Aurora Dawn (28 page)

“Signs is like hogs: nobody claims they’s pretty, but everybody knows you gotta have ’em, But Slade’s signs got to be like
a hog in the house. God give folks power to see red and yaller so’s they could praise His glory in robins and dandelions,
in the sunrise and the autumn, not so’s their attention could be yanked sharp by any yahoo with enough paint or ’lectric bulbs.
God give man Woman to sweeten his way through the vale of tears, not to set him hankerin’ after nobody’s shoes. Slade’s sign
invaded folks’ lives so’s they got mad and booted it out hard, which is what gen’rally happens sooner er later to a hog in
the house.

“They is some wild-eyed folks likes to holler, ‘Abolish advertisin’.’ Shucks, tryin’ to stop advertisin’ in this land is like
tryin’ to stop freckles with a rubber eraser. Maybe in these here countries where the gov’ment makes everythin’ and hands
out everythin’ and runs everythin’ they don’t have no such problem, but as long as you got different fellers makin’ and sellin’
the same thing and tryin’ to beat each other at it yet gonna have ’em hangin’ out signs. That’s all advertisin’ is, in radio,
magazines, it don’t matter none where, it’s the same thing–hangin’ out signs.

“Me, I had three years of life with the gov’ment handin’ out everythin’ and runnin’ everythin’, in the army. I’ll take the
old way, signs and all. Only thing is, I look around our land and right now I say we ain’t got signs; by and large, we got
a hog in the house.

“Big hollerin’ displays all over the landscape, like them corkers you folks all seen across the Hudson, blottin’ out the sunset,
blindin’ you to God’s wonders so’s they kin tell you about autos and salad oil–that’s hog.

–
That’s hog
–

“Promisin’ yer poor little homely daughter she’ll marry the star halfback if she’ll jest wash out her mouth with Reuben’s
medicine or bathe herself with Simon’s Soap; promisin’ yer puny son he’ll be a champeen if he eats their bran mush; promisin’
any sad people to make ’em happy when they cain’t–that’s hog.

“Bawlin’ slogans at you like you was dogs to train you to buy stuff–that’s hog. When some folks git mad enough to object they
say, ‘It
sells
, don’t it?’ They reckon that’s as good an answer as sayin’, ‘It glorifies the Lord, don’t it?’

“Takin’ Heaven’s newest gift to a undeservin’ world–pleasure sent through the air by radio–and readin’ their signs in yer
parlor until it’s all signs and no pleasure–that’s hog.

“Leadin’ yer prettiest daughters out o’ yer homes into big cities, undressin’ ’em and printin’ pictures of ’em to sweeten
up their products with the sweetness of Eve and Mary–that’s a hog right in our laps. We all got so used to it none of us don’t
even see it fer what it is.

“All I’ve stated is plain facts that anybody knows. Here in America the Lord has spread the richest feast that a body of citizens
has ever sat down to: fields, mines, forests, rivers, schools, industries, people–what have we got that ain’t the most and
the best? But the banquet is kinder spoiled now, by a hog in the house. Jest like my pop said, he’s crawled up on the table
and put one foot in the mash potatoes and the other in the cranberry sauce. They ain’t many Americans will object to a feller
hangin’ out a sign when he got somethin’ to sell; but they ain’t many Americans either, I don’t think, will go on livin’ fer
ever with a hog in the house.”

This was the fateful utterance of Father Calvin Stanfield, word for word. Only because this history might seem incomplete
with out it, has it been recorded, for it is a mild paraphrase of Michael Wilde’s Oration, and nothing else. We who have lived
nine years since that night are inclined to give the sermon somewhat less importance than the newspapers, the Shepherd, and
even Marquis attached to it. Spoken or not spoken, what difference did it really make? The sun rose next day, the insects
ate the leaves, the birds ate the insects, the cats chased the birds, and all the wheels of the world rolled on as before,
with scarcely a wobble to bear witness to the shattering event that had exploded on the little rock of Manhattan. If all mankind
were to give a single horrid shout and expire in a mass, the face of the planet would be marvelously little changed. Most
happenings called epoch-making are smaller in effect than that, but we are endowed, possibly for our preservation, with the
abiding illusion that what is about to take place this week overshadows all that has passed since Light was created.

In these nine years much has occurred, including a war, but nothing has happened to the harmless profession of advertising
except that its prosperity has increased. Our citizens in the happiness of their lot ignored Stanfield, and to this day still
ignore the whole matter, even as dancing picnickers disregard the gnats on a fine summer’s day.

Return we to the epoch-making moment, however, when the Faithful Shepherd spoke the last words. Observe the great things that
ensued.

Wherein the plot thickens, as all, plots should do

near the end of the volume
.

M
ANY AMERICANS EITHER
, I don’t think,” said the voice from about twenty million loudspeakers “will go on livin’ fer ever with a hog in the house.

“Brothers and sisters, let us sing, ‘Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, the Souls Are Marching,’ written by our own Elder Bryce.”

In the burst of song which followed, Stephen English reached a pallid hand out from under stiff hospital sheets and turned
off the little radio on the white table beside his bed. “Lloyd,” he said to a fat, bald young man in a dark gray suit and
bright red bow tie, who sat near the foot of the bed watching the banker’s face anxiously, “please call Mr. Marquis immediately–he
must be at the studio or his home–and tell him that I would like him to arrange an emergency meeting of the board of directors
of the Marquis Company for nine o’clock Tuesday morning.”

