paused, contemplating three pictures in a leather frame on the desk: Warren, in uniform and bristle-headed, a stern boyish candidate for flag rank; Madeline, at seventeen much, much younger than she seemed now; Byron, in the center, with the defiant large mouth, the half-closed analytic eyes, the thick full hair, the somewhat sloping face peculiarly mingling softness and obstinate will. Byron owed his looks to neither parent. He was his strange self.
Dear Briny:
Your mother and I have your long letter. I intend to take it seriously. Your mother prefers to pooh-pooh it, but I don’t think you’ve written such a letter before, or described a girl in quite such terms. I’m glad you’re well, and gainfully employed. That’s good news. I never could take that fine arts business seriously.
Now about Natalie Jastrow. In this miserable day and age, especially with what is going on in Germany, I have to start by protesting that I have nothing against Jewish people. I’ve encountered them very little, since few of them enter the Navy. In my Academy class there were four, which was very unusual back in 1911. One of them has stayed the course, Hank Goldfarb, and he is a damned good officer.
Here in Washington there is quite a bit of prejudice against Jews. They’ve made themselves felt in business lately, doing somewhat too well. The other day one of your mother’s friends told me a joke. I wasn’t amused, possibly because of my own Glasgow great-grandfather. The three shortest books in the Library of Congress are
You’d better give some hard thought to the long pull that a marriage is. I know I’m jumping the gun, but now is the time to reflect, before you’re too involved. Never, never forget one thing.
Women have a way of living in the present. Before marriage she’s out to win you. Afterward you’re just one of the many factors in her life. In a way you’re secondary, because she has you, whereas everything else is in flux — children, household, new clothes, social ties. If these other factors are disagreeable to her, she will make you unhappy. In a marriage with a girl like Natalie Jastrow, the other factors would all tend to bother her perpetually; from the mixed-breed children to the tiny social slights. These might get to be like the Chinese water-drop torture. If so, you’d both gradually grow bitter and miserable, and by then you’d be tied together by children. This could end up as hell on earth.
Now I’m just telling you what I think. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, or stupid, and out of touch. It doesn’t matter to me that this girl is Jewish, though there would be grave questions about the children’s faith, since I feel you’re a pretty good Christian, somewhat more so than Warren at the moment. I’m impressed by what you say about her brains, which her being the niece of Aaron Jastrow sure bears out.
Now, I’m reconciled to letting you go your own way. You know that. It’s hard for me to write a letter like this. I feel like a fool, elaborating the obvious, expressing truths that I find distasteful, and above all intruding on your personal feelings. But that’s okay. You sent us your letter. I take it to mean that you wanted an answer. This is the best I can do. If you want to write me off as a bigot, that’s all right with me.
I’ll show this letter to your mother, who will no doubt disapprove of it, so I’ll be forwarding it without her endorsement. Maybe she’ll add something of her own.
Warren is home. He has put in for flight training and may get it.
Love,
Rhoda liked to sleep late, but her husband woke her the following morning at eight o’clock, handing her his letter to Byron and a cup of hot coffee. She sat up with grouchy abrupt gestures, read the letter through as she sipped, and passed it back to him without a word.
“Do you want to add anything?”
“No.” Her face was set. She had worked her eyebrows a bit over Pug’s passage on women and marriage.
“Don’t you approve of it?”
“Letters like that don’t change things,” Rhoda said with deep sure female contempt.
“Shouldn’t I send it?”
“I don’t care.”
He put the envelope in his breast pocket. “I see Admiral Preble at ten o’clock this morning. Have you any second thoughts?”
“Pug, will you please do exactly as you choose?” Rhoda said in a pained bored tone. She sank down into the bedclothes as he left.
The Chief of Naval Operations did not appear surprised when Pug said he would take the post. At dawn Henry had awakened with an overmastering sense that he could not duck the assignment, and with this, he had stopped thinking about it. Preble told him to get ready in a hurry. His orders to Berlin were already cut.
Chapter 2
Byron Henry’s encounter with Natalie Jastrow two months earlier had been much in character. He had drifted into it.
Unlike his father, Byron had always been directionless. Growing-up, he had dodged the Sea Scouts, Severn Academy, and anything else pointing to a naval career. Yet he had no ideas for any other career. His marks were usually poor, and he developed early a remarkable capacity for doing absolutely nothing. In fits of resolve he had shown himself able to win a few A’s, or put together a radio set that worked, or rescue an old car from a junkyard and make it run, or repair a collapsed oil heater. In this knack for machinery he took after his father and grandfather.
But he became bored with such tinkering. He did too poorly in mathematics to think of engineering.
He might have been an athlete. He was agile, and sturdier than he looked, but he disliked the regimens and teamwork of school athletics, and he loved cigarettes and beer, though the gallons of beer he drank did not add a millimeter to his waistline. At Columbia College (where he was admitted because he charmed an interviewer, scored well on the intelligence test, and wasn’t a New Yorker) he barely avoided expulsion for bad grades. What he enjoyed was taking his ease at his fraternity house, or playing cards and pool, or reading old novels over and over, or talking about girls and fooling with them. He did find in fencing a sport suited to his independent temper and his wiry body. Had he trained more he might have been an intercollegiate finalist at the epee. But it was a bore to train, and it interfered with his idleness.
In his junior year he elected a course in fine arts, which athletes took because, so the report ran, nobody ever failed it. However, at mid-semester, Byron Henry managed to fail. He had done no work and cut half the classes. Still, the F startled him. He went to see the professor and told him so. The professor, a mild bald little lover of the Italian Renaissance, with green spectacles and hairy ears, took a liking to him. A couple of remarks Byron made on Leonardo and Botticelli showed that, in the few sessions he had attended, he had learned something, unlike the rest of the hulking somnolent class. They became friends. It was the first intellectual friendship in Byron Henry’s life. He became an enthusiast for the Renaissance, slavishly echoing the professor’s ideas, and he finished college in ablaze of B pluses, cured of beer guzzling and afire to teach fine arts. One year of graduate work at the University of Florence for a Master of Arts degree; that had been the plan.
But a few months in Florence cooled Byron. One rainy November night, in his squalid rented room overlooking the muddy Arno, sick of the smells of garlic and bad plumbing, and of living alone among foreigners, he wrote his friend that Italian painting was garish, saccharine, and boring with its everlasting madonnas, babes, saints, halos, crucifixions, resurrections, green dead Saviors, flying bearded Jehovahs, and the rest; that he much
