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  No One Hears but Him

  A Novel

  Taylor Caldwell

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Dedicated with all veneration to the

  Blessed Mother of the Man who Listens

  Many years have passed since old John Godfrey, the mysterious lawyer, built his Sanctuary in a great city for the hopeless, the grieving, the despairing, the churchless, the cynical, the defeated, the dying and the bereaved, the betrayers of men and the betrayed, the burdened and the old, the young and the lost.

  Here, in the Sanctuary, waits the Man who Listens, who waits and listens endlessly and patiently to the anguished stories told to him in a blue and marble silence. There is no experience that he has never heard before. There is no grief with which he is not familiar. There is no crime against God or man that he has not seen with his own eyes. He has heard the blasphemies of the self-congratulatory. He has heard the cry of all parents and all children. He has listened to all prayers and all excuses. The experiences of all men are his own. Nothing disturbs him except hatred and violence. He knows them, too.

  He does not confine himself to the Sanctuary built by the devoted John Godfrey so many years ago. He can be found anywhere in the world—if he is sought for and if his advice is desired. He will never turn away from any man, no matter how depraved. There is no one he has ever rejected. His patience is never at an end, his love is never exhausted. He will listen to anyone, for he has all the time in the world.

  The Sanctuary waits for everyone, but especially for those who have never sought the Man who Listens anywhere else. It stands in the midst of several beautiful acres of parklike land in the heart of the great city, surrounded by apartment houses, theaters, shops, business buildings. It is a simple marble building containing but two rooms, one for waiting, and one in which the Listener waits. Nothing has been added to it over the years but one white marble tablet in the wall of the waiting room: “I can do all things in Him Who strengthens me.” And a fountain or two on the green lawns.

  Here come the sheep whose shepherds cannot find them or who have no faith in the shepherds or have never known them. Sometimes the shepherds come also, to learn what they have forgotten. Some come to the man in anger and disgust and outrage, denouncing him for “medievalism.” Some come with rejection and contempt, exclaiming that this is an Enlightened and Modern Age and that there is no need for a man who listens—except a psychiatrist. Some come assured that the man within the sanctuary is a clergyman, a doctor, a social worker, a teacher, or just simply one who will listen in a world that has forgotten how to listen to anyone—so busy is it talking to itself, and talking only incoherences, irrelevances, theories and endless blasphemies, and all the bloodless violent trivialities which cannot satisfy the soul.

  Some come with absolute disbelief and leave with the same incredulity.

  But almost all, as they talk to the man, find an answer to their agonies and despairs, their sins and their sufferings. The world never gave them an answer, nor their schools, nor their pleasures, nor their affluence, nor their little satisfactions, for the world has no answer to the most terrible need of the human spirit: Someone to listen. Someone to be truly involved, truly compassionate, truly loving, truly faithful, truly understanding.

  For all the talk of “love” there is in the world today the fact remains that never has the world been so absolutely loveless, hard of heart, murderous, cruel, rejecting, contemptuous, and indifferent. Never have so many been betrayed as they are now being betrayed. Never have so many been lost as they are now lost. Never has the heart of man been so faithless as the heart of modern man, for all the babble of “involvement” and “concern for humanity.” Never has death menaced so many and never has freedom been so little, no, not ever before in the dreadful history of the world. We are no longer disturbed by massacres; we do not hear the man who implores our help on our very doorstep. We turn away from it all, as the skies continually darken and the Apocalypse approaches. We are busy—with nothing. We talk—of nothing. Our neighbor, our brother, cries to us for help and we do not care. Worse, we do not even listen to him in our busy, busy, unremarkable, and unimportant lives. Even worse, we do not listen to ourselves and are never aware of what we are saying all the days we live.

  Hatred, not love, permeates the spirits of all mankind today. The triumph of evil is almost consummated in a world that has despised the good for “scientific truths” which are the scientific errors of tomorrow. Relativism has replaced eternal and absolute verity. Our children, in our secular schools, are not taught reverence, faith, duty, responsibility, pride in accomplishment, respect for authority. They are not taught these things because their parents do not wish them to be taught. This was so yesterday and now today we have a young generation that has never learned restraint, good will, authentic peace, tranquillity, faithfulness, and virtue. These young people are the truly lost. Only the Man who Listens can rescue them now. Who will bring them to Him? These are the deprived in truth, though they do not want for bread or shelter or comfort. We have given them “love” but not love. We have given them slogans and jargons but no living word. We have left them desolated, and so they are violent and Godless, with no respect for themselves and their country and their neighbors.

  But still the man waits to listen, to admonish, to teach, to love, to advise.

  As He waits for you. Will He answer you when you cry to Him? He has never failed yet. He requires only one thing: That you listen, too.

  This book is deliberately designed to anger many. It is the hope of the author that the anger will induce you to “listen,” also, or at least to inspire thought, before it is too late.

  Taylor Caldwell

  SOUL ONE

  The Watchman

  “Watchman! What of the night?”

