Capable of Honor by Allen Drury

either go under or hit the top. Nowadays, long since retired in Darien, he is fond of recounting how certain he was that Walter would do the latter.
    But Walter didn’t get that impression then, and it was only years later, when he was in the process of mellowing his image all along the line, that he had invited the editor to introduce him when he spoke to the annual convention of the American Society of Newspaper Editors in Washington. On a wave of sentimental applause from the audience, all of whom fondly fancied themselves to be in the same position of constantly helping to boost brilliant young talent up the ladder to success, the hostile aspects of Walter’s parting from his old boss had been blurred out and the event had been riveted finally into legend in the form in which both he and Walter now preferred it.
    At the time, however, the event had been quite shattering, though then, as now, he did not show his feelings to the world. For several days he went through a considerable hell, wondering quite seriously whether there was any place in his chosen profession for conscientious talent and genuine ability. It had honestly never occurred to him— and it has not occurred to him since—that he might be treading on other people’s feelings. He quite genuinely did not realize that it is possible to be ruthless with a certain grace that can save it from being cruel. “The thing I love about Walter,” Helen-Anne remarked years later, “is his tact.” But even as she said it a curious pain came into her eyes that startled her listeners. “Poor devil,” she added, and abruptly changed the subject with some profane comment on the First Lady that diverted them into forgetting laughter.
    To this day Walter honestly does not know that he has hurt people along the way, or that he is still hurting them, in his column and in his speeches and, sometimes, in his personal relationships (though these in recent years have been cut to a minimum to permit him more freedom to concentrate upon his work). He just knows that he has certain things to say and certain things to do, and if others get in the way he considers it unfortunate but their own fault for not understanding that their wishes must be subordinate to his. Toward Orrin Knox, for instance, he is sure he has only the kindliest personal feelings but he also knows that Orrin should not be President. In the defeat of that misguided and dangerous ambition any misrepresentation in the column is justified, any smear is reasonable, any cruelty excusable. For they do not seem so to Walter, any more than they do to others in his world. Walter, as he is fond of saying on the rare occasions when someone ventures to criticize him for a particularly savage column, wouldn’t hurt a fly. More than that, he is conscientiously generous to those about him. With a sort of horrible, heavy-handed graciousness he goes about his world encouraging other correspondents, figuratively patting younger colleagues on the head (providing they agree with him), giving fatherly advice to those whose own talents are sufficiently great that they can hardly bear to accept it with civility, and generally playing the part of the kindly senior squire. Helen-Anne calls him tactless, his older colleagues call him patronizing, but Walter is absolutely sincere about it. For all his brilliance, he has a childlike inability to sense or understand the personal feelings of others. It is perhaps no wonder Helen-Anne can still feel pain for Walter, who is so self-armored that he cannot feel it for himself.
    But in Hartford at the age of twenty-two, this was probably a blessing, for it permitted him to gather himself together without too much difficulty and start off to the Washington upon which his heart had always been set. He had not planned to attack it quite so soon, but later this turned out to be the best thing that could have happened.
    Again, however, nothing came right at first, and again he went through several