Capable of Honor

Chapter 1

“The latest wacky rumor in this wacky city (reported one of the Washington
Evening Star’s
many lady columnists in Monday’s paper) is that Patsy Jason Labaiya, sister of Presidential Likely Gov. Ted Jason of California and wife of Panamanian Ambassador Felix Labaiya, will run for the U. S. Senate. Of course at the moment Patsy’s a legal resident of the Canal Zone, but her friends (‘There’s a euphemism,’ the columnist thought with a grim little smile, x-ed out ‘her friends’ and wrote in ‘those close to the Jason camp’) advise her that this doesn’t make any difference.

“They say she should follow the Golden Rule of other F.F.P.’s (First Families of Politics) in their search for power in this power-hungry town:

“Go where it is and grab it.

“Patsy may yet wind up running from New York, which would give her and Big Brother Ted the sort of continent-spanning alliance so ravenously sought by others in an earlier era.”

Well, is that a fact now, Patsy thought spitefully when she read the paper in the privacy of her Dumbarton Oaks study, where the teletypes rattled on with their afternoon budget of news about humanity’s most recent day on the road to wherever humanity was going.
Is
that a fact.

Recalling how the columnist had cooed at her only yesterday at the opening of the International Students Fund drive at the Shoreham, Patsy was tempted to call her right then and there and tell her what a two-faced tramp she was. This impulse, so often characteristic of the mood with which Washington’s higher-placed denizens regard one another in the uneasy relationships imposed upon them by the haphazard imperatives of politics, gave way, also characteristically, to less violent thoughts. The matter of who uses whom for what is always of paramount importance in the lovely capital, and personal antagonisms are quick to yield to more pragmatic considerations.

Patsy calmed down.

For Patsy had plans—in the cause of her brother, Patsy always had plans—and in them the lady columnist of the
Star
, along with many another powerful personage in the beautiful city now muffled in the last heavy snowfall of winter, was destined to play a prominent part.

In fact, she might as well start playing it right now.

“Darling,” Patsy said into the telephone a moment later, I’m so glad I could reach you. You are always so BUSY. Such an example to us idle ones!”

“Yes, Patsy dear,” the columnist said. “Did you see my item today? Is there anything in it?”

“But, darling,” Patsy protested. “You mean you printed it without KNOWING? I didn’t know you girls worked like that!”

“Us girls,” the columnist told her with a sardonic chuckle, “move in mysterious ways our wonders to perform. It is true, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know who told you—” Patsy began with a well-managed show of indignation, and then dropped it for a more confiding tone. “Oh, well, dear, you always know EVERYTHING. I do marvel at how you do it.”

“It is true, then,” the columnist persisted. Patsy laughed.

“I
didn’t say so,” she pointed out. “You write what you please, but just remember
I
didn’t say so. Darling,” she went on, becoming more intimate, “I wanted you to be the first to know—and this IS true—about the exciting thing I’m going to do.”

“What’s that, have a baby? Better late than never, I always—”

“Now, stop,” Patsy said, not so cordially. “Really,” she added gaily, taking the opportunity thus afforded, “You can be so bitchy, darling. So REALLY bitchy. No, it’s what I’m going to do for Walter Dobius.”

“‘Walter Wonderful’?” the columnist asked, a note of genuine interest mingled with the sarcasm with which political Washington always used this famous nickname. “What are you going to do for that little— for that statesman-philosopher of the press before whom we all fall down and worship?”

“I know you don’t, darling,” Patsy said smoothly, “but he really is a statesman. He really is. Everybody reads Walter. His column is in hundreds of papers—436, to be exact, he’s just picked up the Walla Walla
Union Bulletin
—”

“You have been checking on him, haven’t you? O.K., I’ll grant it, everybody reads Walter. And you want him to come out for Ted, because this will influence nine-tenths of this sheeplike profession who always follow baa-ing at his heels. And so you’re going to do something for him.” She snorted. “Something quiet and modest that nobody will know about, I’ll bet, typical of the way the Jasons operate. The thing I love about your family, Patsy, is that you’re so unobtrusive. It’s so hard for the country to find out what you’re doing.”

“There you GO again,” Patsy said with a merry peal of laughter. “Naturally I don’t want to keep it quiet, darling, or I wouldn’t be talking to you, would I? I can’t think of any other earthly reason for talking to you. Can you?”

