False Gods Read online

  False Gods

  Louis Auchincloss

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  …

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Contents

  ARES

  HERMES

  HEPHAESTUS

  POLYHYMNIA

  CHARITY

  ATHENE

  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

  Boston New York London

  1992

  Copyright © 1992 by Louis Auchincloss

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book,

  write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company,

  215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Auchincloss, Louis.

  False gods / Louis Auchincloss.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-395-60475-3

  I. Title.

  PS3501.U25F34 1992 91-25571

  813’.54—dc20 CIP

  Printed in the United States of America

  BP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Book design by Ann Stewart

  For James Parsons Auchincloss

  my first grandson

  Contents

  Ares, God of War • [>]

  Hermes, God of the Self-Made Man • [>]

  Hephaestus, God of Newfangled Things • [>]

  Polyhymnia, Muse of Sacred Song • [>]

  Charity, Goddess of Our Day • [>]

  Athene, Goddess of the Brave • [>]

  ARES

  God of War

  CASTLEDALE, in 1850, was at its zenith, the perfect residence of a Virginia gentleman. Quiet, dignified but at the same time discreetly charming, with none of the swollen pomposity of plantation manors in the deeper South, its comfortable size, its two-story red brick façade, its modest portico of four white columns with Doric capitals, seemed more to evidence a genteel welcome than any need to impress a caller. Indeed, the tobacco planted on its two thousand acres was more for the maintenance of an old tradition than a revenue necessity; Thomas Carstairs was a prosperous attorney in nearby Charlottesville with a practice that his father had had before him and that his son Roger fully expected to carry on. In Castledale the library, with its collection of Jacobean quartos and folios, was quite as important as the manager’s office, and the odes of Horace, which Thomas translated for the edification of the students whom he volunteered to teach twice a week at the university founded by Thomas Jefferson, were as needful to his peace of mind as the briefs for which he was more famed.

  The house was of two eras. The back part, of grey wood with a mansard roof and narrow gabled windows, dated from the late seventeenth century. The larger and grander frontal section, added in the early 1800s and designed by Mr. Jefferson himself for his friend Oakley Carstairs, was an octagon with six narrow walls and two wide ones, one of the former constituting the façade, which overlooked the green turnaround at the end of the driveway flanked by the towering box, planted according to family legend by a gardener who had once been in service to Queen Anne.

  Within, a broad, paneled hallway ran from the front door to the old entrance of the ancient portion, hung with portraits of dead Carstairses, from the stiff primitives of early Colonial days, ladies and gentlemen with severe boardlike faces and unwrinkled raiment, one of the latter shown ensconced by a window through which could be seen the house in which he was presumably sitting, to the finer portraits of the eighteenth century, with the sitters’ more splendid attire and more elaborate wigs and hairdos, and culminating with the magnificent likeness of Timothy Carstairs, minister to the court of Louis-Philippe, by Ingres. Roger’s favorite room was the neat, still parlor, used only for company, decorated in the frilled and curlicued fashion of the citizen-king’s era and dominated by a large conversation piece of the minister’s children feeding ducks in a pond in the Jardin des Tuileries.

  Roger knew every chapter of the family history and had looked forward, without due apprehension, to playing a role as civic as that of any of his ancestors. The most ingratiating aspect of the tribal tradition was that there had seemed little likelihood of failure for a Carstairs other than easily avoidable vices. If one had not succeeded in becoming governor or a judge or the minister to a European court, one had been equally acceptable to the hierarchy of the past by simply remaining the proprietor of Castledale. How could one lose so long as the world was sane?

  So long as it was. Virginia was, but Virginia, alas, had not the sway she had formerly enjoyed. Roger in his last year at the university was vividly aware of the threats to the high civilization of which Mr. Jefferson’s serene dome and noble lawn, his graceful pavilions and multitudinous columns, were the fitting symbols. The Greek calm and sense of proportion of the Virginia gentleman were rare qualities in a nation torn over slavery. Did either the arrogant advocates of secession in the deeper South or the hate-mongering Yankee abolitionists properly belong to the ordered and benignant society of which the Sage of Monticello had dreamed?

  Roger and his father belonged to the school which regarded slavery as an evil that would in the course of time die out. That time, however, they firmly believed, should not be delayed by Southern fanatics or accelerated by Northern ones. It would be decided for Virginians in Richmond, not in Charleston or Boston. But Roger was unlike his fellows of the Old Dominion in one respect. He had the intense imagination that fitted his romantic looks, his raven hair and alabaster skin. He was able to imagine himself in the position of a slave in Castledale. How could he have endured a life without books, without philosophic discussions, without being able to wander as a student in the shadow of the university dome, without the prospect of one day being master of Castledale? And yet he owned human beings who had none of these things!

  Roger had one classmate who personified everything he felt to be most dangerous to the peaceful solution of the ugly problem of the Southern states. Philip Drayton, of Charleston, the home of nullification, was a large handsome daredevil of a man, hearty and outgoing, but with a prickly sense of honor and the renown of having fought two duels at home, one with a fatal result, which had earned him the rhyming sobriquet of Satan. It was an apostrophe that he accepted with an easy grace—from his friends.

