After Many a Summer Dies the Swan (16 page)

Mr. Propter got up, hurried after him and, in spite of the other's angry motion of recoil, took Mr. Stoyte's arm and walked along beside him.

“I want to show you something, Jo,” he said. “Something that'll interest you, I think.”

“I don't want to see it,” said Mr. Stoyte between his false teeth.

Mr. Propter paid no attention, but continued to lead him towards the back of the house. “It's a gadget that Abbot of the Smithsonian has been working on for some time,” he continued. “A thing for making use of solar energy.” He interrupted himself for a moment to call back to the others to follow him; then turned again to Mr. Stoyte and resumed the conversation. “Much more compact than anything of the kind that's ever been made before,” he said. “Much more efficient, too.” And he went on to describe the system of trough-shaped reflectors, the tubes of oil heated to a temperature of four or five hundred degrees Fahrenheit; the boiler for raising steam, if you wanted to run a low-pressure engine; the cooking range and water heater, if you were using it only for domestic purposes. “Pity the sun's down,” he said, as they stood in front of the machine. “I'd have liked to show you the way it works the engine. I've had two horse-power, eight hours a day, ever since I got the thing working last week. Not bad considering we're still in January. We'll have her working overtime all summer.”

Mr. Stoyte had intended to persist in his silence—just to show Bill that he was still angry, that he hadn't forgiven him; but his interest in the machine and, above all, his exasperated concern with Bill's idiotic, crackpot notions were too much for him. “What the hell do you want with two horse-power, eight hours a day?” he asked.

“To run my electric generator.”

“But what do you want with an electric generator? Haven't you got your current wired in from the city?”

“Of course. And I'm trying to see how far I can be independent of the city.”

“But what for?”

Mr. Propter uttered a little laugh. “Because I believe in Jeffersonian democracy.”

“What the hell has Jeffersonian democracy got to do with it?” said Mr. Stoyte with mounting irritation. “Can't you believe in Jefferson and have your current wired in from the city?”

“That's exactly it,” said Mr. Propter; “you almost certainly can't.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I say,” Mr. Propter answered mildly.

“
I
believe in democracy too,” Mr. Stoyte announced with a look of defiance.

“I know you do. And you also believe in being the undisputed boss in all your businesses.”

“I should hope so!”

“There's another name for an undisputed boss,” said Mr. Propter. “ ‘Dictator.' “

“What are you trying to get at?”

“Merely at the facts. You believe in democracy; but you're at the head of businesses which have to be run dictatorially. And your subordinates have to accept your dictatorship because they're dependent on you for their living. In Russia they'd depend on government officials for their living. Perhaps you think that's an improvement,” he added, turning to Pete.

Pete nodded. “I'm all for the public ownership of the means of production,” he said. It was the first time he had openly confessed his faith in the presence of his employer; he felt happy at having dared to be a Daniel.

“Public ownership of the means of production,” Mr. Propter repeated. “But unfortunately governments have a way of regarding the individual producers as being parts of the means. Frankly, I'd rather have Jo Stoyte as my boss than Jo Stalin. This Jo” (he laid his hand on Mr. Stoyte's shoulder) “this Jo can't have you executed; he can't send you to the Arctic; he can't prevent you from getting a job under another boss. Whereas the other Jo . . .” he shook his head. “Not that,” he added, “I'm exactly longing to have even this Jo as my boss.”

“You'd be fired pretty quick,” growled Mr. Stoyte.

“I don't want
any
boss,” Mr. Propter went on. “The more bosses, the less democracy. But unless people can support themselves, they've got to have a boss who'll undertake to do it for them. So the less self-support, the less democracy. In Jefferson's day, a great many Americans did support themselves. They were economically independent. Independent of government and independent of big business. Hence the Constitution.”

“We've still got the Constitution,” said Mr. Stoyte.

