-room, whose french windows opened onto the green slope of the lawns. Roses filled every vase and bowl. Speckles and bars of sunlight made bright spots and little pools on the rugs and furniture, and glimmered on the polished tops of tables. The two women sat down, facing each other, and regarded each other in grave silence. Then Edith said: ‘Christopher and I are staying with her, you know, until we feel it is safe for her to be alone.’

  ‘Safe?’ murmured Annette, in distress.

  ‘Well, I might say, until she is more herself. She hardly speaks, you know. Seems dazed and abstracted. She doesn’t grieve in the usual way, poor thing. I haven’t seen her shed a single tear, not even at the funeral, or afterwards. Just walks around in silence, and we have to speak twice to her before she answers. Her doctor is very worried about her, and suggests that she go away for a while. But she won’t, of course.’ And now Edith’s dark face was more taciturn than ever.

  ‘Poor,.poor darling,’ sighed Annette. Her pretty eyes filled with tears, and she swallowed over a thick lump in her throat. ‘I’ve always loved her so, and I believe she loves me, too. Are you sure she won’t see me?’

  Edith’s lips drew together thoughtfully, and now her nutbrown eyes fixed themselves consideringly upon Annette. Damn it, she thought, it has to come out sometime, and it might as well be Annette who spreads the news. Yes, there could be no better than poor little Annette. They wouldn’t dare laugh in the poor little creature’s face, and she has such a delicate high courage.

  ‘Celeste might see you,’ said Edith. ‘I’ll ask her. Of course, things were bad enough, without this other—’

  Annette lifted her head in alarm. ‘What do you mean, Edith?’

  Edith stared at her with lifted eyebrows. ‘My God, Annette! Don’t you know?’

  ‘Please tell me!’ cried Annette, half rising from her chair in her distress. ‘Is she ill? Oh, I knew it! Something told me!’

  ‘You mean to say,’ said Edith, incredulously, ‘that she didn’t tell you? I thought you were such friends, my dear. Didn’t she tell you she is going to have a baby?’

  ‘A baby!’ repeated Annette, in a dazed voice. She sat down again in the chair. It was a large chair, and she was like a thin weak child in it, her little feet dangling some inches from the floor. Her hands, so frail, white and small, lay on the arms. Her bright fair head reached only part way to the top.

  But it was not a child’s face that stared at Edith. It was the face of a still and suffering woman, very white, quiet and unmoving. And it was in shadow, that face, and very translucent. But the eyes widened, shone out of the shadow like blue strong light. The mouth fell open a little, and that was all.

  Edith wanted to look away from that stark and overwhelming pain and shock. But that would not do at all! She forced herself to regard Annette with a faintly puzzled look. ‘How like Celeste that is,’ she remarked, irritably. ‘But, of course, we can excuse her. Peter was so ill, you know, and she nursed him constantly. She told me from the beginning, however, just before he took that turn for the worse.’

  Annette was silent. She was like a wax figure in the chair. Her eyes stared out at Edith unblinkingly. Blue lines of suffering appeared about her mouth, and there were bluish shadows under her cheekbones.

  ‘How long?’ she whispered.

  Edith shrugged. ‘About six months, now, I believe. The baby is due in September. It’s very terrible for her, you know.’ She spoke casually, but slowly, gazing at Annette with calm deliberation. ‘You remember, Peter seemed quite a lot better, the early part of the winter. He and Celeste went to New York quite a few times, together, and we all had hopes that he might recover, in spite of the doctors’ verdict. At least, he appeared much happier and stronger, then. That must have been because the baby was started, and he had finished, his book, and the future looked brighter for them, poor things.’ Her voice was cool, indifferently compassionate. But it was a frightful effort for her to continue looking at Annette, who sat there so still, like a stiff and artificial doll opposite her. She repeated, with an air of surprise: ‘She really didn’t tell you, Annette?’

  Annette’s pale stiff lips parted, and she said, almost inaudibly: ‘No. She didn’t. We didn’t see much of each other then, and then, in February, Peter took so ill.’

  ‘Yes, of course. She didn’t have time to think of herself, after that. We try to cheer her up,’ continued Edith, in a bright tone that seemed pretence even to herself. ‘We try to tell her that at least she’ll have Peter’s baby to console her. That’s something, you know, after all these years. Sometimes,’ she added, on a sad note, ‘I think the poor girl would die if it weren’t for the baby. She realizes that, subconsciously, and takes some care of herself.’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Annette. And now her eyes moved slowly from Edith and stared blindly at the blazing light that poured through the window near her. Edith saw her profile, shrunken and dwindled with anguish, but very quiet. Annette’s voice, when she spoke again, was strong and clear, a startling contrast to her face. ‘Poor Celeste. But she has something, now, to live for. I feel very hurt that she didn’t tell me.’