  Drayton had transferred into Roger’s graduating class from a college in his home state, perhaps, it was rumored, because of some unpleasantness related to his second duel, but he seemed bent on making his few months in Charlottesville as agreeable as possible. He was affable and charming, shedding the rays of his mildly impertinent wit and rosy puffed compliments on all classmates who came his way. Yet despite this apparent democracy of manners, it was evident that his social goal was to join, perhaps even to dominate, Roger’s own clique of Virginia blue bloods. He singled out the heir of Castledale for his particular attention, with something in his air that seemed to imply that they were uniquely qualified, by birth and breeding, for the first position. Yet the strange thing about their relationship, from the very beginning, was that Roger was struck with a morbid little suspicion that in the eyes of the South Carolinian there might be room at the top for only one of them.

  What soon enough emerged as their dangerous bone of contention was politics. As he and Satan were riding together on a fine autumnal afternoon over the red clay of the countryside towards a blue forest under a lemon sky, the latter extolled the glories of the old South.

  “I am happy to concede that you Virginians got us all going in the first place. You provided the great general of the Revolution and the first president and much of the Constitution, though I’m not so sure the last was such a great boon. But has it ever struck you, my friend,
that long years of political success may have infected you with a kind of creeping paralysis? Even here in the university, isn’t there a tendency to emphasize words over deeds?”

  “But universities have to be concerned with words.”

  “Only words?”

  “No, no, morals too, of course. Ideals, aspirations, all that civilization is about.”

  “Civilization!” Drayton almost whistled the word. “Can’t you imagine a race that has become too civilized? Sometimes I wonder whether we aren’t becoming like the ancient Romans.”

  “And whom do you see as our conquering barbarians?”

  “The Yankees, man, the Yankees! Who else in the name of Satan?” Drayton reined up his horse and leaned over to spit vigorously in the clay. “Not that they’d have the guts to strike now. But they’re just sitting there, with their beady eyes fixed on us, waiting for the moment when we turn our backs, and then they’ll have their daggers ready.”

  “I think you posit a good deal more unity in our Northern neighbors than I make out. We don’t have riots about slavery as they do about abolition.”

  “Mebbe not yet.” Drayton shrugged and rode on. “But we’re still being infiltrated. Right here in the university there are men who don’t scruple to say out loud that slavery as an institution is doomed.”

  “And it isn’t?”

  “No, goddamn it all, of course it isn’t! Men have always had slaves. It’s right there in the Bible. You see, Carstairs, you’ve become infected yourself with the disease. Let us pray it’s only a mild case. My simple point is that Virginia, as a border state, is peculiarly vulnerable to the Yankee plague. The banner of Southern leadership must pass to the deeper South.”

  “To Charleston, I take it?”

  “Well, what finer metropolis could anyone want? The martial spirit is very much alive and kicking in my home state.”

  “It’s perhaps that which has caused some of its novel interpretations of the Constitution.”

  “You’re thinking of nullification, no doubt? Well, let me tell you at once that the family of Philip Drayton, Esquire, stood to a man behind the immortal John C. Calhoun on that issue!”

  Roger paused before asking, “Could the Union exist if federal laws could be voided by the states?”

  “And is there any good reason, sir, that the Union should exist?”

  “But that’s treason, Drayton!”

  The South Carolinian again reined in his horse. He faced Roger with a bland countenance and the twitch of a smile; his tone was very soft. “I didn’t hear you, Carstairs. You didn’t say anything, did you?”

  Roger shrugged. “I guess not.”

  “Good.”

  Roger never doubted that the issue so created was a grave one. He did not try to brush it off as a simple case of tact and common sense intervening to avoid a dangerous and unnecessary quarrel. He knew that in a clash of wills Drayton had prevailed and that Drayton must have attributed his yielding more to fear than to caution. And wasn’t he right? What was caution but fear? From now on he had to expect that Drayton would presume on his advantage to create situations, even in the presence of others, where the mask of caution would be stripped off the face of its counterpart. And there was a limit, of course, a very definite limit, to what a Carstairs could accept.

  Was he to live then at the mercy of an ass? Here, in the very shadow of Mr. Jefferson’s dome, the symbol of high thinking and sober living, with the pavilions and white columns embracing the green Lawn in a clasp of Greek amity, was his mind condemned to exist in the tumult of the ass’s braying? Roger groaned aloud at the idea that a whole wonderful life of books and laws and elevated thoughts, of managing the rolling acres of Castledale from the saddle of a noble steed, could be shot away by one bully’s bullet. It was not the dread of physical death that agonized him; it was the cause and the folly of it.

  Events promptly followed the course he had so grimly predicted. Drayton no longer sought his company alone but in groups of classmates. He would appeal in discussions to Roger for his opinions and advice, lacing his jovial flattery with increasing irony: “I wonder whether our friend Carstairs, whose worship of the Sage of Monticello may even have put him in touch with our founder’s spirit, can shed any light on how Mr. Jefferson might have reacted to Mr. Sumner’s extraordinary proposed solution to the so-called free soil issue?”

