Never Victorious, Never Defeated by Taylor Caldwell
His sons entered the house and Laura met them, examining their faces for any sign of the real grief she prayed they felt for their father. But she saw at once that the excessively solemn Fielding was inwardly excited. She turned from him with a brief closing spasm of her eyes, and looked at Miles. He was actually looking at her with solicitude, and this startled and warmed her; she did not know that this solicitude was for herself, nor did she know that of all her children only Miles did not consider her a fool or a nonentity. Miles, the debonair, the exquisite, was thinking: Hard on you, old girl, but better for you in the long run. You won’t be losing anything. Like Fielding, he kissed his mother’s cheek, but his kiss had genuineness in it. He said, “It’s certain, then?” She nodded, and sat down weakly on the narrow crimson bench before the meager fireplace of the hall. Then she gazed earnestly and imploringly at her sons.
“Be kind to him,” she whispered. Be merciful, she wanted to add. “Comfort him.”
“It’s frightful, frightful,” said Fielding, leaning against the wall, all the long and gangling length of him. He pulled at his yellowish nose and glanced sideways at his brother. “At the most, two months, I think you said, Mother?”
“Sometimes there are mistakes, even among the best of doctors,” said Miles, putting his hand on his mother’s shoulder and frowning at his brother. His eyes were a cold blue flash in the duskiness of the hall. “We’ll do what we can. We’ve always humored him, you remember.”
“He never found out we thought him a—” Fielding began, then was stopped by another flash from Miles.
Laura wrung her hands tightly together. “I wish you had known your father as I knew him, when I was a very young girl. So serious, so thoughtful, so idealistic. And so very, very upright. I think it was his uprightness which really—really caused him trouble later, and distorted his original character. You see, he could never compromise; he could never accept people for what they were.” She swallowed, and stopped.
“If anyone opposed him, he thought of the man as a personal enemy, who ought to be destroyed. The enemy became not only Pa’s enemy, but the enemy of God and the angels,” said Miles. He put his hand over his mother’s twisting fingers, and pressed them. “A common, and dangerous, disease of the idealists. History is full of the cities they burned, the people they hanged, the children they orphaned, the fields they laid waste.” Miles’s voice was thoughtful, but hard. “Uncle Allan opposed him, I suppose. Therefore, Uncle Allan must be destroyed, as an enemy of the people I know. I’m sure that’s what he wants to talk to us about—Uncle Allan, the poor devil.”
Laura gazed at her older son with intense amazement. “Why, Miles, I didn’t know you . …!” She stopped, and cried without restraint. Fielding looked bored and impatient, and yawned. But Miles watched his mother with fresh solicitude. He knew what he wanted; he was determined to have it, no matter what he had to do. Nevertheless, he was sorry for Allan Marshall, as a man who was suffering, as a man who found the fierce world at last too much for him. It’ll never be too much for me, thought Miles, for I’ll never permit myself to be caught up in its emotions. I loved Dolores; I suppose Uncle Allan and Tony and myself were the only ones who really mourned her. But I have my life to live. I had no time to waste.
His mother, in spite of everything, loved her children, and so he was sorry for her. Perhaps if she had not had children, she would have left her intolerant and bigoted husband a long time ago and might have found some happiness. He said, “What about Mary? Does she know?”
“No, there was the baby to think of,” replied Laura. “Later, I’ll tell her her father is just very ill, and perhaps I can persuade him to keep her in ignorance.”
Miles commented wryly to himself that it was doubtful if Mary would feel any shock or sorrow. Laura was pushing back her soft dark hair, and her face gleamed in the shadows, purely carved and white. She touched Miles’s sleeve timidly. “I think, in a way, that I am beginning to understand you, my dear.” But she did not look at the bored and squinting younger son. Fielding thought: It’s all right for Miles to “play-act”; he is the perfect diplomat, but why waste it on a fluttering and totally insignificant woman? Fielding tugged at his nose again, and said, “Well, shall we get it over? I’ve got a dinner engagement with Cynthia.”