  Her little fragile hands moved suddenly and violently on the arms of the chair, as if they had been jerked. They lifted, palms up, stark and stiff. And then they dropped, slowly, heavily, the fingers spreading outwards on the damask arms, and grasping as if in a convulsion of agony. But her profile remained calm, like a plaster mask. Her fair rings of hair rose and fluttered gently in the warm breeze that came through the window, and somehow, the sight of that bright fluttering was like an iron blow on Edith’s tight cool heart. God help you, my dear, she thought, with rare compassion and sadness.

  Annette, now, turned her face back to Edith. She smiled a little, very gently. ‘I’m so glad, Edith,’ she said, with sweet softness. ‘So glad for Celeste. She’ll realize, when the baby is born, how wonderful it is. I can hardly wait, myself.’

  Edith tried to speak, but her throat was dry. She pressed the palms of her hands together. She dropped her eyes. There was a limit to what even she could stand, she thought.

  ‘I’d like to see Celeste,’ said Annette, and her clear sweet voice was very composed. ‘Do you think she’d see me?’

  Edith rose in relief at a promised escape. ‘I’ll see her. She’s in her room. I’ll try to bring her down.’ She hesitated, then added: ‘You might be easy with her, if she sees you, Annette. After all, it isn’t a happy thing for her to be reminded that Peter won’t ever see his child.’

  ‘I’ll be careful, darling,’ promised Annette, softly. How blue and steadfast her eyes were, how shining and still!

  Edith turned to the door, then stopped, abruptly. Celeste stood on the threshold, as silent and still as stone. Annette, seeing her, rose involuntarily. And then her gentle heart contracted in a spasm of pain. Was that really Celeste, there, that gaunt drained woman with her frozen face and loose hair? Annette uttered a faint cry. She held out her hands, and now tears gushed to her eyes, spilled over her cheeks.

  ‘Celeste!’ she cried faintly. ‘O Celeste, my darling!’

  I hope to God that she heard what I said! thought Edith. Celeste did not move, not even when Annette came up to her, and took her cold hand. Her full black dress accentuated the ghastly pallor of her face. The white lock fell over her forehead. Even her dark-blue eyes were less blue, and shallow and glazed.

  She stared at Annette as if she did not see her. Annette began to weep, pressing her young aunt’s hand. Celeste looked down at her. Then she said, in
a low dull voice: ‘Annette.’

  ‘Yes, dear. I had to see you, even though you didn’t want to see any of us.’ Annette was smiling now, though her tears still fell. ‘Do you mind very much, my pushing in on you like this?’

  ‘No,’ said Celeste, still staring at her with that far blindness. She drew a deep, harsh breath. ‘I’m glad. I’ve wanted to see you.’

  Oh, my God, thought Edith, in great alarm. And she said, in a slow firm tone: ‘Annette has just told me you never told her about the baby, Celeste. She was very hurt about it, weren’t you, Annette?’

  Annette looked steadfastly into Celeste’s eyes. ‘Yes, dear I was very hurt. You ought to have told me, you know.’ She added, clearly and strongly: ‘I’ve always loved you so, Celeste, and I thought you loved me. You ought to have told me. But never mind. I’m so happy for you, darling. You have something to live for now. You’ll have Peter’s child.’

  And now her look, more steadfast than ever, more compelling, fixed itself stanchly upon Celeste. Celeste’s lips parted convulsively; her hand trembled in Annette’s.

  Annette said, even more loudly and clearly: ‘You mustn’t grieve because Peter won’t see the child, darling. You must think how wonderful it will be. Nothing matters but the baby now. Nothing matters, Celeste. You must think about the baby.’

  Her voice, strong and penetrating, finally reached Celeste’s consciousness. The wildness passed from her face. She looked at Annette in silent anguish, as if pleading.

  ‘Nothing matters but the baby,’ repeated Annette. ‘There’s nothing else.’

  Edith’s heart, which had been beating with unusual rapidity, began to quiet. She moved over to Celeste, and put her hand on her arm.

  ‘Annette’s right, Celeste. You mustn’t think of anything but the baby. It wouldn’t be fair to the child. You—don’t matter. Poor Peter doesn’t matter. No one does. The child has a right to his life, you know. You have no right to interfere with it.’

  Automatically, dully, Celeste turned her head and looked at Edith. She looked at her a long time. Then she again turned to Annette, who was smiling.