With a shortness that reminded Paul of Gertrude’s lost shortness, Ernest went on: “I want you to put in your resignation at the bank, Paul. On January first I am taking you in here. As my assistant,” he added, fixing Paul with his relentless eye. “After all, you will have to manage Gertrude’s share.” He paused, and his big mouth became heavy with cruelty. “You will probably have to manage Godfrey’s share, too. And Reginald’s. And Guy’s. I’ve never hid from you what weaklings and fools these three are. Joey’s the only one I have any hopes for. I’ve lost hope that the others will ever amount to anything.” He moved a paper knife, stared at it. “Eventually, you may take my place here. I intend to train you for that eventuality.”
Paul made no reply. Ernest looked up at him. The young man was pale, and the line of his jaw showed under his skin. But something in his expression made Ernest smile and say with amusement: “Is it possible this does not surprise you? Were you expecting this?”
“Yes.” Paul lit his cigarette. “I hoped for this. I expected it. Would you want me to lie about it?”
Ernest was more amused than ever. “Well, aren’t you going to say anything more? About ‘cheating’ my sons out of their birthright, or some such stuff?”
“No. I wouldn’t be cheating them. I know, for instance, that their share would be intact in all that you have, even if they weren’t active in the business. They would simply draw their income from the stock you would leave them. Gentlemen of leisure. Frey would live in Europe, where he seems to like it. Guy would play. Reggie—well, he’s the unknown quantity just yet, though he hasn’t shown much interest in business matters. Joey. Well, Joey is dogged and obstinate and keen on the money, but he will make a better banker than a business man. I have an idea you’ve thought of him in connection with banking. He’s got a shrewd head for finance. Like John Charles, the Shylock! But no imagination, no daring. You’re not a man, Uncle Ernest, to be offended at the truth.
“But just what am I to expect? You say, ‘take my place.’ ‘My assistant.’ Just what does that mean, in plain English?”
As he had done hundreds of times before, Ernest studied him. He weighed the audacity, the greed, the ruthlessness, of the face before him. Imagination! the young brute had said. Yes, practical imagination, the kind that builds bridges and suborns politicians, scuttles the honesty of Presidents and builds vast industries, sets loose whispers of wars and makes the chimneys of mills blaze, grinds Civilization into the face of the wilderness and establishes dynasties that are greater than Law and more powerful than the foolish honor of the tender-hearted, or the filigreed thrones of kings. But he had no real craftiness, Ernest observed. What he would get he would get by sheer force and brutal hammering, if negotiations failed. He still had a certain hesitancy before the final implacability, but that would pass, swifter than it had passed in Ernest, who had had a gift for irony. Paul had no irony. Men who retain irony are not to be trusted, thought Ernest. They can’t always resist an impulse to tickle themselves. He, himself, had not always been adroit, but that was because he had despised adroitness as an exercise in time-wasting subtlety. He had consciously avoided it. But Paul did not know that such a thing as adroitness existed. He lacked patience. But he was strong enough not to need it. He still had a faint conscience, but he would soon lose it. Ernest firmly believed that men without humor never retained consciences.
Paul, he reflected, was an opportunist, not the colorful adventurous opportunist, but the savage kind. In time he would be completely rapacious. He lacked the drive which Ernest candidly recognized in himself. Instead, he had a conscious and insatiable greed. Which would serve practically as well, said Ernest to himself. Nor would he exult in power, as Ernest did, an exultation which was like the joy the elephant felt when he discovered he could uproot trees. But this needed a certain amount of a more subtle sort of imagination, which even the elephant possessed, but which Paul would never possess. Paul was like a belly that would never be filled, but which he would try all his life to fill. But he’s less intelligent than I, went on the older man’s reflections, so he’ll never be troubled with indigestion. Damn it, I’m getting subtle in my old age! I’ve certainly been unconsciously developing humor, which is as destructive as cancer.