Laura, as if she had committed some offense, immediately stood up. All at once, as she stood there, tall and slim and strangely young and silent, there was a faint resemblance in her to Dolores and Miles was struck with a violent pang. Now, control yourself, he thought, with cool anger at his folly. But he went upstairs with his brother, walking surely. Only a fool quarrels with his own bargains.
Miles threw away his cigarette before entering his father’s rooms with his brother. A sedative had finally calmed Patrick; fear was less overpowering; he could use his mind, and he knew he must use it now. He watched his sons enter, and his eyes became intent in his quietly desperate face. Despite what Laura had flung at him wildly years ago, he steadfastly believed that his sons loved and respected him and waited upon his word at all times. Had he not been a just and devoted father? Had his sons ever quarreled with him or taken issue with him? No, at all times they had gravely agreed with his convictions. Fine young men, my sons, thought Patrick Peale, men of principle, seriousness, and ideals. He held out his hand first to Miles, who pressed it briefly, and then to Fielding, who, with a pretense of youthful emotion and awkwardness, suddenly bent down and kissed his father’s forehead.
“Your mother has told you?” Patrick asked faintly. Miles said, “Yes. And there is nothing I can say, I suppose, except that I’m terribly sorry.” Fielding said in a loud voice, “Perhaps it isn’t true! We’ve got to believe it isn’t.” Miles pursed his lips again and sat down, while Patrick looked with mournful fondness at his younger son. “It is true, I’m afraid,” he said. “But I didn’t call for you to discuss my. … I wanted to talk things over with you. I have so little time now.”
He clasped his hands over his chest, and now his eyes were even more intent on his sons. “It hurts me to talk. I’ll try to be brief. You know the history of the deWitt and the Peale families. You know that your grandfather, Stephen deWitt, was robbed of his position, his house, and his money, by his brother Rufus. The law may not agree—man’s law—that the grandsons of Stephen deWitt have been robbed of their rightful heritage. But there is a moral law, which, at the end, inexorably comes into effect.”
Miles and Fielding listened with the proper and solemn attention, but Miles was annoyed at the pompous and old-fashioned phrasing of his father’s words. Why didn’t the poor old devil just come out and say: “I want you to have what those I hate have, and I don’t care how you get it so long as I have my revenge?” But that would be too honest for Patrick Peale.
Patrick lifted his hands and began to mark off what he was about to say: “I have sixteen per cent of Interstate stock, which I acquired through your mother. You, Miles, through your wife Ruth, have control of four per cent. I have another five per cent, in addition to the original sixteen per cent. That makes twenty-five per cent in our hands. Against—their—fifty-one per cent.” He paused. “DeWitt will be president one of these days, perhaps very soon, with that fifty-one per cent. Of course, he is married to my daughter Mary.”
Miles said, “Of course, we can’t count on Mary. After all, she’d stand with her husband, and the other Marshalls.”
Patrick winced. He would have preferred that his son not be so blunt. He replied, “That is so. I’m afraid that Mary has become very selfish and expedient; that comes of her association with those people. We can expect nothing but opposition from Mary, so let us not discuss her.” He hesitated, then coughed. “Let us continue. Twenty-five per cent in the hands of this family. We also have a great deal of money. Your mother inherited a good deal of cash and investments from her aunt, Lydia Purcell, and also from her uncle, Rufus deWitt, who was apparently, and belatedly, trying to make some amends. My own private holdings are not to be
At your insistence, after your endless nagging and recriminations and accusations, and because she wanted peace for her children’s sake, thought Miles. And you had made her feel guilty.
Patrick was now speaking in a louder, faster voice: “The Interstate really belongs to us! And my sons must have it! The details I shall leave to you. Who stands in your way? A miserable cripple, DeWitt Marshall, who is also quite young. A conscienceless alcoholic and very sick man, Allan Marshall, who will probably never be very potent in the concerns of the company again. Money is power! You will have it. Miles, you also have the money Jon deWitt left you, and you have invested it wisely, on the advice of Mr. Regan. You are general superintendent, now, of the Interstate Railroad Company, and Fielding is your assistant. Why, you are in the camp of the enemy, and you can do what you wish!”
