The Accursed (63 page)

Woodrow Wilson gazed in awe at the beautiful Cybella—Countess Cybella! In his life as an intensely devout Christian, a Presbyterian for whom the religious life was of paramount significance, he had not ever seen, still less been visited by, an archangel.

“Yes, dear Tommy—you are right to look at me with such sensitivity—compassion, yet a kind of pity—for it was not an ‘easy’ experience for me, at my young age, and in my desperate circumstances; as all mystics have recorded, an experience of the ‘visionary’ sears the soul; you cannot truly know if you live, or have died. Or if you are in the presence of the godly, or the demonic. So confused and frightened was I at the time, I didn’t fully comprehend the archangel’s message; but the substance seemed to be that I had wished in my heart for death and had thereby committed in my heart the sin of
suicide;
and so, if I wished, my accursed mortality might be absolved by God, and my spiritual being devoted for all time to God’s employ. Which is to say, my dear friend, that I was in a position to escape both my bestial husband and the natural consequences of my own sin, if I consented to taking my place amid the community of spirits whose function, in God’s great scheme, is to perform as a
devi
—an angelic messenger.”

Cybella Peck paused, that Woodrow Wilson might absorb her remarkable words. There was a look of strain in her face, very different from the woman’s usual bright social manner; her pressure on Woodrow’s arm increased, as if she required his strength to support her.

“A—
devi
? ‘Angelic messenger’? Can it be—?”

“Tommy, yes. You alone know my secret. Sam Clemens has teased and tormented me, calling me an ‘angel’—‘his guardian angel’—but the man has no awareness of what he is saying; for he does not believe, and I’m afraid his tortured soul will be tortured forever—in Hell. You, dear Tommy, are totally different: you can be entrusted with my secret. If I’d seemed to you, in Bermuda, a sophisticate of international society; if I seem to you now a descendant of an ancient race, with pretensions to nobility; if, indeed, I sometimes struck you as ‘chill’ and ‘artificial’—why then, my dear friend, I must confide in you, and you alone, that I am an agent of the Higher Power, and not a mortal woman at all.”

With this revelation Mrs. Peck leaned against Woodrow Wilson’s arm; she placed a gloved hand on his wrist, as if to calm his pounding heart; for it was clear that Dr. Wilson was shaken by this revelation, and did not know what to think.

In a quiet voice Cybella Peck reiterated some of what she had said, that might have bypassed the distracted man; and went on to explain further her life subsequent to the angelic visitation, which had been years ago in fact, long before her “new, virgin” life in the United States.

“I think it must be your modesty, Tommy, that draws me to you. And your modesty that prevents you from quite comprehending why a
devi
might be employed to communicate with you intimately. But, you see—angels will appear to men who deserve and require them at crucial times in their lives, when God has need to make His intentions clearly known.”

In such a way the seductive Mrs. Peck enumerated past histories of angelic visitations to men of significance, whose histories Woodrow knew well—Gladstone, Napoleon, Alexander the Great, General George Washington on the eve of his brilliant attack of 26 December 1776 on the unsuspecting Hessians at Trenton. All these accounts, Woodrow listened to with grave intensity. At last saying, with an involuntary smile of his pale lips, “It is true, it is true—as Father promised.”

“ ‘Father’—?”

“My father. When I was a boy. ‘Angelic messengers’—‘a special destiny’—he seemed to know. Yes,” Woodrow said, wiping at his eyes, “he
knew
.”

“And is your dear father still living, Tommy?”

“No! He is not.”

“Yet, from Heaven he can observe you—your career. You can be sure of this.”

“I—I sometimes hope . . .”

“Except, dear Tommy, there is a particular reason that I am here today, as you must know. For a
devi,
nothing is accidental; all is part of the great scheme. You are not aware of the danger you are in—at this very moment, in Boston, your unscrupulous rival at the university has all but convinced an elderly alumnus to leave a large sum of money to Princeton, with the restriction that he be named executor—more than two million dollars, to be specific. Consider the insult to the university itself, that an outsider, even a very wealthy alumnus, should presume to dictate university policy! Soon it will follow that ‘robber barons’—like the notorious Andrew Carnegie—will seize control of the highest educational institutions, by dangling gifts of large sums of money before administrators, and by outright bribes to them. Corrupt politicians, outright criminals: will they not want to erect monuments to themselves, and endanger the idealism and innocence of youth? And all this follows from Andrew West’s manipulation of an impressionable old man in Boston, who is easily flattered as the descendant of a Revolutionary War hero; who cannot tell a flatterer from—a gentleman-administrator like you. (For I think you visited Mr. Wyman last year? With no satisfactory result?) It’s a pity, and a tragedy; yet all is not lost, for the purpose of my visit is not only to alert you to the imminent disaster, but to suggest to you a course of action that will change all.”

