He found himself talking almost gaily to Gregory; he imagined he was very fluent and casual. But Amy thought him rather stolid if formidable, too reserved and ponderous. She knew he was young, hardly more than a boy, but she had difficulty in believing it. From what her uncle had told her of Ernest, she had been expecting an upstart, a clodhopper-Napoleon, a brutish man with a battering and arrogant manner. She had guessed quite easily that Gregory disliked, if not actually hated, Ernest Barbour, and had been puzzled not only by the association of her uncle with him in business, but by his invitation to him. She had believed, rather ruefully, that one reason for the invitation had been to furnish her with amusement at the expense of Ernest’s gaucheries and ignorances; she saw now, with intense and bewildered surprise, that Gregory’s dislike for Ernest made him believe that the youth was indeed ignorant and gauche, because he wished to believe it. She was face to face, for the first time, with the peculiar malevolence of human nature that makes a man endow an enemy with all the things that he detests, visible evidence to the contrary. So when Gregory covertly tried to catch her eye, to smile at her with small and meaning malice, to try to draw her into an amused conspiracy against Ernest, she could only twitch her lips nervously and blink her soft eyes. Can’t he see that Mr. Barbour is none of the things that he said? her innocent thoughts ran on, painfully. Can I be mistaken? No, I am not. Mr. Barbour is a gentleman; he is not handsome, but he is most certainly compelling. I have never seen anyone like him. George and Eddie and Courtney and Butte are silly barking pups compared to him. He is all of a man, and very civil and dignified, too.
She stared at her uncle with the round and surprised eyes of a confused child. Why? Why? And then suddenly she knew, and was sick with shame. Gregory was jealous of this boy, could have destroyed him smilingly because of his jealousy. He was an old man, secure, rich, elegant, educated, travelled and established, accustomed to gracious living and all the dignities of that living. Yet he could envy, and hate in the envying, a youth of no family, little education, new and still insecure wealth, unacquainted with the mellownesses of life and its graciousness. Why? she asked herself, over and over. She looked from Gregory to Ernest with deep intensity. Ah, she knew now! Her intuition told her that it was because Ernest was young and powerful, and filled with a terrifying vitality. It was this terrible vitality that Gregory envied, for he had never had it, and he was intelligent enough to realize what the possession of this vitality meant. All the softnesses and civilities of his life, all the grace of it, all its elegance and fine gestures, could not compensate for this relentless life-flow, this almost monstrous power. It put him, Gregory, in the shade, despite all the things he knew and all the things he possessed; it made him an old and wizened gnome, with only his wry knowledge to compensate him.
She listened to Gregory’s soft baiting of Ernest, knew he was trying to draw him out for her amusement. Her shame for her uncle grew, and with it a still, bright anger. She listened to Ernest’s replies; they were intelligent, if not brilliant, profound if not worded with grace and perfection; they were strong with all his strength, dignified with all his natural dignity of character. She was astounded to see that her uncle heard nothing of Ernest’s replies; his ears were filled with the ignorances and awkwardnesses and narrowness he wished to hear in Ernest’s words. Finally, so stupefied was she at this folly and blindness, that she could no longer eat, and there was a sick taste in her mouth. Her uncle had said that beyond his shops Ernest was an ignoramus and a peasant; she could hardly believe that Gregory could still believe so with all the evidence to the contrary before him. There is something very wrong here, she thought. For the very first time her belief in her uncle’s wisdom was badly shaken, and she began to pity him for his obvious intolerance and inability to see. She did not pity Ernest. He had no need of pity, she knew that quite clearly. She was very glad indeed that he was not aware of his host’s smiling rudeness.
But in this she was wrong. Ernest was well aware of everything in Gregory’s mind. He was not disturbed; in fact, he was darkly amused. His tongue felt acrid with contempt, his eyes narrowed slightly when he turned smilingly to the older man. I am stronger than you, he thought; you are only a posture with a rascally mind behind it. If I have no scruples, it is because they would stand in my way, but you are pointlessly unscrupulous. To him it seemed contemptible to possess a pointless vice, a vice that could not be used, that was not used to large ends. It was a waste of time and energy, and this waste seemed criminal to him. To use malice as a tool was justified; to use malice as a plaything, to wear it like a ring, was disgusting.
I want this girl, he thought, as they all laughed gaily when Amy upset her tiny wineglass, and I’ve got to beat him down. I can’t make him like me: if I tried, he would hate me worse than ever, and I wouldn’t blame him. I’ve got to beat him down at his own game, hold him down. I’m stronger than he; I can easily make him afraid. He looked about him for a moment with lifted head; his shoulders were set squarely, and for a little space he was heroic. Gregory saw this; his Voltairian lips twisted, writhed upwards, paled almost to lividness.
