Capable of Honor (32 page)

Chapter 9

This was the type of occasion he loved, the owner of “Salubria” acknowledged to himself as he looked in on Arbella, preparing the meal and setting the massive refectory table for eight; checked with Roosevelt, getting ready to park cars, take coats, mix drinks, and serve the food; and thought of all the past occasions on which his house had served as focus and fulcrum for the great world. The last time important people had come to lunch, a month ago, it had been the President of France and the Foreign Minister of Greece, an odd conjunction which had nonetheless produced delightful conversation and, two weeks later, a new trade agreement between Paris and Athens. (“We should call it,” the President of France had written just yesterday in his shaky but still decisive hand, “the ‘Dobius Entente’ in honor of a delicious meal and a delightful host.” The letter had gone at once to Yale, where the Dobius Archive already filled a thirty-foot shelf.)

Nor, of course, had that been the only significant gathering in the rambling old Revolutionary home. Presidents, Prime Ministers, Foreign Secretaries, dictators—Senators, Congressmen, Cabinet Secretaries, administrators—artists, authors, dancers, composers, and a constant stream of his more powerful colleagues in the press—a long and glittering parade passed constantly through the lovely countryside to Leesburg, partaking of lunch or dinner, lingering long and talking late about the problems of a puzzling country and a difficult world. Out of their conversations many times had come some significant change in government policy, some otherwise inexplicable diplomatic
démarche,
some subtle but devastating shift in press opinion toward or away from some individual or cause.

Here at “Salubria,” Walter was fond of saying to his guests in his most self-satisfied and pompous voice, a good deal of the latter half of the twentieth century had been decided. Allowing for the exaggerations of a host justifiably proud of his cuisine and the caliber of his company, the comment was not too wide of the truth.

Today, he assured himself with an inner chuckle and something as close to excitement as he, with all his fame and honors, ever permitted himself to come, would be an occasion to rank with the most notable. His original impulse to invite Ted and Patsy had acquired an extra irony when it had occurred to him to add the Knoxes. Helen-Anne, he knew, would be jealous of his success in arranging such a party, and could be counted upon to do her usual profanity-filled, cow-in-a-china-shop act, which would certainly liven the conversation; and the final addition of Bob Leffingwell, a guest who had every reason to be embittered and antagonistic to Orrin Knox, made the explosive potentials perfect. This party had so many undercurrents, he told himself wryly, that he could hardly keep up with them. But one thing it meant, he was sure, was great fun.

A serious man who did not have too many pleasures or amusements, Walter did love to stir up human tensions. It was free, and it was fascinating. He had some difficulty keeping his anticipation under control.

And there was, of course, another reason for satisfaction. The savage mood in which he had written his columns had not diminished much. Even though events seemed to be moving his way, even though American casualties were already occurring and the United States was receiving a still-rising tide of condemnation—so that he could reflect that the world once again knew how right he was—his bitterness had not decreased. The rapidly growing troubles of his own country were making him look better and better, but he was still suffering from the emotions, literally approaching shock, which had overwhelmed him when he heard that the Administration, defying his advice and that of his friends, had plunged into direct action.

The invasion of Gorotoland had been a profound blow to Walter, as it had been to a majority of his world. Within twenty-four hours the shock had been compounded by the vetoes. It would be a long time before he, or any of them, would entirely recover. Betrayal most foul had been committed upon the world of Walter Wonderful by Harley Hudson and Orrin Knox. It gave him a visceral satisfaction now to think that in all probability he had set the stage for a most hurtful and uncomfortable couple of hours for one of this murderous duo—the one who actually, in his mind, was the real motivating force behind it all. He had really been surprised that Orrin would still come to “Salubria,” considering what Walter had written about him; but since Beth had not called to cancel, they must be on their way. A tight little smile touched his lips as he surveyed the perfectly appointed table. Orrin Knox would eat henbane and nightshade this day, of that his host was sure.

