The Final Hour

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Amusing himself with his secret thoughts, he looked about the table. Antoine there, so dark and so elegantly sophisticated, had no visible mark of the beast. Godfrey’s eye travelled over each face, plump or thin, predatory or vapid, savage or sullen, watchful or stupid, and his delight grew. At last his glance touched Celeste, and stopped, abruptly. She sat opposite him, silent and motionless, her beautiful hand just touching a wine-glass. In that uncertain and moving crepuscular light, he drank in to the full the stern and delicate modelling of her white face, its high-bred strength. The thin snowy streak in her hair was smoothed back from the fine planes of her forehead. Her mouth, for all its dark bright colour, was carved rigidly as from tinted stone, and her blue eyes, seldom lifted, had a bemused full abstraction which assured Godfrey that her mind had fled away from her body. She looked at no one directly. Beside her on her right sat the magenta Alexander and on her left was her brother-in-law, little effervescent Jean. She spoke to neither. And they, in turn, ignored her as if she were not there. Why was this? mused Godfrey, angrily. Had she fallen into disfavour with the Family? If so, she appeared not to care.

  At his own right sat Annette, and each time that he turned to her she looked at him with a swift and shining smile, shy and warm. Such a frail lovely little thing! He had an impulse to kiss her tenderly. On his left was big stupid Alexa, who, though she was fifty now, was as blonde and smooth as butter.

  Nice people! thought Godfrey. He no longer felt related to any of them except Antoine, sitting at a little distance. When he met Antoine’s merry significant look, he knew that his thoughts had been read. He smiled back in return. Antoine was too far away for chuckling conversation. Later, perhaps.

  He studied them all, wondering at them cynically. They were not even decadent, with the exception of Antoine. There was a perfume to decadence, even if it was the perfume of death. There was a grace to decadence, a mature glaze, an adult awareness. It had the beauty of something exquisite which had died. Even in its death, it was far more poignant, far more noble and lofty, than the life which was here: predatory and mean and avaricious and brutal. The barbarians, he remarked to himself, have taken over. Vive le barbare!

  Emile, he noted gratefully, had a French chef. He had not expected this. He ate with enjoyment. The wines were perfection. The Bouchards, he noted, apparently did not care for wine. They had swilled themselves full of horrible cocktails and acrid whiskey, in great quantities, before dinner. They knew it was expected of them that they be judges of wine, and it amused him enormously to see them sip, their eyes narrowed, their lips pursed, as if they were sternly passing judgment. But the glasses, after that first ostentatious sip, remained almost full.

  Godfrey felt buoyant. He, too, had ‘swilled’ before dinner.

  One needs an anæsthetic, he would say, to be able to endure a universe in which there was not the slightest evidence of relevancy. Aristotle was wrong. Nothing led anywhere.

  Jean politely inquired as to Godfrey’s plans. When he informed them frankly of his coming mission to Hollywood, he saw the amused and superior quirks of their mouths. But Alexander scowled. ‘Rotten stuff,’ he remarked, his colour becoming more magenta than ever. ‘Depraved stuff Immoral. We’ve got the Hays Office, and the Legion of Decency, but the filth creeps in. Besides, motion-picture stock hasn’t paid any dividends lately.’

  ‘Al Milch,’ said Godfrey, ‘is going to make shorts for the United States Government. Perhaps you’d call it propaganda.’

  But the big blond Norwood interrupted: ‘You’ll need money, you know, for that sort of thing.’

  Godfrey saw the sudden intent curiosity on the faces about him. He chuckled to himself. He knew they were dying to know if he had money. He waved his hand airily. ‘Money!’ he said, with sublime contempt. The faces became dissatisfied. And uncertain. He had not enlightened them.

  He continued: ‘We expect to do some war pictures, too. Try to show the German swine in proper perspective. I’ll love to do that.’

  ‘Propaganda!’ exploded Alexander, shifting weightily in his chair as if his buttocks had been stung. ‘So that’s what Hollywood is up to! Pack of Jews determined to get us into the war! But we won’t By God, we won’t!’ And he struck the table so heavily and meatily that his silver danced. ‘They won’t get us into this war.’

  Godfrey’s smile remained. But now it was dangerous, and fixed. He looked at Alexander attentively, as if he was studying him. ‘No?’ he said softly. ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken. America will be in this war soon. A couple of years too late, as usual. You can’t do a thing about it. It will be done for you.’