“What do I mean?” he asked aloud. “Just what I said. I intend to leave Gertrude more than half of my private fortune, and half of my stock in Barbour-Bouchard, and the Kinsolving works, the lumber mills, the mines, the oil wells, the railroads. I might even do a little better. You can, of course, be President some day. Joey, as you have quite cleverly said, will naturally turn to the bank.” He paused. “May, naturally, will probably not be so generous with her own private fortune. If she dies before me, that will settle itself. If she survives me, she can leave it where she wills. I don’t imagine she’ll leave much to you.”
“I’m not worrying about Aunt May’s money,” said Paul, smiling.
“You’re a cool young devil! Yet I think you’re a liar. If May left you and Gertrude out, you’d be mad as hell. Even if you had practically everything else.”
All at once the vastness of what he was being given shook Paul. The poorest of the family becoming the first and the greatest!
“Christ!” he exclaimed, reddening. “I don’t know what to say, Uncle Ernest! Except that I think you won’t be sorry!”
“I’d better not be!” said Ernest, his mouth twitching. But Paul was desperately sober. He began to walk up and down the room, thinking heavily. Ernest watched him. He’s not half so bright as young Jules, he admitted to himself, nor one-tenth so clever as young Honore. The Bouchards will be ones to reckon with, eventually. Jules will finally be as savage and subtle as a Spanish Jesuit, and Honore can smell opportunity before it turns the corner. These French have wit and brains and cunning; we British are no match for them in these. What we get we get by sheer weight. I’m counting on Paul’s weight. As I counted on mine. The monkey is brighter than the elephant, but the elephant can still fight tigers and pull up trees.
“Sit down, Paul,” he said. “You’ve got to get back to the bank. But I wanted to discuss this where no one else would hear. By the way, I expect you to visit the coal mines immediately after Christmas. There are a lot of disorders there lately; I want you to look over the situation. Labor disorders are like smallpox; they spread. Eugene tells me that the Kinsolving works are beginning to mutter. Some of my business associates tell me that they are afraid; but that’s because they’ve got yellow bellies. There’s no need to be afraid. All we need is a strong hand. The trouble with America is that there are no masters here. I propose to start the fashion in business. That’s why I’m sending you. I’ve already got a dozen William P. Scott detectives out there, and they’ll stand no nonsense. Look over the place, and order more detectives, if necessary. I’m putting it all into your hands.
“It is strange that during financial depressions and panics there are no strikes. The dogs are only too glad to have jobs to feed themselves. But let them satisfy the first edge of their appetites and they get cocky. I think the best thing is not to let them satisfy the first edge. I am weighing an idea to reduce wages in the mines; you can use that as a threat. That might make them think as much as they can think with their donkey skulls. But do what you think is best. A great deal depends on how you go about it.”
“It is a lot of responsibility, Uncle Ernest. I know next to nothing about the situation. I’ll do nothing hastily, though. Sometimes if you just sit like a rock and do and say nothing things pass over and there’s no need to do anything after all.”
“Spoken like a Briton! But this is not England, Paul. People do things here, and if you sit and wait, sometimes you discover you’re sitting on dynamite and the fuse is about to reach it. By the way, I’m taking you to Austria next summer. There’s a Company there, Skeda, which might need a few modern suggestions about armaments. Europe, for the next fifty years or so, is going to be a very good field for munitions. Especially France and Germany and
the Balkans. Bismarck’s given the Germans a national feeling, as well as unity. There’ll be no stopping the Germans, now. They’ve tasted blood. It takes little to make a German drunk, and blood is his quickest intoxicant.
“And then there’s South America. I think we’ve all been forgetting South America. Our nearest neighbor, and she might just as well be on the moon, as far as we are concerned. Next year we’ll go there together, you and I, and impress on those homesick Spaniards the duty they owe their new country to buy and make munitions.”
“In other words,” said Paul, “if there are no markets, you make markets.”
“Of course. Business is a little dull these days. And we are singularly handicapped. We can’t advertise. We can’t suggest a nice little war, and then offer our patents or our arms. And yet, we’ve got to do business. And Fear is our best salesman.
