Robert Wilson - Julian Comstock - A Story of 22-nd Century America

“But I do realize it!” said Julian, returning Sam’s anger ounce-for-ounce. “I’m bitterly aware of it! I just stood in the presence of a man not fit to polish my boots, and listened without objection to his insinuations and his sneers! I looked him in the eye, Sam, and as he barked and whined I thought how little he suspected what I could do to him, and how quickly he would genuflect if that truth came out! I wasn’t raised to grovel before an Army parson! And yet I did it—I swallowed my pride, and I did it—but that’s not enough for you!”

“You might have swallowed your pride a little sooner, and thought twice about holding classes in sedition for the enlisted men! In fact I recall forbidding you to do any such thing.”

“Forbidding me!”

Julian stood up so stiff-spined he seemed an inch taller than he really was.

“I was entrusted by your father with the duty of protecting you,” Sam said.

“Do it, then! Do as you were told, and protect me! But don’t mother me, or censor me, or question my judgment! That was never your province! Do what you were asked to do, and do it like any other sensible servant!”

The words struck Sam as if they had real weight and momentum. His face contorted, then stiffened into a soldierly mask. He seemed full of words, unspoken or unspeakable; but what he said, in the end, was, “All right, Julian—as you prefer.”

It was a servile response, and Julian was quite undone by it. All the rage went out of him in a rush. “Sam, I’m sorry! I was just—well, the words came without thinking. You know I don’t think of you as a servant!”

“I wouldn’t have said so, until now.”

“Then forgive me! It isn’t you I’m unhappy with—never you!”

“Of course I forgive you,” said Sam.

Julian seemed ashamed of himself, and he hurried away without acknowledging me.

Sam was a silent a long while, and I began to wonder if I had become altogether invisible; but just as I was about to clear my throat to signal my presence he looked at me and shook his head. “He’s a Comstock, Adam. A Comstock heart and soul, for better or for worse. I let myself forget that. Don’t make the same mistake.”

“I won’t,” I said—but only to reassure him.

Major Lampret made a display of singling out Julian at the next Sunday meeting, in a sermon on Unhelpful Thinking. He denounced Julian’s apostasies, and mocked them, and ridiculed the idea of an Army private giving out opinions on theological matters. Then he told us weekend leave was canceled, not just for Julian but for all the men of our company, to punish Julian for treading on the angels’ coat-tails and us for being foolish enough to listen to him. It was tactic meant to make Julian unpopular among his peers, and undo some of the goodwill the other soldiers felt toward him. And the ploy was successful, at least for a time. Disparaging remarks were made in Julian’s presence by men cruelly deprived of the opportunity to squander their pay in Montreal whore houses; and Julian was cut by these barbed comments, though he was careful to say nothing in return.

But that wasn’t the end of the matter. Just about then—and for weeks thereafter, in a steady crescendo—a certain libel about Major Lampret began to circulate and gain currency: that the Major was a Colorado Springs cloud salesman who was careful never to get in the line of fire, because of all the immortal souls entrusted to his care his own took first place, and was too precious to be exposed to flying lead—in other words, that he was a coward who reveled in his noncombatant status.

There was no discernible source for this talk; it passed like a fog from one group of soldiers to another, never adhering to anyone in particular; but I noticed Julian always smiled when he heard it.

I was as upset as anyone else over missing my first opportunity to return to Montreal , for I wanted to seek out Calyxa and make myself better known to her. But I consoled myself with the hope that I might get another chance, and I used the empty time to finish my report about the Battle of Mascouche, and deliver it to Mr. Theodore Dornwood, the journalist.

Dornwood had forgotten his agreement to read my work, and I had to remind him of it; but at last he relented and took the papers from me. While he read them I admired his typewriter once more. I took my time looking over the mechanical device, and even fingered the keys, in a gingerly manner, and watched the greased levers rise and fall, and felt the intoxicating power to make Letters—solid booklike letters, not pencil scratches—appear on a blank white page. I was determined to get one of these machines for myself. No doubt they were expensive. But I would save my pay, and eventually I would buy a typewriter, even if I had to go all the way to Manhattan to acquire one. This I solemnly resolved.

“Not actually bad,” Dornwood said, in a thoughtful tone, when he had finished reading my work.

It was as much praise as I had expected from him—more, in fact. “It’s all right, then?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Would you say you liked it?”

“I’d go that far.”

“You might even call it good?”

“I suppose so—in its way, quite good, actually.”

I savored that word, good , coming as it did from a genuine New York City newspaper correspondent, even at the expense of a little prodding. And not just good, but quite good. I was beside myself with pride.

“Not that you haven’t got a thing or two to learn,” Dornwood added, deflating me.

“How’s that?” I asked. “I tried to write it as truthfully as possible. I didn’t include elephants, or anything of that nature.”

“Your restraint is admirable—perhaps even excessive.” Dornwood paused to gather his thoughts, which could not have been a trivial task, given how much liquor he had consumed (judging by the empty flasks scattered about the place) and how the aroma of hemp smoke still suffused the air. “As much as I like what you’ve written—it’s clear, grammatical, and orderly—this piece would have to be ‘punched up’ if it were submitted for newspaper publication.”

“How so?”

“Well, for instance, here. You say, ‘Private Commongold walked ahead of me, very steadily, toward the fighting.’ ”

“That’s how it happened. I was careful about the phrase.”

“Too careful. A reader doesn’t want to hear about someone walking steadily. It’s not dramatic. You might say, instead, ‘Private Commongold ignored the shot and shell exploding all around him to such devastating effect, and strode with fierce determination straight into the beating heart of the battle.’ You see how that livens it up?”

“I guess it does, though at the expense of a degree of accuracy.”

“Accuracy and drama are the Scylla and Charybdis of journalism, Adam. [At the time I took “Scylla and Charybdis” to be New York City editors with whom Dornwood had dealt, or perhaps a publishing firm. In fact they were two great Nautical Rocks, in Greek mythology, which had the unusual ability to move about under their own steam, and had formed the bad habit of crushing sailors.]

Steer between them, is my advice, but list toward drama, if you want a successful career. In fact, ‘Private Commongold’ is a little tepid, regarding rank, though the name itself is good—so let’s promote him. Captain Commongold! Doesn’t that have a ring to it?”

“I suppose so.”

“Leave these papers with me,” Dornwood said, casting a glance at his typewriter, which had been silent lately, perhaps due to his consumption of fiery spirits. “I’ll give the subject further thought, and render you more useful advice next week. In the meantime, Adam, in the event of further military action, please repeat the exercise: write it up, as dramatically as the facts allow, and bring it to me. If you do that, I may be willing to show you how to work that typewriter you love to stare at, since you’re an aspiring writer of some talent. How does that sound?”