“No doubt,” Mr. Propter agreed. “But if we had to make a new Constitution today, what would it be like? A Constitution to fit the facts of New York and Chicago and Detroit; of United States Steel and the Public Utilities and General Motors and the CLO. and the government departments. What on earth would it be like?” he repeated. “We respect our old Constitution, but in fact we live under a new one. And if we want to live under the first, we've got to recreate something like the conditions under which the first was made. That's why I'm interested in this gadget.” He patted the frame of the machine. “Because it may help to give independence to any one who desires independence. Not that many do desire it,” he added parenthetically. “The propaganda in favour of dependence is too strong. They've come to believe that you can't be happy unless you're entirely dependent on government or centralized business. But for the few who do care about democracy, who really want to be free in the Jeffersonian sense, this thing may be a help. If it makes them independent of fuel and power, that's already a great deal.”

Mr. Stoyte looked anxious. “Do you really think it'll do that?”

“Why not?” said Mr. Propter. “There's a lot of sunshine running to waste in this part of the country.”

Mr. Stoyte thought of his presidency of the Consol Oil Company. “It won't be good for the oil business,” he said.

“I should hate it to be good for the oil business,” Mr. Propter answered cheerfully.

“And what about coal?” He had an interest in a group of West Virginia mines. “And the railroads?” There was that big block of Union Pacific shares that had belonged to Prudence. “The railroads can't get on without long hauls. And steel,” he added disinterestedly; for his holdings in Bethlehem Steel were almost negligible. “What happens to steel if you hurt the railroads and cut down trucking? You're going against progress,” he burst out in another access of righteous indignation. “You're turning back the clock,”

“Don't worry, Jo,” said Mr. Propter. “It won't affect your dividends for quite a long while. There'll be plenty of time to adjust to the new conditions.”

With an admirable effort, Mr. Stoyte controlled his temper. “You seem to figure I can't think of anything but money,” he said with dignity. “Well, it may interest you to know that I've decided to give Dr. Mulge another thirty thousand dollars for his Art School.” (The decision had been made there and then, for the sole purpose of serving as a weapon in the perennial battle with Bill Propter.) “And if you think,” he added as an afterthought, “if you think I'm only concerned with my own interests, read the special World's Fair number of the New York
Times.
Read that,” he insisted with the solemnity of a fundamentalist recommending the Book of Revelation. “You'll see that the most forward-looking men in the country think as I do.” He spoke with unaccustomed and incongruous unction, in the phraseology of after-dinner eloquence. “The way of progress is the way of better organization, more service from business, more goods for the consumer!” Then, incoherently, “Look at the way a housewife goes to her grocer,” he added, “and buys a package of some nationally advertised cereal or something.
That's
progress. Not your crackpot idea of doing everything at home with this idiotic contraption.” Mr. Stoyte had reverted completely to his ordinary style. “You always were a fool, Bill, and I guess you always will be. And remember what I told you about interfering with Bob Hansen. I won't stand for it.” In dramatic silence he walked away; but after taking a few steps, he halted and called back over his shoulder. “Come up to dinner, if you feel like it.”

“Thanks,” said Mr. Propter. “I will.”

Mr. Stoyte walked briskly towards his car. He had forgotten about high blood pressure and the living God and felt all of a sudden unaccountably and unreasonably happy. It was not that he had scored any notable success in his battle with Bill Propter. He hadn't; and, what was more, in the process of not scoring a success he had made, and was even half aware that he had made, a bit of a fool of himself. The source of his happiness was elsewhere. He was happy, though he would never have admitted the fact, because, in spite of everything, Bill seemed to like him.

In the car, as he drove back to the castle, he whistled to himself.

Entering with his hat on, as usual (for even after all these years he still derived a childish pleasure from the contrast between the palace in which he lived and the proletarian manners he affected), Mr. Stoyte crossed the great hall, stepped into the elevator and, from the elevator, walked directly into Virginia's boudoir.

When he opened the door, the two were sitting at least fifteen feet apart. Virginia was at the soda counter, pensively eating a chocolate and banana split; seated in an elegant pose on one of the pink satin arm-chairs, Dr. Obispo was in the process of lighting a cigarette.

On Mr. Stoyte the impact of suspicion and jealousy was like the blow of a fist directed (for the shock was physical and localized in the midriff) straight to the solar plexus. His face contracted as though with pain. And yet he had seen nothing; there was no apparent cause for jealousy, no visible reason, in their attitudes, their actions, their expressions, for suspicion. Dr. Obispo's manner was perfectly easy and natural; and the Baby's smile of startled and delighted welcome was angelic in its candour. “Uncle Jo!” She ran to meet him and threw her arms round his neck. “Uncle Jo!”