Not entirely unsuspecting of this mood which awaited him in Leesburg, the Secretary of State was even then driving the family car carefully along the winding roads, their snow cover almost gone now as spring rushed on to claim the land. Beth and Helen-Anne were gossiping casually as they rode, pretending an unconcern they did not feel about the episode ahead, but while he appreciated their worry, he did not need it. He did not feel any particular apprehension. He did not, in fact, feel much of anything. Apparently Walter’s original intention had been to bring him out and put him through his paces, on the phony pretext that Walter did not already know whom he would back for the presidential nomination and still had an open mind about it. That mind, Orrin told himself tartly, had closed shortly after it came to Washington and it had never been opened since. It was some measure of Walter’s really colossal ego that he thought he could fool the world into thinking that he was fair, objective, and statesmanly in his judgment of men and events. It was some measure of the willingness of the world to be fooled that it accepted this self-promoted image lock, stock, and barrel, complete with hosannas and laurel wreaths.

Well, it didn’t make much difference to Orrin. He had written Walter off long ago, and his last two columns and his outburst on television after the riot at the UN had ended forever any possibility of friendly communication. Orrin was driving into Virginia today for just one purpose, and that was to tell Walter Dobius exactly how vicious, slanted, unfair, unworthy, and close to traitorous he really considered him. It was a task he looked forward to with pleasure, and he was not at all tense or excited about it. It would be a rendering of judgment long overdue, in his opinion. The great Washington habit of greeting with the most vociferous friendliness the people you despise, imposed by the necessities of fame and politics upon the most divergent personalities, had finally worn thin with Orrin Knox and Walter Dobius. The Secretary was polishing a few phrases that would match Walter’s best, as he drove along responding rather absently to the carefully innocuous chitchat of his two worried companions.

Behind his mood lay also the fact that Gorotoland was very rapidly turning into one more slow, desperate contest, greatly increasing his concern and that of the President for the men in the field. It was a concern that no honorable and compassionate man could escape, despite the violent allegations of his critics. (“Thousands and thousands of American boys will be in Gorotoland within a month,” Arly Richardson had shouted in the Senate, “and I say to the American people that thousands and thousands of them will be coming home in coffins!”)

Underlying compassion, of course, were inevitable thoughts of politics, preferment, the nomination, and the problematic judgments of history. Lifelong politicians possess compartmentalized minds, and all compartments have the ability to function simultaneously; so that while he was deeply concerned about the crisis, emotionally moved by the plight of the fighting men, alertly ready to repel the attacks of his critics, he was also, inescapably, assessing in quite another shrewd and pragmatic place the effect it would all have upon his own political chances. This he could do without in any way sacrificing his integrity or his compassion: it was the Washington habit, ingrained by many years of judging events according to their impact upon the political world, however much they might be affecting one on an emotional level.

Through that glass, Gorotoland at the moment seemed to him neither plus nor minus for his own cause. He had participated fully in the decisions that had led to the intervention and the vetoes, his voice had been second only to the President’s in urging the course of action agreed upon at the midnight meeting at the White House. He had sought and accepted full responsibility for present policies. Therefore he stood or fell by them. Despite the outcries of Walter’s world and the diligent way in which many of its members had set about propagandizing the country, he did not think he was on especially shaky ground at the moment. A good many of Walter’s older and less susceptible (“jealous,” Walter would have said) colleagues were reserving judgment; a good many of the smaller newspapers and a few of the larger ones were beginning to take a more approving line toward the Administration’s decisions; there was some sense, elusive but encouraging, that a basic common sense was beginning to reassert itself in the country.

Common sense, that is, as Orrin saw it: which was, of course, diametrically opposed to common sense as Walter saw it.

