Then he looked at the author seriously. You’ve never seen such a sad, forsaken man. He lost his wife, his children, most of his friends — his reputation was gone. He had to quit his job at the bank where he had a promising future — in fact was scheduled for a vice-presidency. Eventually he had to move to get re-established. But knowing the bank’s president I’m sure he put it on Jim’s record, and that was the end of his career, I’m afraid. No board will ever promote him to any position of real responsibility.
That’s really bad, the author said, and looked down at the table.
It was completely necessary, Richard Rigel said. No one wants to trust millions of dollars to a man who hasn’t enough self-control to keep his hands off a common bar-whore.
Another challenge. This time the author’s eyes hardened. It looked as though he was going to take it.
Who was to blame? he said.
What do you mean? Richard Rigel asked.
I mean was it Lila who was to blame for your friend’s misfortune or was it his wife and his so-called friends and his superiors at the bank? Who really did him in?
I don’t follow, Richard Rigel said.
Was it her love or was it their hatred?
I wouldn’t call it love.
Would you call it hatred on their part? What exactly did he do to them that justified their hatred?
Now you’re no longer being naive, Richard Rigel said. Now you’re being deliberately stupid. Are you trying to tell me his wife had no right to be angry?
The author thought for a while. I don’t know, he said, but there’s something wrong there.
I think there is, Richard Rigel said.
There’s always been something wrong, logically, the author went on. How can an act of love, that does no injury to anyone, be so evil?… Think about it. Who was injured?
Richard Rigel thought about it. He said, It wasn’t any act of love. Lila Blewitt doesn’t know what love means. It was an act of deceit.
He could feel anger growing. I’ve heard that word "love" so many times from the mouths of so many people who don’t know what it is. He could still see Jim’s wife sitting in his office. She had shielded her eyes with her hand and tried hard to keep her voice steady. There was love.
He said, Let me try another word: "Honor." The person we are talking about dishonored his wife and he dishonored his children and he dishonored everyone who put trust in him, as well as himself. People forgave him for his weakness, but they lost respect for him and that was what finished him for any position of responsibility.
But it wasn’t weakness on Lila’s part. She knew what she was doing.
The author stared at him. Dumbly it seemed.
And I don’t know what the circumstances of your own personal family are my friend, but I warn you, if you’re not careful she’ll do it to you.
As an afterthought he added, If she hasn’t already.
Rigel looked at the author to see what the effect was. There was no change of expression. Nothing, apparently, penetrated that thick crust.
But who did she hurt? Capella asked.
Rigel looked at Bill with surprise. Him too? He thought Capella was more sensible. It was a sign of the times.
Well, there are some of us left, he said, returning to the author, who are still holding out against your hedonistic "Quality" philosophy or whatever it is.
I was just asking a question, the author said.
But it’s a question that expresses a certain point of view, Richard Rigel answered, and it’s a point of view that some people, including myself, find loathsome.
I’m still not sure why.
God, he was insufferable. All right, I’ll tell you why. Will you listen?
Of course.
No, I mean really listen?
The author was silent.
You made a statement in your book that everyone knows and agrees to what "Quality" is. Obviously everyone does not! You refused to define "Quality," thus preventing any argument on the subject. You tell us that "dialecticians" who debate these matters are scoundrels. I guess that would include lawyers too. That’s pretty good. You carefully tie your critics’ hands and feet so that they cannot give you any opposition, tar their reputations for good measure, and then you say, "OK, come on out and fight." Very brave. Very brave.
May I come out and fight? the author said. My exact statement was that people do disagree as to what Quality is, but their disagreement is only on the objects in which they think Quality inheres.
What’s the difference?
Quality, on which there is complete agreement, is a universal source of things. The objects about which people disagree are merely transitory.
My oh my, what smart talk, Richard Rigel thought. What "universal source of things"? Some of us can do without that universal source of things, that no one else seems to be able to talk about but you. Some of us would rather stick with our good old-fashioned transitory objects. By the way, how do you keep in touch with that marvelous "universal source of things"? Do you have some sort of special radio set? Hmmm? How do you keep in touch?
The author did not answer.
I’m waiting to hear, Richard Rigel said. How do you keep in touch with Quality?
The author still didn’t answer.
Relief poured through Richard Rigel. He suddenly felt better than he had all morning. He had finally communicated something to him. There are answers, the author finally said, but I don’t think I can give them all to you this morning.
He wasn’t going to get off that easy.
Let me ask an easier question then, Richard Rigel said. You are in contact with this "universal source of things," aren’t you?
Yes, said the author. You are too, if only you’d understand it.
Well, I’m trying, said Richard Rigel, but you’re just going to have to help me a little. This "universal source of things" moreover tells you what’s good and what’s not good, doesn’t it? Isn’t that right?
Yes, said the author.
Well, we’ve been talking in a rather general way so far, now let me ask a rather specific question: did the universal source of things, that is responsible for the creation of Heaven and Earth, broadcast on your radio receiver as you stumbled across my boat at two a.m. this morning that the woman you were stumbling with was an Angel of Quality?