The warmth of her tone, the softness of her lips had a magical effect on Mr. Stoyte. Moved to a point at which he was using the word to the limit of its double connotation, he murmured, “My Babyl” with a lingering emphasis. The fact that he should have felt suspicious, even for a moment, of this pure and adorable, this deliciously warm, resilient and perfumed child, filled him with shame. And even Dr. Obispo now heaped coals of fire on his head.

“I was a bit worried,” he said, as he got up from his chair, “by the way you coughed after lunch. That's why I came up here, to make sure of catching you the moment you got in.” He put a hand in his pocket and, after half drawing out and immediately replacing a little leather-bound volume, like a prayer book, extracted a stethoscope. “Prevention's better than cure,” he went on. “I'm not going to let you get influenza, if I can help it.”

Remembering what a good week they had had at the Beverly Pantheon on account of the epidemic, Mr. Stoyte felt alarmed. “I don't
feel
bad,” he said. “I guess that cough wasn't anything. Only my old—you know: the chronic bronchitis.”

“Maybe it was only that. But all the same, I'd like to listen in.” Briskly professional, Dr. Obispo hung the stethoscope round his neck.

“He's right, Uncle Jo,” said the Baby.

Touched by so much solicitude and at the same time rather disturbed by the thought that it might perhaps be influenza, Mr. Stoyte took off his coat and waistcoat and began to undo his tie. A moment later he was stand ing stripped to the waist under the crystals of the chandelier. Modestly, Virginia retired again to her soda fountain. Dr. Obispo slipped the ends of the curved nickel tubes of the stethoscope into his ears. “Take a deep breath,” he said as he pressed the muzzle against Mr. Stoyte's chest. “Again,” he ordered. “Now cough.” Looking past that thick barrel of hairy flesh, he could see, on the wall behind, the inhabitants of Watteau's mournful paradise as they prepared to set sail for some other paradise, doubtless yet more heartbreaking.

“Say ninety-nine,” Dr. Obispo commanded, returning from the embarcation for Cythera to a near view of Mr. Stoyte's thorax and abdomen.

“Ninety-nine,” said Mr. Stoyte. “Ninety-nine. Ninety-nine.”

With professional thoroughness, Dr. Obispo shifted the muzzle of his stethoscope from point to point on the curving barrel of flesh before him. There was nothing wrong, of course, with the old buzzard. Just the familiar set of râles and wheezes he always had. Perhaps it would make things a bit more realistic if he were to take the creature down to his office and stick him up in front of the fluoroscope. But, no; he really couldn't be bothered. And, besides, this farce would be quite enough.

“Cough again,” he said, planting his instrument among the grey hairs on Mr. Stoyte's left pap. And among other things, he went on to reflect, while Mr. Stoyte forced out a succession of artificial coughs, among other things, these old sacks of guts didn't smell too good. How any young girl could stand it, even for money, he really couldn't imagine. And yet the fact remained that there were thousands of them who not only stood it, but actually enjoyed it. Or, perhaps, “enjoy” was the wrong word. Because in most cases there probably wasn't any question of enjoyment in the proper, physiological sense of the word. It all happened in the mind, not in the body. They loved their old gut-sacks with their heads; loved them because they admired them, because they were impressed by the gut-sack's position in the world, or his knowledge, or his celebrity. What they slept with wasn't the man; it was a reputation, it was the embodiment of a function. And then, of course, some of the girls were future models for Mother's Day advertisements; some were little Florence Nightingales, on the lookout for a Crimean War. In those cases, the very infirmities of their gut-sacks were added attractions. They had the satisfaction of sleeping not only with a reputation or a stock of wisdom, not only with a federal judgeship, for example, or the presidency of a chamber of commerce, but also and simultaneously with a wounded soldier, with an imbecile child, with a lovely stinking little baby who still made messes in its bed. Even this cutie (Dr. Obispo shot a sideways glance in the direction of the soda fountain), even this one had something of the Florence Nightingale in her, something of the Gold Star Mother. (And that in spite of the fact that, with her conscious mind, she felt a kind of physical horror of maternity.) Jo Stoyte was a little bit her baby and her patient; and at the same time, of course, he was a great deal her own private Abraham