  Isaias 21:11

  SOUL ONE

  Fred Carlson had had an excellent lunch with his prospective employers. They had parted from him with expressions of great cordiality, for they respected good and dedicated and intelligent men. His Bachelor of Arts degree, his postgraduate work in government and in applied science, had impressed them favorably, though they were somewhat amused and puzzled about the reasons he had chosen his particular present work in his home city. As they were such smooth and alert and sophisticated men he had not told them the truth; he had let them believe he had had a period of romanticism in his life, but now it was time to get up and out. They could forgive his romanticism; all young men were romantic, they said indulgently, and he was only thirty-two, though a married man with two young children. “Some of us even wanted to be soldiers!” one of the gentlemen had said. “Or railroad engineers in the old style, or firemen.” He let Fred imply that he, Fred, had let it go on a little too long, however, and Fred had colored. He did not like that particular gentleman and it was he who had prevented Fred from telling the truth. He feared to be thought sentimental or a little lacking in ambition, all great crimes and unworthy of a man in his thirties.

  They had offered to assign someone to drive him about the city until he had to go to the airport, catch his plane, and go home. But Fred liked to walk. He had colored again when they had laughed affectionately. “I’ll walk everywhere I can,” he said. “Just tell me of particular points of interest.”

  “Well, we have a fine museum of science, right in your real line, and a historical museum, right in your line from your
studies in government, and an art gallery, which would interest you, too. They’re all here, within fifteen minutes’ walk of each other. But we’ll send someone to your hotel to pick you up for the airport.”

  He had three hours. It was a fine autumn day, the sort he liked, winey and smoky and brilliant with sun. He began to walk. It was really a handsome city, though only half the size of his own. The buildings were brighter and of lighter stone and brick, and the city had a southern air, though it was not really in the South. The streets were wider, and cleaner, and the people very energetic. Connie would like it; they would live in the suburbs, the one the company particularly advocated for its organization men. He had seen that suburb this morning, briefly; his own city had no such pretty suburb as this, and so close to all the center of city life. The houses were very attractive and cost much less than his own house, which he would now immediately put on the market. The school nearby had been unusually pleasant and modern, and soon his first child would be going there. In short, everything was fine, including the fact that his income would be twice what he was already earning, not to mention bonuses, stock benefits, expansive vacations with pay, excellent pension arrangements, sick insurance, dependents’ insurance, allowances for illness, and a dozen other agreeable things not to be thought of in his present work.

  “I’ve been a fool,” he said to himself as he strolled down the main street and looked at the windows of the shops glittering in the sun. “I’m glad I didn’t wait too long.”

  It was too nice outside to think of visiting any points of interest, so he strolled casually along, carrying his coat on his arm and thinking how enjoyable life would be in this city. The vague depression he was beginning to feel was, of course, only loneliness and a desire to get back home to his family. Besides, he had never been away from home before with an idea of leaving it permanently. He was a gregarious man, he told himself. He’d soon make many friends among all those congenial men he had met today. Connie, too, would soon find church groups to belong to, and his children would soon be absorbed with new playmates and new activities. And then the winters here were short, unlike those at home, which were hell on a man who had to walk a lot. But I won’t be walking like that any longer, he thought, though I’ve not been walking so much these past three years or so.

  It was strange how each city had its individual odor. His own smelled of dust and rubber and steel and electricity—yes, electricity, and it wasn’t his imagination. But this city smelled of pale stone and clean pavements—he knew all about pavements!—and penetrating warmth and, funny, sort of like fruit. He decided he liked it.

  The traffic was very brisk, he noticed with an experienced eye, and the people appeared less sullen than in his own city and less belligerent, though there were crowds of them as every city was crowded in these days. The traffic was less frantic, the pedestrians less rude. All in all, it was “easier.” He saw a patrolman standing on the corner, alertly watching, and he involuntarily, and out of habit, went up to him at once.

  “Hello,” he said, “I’m a stranger in town and—”

  The policeman was young but he turned at once and Fred saw on his face what he always saw on the faces of the police at home: sharp wariness, quick suspicion, all unconscious but dismally there.

  He was a little shocked, for he had thought this city unlike his own. He said quickly, “I’m a cop, myself. Made sergeant only three years ago. Fred Carlson’s the name. I’m from—.” He held out his hand. The young policeman was still wary, but he took Fred’s hand quickly and as quickly let it go. “Sergeant?” he repeated. Fred took out his badge and his card and showed it to the policeman as politely as he wished ordinary citizens would so identify themselves. The policeman examined the offered credentials with a thoroughness which had not been necessary ten years ago, and studied the photograph. Then he handed them back, gave a boyish salute, and smiled.

  “What you doing here, Sarge? Looking for a criminal?”

  “No.” Fred hesitated. He said, “Looking for another job. I’ve got it, right here.”

  “Police work?”

  “No. I’m going into private industry with the Clinton Research Associates.”

  The young policeman eyed him curiously, but made no comment.

  “A man has to think of his future,” said Fred.