“Mmmm,” the columnist said thoughtfully. “Maybe I just shouldn’t mention the Jasons at all for a while. How would that be?”

“Don’t be silly, darling, we can’t be ignored, we’re too big, you know that perfectly well. Anyway, this is an exclusive you’re getting, you know.”

“Well, what is it?” the columnist demanded. “I have to be at ‘Vagaries’ for Dolly Munson’s party at three, and it’s going to take an hour to get there in this snow. I can’t sit here yakking forever.”

“Oh?” Patsy said sharply. “What’s Dolly up to? She didn’t invite me.”

“I should hope not,” the columnist agreed with a happy laugh. “Not to a tea for Beth Knox.”

“What we do for Walter Dobius will be ten times more important than that,” Patsy promised with a certain grimness in her tone. “Particularly with the award, and all.”

“What award?” the columnist asked, and then added thoughtfully, “That’s right, Friday is his twenty-fifth anniversary as a national columnist, isn’t it? That would make a good occasion.”

“And with the people I’m going to invite,” Patsy said with a calculated increase in excitement, “and the speeches that will be made—”

“And the publicity of it all, the sweet publicity,” the columnist said. “To say nothing of the assist for Ted. O.K., sweetie, how would this be—” and Patsy could hear her typewriter tapping as she mused along—

“‘What promises to be the biggest event of this or any other social season is shaping up for this coming weekend when the Jasons (Gov. Ted and Ambassadress Patsy, that is, America’s coming political team) throw an all-out wing-ding to honor the writing anniversary of America’s most distinguished political commentator, Walter Dobius.

“‘“Walter Wonderful,” as he was originally dubbed by Lyndon Johnson—it’s the nickname by which he is still fondly and respectfully known to political Washington—completes his 25th year of syndicated columning this Friday. That’s the night the Jasons have chosen to confer on him the Jason Foundation’s coveted biennial Good and Faithful Servant Award. ‘GAFSA’ was won two years ago by Robert A. Leffingwell, now director of the President’s commission on government streamlining.

“‘Washington is scrambling for invitations to this affair, which promises to bring together everyone from the President’—shall I say the President, Patsy?”

“You can say the President,” Patsy promised, adding to herself,
He’d better come, the old fathead.

“‘—from the President to the copy boy who picks up Mr. Dobius’ column at his charming Leesburg estate and rushes it to the syndicate office in Washington to be sent out to his 436 newspapers across the country.’” The columnist paused. “How’s that copy boy touch, Patsy? Don’t say I never did anything for the Jasons. If you’re lucky he may even be colored. That would wrap it up.”

“That will do very well, thank you, darling,” Patsy said with dignity. “As a matter of fact, I had already thought of the copy boy myself. And he is colored. So there.”

“That does it. Can I spread the word at Dolly’s?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Can’t I tell them they’re all invited?” the columnist persisted with her wicked little laugh.

“I’ll let them know,” Patsy said coolly.

“Beth and Orrin Knox too?”

“I’m not ready to say anything yet about the guest list. And I don’t want a lot of speculation, either. I’ll give you plenty to write about in the next couple of days if you’ll just be patient. After all, it’s exclusive.”

“Unnhunnh,” the columnist said. “Exclusive until the next phone call you make. All right, we’ll do it your way as long as it is exclusive. The minute I see something in the
Post
that I haven’t got first, we’ll start doing it my way. I still think a hint of friction with Beth and Orrin would intrigue—”

“Darling, when did anyone have to HINT at friction between us and the Knoxes? It’s built in as long as he persists in thinking he has a right to be President.”

“Yes, I know; only Ted Jason has a right to think that. Incidentally, how come you don’t run for the Senate in California instead of New York? You aren’t afraid of Cullee Hamilton, are you?”

“Because New York is—” Patsy stopped abruptly and chuckled. “Oh, no, you don’t. None of this entrapment, now. Who said I was running from anywhere? Anyway,” she added, more tartly, “who says I’m afraid of Cullee Hamilton? He isn’t such a shoo-in, even if he runs. And who says he is? He hasn’t announced yet, has he?”

“Nope,” the columnist agreed comfortably. “But he will.”

“Well,” Patsy said, still tartly, “I repeat: who said
I
was running from anywhere?”