  He had expected amused shrugs and indifference, and was surprised to see how suddenly intent and wary every face appeared, except Celeste’s, which remained stony and white as an image. Henri even leaned forward a little, his pale eyes unblinking. Nicholas grunted uncouthly. Emile’s black brows knitted. Christopher turned in his chair to face Godfrey. Every other man and woman stared at Godfrey as at a strange and outlandish creature.

  He looked at them all, and a huge repulsion and disgust for them filled him.

  ‘You can’t do a thing about it,’ he repeated, in that same soft voice. ‘You’ll be attacked. And soon. Oh, I know all about your six thousand miles of water on the west, and three thousand miles of water on the east. We’ve heard all about it, in Europe. But I hardly thought it possible that Americans could be so stupid. I had a higher opinion of you. I’m sorry it isn’t justified.’

  Nicholas leaned back in his chair, and thrust his thumbs in his vest. He glowered at Godfrey. ‘So we’ll be in the war, eh? Damned nonsense. They wouldn’t dare attack us. Lot of propaganda. Can’t scare us. Who the hell would jump us? Eh? Eh?’

  ‘Japan,’ said Godfrey.

  A stupefied silence filled the great dining-hall. Even the many servants stopped in the very act of lifting silver dishes. The candelabra glimmered down on so many statues. But Henri had begun to smile inscrutably. He rubbed his lip with his index finger.

  Then Hugo cried, throwing back his snowy mass of hair: ‘Japan! What rot! Why, we have the Japanese Mission right now in Washington, and as a member of the State Department, I can assure you, young man, that any slight differences with Japan that we have had in the past are now being resolved amicably and satisfactorily.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Godfrey, amiably, ‘it will be Japan. Tomorrow? Next week? Next month? I don’t know. But it will be Japan. You’ll see. Is it really possible that you, especially, are so bloody stupid? Or is it to your interest to pretend to be?’

  Then Phyllis said, in her high acid voice: ‘Oh, you’re just an Englishman! You’d love to get us into this Communistic war. It’s all just British imperialism, and Russian propaganda. Our priest, Father O’Connell, told us so, and he is quite an authority on international affairs.’

  Her banal remark brought sudden scowls down upon her from the rest of the family, which had never become reconciled to her Catholicism. ‘Keep that Roman trash to yourself,’ said her amiable sister, Rosemarie, under her breath.

  But the family, though they had scowled automatically at Phyllis, had heard only too clearly Godfrey’s last remarks.

  ‘Our interest?’ repeated Jean, with raised eyebrows. He smiled, all his dimples appearing. ‘According to legend, we, the Bouchards, the Dynasty of Death, ought to offer up sacrifices to the Four Horsemen, or something, at the prospect of war. We’d make profits out of war: ergo, war, by all means. Yet, we don’t want war; we won’t have it.’

  Godfrey leaned his elbows on the table and bent towards Jean. He studied him meditatively. He frowned with thoughtfulness. ‘Yes. I see. I know. That’s what’s bothering me. Why?’

  Jean smiled radiantly. But his dancing black eyes were minatory. He did not reply.

  Godfrey shook his head reflectively. ‘There’s something here,’ he remarked, ‘that definitely smells on ice. Yes, definitely.’

  Nicholas and Alexander exchanged swift looks. Nichol
as coughed, with loud boorish noises. He said: ‘Nonsense. Don’t go looking for bogie men. Ridiculous. Are you a half-wit? You’ve lived in Europe too long. We’ve got a cleaner and clearer point of view here. Japan! Hell! Why should Japan attack us. Why? I ask you.’

  ‘And I,’ said Godfrey, ‘am asking you. You know the answer. Don’t you?’

  When Nicholas, glowering, did not answer, Godfrey turned with a wide and relaxing smile to the others. He inclined his head towards Agnes, who had been listening with tense interest. ‘Am I ruining your dinner party, dear?’ he asked.

  ‘My darling, no,’ she replied, with a laugh. ‘You are making it interesting. You have no idea how stupid and stolid these Bouchards are at dinner parties. They eat, leave the table, and go promptly to sleep with their eyes open. Do go on.’

