Pearl Buck - Gods Men

The two men were in strange communion. Around them was the deep rich silence of this house, devoted, in its beauty, to God. Although the morning was cold, in the vast velvety room the atmosphere was tempered with warmth and the proper degree of humidity for the leather-bound volumes. Between the two men the fire burned. Under the high-carved mantelpiece the flames quivered intense and blue above a bed of hard coal. Each man admired the other, each knew that his heart was set upon the same goal, each felt the keen thrusting of the other’s thought.

Between the two men was the still deeper bond of secret knowledge of each other. Though they spoke with reverence of the Church, each knew that the Church was a net as wide as the world, gathering into itself all men. It was the means of divine order, the opposite of man’s chaos.

William sat in long silence. With the priest he felt no need of constant speech. The huge room was restful to him.

“This room is beautiful,” he said at last. “I have often tried to analyze its effect upon me. I believe that order expresses the secret. Everything has its place and is in its place.”

“Order is the secret of the universe,” the priest replied. “Only within order can men function.”

An hour later William went away. The wisdom he craved, the guidance he sought, the confirmation of himself and his own will, the approval of what he wanted to do, all these he had found as he always did. He felt strong and dominating and sure of himself. The ancient foundations held. The Church was founded upon a Rock.

He entered his office shortly before noon and the current Miss Smith waited in electric nervousness for the buzz upon her desk that was his summons. When she entered his office he was already sitting behind his semicircular desk and she approached him, trying to smile. It would have been easier if her office had opened to the side of the desk so that she might sit down quickly with her pencil and pad. But there was only one door into the vast imposing room and whoever entered must make the long approach to the spare stern figure sitting behind the semicircle. She reached it at last and drew out her hidden stool and sat down.

“Take a memorandum,” William said. His voice was not in the least haughty and he would have been surprised to know that Miss Smith was afraid of him and often had a fit of crying after she left him.

“Memorandum to the editors,” William said. “Begin! ‘I have decided to support the British Empire. For the coming struggle, we must stand with England on the side of order in the world. Further details will follow within the next twenty-four hours.’ That’s all, Miss Smith. I do not wish to be interrupted until I call you.”

He spent the rest of the day alone and in profound thought, writing slowly upon large sheets of heavy white paper. When he had finished his meditation his blueprints were clear. He had mapped out his plans for the next two years. At the end of two years the war should be won or at least victory plain. He felt strong and clear in mind, his pulse was firm, his heart at peace. An impulse of thankfulness welled up in him, and he bowed his head in one of his brief but frequent prayers. He had learned from Monsignor to find in solitary prayer a solace and a release.

He had a flash of intuition now while his head was bent upon his folded hands and his eyes closed. Across the world Chiang Kai-shek also prayed. William had chosen only last week a feature about China’s strong man, and among the pictures was one of him at prayer. The Old Tiger, the Chinese called him, and it was a noble name. All strong men prayed. He could go to see the Old Tiger. A vague homesickness for China swept over his praying soul. Strong men ought to stand together. He would charter a plane, fly the Pacific, and visit China again in the person of that upstanding man.

Such thoughts mingled with his prayer without disturbing it, and when he had finished praying he touched the button of his telephone again. Miss Smith’s voice answered, irritatingly weak. She would not last long, he thought with momentary contempt.

“I want to speak to Mrs. Lane,” he commanded. A moment later the buzz told him that his wife waited.

“Emory? Have we anything on for tonight?”

“I half promised we’d go to that opening of the Picasso—”

“Cancel it! I feel that I need some relaxation in view of all that’s ahead of me. Let’s have dinner at the Waldorf — I’ll order a table — and then we’ll go to see something at the theater. What’s that new musical? Night in Peking?”

“I’d enjoy that. And I’ll get the tickets.”

Emory’s silvery voice was complacent and sweet. She was always ready to fall in with his wishes. When he had told her he wanted her to enter the Church with him, she had scarcely hesitated a moment.

“I’ve been thinking about it. I believe a solid religion will be good for you, William,” she had said.

“What do you mean by that?” he had demanded.

“Life isn’t enough for you,” she had replied with her strange thoughtfulness. She seemed to think a good deal without letting her thoughts oppress her, or him.

“It will be good for you, too, I think,” he had said.

“Why not?” she had replied, with one of her graceful smiles.

He was very effective that night. There was no fiasco whatever. He must have been successful at something or other at the office, Emory thought, one of his big plans, perhaps, which he would tell her about afterward. He was all of a piece, this man. Power flowed from him or, locked in him, wrecked his peace of mind and made him impotent. As always he made her his instrument and she did not rebel. Why, indeed, should she? He gave her all she wanted now in the world, which was luxury, which was beauty. Her wants were few but huge, and for beauty money was necessary, plenty of money, a mine of gold, the source inexhaustible. Only William possessed the golden touch nowadays. The old inherited capitalism was almost over, but he was the new capitalist. He had found the fresh source in the need of the people to be amused and to be led. And he led them — he led them into green pastures.

The staff perceived as soon as it congregated for the ferocity of the day’s work that there was to be no idleness. William reached the office early and even the least of them understood at once that it was going to be one of his good days. Whatever thought of weariness, whatever listlessness of the night before that any one of them had felt was gone in the instant. Today the utmost would be demanded of them mingled with excitement and some terror. It was doubtful that they would all be at their jobs by night. On William’s good days inevitably someone was fired. The weaker members decided not to go out to lunch. William himself never ate lunch.

“Miss Smith,” William said, “give me all the recent dispatches from China. I want to study them.”

This news from behind the circular desk was telegraphed through the offices and gusts of relief followed. Focus upon China meant focus upon Lemuel Barnard, who had just returned to make his report of the Chinese situation.

The first assistant editor thoughtfully started his search for Lem who at this time of the morning might still be anywhere but certainly not at his desk. Telephone messages began urgently though cautiously to permeate the city. The receptionist in the main entrance, Louise Henry, a pretty auburn-haired girl from Tennessee, stayed by the telephone as much as she dared. She had left Lem somewhere between midnight and dawn at a night club. Shortly before noon, she found him where no one expected him, in bed at his hotel room and asleep. Louise waked him.

“Lem, get over here quick. He’s been studying your dispatches all morning!”