What? the author asked.
I’ll repeat, he said. Did God tell you that Miss Lila M. Blewitt of Rochester, New York, with whom you stumbled across my deck at two this morning, has Quality?
What god?
Forget God. Do you personally think Miss Lila M. Blewitt is a Woman of Quality?
Yes.
Richard Rigel stopped. He hadn’t expected this answer.
Could the Great Author really be so stupid?… Maybe he had some trick up his sleeve… Richard Rigel waited but nothing came.
Well, he said after a long pause, the Great Source of All Things is really coming up with some surprises these days.
He leaned forward and addressed the Great Author with deep gravity. Please will you, in future days, consider the possibility that the "Great Source of All Things," that speaks only to you and not to me, is, like so many of your ideas, just a figment of your own fertile imagination, a figment that allows you to justify any act of your own immorality as somehow God-given. I consider that undefined "Quality" to be a very dangerous commodity. It’s the stuff fools and fanatics are made of.
He waited for the author to drop his gaze or wince or blanch or get angry or walk out or give some sign of defeat, but he seemed to just settle back into his usual detachment.
He’s really out of it, Richard Rigel thought. But no matter. The spine of his whole case for Quality was broken.
When the old woman came to take their dishes the author finally asked, Do you get along entirely without Quality?
He can’t defend himself, Richard Rigel thought, and now he wants to cross-examine me. He looked at his watch. There was enough time. No, I
don’t get along without Quality entirely, he said.
Then how do you define it?
Richard Rigel settled back in his chair. To begin with, he said, quality that is independent of experience doesn’t exist. I’ve done very well without it all these years and I’m sure I will continue without any difficulty whatsoever.
The author interrupted, I didn’t say Quality was independent of experience.
Well, now you asked me to define quality, Richard Rigel snapped, and I’ve started to do that. Why don’t you just let me continue?
All right.
I find quality to be always involved with experience of specific things, but if you ask me which things have quality and which don’t I’d have a hard time answering without enumerating. But I’d say that in general, and with many qualifications, quality is found in values I’ve learned in childhood and grown up with and used all my life and have found nothing wrong with. Those are values that are shared by personal friends and family, my law associates and other companions. Because we believe in these common values we’re able to act morally toward one another.
In the practice of law, he said, we come into contact with a fair-sized number of people who do not share traditional moral values, but feel rather that what is good and what is bad is a matter of their own independent judgment. Does that sound familiar?
The author nodded. He’d better. He could hardly do anything else.
Well, we give them a name, Rigel continued. We call them criminals.
The author looked as if he wanted to interrupt again but Rigel waved him down. Now you may argue, and many do, that the values of the community and the laws they produce are all wrong. That’s permissible. The law of the land guarantees you the right to hold that opinion. And moreover, the laws provide you with political and judicial recourses by which to change the "bad" laws of the community. But as long as those recourses are there and until those laws are changed neither you nor Lila nor anyone else can just go acting as you please in disregard of everyone else, deciding what does and what does not have "Quality." You do have a moral and legal obligation to obey the same rules others do.
Rigel continued, One of the things that angered me most about your book was its appearance at a time when so many young people all over the country put themselves above the law with criminal acts -draft dodgers, arsonists, political traitors, revolutionists, even assassins, all of them justifying themselves with the belief that they alone can see the God-given truth that no one else can see.
You talked for chapter after chapter about how to preserve the underlying form of a motorcycle, but you didn’t say a single word about how to preserve the underlying form of society. And so your book may have been a big seller among some of these radicals and cult groups who are looking for that sort of thing. They’re looking for anything that will justify their doing as they please. And you gave them support. You gave them encouragement. He felt his voice becoming angry. I’ve no doubt that your intentions were good, but whatever your intentions may have been it was the devil’s work you were doing.
He sat back. The author looked stunned. Good. Capella looked sober too. Good. Bill was a good boy. These radical intellectuals can sometimes get hold of people his age and fill them with their damned fads and get them believing them because they aren’t old enough yet to see what the world is really like. But Bill Capella he had hopes for.
It’s not the devil’s work I’m doing, said the author.
You’re trying to do what has "quality," isn’t that right?
Yes, the author said.
Well, do you see what happens when you get all involved in fine-sounding words that nobody can define? That’s why we have laws, to define what quality is. These definitions may not be as perfect as you’d like them but I can promise you they’re a whole lot better than having everybody run around doing as he pleases. We’ve seen the results of that.
The author looked confused. Capella looked amazed. Richard Rigel felt pleased at that. He had made his point at last, and he always enjoyed that, even when he wasn’t getting paid for it. That was his skill. Maybe he should write a book about quality and what it really was.
Tell me, he said, do you really and sincerely believe that Lila Blewitt has quality?
The author thought for a long time. Yes, he said.
