Capable of Honor (6 page)

“That is true,” Ted Jason said in an abruptly serious, soothing tone. “I know I shouldn’t joke about it, but sometimes the pressures of holding office and seeking office are such that I have to relax a little by joshing old friends. Of course I know how important you are. And of course I respect it. Aren’t I calling you now? Aren’t I coming to Washington a day early just so I can have lunch with you on Thursday? Who else does the Governor of California put himself out for in that fashion, except possibly the President of the United States?”

“Will you be seeing him when you’re here?”

Ted responded with a rueful laugh.

“I would think so. I would think so. Enigmatic Harley the Sphinx of the Potomac has to be prayed to, you know, by all us dutiful supplicants. I imagine Orrin drops in every hour on the hour. The least I can do is swing by on my way through town. Have you talked to him yourself in the past few days?”

“He invited me over last Thursday night,” Walter said. “We talked for almost an hour and a half, entirely alone. He said he had been missing me and felt the need for my counsel.” He gave a dry little laugh. “That’s what they all say. He did most of the talking and I didn’t learn a damned thing. So much for my intimate chats with the President.”

“Yes,” Ted said thoughtfully. “He certainly is playing it coy this time. I wouldn’t really be surprised if he decided to run after all, when all’s said and done, and just leave me and Orrin out there on a limb of our own devising.”

“I have some hopes that after my speech Friday night he will find this difficult to do.”

“You’re probably right,” Governor Jason said. An admiring note came into his voice. “I know of no one else in the nation in a similar position, able, as you are, to force the hand of the President of the United States in such a vital matter.”

“I can’t force his hand, but I can make it difficult for him to move in certain directions. I do have that much influence with my colleagues and the country, I think.”

“It’s the colleagues who count, Walter,” Governor Jason said, and it was impossible to tell whether he was being respectful or wry, “not the country. Persuade your colleagues, and they’ll take care of the country.”

“They don’t need too much persuading when confronted by a choice between a supremely equipped man and one only half-equipped. My work is mostly done for me. All I have to do is synthesize the mood and start it into action, and the rest will take care of itself. I think I can say without excessive egotism that I can do so.”

“Good,” Ted said in a relieved voice. “Good. Then I shall not attempt to press you any further as to what your decision will be. As long as I know you are judging matters with the fairness and objectivity so long associated with the name of Walter Dobius, I shall rest content with the decision. I know I need have no fear about it. No one of integrity need fear Walter Dobius.”

“I hope not. It has always been my aim to foster integrity in this government and sanity in its policies. I hope that will stand as one of my major achievements when the final record is read.”

“It will,” Ted assured him solemnly. “It will, by anyone’s standards. Very well, then, I shall see you on Thurs—”

“By the way,” Walter said abruptly, “why did your brother-in-law fly home to Panama so suddenly?”

“I didn’t know he had,” Governor Jason said blankly. “Patsy didn’t mention it. Has he gone?”

“Yes, quite suddenly. And just on the eve of the Security Council debate on Gorotoland, too. It seems odd.”

“It does seem odd. I can call our company people in Panama City, if you like, and let you know what they say.”

“If you could, I’d appreciate it. I’m going up to the UN tomorrow to see Terrible Terry and cover the Gorotoland debate. I think it’s about time for a column, or maybe several, on the UN. Panama could certainly become the basis for one of them, if Felix is up to anything.”

“Felix usually is,” Ted Jason said, not bothering to conceal his distaste. “I’ll get back to you later tonight.”

“Please do. And I shall see you Thursday.”

“Looking forward with pleasure,” Governor Jason said.

And so much, Miss Helen-Anne, for you, Walter thought with a savage satisfaction as Ted’s voice faded. He told himself at once, of course, that the satisfaction was unworthy of him, but still he couldn’t help feeling a little of it. She was so damned disrespectful and knowing and unimpressed. He
was
Walter Dobius, Governors of California did telephone him cross-country just to stay on his good side. Presidents of the United States did call him in privately to get his counsel and advice, his colleagues in the world of Walter Wonderful really did follow his lead on policies and personalities. He was indeed as powerful and major a figure as the world believed. What right, then did a—a gossip columnist—have, to attempt to destroy his confidence in himself and try to persuade him that he could be in error on anything? It was laughable, simply laughable.