Miles, always so discreet, could not prevent himself from saying, “But who gave me my opportunity there? Allan Marshall, of course. He could have kept us out. If we are in ‘the camp of the enemy,’ we were invited in.”
His father rose on his pillows at this stupid enormity, and glared at his son. “Why? Why? I know! First of all, he needed your ability. Second, it was his bribe to you not to pursue his daughter any longer. He held your position in the company over your head: attempt to marry his daughter and he would throw you out! I know all the workings of his mind. He forced her to marry that Englishman in order to remove her from you. And how did a just God visit punishment upon him?” Patrick’s eyes gloated. “By her death, on the Lusitania.”
“Of course, of course,” murmured Fielding, in a sepulchral tone.
Miles slowly and carefully crossed his legs. Self-righteous liar, he thought. There is no mercy or honor in you. He folded his arms on his chest and regarded his father enigmatically. Patrick had begun to beat a pillow with a clenched fist. “There is always God’s justice, at the end. And the day of justice for my sons is almost here. And you have a friend in the very camp of the enemy: Norman deWitt. When I last saw Norman, in New York, he told me that he is so unwelcome in the family that he rarely sees his poor old mother, who is prematurely senile with her grief. …”
“She is seventy-five or so,” said Miles. “And not a very bright woman at any time, if I remember correctly.” He paused, and was amused at himself for this almost unique impulse toward integrity.
Fielding turned his pale brown eyes in bewilderment on his brother. The diplomatic, careful Miles! But there he sat now, staring at his father with that complete blueness of eye, that reserved expression which indicated some hidden disgust. Even Patrick was caught by his son’s look, and silenced momentarily by his words. Then he sank back on his pillows, and began to pluck vaguely at his sheet. “I thought you were very congenial with Norman,” he said. “After all, you were in Norman’s Harvard Socialist Club—one of the charter members, I believe.”
“He had a student chapter there, among many other chapters in other universities,” said Miles coldly. “I was just eighteen when I joined.”
Now, what in hell is wrong with Miles? thought Fielding. He could see the delicate skin of his brother’s forehead flushing. Is he trying to antagonize the old boy, just now when everything depends on his keeping his mouth shut?
Patrick became excited. “Miles! But you believed what Norman and his friends taught you. You believed in the theories—”
“Such as government control of the means of production?” asked Miles casually. “Under such a system, what would become, for instance, of the Interstate Railroad Company?Our company, as you have just said.”
Patrick stared at him in silence. He began to rub his right index finger slowly over his lips. He blinked. Then he said reflectively, “You know what Norman has told you. The friends of the government will not have their property socialized. When you and Fielding are in control of the Interstate, all will be well with you. But if you are not, then eventually, and the day is not far off, the company will be seized by the government, for the benefit of all the people, including the exploited workers.”
Why is it impossible for him to think without confusion? Miles asked himself. Why does he insist upon self-deception? There are so many wealthy fools like him in America. If the day he prophesies ever comes, they are going to cry out in protest: “But you don’t mean me! You mean my brother!” Miles reflected that it might almost be worth while to be present on such an occasion, for the joy of Olympian laughter.
But men like Norman deWitt were neither confused nor the victims of self-deception. They knew what they wanted. And they used men like Patrick Peale to help them. However, this was no time to attempt to clear Patrick’s mind. So Miles said soothingly, “Of course, you are right.” Fielding relaxed, and stretched out his long legs.
