Never Victorious, Never Defeated

On May 30th Michael Marshall wrote to his brother. The letter began humorously and quietly, an account of his new life. Then he had written:

“The letters I receive from Dad and Ma are full of misery. … I understand the break between you is complete, since your coming marriage to Miss Cornelia deWitt has been announced for June 5th. Our parents cannot overlook the fact that you are marrying out of the Church, and I understand from Father Tobin that you have not approached him. For Dad and Ma to have grandchildren not brought up in the Faith will be a grave sorrow and anguish to them.”

For God’s sake, thought Allan with disgust. He tore the letter into small pieces and threw them away. Medievalism. He walked up and down his pleasant if somewhat ponderous sitting room in the Philadelphia House, and as he did so he sipped at a glass of whisky. Here he was, about to marry the heiress of a great railroad empire, and his ridiculous parents, and brother, were distressed over the “Faith!”

He sat down near an open window, this early May afternoon. The sky was blue and warm, and the sound of traffic below very soothing. Head of the Portersville legal staff of the Interstate Railroad Company—Allan Marshall. Called into constant consultation with the Philadelphia staff, who greatly respected him and who fawned on him. A long jump from last May, Allan reflected. But not far enough—not ever far enough. His thoughts, becoming golden, meditated on the future, and he forgot his brother the monk, and his parents. He refilled his glass, glanced at his watch. There was a dinner tonight, at the home of the Brownells. He must soon begin to dress.

He thought of Cornelia and smiled. He recalled the warmth of her, and the springing youth, the ebullient spirits, the sly, ribald laughter, the wit, the beauty. “We shall honeymoon in our home in Newport,” she had told him. “Before the family descends on us. Papa is giving you a yacht, and this is a secret. Shall you call it Cornelia, darling? But, of course. Or Corallan, perhaps. Yes, that is much better. Corallan. Kiss me, dear. Do you know how much I love you? Look in my eyes. I never loved anyone, not even Papa, as much as I love you.”

He had looked indulgently into her eyes and had seen the quickening yellow fire of them, and then her arms had been about him hungrily, and her lips on his.

Hunger, he thought now. My Cornelia is a devourer. The glass paused at his mouth. He stared through the windows for a long time. Then he threw the whisky down his throat and said aloud, “Damn.” Cornelia was only a young girl of twenty; he was nearly twenty-eight. He was a match for any young lioness, and besides, he loved her. How could she threaten him in any way, she who was so full of humor and tolerance and gaiety, who wanted nothing but to be petted and stroked and admired?

No one could be kinder to him than Rufus deWitt these days. Rufus was proud of him. His salary was enormous. His position was assured. He remembered the magnificent ball given for him and Cornelia last January in the deWitt mansion in New York. There he had met the owners of fabulous names: the Gunthers, the Regans, the Vanderbilts, the Whitneys. He had conducted himself with reserve and elegance, and Cornelia and her father had chuckled, pleased. He had liked Mr. Gunther who had discussed the automatic coupler with him admiringly.

Newport for a few weeks. Then home again to Portersville, to that beautiful house on the mountainside, where, only a year ago, he had been one of the gardeners. Then New York again, then the Riviera and Paris, and London and Berlin. The honeymoon, interspersed with hard work at home, would last a year, Rufus had said. Allan shook his head, and for a moment he was dizzy. Then he was overcome with such an enormous excitement that he could sit no longer but must begin his rapid pacing up and down the room. There were times when he could not believe what had happened to him, so swiftly, so surely. A man prepared for endless hard years of poverty and hardship, working alone with only his own faith in himself to sustain him. He worked in silence, closed in by cold walls; he walked dirty streets in shabby clothing. His stomach was never entirely filled. His hands were hard, calloused, and gritty. In the winter he shivered under inadequate blankets. The smell of cabbage and dust and coal gas choked his nostrils. There were raucous voices about him, and the heavy stampings of patched boots. In the midst of it all he worked alone. And then one morning it was all over, and the fruits of his work, the golden apples in the golden basket, were given to him in one generous and overwhelming gift, not one by one, grudgingly, but all.