“Ha, ha!” he said aloud into the snug little study, warm and safe from the snows outside, and instantly felt better for it. “Ha, ha!”

“Mist’ Waaaallll-
ta?”
Arbella called from below in her characteristic long-drawn yelp. “Me and Roosevelt’s ’bout ready!”

“All right,” he called back. “I’ll be right down.”

This time he actually got out the door before the phone rang, and for a second he contemplated letting it go. But he had always prided himself on keeping a listed number, unlike many of his colleagues, and upon answering it himself whenever possible, so after a moment he returned to his desk and picked it up again. Again it was long distance and he felt even more like saying “Ha, ha!” to Helen-Anne. The Soviet Ambassador was on the line.

“Good evening, Mr. Dobius,” Vasily Tashikov said in the perfectly good English he always pretended he couldn’t use when his diplomatic colleagues were harrying him about something, “I was wondering if you were planning to come to the UN tomorrow, and if so, if you might have lunch with me?”

“I am planning to if the storm stops and the planes are flying. I should, I think, be quite delighted. But you must let me be host, inasmuch as I shall undoubtedly be picking your brains, as we say, for my column.”

“I know the phrase,” the Soviet Ambassador said. “It is I who may be doing the picking, I think. Therefore I shall be host. I wish your advice on how to proceed against the imperialist attempt to thwart the desires of the citizens of the People’s Free Republic of Gorotoland.”

“I see,” Walter Dobius said, a little less cordially. “You realize of course that my country is one of those you are attacking. I may not be able to help you very much.”

“I think you can,” Tashikov said. “You are a very famous man, Mr. Dobius. Very famous. You are a bridge between East and West, for your fame is universal. Possibly on that bridge we can cross to understanding. That is why I wish to have lunch.”

“I am always willing to help if I can,” Walter said, flattered in spite of reminding himself that you always had to be on guard, you couldn’t trust their apparent cordiality for a second, it always concealed some devious and dangerous purpose. “I should like to think I could contribute to understanding between the two worlds.”

(
The Two Worlds
by Walter Dobius, Harper & Row, 341 pp., $5.95, had been one of his most popular books, thirteen weeks at No. 1 on the New York
Times
best-seller list. From it the phrase “positive acceptance” had entered the language: “
We must achieve, if you please, a positive acceptance, not a sourly negative attitude, toward those necessary expressions of Communist self-interest which, while they may embarrass us as a nation and alarm some of our more tradition-bound citizens, are nonetheless the logical expression of the Communist desire to share equally with us the burdens of organizing and running the world.”
“Positive acceptance” had instantly leaped into a hundred State Department position papers, a thousand columns, editorials, and broadcasts, speech after speech by the country’s more enlightened thinkers. Orrin Knox had referred to it as “the art of positive sinking,” which was another reason Walter considered him unfit to be President.)

“You do contribute to understanding,” Tashikov assured him. “You always have, more so, my dear Mr. Dobius, than anyone else in your country. Your columns, books, and speeches have built a foundation of good will between us that nothing can change. From ‘Mr. K’—that warm, fatherly cognomen which did so much to change your countrymen’s attitude toward us!—right on down to ‘positive acceptance,’ you have always been in the vanguard of those who seek to persuade the United States to abandon her foolish opposition to the inevitable and be more compliant with our just desires. No one deserves our gratitude more. That is why,” he ended in a businesslike tone, “I wish to have lunch.”

“You give me too much credit,” Walter Dobius remarked, “inasmuch as I assure you my purpose has not been to persuade my country to abandon her opposition to things she honestly feels to be wrong, but only to those things in which certain reactionary native prejudices have blinded our people to your justified self-interest and the necessary adjustments we must make in the cause of genuine world peace.”

“We know you are absolutely sincere, Mr. Dobius, that is why we honor you. Shall we say 1 P.M. tomorrow in the Delegates’ Dining Room?”

“That would be agreeable to me. I am wondering—”

“Yes?”

“I am very anxious to have a talk with Prince Terry—His Highness the M’Bulu—”

“That lackey of the imperialist warmongers?” Vasily Tashikov cried. “That betrayer of the freedoms of Gorotoland? He will not attend my luncheon, Mr. Dobius, I can assure you of that! Never!”