The cold excitement rose higher and higher in Ernest. He would tear down his uncle’s house; he would rebuild it into the likeness of this house, bringing to it in the person of Amy all its mellow richness, its serenity and space, its polished leisure and graciousness. He looked at Amy; he stared at her lips, palely pink and moist, and he was seized with such a passionate desire to kiss those lips brutally, greedily, that he sweated in the coolness of the dim dining room. He wanted to press his hard fingers over her white shoulders, to force back her head by the seizing of her shining hair and kiss the tender white spot under her chin. He wanted to devour her, absorb her, to hear her cry out, to soothe her fright and pain with savage tenderness. His hands clenched on the stiff whiteness of the tablecloth, and Amy, turning her pretty head to him at that moment, was terrified by the expression in his eyes as he looked at her. Yet this terror, an instant later, was flooded with a strange delight and excitement; her body tingled, was drowned, became numb, her legs weakening as if prepared to surrender. She could feel her heart rising and swelling, as if it would burst her chest; she wanted to cry, to laugh, to run and hide. Yet when Ernest turned aside his face, as though ashamed of what she might see in it, she was disappointed and deprived. She felt robbed, thrust out into coldness, and her heart seemed full of pain. She wanted him to look at her with that terrible expression again; she waited for it. But he did not look at her again during the meal.
When she rose at the end to leave him alone with her uncle, Ernest watched the slight loveliness of her figure as it swayed toward the door, watched the bobbing and swinging of the childish ringlets and the tilting of her ballooning gown. When the door had closed softly behind her it seemed to him that half the light in the room had gone, and that a bleakness had settled in it in spite of the golden light streaming through the blinds. He sat down again with his host. And so disciplined was his mind that he could remove it voluntarily from Amy, turn it to the business he wished to discuss with Gregory.
He detested the taste and odor of tobacco, yet when Gregory offered him a fine cigar he accepted it, so filled was he with his elation and the consciousness of his own power. The cigar was rich and strong and made him feel queasy, but he puffed at it steadily. He did as Gregory did: sipped smooth port and smoked. He looked at the silver and crystal decanter on the table, at the wine fuming redly in his glass, at the blur of softened sunlight on the rounds of mahogany armchair and buffet, at the glimmer of the carpet and the gilded light that lay in the curlicues of the portrait frames. There was a genial expansiveness in the very atmosphere of the large and stately room; Ernest relaxed, felt more in command of himself than he had ever done in his disciplined life.
He discussed a few minor plans he had, and Gregory listened now, not condescendingly and with amusement as he had listened when Ernest had attempted lighter and more social conversation at dinner, but with intentnes
s and gravity. He leaned toward Ernest, nodding his head slowly at intervals, or pursing his lips and lifting his brows. After these small plans, Ernest spoke of foreign labor.
“As I said before, Mr. Sessions, sir, we must have it. You and I and Armand have talked it all over a dozen times. We are making comfortable profits, yes, but not half as much as we could. I need at least seventy-five more men: I could use one hundred more. I have fifty, now, and we are paying them from eight to fifteen dollars a week. Too much. Our four foremen are getting seventeen apiece. It will be necessary to retain the foremen, as they are skilled in this particular work, and we have trained them carefully. One hundred men—one hundred and fifty men. I must have them at once. And in your mills—how many could you use?”
Gregory studied the ceiling. “I could use the same. Let us say three hundred men between us. Within a year, perhaps you and I could use more. The new labor has been coming in from the Carpathian Mountains: great, sturdy peasants, who can stand smoke and heat and long hours and are used to eating plain and substantial fare. Stanford of Pittsburgh told me only last week that the best men come from Bohemia, Austria and Hungary. Slavs and Cechs. Let me see: I have the figures here.” He rose, pulled open a drawer of the buffet, and brought out a small neat book such as Ernest used. He turned pages. “Here are the costs of bringing them here. We can pay by the partial shipload. It is best, too, to bring their families with them if they can come, otherwise the devils get a notion after a few months to return with a handful of dollars to the Old Country.”
Ernest studied the figures judiciously, frowning. He followed Gregory’s long and elegant finger as it pointed out the various sums.
“If you buy that extra thirty acres, Ernest, that you spoke of last week, that will run your land up to the Galby Mills. Galby’s have forty acres adjoining; they could spare about ten, I imagine. We can do as others do, then: we can build shacks for the laborers and their families, set up stores and commissaries. Even a bank, after the shops grow sufficiently. If we get three hundred men, their families will run it roughly up to nine hundred souls. In time we can even furnish saloons for them right on our own territory. Nothing like making everything homelike,” he added with a wry smile and a glint of his cold eye in Ernest’s direction. “Whatever they make, then, will be returned to us in their food, clothing, rent and drink.”
“Something like Russian serfdom,” suggested Ernest.
Gregory was surprised; he had not known that Ernest possessed any real knowledge of anything beyond his business. “Ah,” he said thoughtfully, staring at the young man. He smiled charmingly. “Ah, hardly like Russia, my dear Ernest. We are a free country, except, of course, for the slaves in the south. Pity we up here can’t have the same thing. Four or five hundred husky young bucks would save us considerable money after the first outlay. However, do not use the word ‘serfdom.’ It has an ugly sound in American ears.”