The wedding was to be held in the First Presbyterian Church in Portersville, the “family church,” Rufus had informed Allan seriously, with not even a twinkle of an eye. Allan had agreed, just as seriously. He knew very well, from Cornelia, that though the family supported the church, and had its own plush-upholstered pew there, Rufus and Cornelia rarely, if ever, attended any religious services. They never spoke of religion; it did not exist for them, just as poverty and fear did not exist for them. They were as “godless” as fine wild animals in a jungle where they were kings. To call them anti-religious was absurd, for God was only a name to them and had never been a part of their lives, or even a subject of speculation.

One matter had made Rufus uneasy, for his wife had mentioned it over and over, hysterically. So one day he had said to Allan, “Your parents, my boy. They—they will, of course, be present at the wedding.”

Some strange malice had impelled Allan to pretend to hesitate gravely. Then Allan had said, “I hardly think so, sir. You see, I am marrying out of the Church.”

Rufus had stared at him blankly, completely baffled at this remark. Allan explained. Rufus wrinkled his brows, and his eyes, so like Cornelia’s, had opened wide with incredulous laughter. Rufus said, “Well, well. How very odd. Really odd. Do you mean, my boy, that there are people who actually…” He had shaken his head and laughed again. But he was immensely relieved. It would have been impossible to have Allan’s parents at the wedding. Tolerance could go only so far.

Rufus had had much less trouble with his mother about the coming marriage. She, like Rufus, was more concerned with “losing” Cornelia than with Allan’s background and family. “The only child!” she had wept, completely forgetting her grandsons. She had relapsed into maudlin pity for herself and her son, and it was not until Estelle (protesting wildly against “this most improper and outrageous marriage with a man who is little better than a laborer”) had described Allan’s personality in terms which strongly suggested Aaron deWitt to his widow, that Sophia had risen, battling furiously for the young people. And she fought not only with fury but with pleasure, for in this way she could completely frustrate her daughter-in-law.

With Cornelia, Allan had visited the Purcells on a few occasions. It was hard for the young man to believe that Lydia was Cornelia’s mother, and he was incredulous at the affection between the two women. He had great respect and admiration for Lydia, for when she was certain that Cornelia loved him, she had accepted the situation graciously and coolly. She had long ago come to the sound conclusion that no one had a right to interfere with another’s life, though there were times when she said to her husband, “Cornelia will always be the victor in any situation. I am beginning to worry about young Allan, however. There is something mysterious about him, something that can never be touched. He has the capacity to suffer enormously.” To her surprise, Jim Purcell agreed with her. He said, “The feller thinks he’s ruthless. That’s different from being ruthless.” Only Laura had appeared distressed, and she would not explain. When Allan and Cornelia arrived, she usually managed to be absent. Sophia had suggested a double wedding, and Laura had been unaccountably disturbed by the suggestion.

All in all, Allan found matters very satisfactory. If sometimes he awakened in the night with a sensation of fear and foreboding, he explained this to himself easily. Things had happened too fast, and in too great a profusion. A man needed time to adjust. He would light a gaslight and take up the fine miniature of Cornelia, painted on ivory, and look into the smiling eyes and at the alluringly jocose mouth, and he would be reassured. He would say to himself: Even if I did not love the wench I’d marry her. Sometimes he found it necessary to take a drink if he was to fall asleep again.

He paused now, beside the miniature, and took it up in his hands and returned the smile. “Minx,” he said aloud. He put down the miniature and lit a cigarette and smoked it rapidly. He was sweating a little. All this excitement—all these arrangements—all these parties. And the working pace. He glanced at himself in the mirror; his black and curling hair was damp along his forehead. His features had sharpened; his nose appeared longer and keener. His eyes were feverish. His clothing was fitting him too loosely, and he impatiently supposed that it was because even the best of food no longer interested him. Suddenly there was a stiff cold shaking in him, in spite of the warmth of the evening. It was as if his very bones were chilled. He poured another drink for himself. When someone knocked discreetly at his door he jumped and cursed. An elderly hotel clerk stood outside and obsequiously informed the young man that a certain gentleman, a Mr. Boyle, wished to know if he could come up for a few minutes.