“But I thought the Soviet Union was a great friend of his,” Walter said blandly. “I remember only six months ago in the General Assembly—”

“He is a betrayer!” Tashikov said angrily. “He runs the imperialist errands of Washington and London! He is an enemy of his own people and of all freedom-loving peoples everywhere!”

“I shall be happy to have lunch,” Walter said cordially. “I want you to tell me all about it. Then perhaps I can help America understand your shift in position.”

“Hurry,” Vasily Tashikov advised grimly. “Your M’Bulu will not be there long.”

“But I will be, Mr. Ambassador,” Walter assured him. “Don’t forget my bridge between East and West. It will be there, I think, whatever happens to Gorotoland. Or, for that matter,” he added calmly, “the Soviet Union. You can also tell me, incidentally, why Felix Labaiya had to fly home, and what you’re planning in Panama.”

“One P.M. tomorrow,” the Ambassador said in an expressionless voice.

“Surely,” said Walter Dobius.

This, he tells himself as he closes the door of the study at last and starts down the stairs to his waiting dinner, is really quite a typical period in the life of Walter Wonderful. The Governor of California, the Russian Ambassador, a few nights ago the President of the United States—these things happen to Walter Dobius all the time. How can Helen-Anne be so imperceptive as to fail to see it, so unthinking as to laugh?

Actually, of course, she isn’t. She knows exactly the land of life he leads, for she shared it for seven years, and on a smaller scale she leads much the same kind of life herself. There is nothing so extraordinary about being called by the Governor of California, invited by the Soviet Ambassador, consulted by the President of the United States—these things do happen, at a certain level of press and politics in Washington. It is just that in Walter’s case there is a unique emphasis about it, a special aura, a feeling on both sides that he who calls will receive assistance, he who consults will be given a sage and dispassionate wisdom suitable to the unraveling of great problems, the surmounting of great events. If a few observers sometimes feel that Walter with his enormous influence is more often the used than the user, then that simply shows a lack of perception monumental in its misunderstanding of his position in the story of his times. Walter knows what he is doing, and very few indeed are those who fail to take him at his own estimation.

This has not been happenstance, he can congratulate himself as he slowly sips his Manhattan and stares thoughtfully into the roaring downstairs fire while Roosevelt hovers about and Arbella clatters in the kitchen, nor has it been any fluke such as sometimes occurs when Washington’s erratic tides toss surprising jetsam to the top. Walter has worked hard for what he has, and Walter deserves it. He may seem a little precious now, there may be an air of dignity slightly greater (if that be possible) than the responsibility he actually carries, but it is not a small responsibility and he has not achieved it lightly.

Patsy may regard him with the spiteful attitude with which she regards most people, Helen-Anne from the vantage point of a special knowledge may feel and express a disenchantment more blunt and open than many dare, the Knoxes may be skeptical, Ted Jason, the President, and many another ambitious politician domestic and foreign may think that they play upon his ego to use him for their purposes, but no one can ever truthfully say that Walter Dobius is not exactly where he should be. He has earned his position honestly and he fills it with style.

What citizen of a land that has for so long been dependent upon his wisdom could, in all fairness, ask for more?

Certainly the list of honors and accomplishments indicates that few do. Pulitzer Prize three times, twice for national reporting, once for international; Sigma Delta Chi Award for Washington Correspondence twice; the Heywood Broun Award; the Raymond Clapper Memorial Award; the University of Missouri Award for distinguished service in journalism; the Overseas Press Club Award, the John Peter Zenger Award, the George Polk Award, and now the Jason Foundation’s Good and Faithful Servant Award; writer of the nation’s most influential column for twenty-five years; steady contributor to national magazines; special lecturer at ten universities here and abroad in the past twelve years, favorite speaker at the annual conventions of everything from the American Society of Newspaper Editors to Rotary International; repeatedly rumored (though never quite selected) choice for the Nobel Peace Prize; adviser to the powerful in his own land, intimate and familiar of the powerful in many a foreign land as well; statesman, philosopher, counselor, and guide to his own worshipful profession; one of the four or five major figures in the political thought of the twentieth century—