Ernest looked at him directly. He only half believed what he was about to say, but he said it: “It not only is an ugly sound, it is ugly. And what we are about to do is ugly, also. It is necessary, true, for us. Our competitors are getting this labor, and we must do so also. It does not detract from its ugliness, however, nor does raising our eyebrows keep serfdom from being serfdom.” His lips curled, but his stare remained basilisk-like on Gregory’s face. “Of course, I am only a ‘foreigner,’ myself, and couldn’t be expected to feel as sharply about making serfs of other foreigners as you would, you being a native American.”
Gregory’s genial smile became a little fixed, and over it, like a red flood, swept his congested color. He laughed, leaned back in his chair, but his laugh sounded artificial.
“You are sarcastic, my dear Ernest, but you lack the subtle touch. I could have said that more adroitly. The rapier, my dear lad, the rapier, not the bludgeon. But perhaps you will learn finesse in time.” He smarted with rage and hate; he saw he had underestimated this side of Ernest’s knowledge and character, and was surprised that the youth could express himself with such cogency. This, however, did not detract from his hate, but rather increased it.
Ernest smiled a little grimly. “I prefer bludgeons to rapiers. They are more honest. But we’re wasting time. I will see the Galby people tomorrow. Of course,” he added lightly and dryly, “I hope their price is not too high. You will, of course, suggest to them that they don’t raise the price on me?”
The dark color increased in Gregory’s face. He owned nearly forty per cent of the Galby stock, and he knew that Ernest knew it. He affected to laugh with great enjoyment.
“You don’t trust your own shadow, do you, Ernest?”
“Of course not,” responded the young man readily. “Why should I? You get nowhere, trusting any one. A few months ago when I asked the Galby people what they wanted for that land they told me one hundred dollars an acre. If it is higher than that, I am sorry, but I won’t buy it. I can get the land to the east for eighty dollars an acre, and if I can’t get the Galby land I will buy that. Of course, it would make it a little inconvenient for you, as your men would be too far from your own mills and would have to pay rent to me for the shacks I would build for them. That would be unfortunate, wouldn’t it? I know you haven’t sufficient land adjoining your mills to take care of some four or five hundred people.”
There was a little pause. The dark veins rose in Gregory’s thin neck above his elegant white collar and cravat; a glare came out over his determined smile. What the hell! he was thinking to himself. A few days ago, my fine buck, a few weeks ago, you would not have dared say that to me. You would have expected a kick in the backside, and with good reason. But I have invited you to my table, my precious scum, and you have taken that to mean I regard you as my equal. Cursed impudence—! But he found himself looking into Ernest’s pale and bitterly bright eye, and he was shocked. There was no impudence there, no presumption; only knowledge and contempt. He was alarmed, almost dismayed. He bit his lip in confusion and humiliation, and forced himself to laugh.
“I am sure,” he said, with an air of good-humored frankness, “that the Galbys will not raise the price. In fact, I will speak to them tomorrow, myself. Of course, you realize that land values have risen enormously along the river, but the Galbys will do me this favor. They owe me some little matter—”
“Some forty per cent,” thought Ernest contemptuously. But he made himself imitate the geniality of Gregory’s smile. “Another thing,” he said. “I don’t like the agent the other factories and mills and mines have been dealing with. I think he’s a thief. Besides, the men he has been bringing over have no stamina. Or they are lazy, worthless. I’ve been thinking it over. Armand’s son, Raoul, is a lazy, lounging devil, and he’d be able to weed out other lazy devils by instinct. I’ve noticed something about him, and that is that if he is not supervised or pushed along he does exceedingly well. He likes responsibility. That is because he is conceited. He thinks he fools me; he thinks I think he is brainless and too light. So he acts up to what he believes is my opinion of him. It amuses me very much.” He smiled; Gregory raised his brows and studied him slyly. “But I know he is shrewd and quick, and really far more intelligent than Eugene. So I think we must consider Raoul as our own private agent in selecting our Bohemians and Slavs and Czechs.”
“But what does Raoul do in the shops? Very little, I suppose. Didn’t you tell me he spent most of his time selling to stores in other towns and cities? Yes. Is he a good salesman?”
“The very best,” responded Ernest promptly. “We owe a great part of our trade to him, in the smaller and more remote communities. And yes, even in the larger cities, in the small stores. Raoul believes I think his success in selling is quite accidental, and mostly luck, but I know he sells our goods because he—he sells himself. He could sell rat-traps to rats, and that is no exaggeration.” Ernest puffed at another cigar. “Of course, Raoul knows absolutely nothing about the details of our shotguns and pistols and gunpowder and cannon. He can rattle off very glib cha
tter about them, but he couldn’t put a gun together to save his life. He told me the smell of gunpowder gives him indigestion, but I believe it is Madam Bouchard’s garlic. Besides, it is a good excuse to keep him out of the shops. He hates the shops.”
“And Eugene Bouchard? He is now in charge of the rifle assembling?”
“Yes. Eugene likes tools, he likes intricate things that take patience. He is very stubborn; he calls it being determined. But he never lets up, and always completes what he starts. Sometimes he starts very foolish things, but he will complete them, no matter how disastrous. He is something like our machines, that, if they get started wrong, keep on grinding just the same, until they reach the end or someone forcibly sets them right. But Eugene has very delicate hands, and we owe two of our smaller inventions to him, as you know.”
Dynasty of Death Page 19