Allan frowned. He had almost forgotten old Dan Boyle, and he had no desire to see him again. That ignorant old boar, that ancient railroader who hated the “interests,” though he was actually one of them now! The interview would be violent or unnerving. Allan said, “Please tell Mr. Boyle I am not—” He was interrupted by a bellow from behind the clerk, and there stood Dan Boyle, squat, broad as an old tree trunk, fierce and red of face, flat of nose, fiery blue of eye, and with a big splayed mouth that suggested furious purpose. He held a wide black hat in his hand, a senator’s hat, and the top of his round head was covered with a tangled mass of white curls. He wore the richest of black broadcloth, but his brocaded waistcoat, flowered and vulgar, was reprehensible, and his watch chain, as thick as a man’s thumb, dangled a number of seals and other miscellaneous objects. The cigar in his mouth was huge and stinking. He shouted, “My bhoy! Aloysius! The divil with ye; it’s comin’ in I am.”

He shouldered his way past the quaking clerk, whom Allan tipped and hastily dismissed. When Allan turned to his unwelcome guest, Mr. Boyle was critically studying the sitting room. “Sure, and it’s a long way ye’ve come, ye rascal. Let me look at ye.” He scrutinized Allan, and the choleric blue eyes narrowed. “Humph,” he commented. He lowered his short bulk into a chair and kept his disconcerting gaze on the younger man. He was so stout that he wheezed constantly. His eyebrows, white as snow, jutted far out over his big face like a hoary cliff.

“A drink?” asked Allan somewhat lamely. Mr. Boyle grunted, and Allan poured a glass of whisky. Mr. Boyle drank it almost in one gulp, not once glancing away from his host. He put the glass on the table slowly, pursed up his lips. “And what would be the matter with my godson?” he asked. Now the choler was leaving his eyes.

“Matter?” asked Allan, sitting opposite the old man. He smiled easily. “I’m glad to see you, Dan.”

“It’s the liar ye are,” said Mr. Boyle, but without rancor. “I’m here because I wanted to tear you from limb to limb, and beat hell out of ye.” He shook his head. “But not now, I’m thinkin’.” He stared at the whisky bottle and again shook his head. “I've been talkin’ with your Dad.”

Allan was silent, and his face closed. “Ye’ll be wantin’ to know about thim,” said Mr. Boyle, ignoring Allan’s expression. “It’s a fine actor ye are, but not good enough for old Dan. So I’ll tell ye now that your Dad is a poor bewildered man and your Mum will have nothin’ said against her bhoy. So there’s no harmony in that house, and it’s missin’ they are the Franciscan son, with his oil on the waters.

“The mother has a cough, since February,” went on the old man. “So I’m tendin’ thim the money for a little house in the country.” He eyed Allan shrewdly. “It’s what you wanted, Aloysius, and the poor Dad said no. So ye’ll be makin’ me out a check for two thousand dollars today, so ye’ll have the satisfaction. Nice house, with a garden it is, and someday ye’ll be a-tellin’ Of thim that ye bought it with your own money.”

Mr. Boyle smiled sadly. “Ye’ll not be waitin’ too long, I’m hopin’.” He paused a moment, and his red forehead crinkled. “Ye are bein’ called a hypocrite and a deserter by the workers. It’s said ye’ve used thim. Maybe ye did, in your crafty way. Yes. But I know somethin’ they do not. It was I who offered to send you to school years ago, for the studyin’ of the law, the labor law, so ye could be a-helpin’ of the lads. And ye refused. Ye preferred to work your way, ye who come of the good family in County Mayo. Worked till your hands was raw. Why? I know now. It was not in your soul to accept a man’s money for a lie.” He smiled again at Allan, and there was something of paternal love and understanding in that smile. “It’s à good bhoy ye are, Aloysius, and someday ye won’t be ashamed of it.”