He did not feel entirely without friends as they went through Leesburg, turned right, and neared “Salubria.” At the moment friendly voices were overwhelmed by the roar from Walter’s world, but roars could not be sustained forever. Other sounds would break through; they always had, in his experience. The radicals and extremists on either side in America usually shouted themselves out, and a fundamental balance in the country reasserted itself in the long run. The run might be a little longer than usual this time, but he was counting on it.

He had the ironic and rather satisfying thought that Ted Jason might be sizing it up the same way, in view of his determined silence so far under pressures Orrin knew must be intense.

With this assumption on the Secretary’s part his potential opponent might well have agreed as he rode along with his wife, his sister, and Bob Leffingwell in Patsy’s Rolls-Royce.

Patsy had greeted him at the airport with a “WELL?” and he had grinned and said, “Well?” right back, so that she had known at once that he was not about to spend the next two hours arguing about it. He had gracefully fielded a series of insistent questions from the more than thirty reporters who had been waiting for him, leaving them disappointed but still friendly. He could see that his attitude did not disturb Bob Leffingwell in the least; in fact, he thought Bob looked relieved. The glance they had exchanged indicated that there was probably much they should talk about before either of them could move forward wholeheartedly into the campaign, but this was obviously not the time to do it. Their group, too, chatted of personalities and innocuous gossip as they rolled along toward Leesburg.

Behind the screen of their casually joking exchange the Governor was thinking, as he seemed to have done without letup since Monday night, about the situation in Gorotoland and the situation in his party. Like Orrin he was assessing it with a shrewd pragmatism. It was a constant companion, even in sleep: he had actually dreamed about it last night, and he was not given to dreams. The convention had been roaring with excitement, he had just received the nomination by 793 votes, and then with an ominous and commanding emphasis as he struggled to fight his way to the platform through newspapermen, delegates, and grasping well-wishers, a giant voice from somewhere in the hall had shouted,
“JOHN J. McCAFFERTY!”

By the time he had finally dragged himself, with the frantic slowness of dreams, to the rostrum, Arkansas’ eighty-seven-year-old junior Senator was already clasping two shaky old hands above his head and preparing to make his acceptance speech.

Ted had awakened with a start, followed by an abrupt, ironic laugh that had also awakened Ceil. He was thankful she couldn’t see him, because he realized he was sweating and his heart was beating with a painful rapidity. It was not really so very funny, when all its implications were considered. It had taken him quite a while to get back to sleep.

His days had been similarly occupied with the subject. Walter was not the only one who had taken occasion to pick up the telephone and call Sacramento in the last forty-eight hours. There had apparently been some sort of meeting in New York, of the same general nature that had occurred on many occasions in the past when certain powerful elements in Walter’s world were making up their minds whom to support for the Presidency. It was always denied furiously if anyone mentioned it, but a standard part of America’s political processes in the later decades of the twentieth century was the dutiful parade of candidates to the executive dining room of The Greatest Publication That Absolutely Ever Was—the editorial conferences in other influential places at which the hopeful were put through their paces—the general agreement that came about either in a formal meeting or in more informal talks, meetings, dinners, cocktail parties, and intimate discussions among the movers and shakers. The average voter down in the street might think he had a hand in choosing his candidates, but up above, in the executive suites, they knew. A few men reached consensus and with luck they put it over. Sometimes the luck failed and some independent interloper broke through the cordon to run off with the prize. Far more often, he who received anointment at the starting gate came home first at the finish line.

Almost inadvertently—and certainly so with regard to Gorotoland—the Governor of California now found himself well on the way to this fortunate and favorable position. He congratulated himself that he had not really had to do very much open striving to get there, either. The family wealth had been a help, his own decisive and effective personality had been another, his overwhelming victory in his run for the governorship had put the cap on it—but mostly it had come about just because he was there. There in Sacramento; there at the helm of the nation’s largest state; there in the public eye, with his dignified good looks, his steel-trap mind, and his wry humor. Then had come the President’s move in Africa and, abruptly, he was there as the focus for all those elements domestic and foreign who opposed it so violently.