  ‘Then,’ said Godfrey, expansively, ‘I will proceed at once to make myself even more disagreeable, in the interest of stimulation. You know, my dear family, I don’t like you. Even when I didn’t know you, I didn’t like you. I’d heard all about you. I followed your careers with the most flattering interest.’

  Robert, the dull, interrupted rudely, with a glare from his fishy eyes: ‘Let’s talk about you, shall we? Maybe you’re more interesting.’

  ‘Oh, I am, I am!’ cried Godfrey. ‘You’ve no idea how absorbing I am! You could read about me for weeks with unflagging passion. I’ve lived all over Europe. I’ve seen the marionettes and I’ve seen those who manipulated them. Very amusing. To some people. In a way, it wasn’t amusing to me. Perhaps I am, by nature, more sanitary.’

  Now he looked at Celeste again. He was gratified to see that her stoniness had softened. Her dark-blue eyes were turned on him steadfastly. There was a tremulous line all about the carving of her lips. My dear darling, he thought, there is something or someone here that is tormenting you. I don’t know who he is, but I’ll strangle him. Just continue to look at me like that, and you’d be surprised at the dragons I can beard.

  ‘Didn’t all that travelling about cost money, lots of money?’ continued the dull Robert. The family seemed content to let this ox of a young man bait the newcomer, for they were smiling faintly. But Henri was not smiling. He had folded his arms solidly on the table and the big bull-like head was bent towards Godfrey with an interest that the young man preferred to consider flattering.

  ‘Money!’ cried Godfrey. ‘I had money, my child. Not a great deal. Papa was unfortunate in his investments. He was involved in the pawnbroking scandal, and I believe he lost a lot of money with the Match Man. The names of both rascals escape me just now. But no matter. I, myself, am more careful. I managed to scrape along. With the assistance of friends.’

  Now he encountered the eye of Antoine, who was delightedly listening. Antoine saluted as Godfrey’s glance touched him. The young man, stimulated, prepared for wilder flings, at this salutation from a friend.

  ‘You’ve probably got a pension from the British Government,’ suggested Robert.

  ‘To return vulgarly in kind, yes,’ admitted Godfrey. ‘But very little. I really didn’t want to take a pension at all, just for losing a leg in the joy of killing Germans.’

  Phyllis interrupted, with a faint squeak. ‘How can you be so bloodthirsty! I never heard anything like this! I think the Germans are much libelled. Father O’Connell—’

  ‘Damn Father O’Connell, who probably harbours Nazi literature under his black robes,’ said Godfrey, genially. The table burst into a roar of laughter. Godfrey was flattered. Apparently it took little wit to arouse the stable mirth of his relatives. Phyllis glared at him with hatred. He turned away from her with a momentary stiffening of his mouth.

  Francis spoke, seriously: ‘But really, now, I’m interested in this moving-picture business of yours. I take it that one needs a great deal of money to produce pictures. How are you going about it?’

  ‘Well, you have a good story, and then you go to the bank, or to other backers, and you say: “Look here, old chap, I’ve got something rich here. You’ll like it. I have the stars picked. What do you say?” Then they chew about, and frown, and scratch their chins, and go to the barber, and take an hour or two off to visit a particular lady friend, and come back all refreshed and full of ginger. Then, they get down to facts and try to rob you. If you’re clever, you rob them. Or, at least, you compromise. I’m not much on all this. I’m leaving it to Al Milch, who has been struggling with the vermin for years. I’m more on the fragile side, myself. When the money is guaranteed, I go to work. I think we’ll succeed in Hollywood. Al already has a fine reputation, and I am modestly swinging along on his coat-tails.’

  Then Henri spoke: ‘You said something about war pictures and Government propaganda films. I’d like to know more.’

  Godfrey looked into his stony eyes doubtfully. Then he began to explain. The family, not overly interested, began to yawn, to look heavily at their plates. But Celeste, who had come to life like a statue turned to flesh, listened with strained attention.

  It was right in the very midst of his exposition that Godfrey became aware of something. While Henri appeared to look only at him, he very often looked at Celeste, without the least change of expression, however. It was a hard male look. Godfrey’s mouth went on moving, but his quick mind had retreated into itself. He did not like that look, directed so often, so piercingly, at Celeste. It indicated contemptuous and arrogant possession. He found opportunity to glance at Celeste. But she was looking only at him, and when their eyes met, she smiled swiftly and brightly.