Mrs. Peck paused, allowing Woodrow to absorb this yet more staggering news. Dazedly he asked if it could be true—“Wyman is about to capitulate to West, and destroy me utterly?” Seeing how shaken Woodrow was, and how damp his pallid forehead, Mrs. Peck removed a lace handkerchief from a pocket, and dabbed at his heated skin.

“ ‘A course of action that will change all’—how?”

“As I am ordained by a Higher Power, Tommy, transcending merely human notions of justice, morality, ‘right or wrong,’ so I am ordained also to thwart the dean’s plan; even, if necessary, rid the world of his evil influence. That is—if you should wish it.”

Quietly Cybella Peck spoke. But Woodrow Wilson heard clearly.

“ ‘Rid the world of his evil influence’—? If
I
should wish it?”

“The Almighty is concerned that His plan for you may be sabotaged, before it has quite evolved. The Almighty has reason to know that the dean may leap into the Devil’s camp—and bring more disaster upon this troubled community.” Now Cybella spoke matter-of-factly, looking frankly into Woodrow Wilson’s astonished eyes. “The unrest here of late, and through the country generally, follows from the failure of strong leadership to assert itself, whether from the governing bodies, the pulpit, or the university; this must be known to you. The ‘bestial’ killings in Princeton . . . the ‘tragic deaths’ . . . If Andrew West’s coup is allowed to take place, the man will never rest until he has shamed you out of office and crowned himself president of the university. (Grover Cleveland has said that he doesn’t plan to die until he sees his friend inaugurated!) All this goes strongly against the plan of the Almighty that Woodrow Wilson is to triumph at Princeton, and enjoy a long reign, like certain of your distinguished predecessors, prior to continuing with a public career in government, and ending as a
statesman
. . . So, this obstacle must be dealt with immediately.”

“
—statesman
? When my stock is so low here at Princeton . . .”

“Tommy, a brilliant career lies before you, if you do not weaken. Princeton now—Trenton tomorrow—Washington, D.C., thereafter; from there, the world itself one day, united as a sort of ‘league’ or ‘club’ with the American President at the head . . . Dear friend, your eyes are glassy, and your manner stricken; where is the razor-sharp look of old, which so many have feared?”

Woodrow apologized for his slowness to respond, and his failure to quite comprehend all that was being explained to him. He hoped he would be forgiven, but he felt “very queer”; as if a “great pressure” were building inside his head; and he could not catch his breath, in this humid spring air.

“Tommy, sit down! Here in the grass. We will sit together, as the Almighty looks over us.”

In the tall, unmowed grass at the edge of the Battle Field woods, the couple sat, somewhat awkwardly; for Woodrow Wilson was wholly unaccustomed to such a behavior, and had probably not sat on the ground since he’d been a boy. Very close by, Mrs. Peck gathered her strawberry-tinted skirts becomingly around her, and sank down into the grass, and took up her parasol again to shade her flawless complexion, as she spoke, quietly, yet urgently, to her shaken lover: “You have only to indicate to me, dear Tommy, by a squeeze of your hand, if you want your
devi
to fulfill your wish—if it is indeed your wish that the evil represented by Andrew West be eradicated, at once. Before you, then, will lie a triumphant reign here at Princeton, including the banning of the eating clubs, at last; you will be favorably compared to your predecessors Winslow Slade and James McCosh. Even greater honors will follow, in my Master’s scheme for you, leading to such heights, your old enemies will have to crane their necks to gape up at you. A time of terrible devastation lies ahead for Europe; a time of sacrifice, for young American soldiers, who will be sent to ‘make the world safe for democracy’; yet you will triumph, and one day you will hear orisons of worship through war-torn Europe, in Italy in particular—seas of adoring Italians chanting your name in the squares of Rome—
Viva Voovro Veelson! Viva Voovro Veelson!
”

Woodrow shook his head as if to wake from a dream, and in a faint voice queried: “ ‘
Voovro Veelson’—
why cannot my name be pronounced properly? Is it in mockery? In jest? I don’t like to travel far from home, Cybella; my nerves, and my stomach, can’t tolerate it . . . My dear Cybella, you are frightening me—I feel very queer indeed.”