Well, why don’t you just try to explain to us how on earth you can possibly think that Lila has quality. Do you think you can do that?
No, I don’t think I can.
Why not?
It’s too difficult.
It wasn’t the answer Richard Rigel had expected. He saw it was time to put an end to this and leave. Well, he said conciliatingly, maybe there’s something I don’t see.
I think so, the author said.
He sounded sick. He had been sailing alone for a long time now. Richard Rigel looked again at his watch. It was time to go. Let me say just one last thing, he said, and I hope you will not take it as a personal insult but rather as something to think about: I’ve noticed last night and in Oswego that you’re one of the most isolated individuals I have ever seen. I think you will always be that way unless by some possibility you find your way to understanding and integrating yourself with the values of the community around you. Other people count. You should understand that.
I understand that… the author began. But it was clear to Rigel that he didn’t.
We must go, he said to Capella, and got up from the table. He went to the bar, paid the check and joined the author at the door.
I’m surprised that you listened to me just now, Richard Rigel said as they walked toward their boats at the dock. I didn’t really think you were capable of that.
As the boats came into view they saw Lila standing on the deck of his boat. She waved to them. They all waved back.
7
In Kingston Phædrus' boat had been a tethered home from which the dock and harbor seemed like a local neighborhood. But here, out on the broad river, the neighborhood was gone and that below-decks home was just a storage area in which the chief concern was that things did not shift and crash when the boat heeled in the wind. Now, above deck, his attention was given to sail shape and wind direction and river current, and to the chart on the deck beside him folded to correspond to landmarks and day beacons and the progression of red and green buoys showing the way to the ocean. The river was brown with silt and there was a lot of debris in it but nothing he couldn’t avoid. There was a nice running-breeze, but it was gusting and shifting a little, probably from deflection by the river valley.
He felt depressed. That Rigel had really gotten to him. Someday, maybe, he would develop a thick enough skin to not get bothered by someone like that, but the day hadn’t arrived yet. Somehow he’d gotten the idea that a sailboat provided isolation and peace and tranquillity, in which thoughts could proceed freely and calmly without outside interference. It never happened. A sailboat under way means one hazard after another with little time to think about anything but its needs. And a sailboat at the dock is an irresistible magnet for every conversation-making passer-by in sight.
He’d gotten resigned to it, and Rigel, when he’d met him, was just one of the hundreds of here-today-gone-tomorrow people that cruising causes you to meet. Lila was in that class too… and there was a lot to be said for the kind of wandering life where you never knew who you would be tied up against — or sleeping with — the next night.
What depressed most was the stupid way he had let himself be set up for Rigel’s attack. He had probably been invited to breakfast just to receive that little sermon. Now he’d brood for days and go over everything that was said and recycle every word over and over again and think of perfect answers that he should have said at the time.
A small power boat approached, coming the other way. As they passed, the helmsman waved from inside the cabin, and Phædrus waved back.
The weather was turning out better than he’d thought it would. Yesterday’s stiff north wind was dy
ing and warm southwesterlies would probably take over, which meant a few days of good weather. The river was broad here and the current would be with him for most of the day. This would be a nice day if it hadn’t been for that scene this morning.
The feeling left was one of enormous confusion and weariness, a kind of back-to-the-drawing-board, back-to-square-one feeling you get where you’re thinking you’re making great progress and then suddenly some question like this comes along and sets you back to where you started. He didn’t even want to think about it.
There are so many kinds of problem people like Rigel around, he thought, but the ones who go posing as moralists are the worst. Cost-free morals. Full of great ways for others to improve without any expense to themselves. There’s an ego thing in there, too. They use the morals to make someone else look inferior and that way look better themselves. It doesn’t matter what the moral code is — religious morals, political morals, racist morals, capitalist morals, feminist morals, hippie morals — they’re all the same. The moral codes change but the meanness and the egotism stay the same.
The trouble was, pure meanness didn’t completely explain what happened this morning. Something else was going on. Why should Rigel be so concerned about morals at that early hour in the morning? It just didn’t scan right… Not for some yachtsman-lawyer like that. Not in this century anyway. Maybe back in 1880 some church deacon lawyer might have talked like that but not now. All that stuff Rigel was referring to about sacred duties and home and family went out fifty years ago. That wasn’t what Rigel was mad about. It didn’t make sense for him to go running around sermonizing people on morals… at eight o’clock in the morning… on his vacation, for God’s sake.
It wasn’t even Sunday.
It was just bizarre…
He was mad about something else. What he was trying to do was catch Phædrus in the old trap of sexual morality. If Phædrus answered that Lila had Quality then he would be saying sex was Quality which was not right. But if he said Lila had no Quality the next question was, Why were you sleeping with her? That had to be the world’s oldest guilt trap. If you didn’t go for Lila you’re some kind of prissy old prude. If you did go for her you were some kind of dirty old man. No matter what you did you were guilty and should be ashamed of yourself. That trap’s been around since the Garden of Eden, at least.