  Is there something up, there? thought Godfrey, with angry uneasiness, and something that was very much like alarm and dread. But when he saw Celeste again, she was still gazing only at him.

  Henri stirred, moved his folded arms a trifle, after Godfrey had concluded, and said in an abstracted voice: ‘Very interesting. I am going to think about it.’

  Alexander, upon seeing Henri’s interest, became interested, himself. ‘I’ve a lot of Cordon-Imson-Blaine stock,’ he said. ‘Know anything about it? Hasn’t paid a decent dividend since the Crash.’

  Godfrey answered with the utmost gravity: ‘Al Milch has a tentative agreement with them for a release. I’ll take your matter up personally with Mr Cordon when I arrive there.’

  ‘Um,’ muttered Alexander. ‘Nice of you.’

  The family again became hilarious. Alexander, bewildered and indignant, removed the cigar from his mouth and glared at them all. Even Celeste laughed. To one man, at least, the sound of that laugh was startling. It was the one sound he heard above the general hilarity, and it was clear and ringing and fresh, like a brook released from winter ice. He turned his slow implacable eyes upon her, and studied her new colour, and the gentle mirth of her flushed face. And then when he had seen her face, he turned again to Godfrey and regarded him in moveless silence.

  ‘I, too, have a block of Cordon-Imson-Blaine stock,’ said Christopher. ‘War pictures, you say? I understand the people are sick of them, and want something else more appropriate to their mass donkey-minds. Such as a bleached-blonde trollop’s legs in provoking attitudes, and a well-rounded pair of buttocks.’

  Godfrey gave Christopher his attention, and scrutinized him with the greatest candour. ‘You think that’s what they all want, do you?’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘You think that’s our modern substitute for bread and circuses? Well, I disagree with you. Of course, there is a goodly sprinkle of imbeciles among the mass of the people, I admit. But I really think there is a goodly sprinkle, too, in proportion, among our class. Or, pardon me,’ and he bowed his head with brief irony, ‘I should say: your class. I haven’t yet reached your level. Anyway, perhaps none of you need look far to find dim-wits among your acquaintances. Or even among your family. I understand I haven’t met them all.’

  Christopher grinned. He took his cigarette from his mouth and surveyed Godfrey with bright interest. ‘For which you ought to thank God,’ he admitted.

  But now Godfrey was genuinely grave and serious. Slowly, he
let his eye travel from one face to another, and at each face he paused, as if in abstracted scrutiny. Then he began to speak, with much quietness: ‘You know, I wondered about all of you. I wondered if you were what I had heard. I listened in Paris, in Moscow, in Berlin, in Rome, and in London. Sometimes, from a distance, I caught glimpses of some of you. When I pieced everything together, it was pretty terrible.’

  ‘Really?’ said Rosemarie, with a coquettish tilt of her head, and an exaggerated simper. ‘You flatter us.’

  But Godfrey said, with such indifference for her on his suddenly pale face that she was infuriated: ‘When I say terrible, I imply a connotation different from the usual one. I mean it was frightful that any such powerful group and family of men, with such international influence, could be so stupid, so obtuse, so coarse and greedy and brutish, and so totally unaware of the world of men about them. If you had been elegant gentlemen, for instance, like our dear Antoine,’ and his sternness relaxed a moment while he and Antoine bowed ceremoniously to each other, ‘it would not have been so reprehensible. Aristocrats are really very innocent; they are so completely unaware of anything. But you are peasants; you are really very gross brutes, you know. You are as plain as dirt. You are as plain as the common people. That is what surprises me—that you can be so totally unaware of your own kin, and what they are thinking. And that you do not feel with them.’

  Phyllis clapped her hands together with a sharp little sound. ‘I knew he was a Communist all the time, or at least a radical!’ she shrilled.

  But they all ignored her. They, to the last man, stared at Godfrey fixedly, and only from Antoine’s face was that predatory and hating expression absent. Some of them had flushed at his honest insults. Others merely drew their brows together over ambushed eyes, and waited for him to have done. Agnes, however, formed a silent ‘bravo!’ with her crimson lips, and sat back to enjoy herself.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Jean, gently, ‘you could enlighten us as to what our—kind—is thinking? And where you got all this very intriguing information.’