“Tommy, you surprise me. That
Woodrow Wilson
should stare at me in such a craven way, and show so little enthusiasm for my Master’s plan. In an instant you could rid yourself of Andrew West—my Master has the power to strike him down as one crushes a fat beetle beneath his foot; and by this you triumph here at home, and can lord it over that gang of palsied old fools, the ‘board of trustees,’ whose boots you are very tired of licking, you know; and you will drive that tub-of-guts Cleveland into an early grave—if not quite early enough. Your dear wife Ellen, suspecting nothing, will be delighted for you; your daughters will adore you yet more, and suitable husbands may emerge for them, who are now holding back, to see how your shaky career proceeds. As for the faculty here—once you’ve set your foot on their necks they are yours forever, for they are of a cowardly disposition, and will not make any trouble if you pay them reasonably, and invite them to Prospect House from time to time. Once done, as I’ve said, ’tis done forever; and all will lie before you, Dr. Wilson—
all of the world
.”

In a vague hopeful voice Woodrow said, as much to himself as to Mrs. Peck, “ . . . Father did seem to foresee. His hand upon my shoulder, his voice ringing . . .
my son will be a great man
. Yet, Cybella, it’s very strange: I don’t actually seem to feel any ‘ambition’—beyond Princeton. It is really all that I require. I have never liked Europe—only England and Scotland. My nerves are irritated by ‘foreign accents’—the mangling of English. I have no use for the so-called cultures of France, Spain, Italy, Greece, even Germany; the Catholic countries are contemptible, under the directive of the pope. I do not know and can’t greatly care if the Alps are in Italy, or in Switzerland, or Belgium; if Baghdad be in Persia, or Constantinople, or Mexico. All may be heaped on the banks of the Zuider Zee, so far as I am concerned.” Feebly he laughed, having meant these latter remarks as a joke.

“Tommy! This is not like you. Remember your father’s hope for you, and your own secret desires. From boyhood you’ve sought your destiny—if but indirectly. And now I, as a
devi,
the first of my kind to visit Princeton, and perhaps the last, have been designed by the Almighty to act in your behalf—with no consequences for you except good.”

“ ‘No consequences’—? No one would know?”

“Of course, no one would know. Andrew West would vanish—‘of natural causes.’ ”

“ ‘Natural causes’ . . .”

“Dear Tommy, you sound like a parrot! But a timid sort of parrot, not at all the bold, visionary statesman that is the essential Woodrow Wilson.”

In the distance, Old North was tolling the hour of five: so swiftly, an hour had passed! It was Woodrow’s custom to dine promptly at six o’clock, at Prospect, if there were no guests. Fumbling at his collar, which had grown terribly tight, Woodrow wondered aloud what he must do . . .

“Do?”
—Cybella Peck’s voice had grown perceptibly sharper, and was tinged now with sarcasm. “Why, you have to
do
nothing. What have you ever actually
done,
my friend? You are a talker, a commander . . . you tell others what to do. You need but give me your consent, a mere squeeze of your hand on mine, and the vainglorious West will topple dead in the midst of his enormous breakfast tomorrow at Merwick—an instantaneous stroke, that will give him no pain.”

By degrees, Cybella Peck’s voice was growing vehement, impatient; she was turning her parasol restlessly on her shoulder; gazing with a disbelieving contempt at her companion, who seemed scarcely aware of her any longer as a female presence of exquisite beauty. His lips moved numbly: “ ‘No pain’. . . . that is a mercy. Andrew will overeat—overindulge . . . His blood pressure, it’s said, is dangerously high. Yet, what an appetite! It is a pity . . . yet he is of the Devil’s party, that’s clear . . . well, I will miss him. . . . Countess, I feel so very queer, I hope you will forgive me.”

“Your consent, sir,” Cybella Peck said, with a forced smile, “and your forgiveness afterward. If you’d rather not express your secret wish aloud you might just nod your head or . . .”

Yet Woodrow Wilson continued to brood, while his vague fingers groped at his jaw; and Cybella Peck was growing increasingly impatient. “The world is all before me, as Father predicted . . . if Andrew but topples over dead. So simply! He would not feel a thing . . . He and I are of an age when such things can happen . . . indeed, I suffered a ‘minor’ stroke at the young age of thirty-nine . . . from which I did recover. . . while Andrew, you say, will not recover?” As Cybella drew out her fan, and again snapped it open, and began to fan herself vigorously, Woodrow continued, musing: “I think that I could indeed affect the course of history—the destiny of nations—God’s will translated into politics. The tariff has long been an abomination to me, as to all Democrats; I think that I could easily ‘go Teddy one better’ and put strength into the anti-trust laws; and give federal assistance more liberally, to undercut the power of the labor unions. Yet I wonder, Countess, if there hasn’t been some misunderstanding—you have mistaken me for someone else . . .”