The secretary said, “Steve, you won’t be out of here by Tuesday,” but the banker shook his head patiently. “I can walk on
that ankle with a cane, it’s only sprained,” he said, “and the cuts are nothing. Look at those newspapers.” He pointed to
a pile of the day’s gazettes which the secretary had brought, lying in disorder on the bed. “Aurora Dawn has suffered damage
which must be repaired swiftly. I’m to blame for allowing Marquis such authority in public relations; sooner or later this
had to happen.” He leaned back on the propped pillows and closed his eyes. “See how it is with Laura, Lloyd,” he murmured.
The secretary left, and found the banker in the same position when he returned two minutes láter. “She’s awake now,” he reported,
“but the doctor is with her. I couldn’t go in. The nurse says she was cheerful when she woke up.”

“God help the poor girl,” said Stephen English.

Two thousand seven hundred miles away, three miles above earth, in a metal machine moving westward, Flame Anders sat, smoking
a cigarette and talking gaily to an extremely handsome man with long, curly black hair. You must know, reader, that she had
run away two days earlier from Walter Grovill, reducing him to the piteous condition in which we have recently observed him.
Her paramour was a models’ agent who had jilted her, just before her marriage to the advertising man, and had recently decided
to win her back, this feat being accomplished by the expedient of telephoning her one afternoon. As garrulous now as she had
been silent for two years, the red-haired beauty chattered continually through Starifield’s sermon–which traversed the continent,
mounted into the sky, overtook the airplane, and emerged through Mrs. Grovill’s radio effortlessly, doing this in less time
than it took the preacher to voice a single syllable. Quoth the happy Flame, when the sermon was over, “Oh, my, isn’t poor
Walter in for it now! That Mike Wilde sure started something. Honest, Dan, I wish you had been there last Saturday night and
heard him. He was out of this world.” A thought struck her, and her matchless face assumed the old pensive expression for
a moment. “Last Saturday,” she repeated. “It was only last Saturday. Gosh, Dan, how much can happen in a week!” The fortunate,
well-favored Dan answered nothing, being engaged in shuffling playing cards for a game of chance called gin rummy, and thus
became the only person in this history to enter it and vanish beyond its scope without uttering a sound.

In the sponsor’s booth in the big studio where the historic speech had just been delivered, Talmadge Marquis sat hunched,
his arms extended along the sides of the deep soft chair, the cigar in his mouth growing cold, his face as gray as the cigar’s
ash. When the Fold lifted their voices in song he sighed heavily, dropped the cigar into a chromium tray, and looked at Andrew
and Carol with his lower jaw hanging open, a suffering glance.

“It wasn’t so bad, Dad,” said Carol. “It’ll all be forgotten tomorrow.”

Marquis said, “I have a fearful headache.” But when his daughter suggested that they go home be declared that he did not intend
to slink away, and settled back morosely into his chair.

Our hero, with Carol Marquis’s hand firmly and intimately clasped over his, felt the sensations of a weary marathon runner
who sees the finish line in the distance and knows that the race is his. With the sense of assured triumph was tiredness of
the bones, and a pang of doubt as to whether the trophy was worth the toil, a depressed view which he dismissed as a mood
of fatigue. It was warm and comfortable, despite misgivings, to feel success. Carol’s display of affection, starting with
an impulsive kiss when her father told her of Reale’s loyal stand for him, was extravagant, particularly in the number of
times she loaded him with the terms “dearest” and “darling.” As he accepted her endearments and caresses with the passive
dignity of a spent champion, Andy reflected that no young man, probably, ever realizes bow very calm he can feel in the great
moment when at last he attains what he has wanted all his days.

The Fold had not yet ended its song when an attendant in the livery of the broadcasting company entered the glass booth with
many expressions of respect, attached a telephone to a cord hanging from the back wall and handed it to Marquis, saying, “Call
from Mr. Stephen English’s secretary.” Marquis seized the telephone. The conversation was brief, and consisted on his part
of several affirmative noises and a dry “Good-by,” after which he handed the instrument to the uniformed bearer, who backed
politely out of the door. The soap man turned a stricken face to his companions and told them what English’s secretary had
said. His fingers shook, but he made no effort to control them.

“Once again,” he said in a quivering soprano voice, “once again I have to suffer for the incompetent stupidity of my subordinates
and the treachery of everybody I trust Except you, Reale,” he added, “and even you I must hold responsible for the ill-advised
notion of bringing Stanfield on the air.”

“Andy has been wonderful and you know it, Dad,” said Carol quickly.

“I said that of all the people around me he alone hasn’t utterly failed me,” grumbled Marquis.

“Possibly,” said Andrew with great charm, “Mr.English’s meeting may prove pleasant.”

“The last emergency meeting did not,” said Marquis, biting at his lower lip. “It was when everyone betrayed me on the change
of the soap’s color, which to this day I know was a good idea.” He pulled himself up out of the deep armchair. “Serf and the
others have been hoping for fifteen years that I would antagonize Steve English again. Well, I’ll face them. My policies in
radio have made Aurora Dawn what it is. I have been absolutely right in this Stanfield business from start to finish, and
if Leach and Legrand hadn’t stabbed me—” he broke off, with his hand on the slender aluminum rod that served as a doorknob.
“I’ll be with the lawyers at Grovill’s office for a couple of hours, Carol. See you at home. ’Night, Reale.” Pale and stooped,
the soap magnate walked out heavily.

Now the packed-in audience began to fill the studio with laughter as Father Stanfield interviewed the first penitent sinner.
Andrew reached over to the loudspeaker and snapped the button, and suddenly there was silence in the glass box as profound
as that of an underground cave. Before the eyes of the young couple the people continued to go through the motions of mirth,
but without the sound to make their antics intelligible they looked like badly worked marionettes. Andrew had no eye for this
interesting contrast. He turned to Carol and asked her how it was that her mighty parent could fear the opinion of Stephen
English or anyone else in matters pertaining to his own company.