  Drayton now revealed himself openly as the advocate of secession and frankly championed the idea of a Southern confederacy. Few of the Virginia students were ready to go so far, but the concept had its romantic appeal. The vision of a brilliant and chivalrous society, based on ancient codes of honor and aristocratic manners, caught many youthful imaginations. To Roger it was simply the essence of everything that was volatile, foolish and extravagantly violent in the Southern temperament, the poison in a society for which Mr. Jefferson’s rationalism was the necessary anecdote. He waxed calmer now that his growing rift with Drayton was taking on some of the aspects of a national struggle. It would not be folly, after all, to perish for an ideal.

  He was first propelled to an open disagreement with his adversary at a reception with dancing given by the rector of the university. Roger found himself in a group of stags at the punch bowl discussing a Boston riot over the recent attempt by the police to seize and return to his owners an escaped slave. Drayton, who had been drinking rather heavily, joined them and, after recognizing the topic, addressed a frankly hostile question to Roger.

  “What do you say to all this, Carstairs? Isn’t this nullification on the part of Massachusetts?”

  “It would be if the state were rioting. But the state isn’t rioting. It’s trying to enforce the Fugitive Slave Law. In fact, it’s the very opposite of nullification.”

  “Why do you always take the Yankee side? Aren’t the rioters trying to nullify the law?”

  “Certainly. But they are not officers of the state.”

  “But don’t they represent an attitude widely held in the North?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Well, if so many folk both north and south are nullifiers, wouldn’t it be best for the two sections to go their separate ways?”

  Roger looked slowly from face to expectant face before enunciating his answer in precisely articulated syllables: “I can only speak for myself as a citizen of the Commonwealth of Virginia. I still owe my allegiance and my life to the Union so long as the rights of my state are not violated.”

  All eyes turned to Drayton. He seemed hesitant, baffled. Then he shrugged and turned to reach for the ladle of the punch bowl and refill his glass. The right moment had not come.

  But now, like the fall of the sparrow, it would come.

  At home in Castledale all one weekend Roger practiced firing at a target. He was a first-class shot—when his head was cool and his pulse steady. He had to train his mind as well as his hand and eye. He had to douse his hatred of Drayton with the waters of will and convert it to an icy remorselessness. For if he had to fight this man, he was determined to kill him. He would be ridding the South of a dangerous firebrand at the firebrand’s own invitation.

  Matters came to a head at a bachelors’ party on the Lawn, at long trestle tables with candles. Drayton got very drunk and proposed a loud toast to John C. Calhoun, “the real hero of the South and the father of what we hope will one day be a new union.” Roger, who knew, almost in relief, that he now had no further choice of action, remained seated while the others, even the dissenters, in tipsy good humor, drank to secession, and then rose to direct his cold tight tones to the surly Drayton. He offered a toast to the memory of “a greater hero of the South, the founder of our beloved university.” Drayton stalked around the table to fling the contents of his glass in the Virginian’s face.

  For the rest of his life Roger was never quite sure exactly how it happened. At dawn, in a field in a forest some dozen miles from Charlottesville, he faced his opponent at fifteen paces before the seconds and a doctor. Drayton, sober now, had a
ctually smiled at him, almost sheepishly, as he had strolled to his position.

  “Gentlemen, are you ready? One, two, three…”

  It has been said that a man’s whole life can pass through his mind at the moment of drowning. Roger simply remembered that he heard Drayton’s shot. What he was never clear about was whether he saw that Drayton had fired his pistol into the air. But all the witnesses agreed that Drayton had done so and that his basic decency had forbidden him to kill or even wound a man whom he had grossly insulted under the influence of liquor.

  But Roger’s recollection of what happened next was clear enough. In the three seconds that followed the retort of Drayton’s pistol he had recognized with a sharp stab of relief that he was safe and had his opponent at his mercy. With frigid determination, without a nerve twitching, he took careful aim and placed his bullet in Drayton’s head.

  Death was instantaneous. Roger recalled the grim silence of his companions on the ride back to Charlottesville. No one congratulated him on his survival; he was simply advised to get out of the state until the matter could be settled with the police and the university.

  When he returned to college after a brief suspension, he found that he was very differently regarded by his classmates. Whereas he had been formerly treated as a man of reserve, whose formal good manners were justified by his lineage and whose romantic concern with the history of his state tinged his sobriety with idealism, he was now seen as a faintly sinister figure, possessed of a cold will power that repelled intimacy. He was respected, however; courage was always admired in Virginia. Some of his old friends insisted that he had been motivated by a high principle, although they did not agree on what that principle was.

  Roger himself felt no guilt at what he had done. Drayton had certainly assumed the risk, and the South was the better for the elimination of such a firebrand. But he had to face the fact that the episode had changed him, unless it had simply brought out something that had all along been concealed. He felt that he was now a man with a mission. The nature of the mission he did not yet see, but he was confident that time would bring it out. He did not for a minute believe that he had killed a man for nothing.