“I agree I think it’s a fool idea,” the columnist told her with a deliberately infuriating indifference. “But I suppose you think if Jason money could buy California for Ted it can buy New York for you. Who knows?” She yawned elaborately into the telephone. “You may be right. Lordy, I’ve got to run to get to ‘Vagaries’ by three. Call again soon when you’ve got another hot one, O.K.?”

“I certainly will,” Patsy said, deciding not to rise to the bait and argue. “Give my love to Dolly. Tell her I hope she isn’t planning a party for Orrin Knox the same night. That would be a coincidence.”

“That would be a disaster,” the columnist said. “I think I can assure you right now that nobody will give a party that same night. I’m sure the Knoxes, the Munsons, the President, the copy boy, and the whole wide wonderful world will be there to honor wise little wonderful Walter.” She gave a sardonic snort. “After all, why shouldn’t we? Hasn’t he saved the nation for twenty-five long years? It’s the least we can do to show our gratitude.”

Of all the unpleasant people, Patsy thought as she hung up on the ribald, knowing voice, that one took the cake. Honestly, that woman. First, floating that ridiculous rumor about the Senate when she, Patsy, hadn’t really even made up her mind, and then implying that she was afraid to run in her native California just because Cullee Hamilton, its most famous Negro Congressman, might try for the Senate this year. Jasons didn’t scare that easily. Jasons, in fact, didn’t scare at all. A couple of hundred millions and four generations of command running back to the Spanish occupation of California saw to that. Jasons went after what they wanted without any qualms. And got it.

And they will this year, too, she promised the columnist. You wait and see!

As for what the columnist—whose name was Helen-Anne Carrew, and who had herself seen them come and go in Washington’s restless tides almost as long as Walter Wonderful—thought about that distinguished gentleman. Patsy had to confess that, while disliking the tone, she could not entirely disagree with the diagnosis. There was something quite precious about Walter Dobius, as though he were handing down tablets from a golden sarcophagus in the Smithsonian. But there was also something quite powerful about him. More powerful, in fact, than about any other single commentator on the American scene.

Regularly his solemnly portentous, more than a little pompous countenance stared out upon his countrymen from the head of his column, as if to say, “Who are you, and what makes you think you know what’s going on? Much better you should listen to me, peasants. I
really
know What It’s All About.”

And such is the obliging nature of peasants that they had long ago accepted this implied self-anointment—which was much more than implied in the title of his column (“The Way It Is”) and the general tone of his writings—and concluded agreeably that indeed he did know, and that of all those writing out of Washington, the Bakers, the Drummonds, the Krocks, the Lippmanns, the Pearsons, the Restons, and the rest, Walter Wonderful was indeed the greatest of them all.

“Did you read Walter Dobius today?” someone would chortle in Canarsie, someone would rage in Dubuque. “I do think Walter Dobius is so
astute
” they would tell one another in Kennebunkport, nodding sagely in L.A.

As broad as the oceans, as high as the sky, ran the writ of Walter Dobius to tell humanity what it should do. With a heavy and often slashing turn of phrase (broken at conscientious intervals by determinedly jocular attempts at humor) and a diligent attention to his news sources, that is exactly what he did.

Even more fundamental than his hold upon his countrymen, of course—and the thing that really made him so interesting to Jasons and Kennedys, Knoxes, and Rockefellers, and everyone else who had aspirations to power in the powerful city—was his influence with the government and his hold upon the press. The press did not quite, in Helen-Anne’s acrid phrase, go “baa-ing at his heels”—it wasn’t as obvious as that—nor did certain influential people in the State Department and elsewhere—at least openly—ask him what they should do.

Yet there had been more than one secret meeting at “Salubria” in Leesburg in time of crisis, more than one Chief Executive and Secretary of State who had arrived by furtive helicopter in the lush Virginia countryside to stay a while, receive the Word, and then be whisked away again to the city of their torment and their power. And in news offices throughout the land his columns, a little turgid but filled with the calm certainty that he was absolutely right—for did not things very often move as he said they would, and was not his advice very often followed in the councils of the mighty?—laid down a line that was frequently echoed by editors not quite sure of themselves, local columnists casting about for a subject to fill up today’s six hundred words, national commentators needing inspiration with which to face the evening cameras, book and drama critics anxious to maintain their standing at Manhattan cocktail parties, reporters who found themselves awed and impressed by his fabulous reputation and so inclined, often quite unconsciously, to see the news and transmit it with a selection and emphasis that subtly but powerfully reflected his ideas.