“Your Uncle Raoul was one of the best salesmen I ever employed. But that was in the old days, when we concentrated on squirrel-shooting. We had a small tidy little place then. But we’ve got a monstrous mill here today, and we can’t keep it running making pop-guns for little boys. Last week, as you know, we laid off over half our men in the two foundries. America’s the damndest place for munitions! Not a fortress along thousands of miles of border. There’s Canada over there; but you might as well whistle up an alley as suggest Canada as a formidable neighbor. It’s been tried, but it’s no good. It was quite cleverly suggested in Canada recently that America had a lot of sly thoughts and half-plans about annexing her. And do you know what happened? Canada shut down her one and only munitions plant, and thumbed her nose at us! Worse than that, she decided to import her next batch of rifles from England. That was a nasty kick in the trousers!”
Ernest laughed, but Paul could see no occasion for laughter. He looked annoyed. “Has it been suggested very forcibly over here that Canada would make a nice meal? What about the Monroe Doctrine? Couldn’t some interest be stirred up in that? People have been very patriotic since the Civil War.”
“Oh, that’s an old story. Every once in a while it’s dusted off and brought out of the cupboard. I’ll admit people are beginning to show some interest, but it’s still very little. However, some really creditable anti-British rumors are being set loose. They’ve been received with quite an encouraging amount of interest. Especially in cities with large German populations. It’s a slow process, though; blood is thicker than water after all, though it’s a damned nuisance. More and more people, it is true, are beginning to talk about the Monroe Doctrine, but it’s mostly from those who know very little about it. Just recently a New York paper reprinted the Doctrine and explained it, and ridiculed its application to Canada. However, there’s one comfort: the people who spread rumors, the people who can be counted on to relay fear, the people who are easily stirred to hatred and attuned to war, never read newspapers.
“For a long time nothing was said very much about the old American Revolution. But lately some good work has been done about reviving it. Have you seen the latest school textbooks? Here, I have a copy in my desk. Quite inspiring reading. A lot of spirit. I’ve a number of friends in Washington, and there is nothing half so good as a politician with a new check in his pocket. Give me half a dozen politicians with flannel heads and bottomless pockets, and I don’t care who runs your churches. Well, anyway, the new textbooks are very good. Within twenty years there ought to be a well-defined anti-British sentiment. All the schools have to do is beat the drums and sing about George Washington and Valley Forge and Paul Revere and cruel King George, and you won’t have to talk about the Monroe Doctrine! In fact, it would be a good idea to bury it!”
“But what about the Hessians? They were Germans.”
“Oh, that’s being very neatly handled. Just poor mercenaries impressed by British savagery and greed into a war they knew nothing about. They’re not being played up very prominently. It’s all Cornwallis and the Indians and Boston and the burning of the White House about 1812. Of course, the French enter into it, too, and that’s really being delicately managed. You can’t offend the French.”
Paul had listened, full of absorbed interest. He asked: “But in the meantime, you still have the military contracts, Uncle Ernest?”
“Of course. But this year’s orders for arms were almost insignificant. However, we’ve had large orders for explosives; the railroads are going ahead at a merry rate. It’s fortunate that munitions are now only one of our activities. But I’ve always thought of it as my pet; munitions can be made into the most gigantically profitable enterprise if properly managed. And I, and my competitors, intend it to be properly managed in the future. In the meantime, we live very comfortably.”
Paul was silent. Then all at once, a strange thing happened to him. He saw a clear, dazzlingly brilliant winter day, all snow and vivid blue sky. He and Elsa stood on the snowy doorstep of the shabby farmhouse, heavily encased in coats and scarfs. Their father, Martin, was standing near them on the wooden porch, and he was saying to an old man, Uncle Gregory: “You can’t change my mind. It’s blood money, and it’s going out into the hospital as usual to help stop blood. I wouldn’t touch a penny of it.” He raised his voice, and cried, almost shouted: “That man’s a scoundrel! He’s a beast!” Seven-year-old Paul was curious. He said: “Papa! Who is a scoundrel?” Martin turned; his fair face was flushed and his blue eyes fiery. But he smiled at his little son. “Your Uncle Ernest, my love.”