Now Miles’s voice became brisk and hard. “Yes, I know that Norman will help us. You’ve reviewed the whole situation pretty thoroughly, Pa. I have some things to add. DeWitt is executive vice-president of the company; he will be, one of these days, president. But he’s not capable of holding such a position, though I don’t underestimate his intelligence and ability. He’s not the man his father was, or his grandfather. He wants power, not as they wanted power, for the sake of power itself, but for his own self-aggrandizement. He was always the ‘little one,’ even before he was crippled. His crippling only accentuated his intrinsic littleness. He’s ruthless and egotistic and small-minded and crafty.”
Patrick nodded eagerly. “Go on, Miles.” Fielding sat up.
Miles considered, and glanced about the dusky room. The last shreds of the scarlet sunset lingered over the black mountains. Miles stood up and turned on a few lamps. He studied the last, as if it held all his thoughts. He began to speak again, musingly.
“This is another day. Some blame it on Wilson. But no one is to blame. The day of the absolute, autocratic industrial baron has ended. It is a natural development, and theorists, with their shouts of the brotherhood of man and their outcries against the profit system and free enterprise, have had nothing to do with it. The source of a more equitable and decent industrial society was the middle class. As that class invaded industry and business they decentralized the power of the great barons and tycoons. All the antitrust acts and other laws against monopolies would have forever remained impotent if the middle-class businessmen and smaller industrialists hadn’t breeched the narrow fortresses held by the Rockefellers, the Belmonts, the Vanderbilts, the Gunthers, to name only a few.”
“Well, well?” demanded Patrick impatiently. He had not followed his son in the least. “What are you getting at?”
Miles lifted his eyebrows briefly, but did not turn to his father. “More and more, thoughtful people in industry are beginning to realize that the success of any business depends upon the people in it. And the public it serves well. Personal power is no longer feasible, among intelligent men, and no longer very desirable. The barons will struggle against this a little longer, and then they will learn. Some of them have already learned; they’ve created benevolent foundations in behalf of all the people of America. They’ve distributed millions of their profits.”
“Yes, yes,” muttered Patrick restlessly. Miles glanced at Fielding, and smiled a little. He continued: “DeWitt Marshall is an anachronism. He thinks of himself as one of the tycoons, one of the barons. With that attitude, he will ruin the company. And that is why he must be gotten out, someway.”
Patrick exclaimed, still without the slightest understanding, “That is what I mean! Exactly!”
Miles came to his father’s bedside and looked down at him ironically. What a fool this was, to be sure. He said, “But there is some great and hidden evil in the world. I think I know what it is. Men like DeWitt unknowingly sustain that evil. He must be gotten rid of, if America is to remain free. And we must get rid of that evil, too; it’s an ancient one, and was born in Europe centuries ago. We can’
Fielding wrinkled his sallow forehead, and Patrick put on an expression of solemnity. Miles was highly amused. He found it sardonically satisfying to hold these spoken soliloquies with himself in the. presence of those who could not understand and believed that they understood.
“There is a trusteeship in public service,” said Miles. He reached into his pocket for a cigarette, then withdrew his hand, empty. He said, “I think you can trust us, Pa. We’ll get what you want for us.” He turned to his brother. “We’ve learned a lot these past years, haven’t we, Field?”
“We sure have,” replied Fielding. He was puzzled. He looked at this exquisite, his brother, at the bland, almost beautiful face of the older man; he felt Miles’s indomitable and silent power, his assurance, his puissant masculinity. Fielding was no fool; he knew that he had very little of his brother’s intellect, but there had been a time when Miles had talked with him gaily, lightly, and informingly. Now he merely gave Fielding orders, without bothering to explain them or enlarge upon them. Fielding felt a thrust of envy and resentment, but he admired his brother so thoroughly, and respected him so abjectly, that the thrust was almost immediately blunted. There was no use trying to follow old Miles all the time, Fielding thought It was better just to obey.
Patrick lay limply in his bed. “I can die in peace now,” he murmured. Then he stiffened and sat up again, aghast “We have forgotten one thing: Cornelia deWitt Marshall! She’s not only a director of the company, she’s DeWitt’s mother! How will you eliminate her?"