Allan’s mouth tightened irritably. “Let’s not be sentimental, Dan. It’s true I wanted no help from you; I’ll never take help from any man.” All at once his eyes brightened with ferocity. “I’ve always hated the ‘workers,’ as you call them—from my childhood. There is no more good in them than in any other classification of men.” He stopped a moment, and the ferocity deepened in his eyes. Then he told Mr. Boyle of the Christmas episode, and the smashed figure in the crèche. The old man listened soberly, and nodded his head from time to time. Yet, there seemed a profound satisfaction in him which Allan saw but could not understand. When Allan had finished, Mr. Boyle broke into a bellow of laughter and slapped his knees. “Ah, that is a fight I should have seen! A noble fight.” He put up his fists and shadowboxed in the air with delight.

Allan refilled Mr. Boyle’s glass and his own. Mr. Boyle fell into silence and watched Allan drink, and he was grave again. At last he said, “So, ye’re takin’ to the bottle. A man does that when his soul is sick and there’s no hope in him. And ye’re not the lad for drink, Aloysius. Me, I’ve been drinkin’ hard all me life, but it did no hurt because even in the worst days I had no despair. And perhaps ye’ll be tellin’ me now why ye’re desperate.”

“You make me sound like a drunkard,” said Allan contemptuously. “Again, don’t be sentimental, Dan. It’s the pressure on me. When it is over. …”

“Never will it be,” interrupted Mr. Boyle. “It was in you as a lad. Now it is worse. Why?”

“Sometimes a man grows up,” said Mr. Boyle. He was watching Allan with keen sorrow. “What is it ye cannot stand, godson? What is it that eats at the soul?”

“Did you come here to inquisition me?” asked Allan with increasing irritation.

“Why, yes, that is what I did,” Mr. Boyle replied. “It’s angry I was with ye, but not for what you thought.” He waited, but Allan did not answer. “I promised, at your baptism, that I would guard you,” he continued. “Keep ye strong in the Faith. Could it be that ye are desperate because somewhere on your way ye lost God?”

Allan shouted with laughter. But Mr. Boyle became more sorrowful. “So, that is it,” he said. “Ye lost God because ye came to hate men. It’s the feelin’ soul ye have, and such souls make men devils or angels. What hurt ye so, somewhere in your life, Aloysius?”

Allan took out his watch and frowned at it. “Dan, you should have been a priest. And now, you must excuse me. I have to dress.”

But Mr. Boyle continued to sit and watch him. “A confirmation it was to ye, of your opinion, when the Infant Jesus was smashed. Aloysius, ye cannot unterstand, but I am leavin’ lighter of heart than when I came.” He stood up, and went to Allan and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. He could feel the broad thin bones under his fingers, and he sighed. “I’ll be rememberin’ you in my prayers.” He pressed Allan’s shoulder heavily.

Allan shrugged off his hand, went to his desk, and wrote out a check, which he gave to Mr. Boyle. The old man tucked it away. Then Allan said maliciously, “Perhaps, Dan, I’ll be as rich as you someday. I hear it’s a fine house you have in County Mayo, in spite of the English landlords.”

Dan struggled to keep from smiling, then he confessed: “A whole village, Aloysius. The damned Sassenach was bankrupt, though he squeezed the poor folk. And now we have a school for the little ones, and a chapel, and the roofs don’t leak, and they bless the name of Dan Boyle. For what else does a man live?”

He walked slowly to the door, his mammoth head bent. Then he stopped, his hand on the latch, and turned to Allan. “It was in the newspapers that I read a little poem. On Monday. I cannot remember all of it, but only the first:

‘Now, was it Abel, was it Cain,

Who suffered death, who suffered pain?

Who dealt the blow that killed the other?

Now, was it Cain? Was it his brother?’”