  “Oh.”

  “Besides, being a cop these days isn’t what it once was—what’s your name? Jack Sullivan. A real cop’s name. No, it isn’t what it was, and what I thought it’d be.”

  Jack Sullivan’s eyes narrowed. “Some have to be cops,” he said. “That’s how I figured it. It’s the only thing I ever wanted to do.”

  “Same here,” said Fred. They looked at each other, then Jack Sullivan said, “I’ve got to go along on my beat.” He began to walk away, after the briefest salute, but Fred went after him and strolled along with him. He hadn’t liked the expression in the blue and intelligent eyes. “But where does it get you?” he said.

  “Somebody has to keep law and order,” said the young policeman. He glanced sharply at Fred’s unhappy face. “That’s what some of us are made for, but I guess you, Sergeant, were made for something else.”

  Was I? Fred asked himself. But it was too late to think of that now. He said, “How’s crime in this town, Jack?”

  “Hell,” said Jack with eloquent brevity.

  “It’s that way all over the country these days, isn’t it? I wonder why; everybody wonders why.”

  “We lost four of our best men last month,” said Jack, and his young face darkened. “Ten last year. Are people getting to be some kind of nuts? And now everybody’s talking of civilian review boards. That’s the time,” said Jack with passion, “when we’ll go on strike and let the criminals take over for a while and blackjack some sense into the people!”

  “I know what you mean,” said Fred, depressed. “‘Police brutality.’ All the sweet little criminals howling about it when you’ve caught them red-handed. Then the social workers and the do-gooders and the kissers and the cooers come into it, and the damned old judges who want to be re-elected and have soft hearts and soft heads and no sense of public responsibility. We’ve become a nation of psychopathic sentimentalists with no respect for authority and decency, and no dignity. Worse, we’re a nation of criminals.”

  “That’s right,” said Jack Sullivan, with a suddenly wooden face. “I guess that’s why you’re getting out, isn’t it, Sarge? So you can forget all about it?”

  He looked fully at Sergeant Fred Carlson and there was no expression in his eyes. He saw a tall young man, lean and strong and hard, with a fair complexion, light brown eyes and light hair and an air of resolution and tautness and authority. Jack pursed his lips.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said Fred. “But I was thinking of the future, Jack. What future is there in police work?”

  “Sarge,” said the policeman with an elaborate politeness which was like an insult, “I wouldn’t know. I’m just a dumb cop or I wouldn’t be spending my life trying to uphold something everybody laughs at. Just a dumb cop. I’ve got to be on my way.”

  The dismissal was all too evident. Fred Carlson, Sergeant, was no longer important. He was only another civilian who didn’t understand police work. He was left standing on the sidewalk, watching the straight young back of the policeman moving rapidly away from him. Finally he turned about and walked slowly on, his head bent. He forced himself to think of the bright new future in this city, the appreciation for all his work, the doubled salary, the security, and, damn it, the end of fear and the end of the feeling of enraged helplessness and bitter hopelessness, and the end of contempt.

  Connie was a patrolman’s daughter. Her father had been killed only a year ago on his beat by criminals, who, subsequently caught, were released on a technicality. She knew what it meant to be a cop. She was afraid for her husband, though his patrolling days were over and so he was in less danger. Less danger—but not much. He had had many bad moments since he had ma
de sergeant, some of them even worse than when he had been only a rookie. He had never told Connie of how close to death he had come only a month ago; it would only frighten her. She lived in fear for him. But she was a policeman’s daughter and to her police work was the most important thing in the world. “Like a soldier,” she said, “guarding the city.” Connie was quite poetic sometimes. But there was no poetry to police work, only threat and violence from the lawless, only dirty, grinding work and poor pay—and, always, the new contempt and derision. That was the worst.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” Fred muttered in fury.

  He came to an intersection with a red light, and stopped. A car passed before him. On its bumper was a big red and white sticker: SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE! What a laugh. “Support your local police!” He laughed. A man standing beside him laughed too. “That’s a joke, isn’t it?” he asked Fred.

  Fred looked at him somberly. “Yes. A joke,” he replied. The man did not like the look in his eyes. He hurried away. Another solid citizen, commented Sergeant Fred Carlson to himself, a reader of some screaming newspapers that were always howling about “police brutality.” A man who believed the sons of bitches who were saying, in these days, that men became policemen because they were too stupid and too indolent to be anything else, and because they were natural sadists. No wonder such “citizens” were no longer safe on the streets of their cities; no wonder their children were threatened every hour of every day and that old shopkeepers were shot behind their wooden counters and women scurried in the darkness for fear of their lives and houses were burglarized in broad daylight and women raped in their suburban or apartment homes. No wonder terror stalked the countryside and the towns, defiant and brazen and red with murder. Chaos was everywhere, because the lawless and the psychopaths were no longer what they truly were: criminals. Now they were “mentally disturbed cases,” or “victims of broken homes,” or the “culturally deprived and disadvantaged and underprivileged.”