Paul had forgotten that scene entirely, but at this moment he remembered it vividly. But more vivid than anything was his father’s face. It floated before him with the blazing winter sun upon it, and he could actually see the flash and passion of his eyes. They dazzled him, even in memory. He recalled all the old stories of the enmity between his father and his uncle. He was much shaken.
He was startled when he heard a chair scrape. Ernest was standing up and glancing with a frown at his watch. Paul gathered he was being dismissed. He stood up.
“Paul, how is John Charles doing at the bank lately?”
“Very well, Uncle Ernest.” Paul’s face began to pale, his voice to recede. “Of course, we can’t tell just yet. After all, he’s only been there three weeks. But even though he does small routine things he’s showing an aptitude. We have hopes for him.”
“It’s too bad he didn’t want to finish school. But he’s a fine lad, and he’s got his head set right on his shoulders. Think he can take over a window within a year?”
“Positively. He’s bull-headed, but as you say, he’s got all his wits. And he thinks, eats, talks, lives, nothing but banking. He’s dragged out all my own books from the attic.”
“Well, he and Joey will probably run the bank together, eventually.” Ernest smiled. “Your Aunt Florabelle has already been speaking to me about putting Jules in the bank after he finishes school. A fine boy; silent as the grave, but knows what he wants. Your Uncle Eugene thinks Leon will do better with him.” He laughed. “Did you know Etienne wants to be an actor?”
They walked to the door together, Ernest’s hand affectionately on his nephew’s shoulder. But once at the door, Ernest’s expression darkened, became uneasy.
“Paul.” He hesitated, then resumed with difficulty: “How is Gertrude? I mean, when you are alone together? I confess I don’t like her looks, these days. She’s getting thinner, and I notice she eats little. She also avoids her Mama and me, as if she didn’t want to be alone with us.”
Paul turned slowly, and fixed his eyes on Ernest’s. A faint cynicism, a shadow of thin fine cruelty, moved over his large and rugged features. But all he said was: “Trudie? But she’s splendid! I think all the excitement has tired her, and she’s a little disappointed that we haven’t had a honeymoon yet. I’ve promised her one in the spring, however.” He pulled on his gloves. “Please tell Aunt May I’ll be a trifle late for dinner tonight. It’s nearly the end of the year you know, Uncle Ernest.”
When he had gone, Ernest closed the door slowly behind him. A cold knife-edg
e of dislike inserted itself in the strong door of his affection for his nephew. Why didn’t he tell me? he thought. What did he mean by that expression on his face? Was he daring to mock me? That young jackanapes?
He went back to his desk, and as he sat down he was besieged by uneasiness and an undefined distress. He saw his daughter’s hand as he had seen it at breakfast holding a fork over a plate of bacon and eggs. He remembered that the fork had seemed too heavy for those thin transparent little fingers. They had trembled, he remembered. And somehow, he had not wanted to look at her face.
He rang the bell on his desk furiously. His secretary raced in, full of apprehension at the peremptory summons. “Haven’t we anything from Garfinkel’s about receiving that pearl necklace from Tiffany’s yet?” he shouted angrily. “It’s only five days to Christmas, and Tiffany promised to send it to Garfinkel a week ago!”
“No, Mr. Barbour, it hasn’t come yet,” said the frightened chief clerk. “But, if you like, I’ll go down at once to Garfinkel and tell him to send a telegram to Tiffany’s in New York. I’m sure it’ll come soon, though. They understand it’s for Miss Gertrude’s Christmas present.”
“I should have gone to New York for it myself, instead of bothering with that fool of a Garfinkel. But I wanted the clasp changed, and that’s why I sent it back through him. Yes, go on down there and see what can be done.”
He took up his pen and irately pulled a pile of letters toward him as the man went out. But he could not work just yet.
He could only see that little trembling hand holding the heavy fork. And beside it, unnoticed, the pearl necklace.
CHAPTER LXXVIII
Dynasty of Death Page 77