The Wide House

by Taylor Caldwell

  Stuart was all intent interest. He smiled. “Well then, you have no need to trouble yourself. Your mama will precure the proper teacher to pass judgement on Laurie’s voice.”

  Angus twisted his hands together. Then, in low and halting words he told Stuart of the scene between his mother and sister, and himself. Stuart listened, acutely absorbed in the stumbling recital. When Angus had finished, overcome with misery, Stuart’s thoughts whirled rapidly.

  “This is a very ticklish thing, Angus,” he said, after a long considering interval. “Laurie has asked you to mind your own business. Your mama has shown her interest. That is to be expected, when one remembers that she must recall the fortune Miss Lind is accumulating. And the fame and glory. However, your mama is not quite convinced. Her doubt is enhanced by Laurie’s obstinacy, and her repudiation of you.

  “If I should go to the enormous expense of bringing a teacher from New York here to listen to Laurie, there is always the probability that Laurie would refuse to sing, or refuse to accept any verdict that was favorable.”

  Angus held out his hands to Stuart, and the gesture was infinitely pathetic.

  “She will not refuse, Cousin Stuart. Not if you ask it. She is fond of you. And—you must not mention my name in the matter. That would be fatal.”

  Stuart stared at Angus’ moved and tremulous face. He bit his lip reflectively.

  “You think I could have any influence on Laurie? Perhaps you are right.” He paused. “But suppose the teacher’s verdict is favorable, even enthusiastic. Laurie would need years of voice cultivation. Possibly in New York. Your mama, you think, would be willing to go to this expense?”

  Angus was silent for a moment or two. His features became grim and more embittered. Then he said: “No. She would not be willing. I know that. Not even if she were convinced that Laurie would make a fortune with her voice. I—I almost believe that—that she would frustrate Laurie.” Now he flushed crimson. He flung up his head. “Not that Mama would mean to be cruel! Please believe that. It—it is just that Mama is a female, and might not understand about the operas. She might believe that it would be—immoral—for Laurie.”

  “Oh, don’t be a damned fool!” shouted Stuart, coloring with his fury. “You know bloody well that she would oppose Laurie because she hates the lass! You know she has always hated all of you, except her damnable drunken Bertie! You are a fool, man! And a liar to yourself.” He continued, with increasing violence: “I thought you meant to talk to me, man to man. If you think you can come over me with your sickly pieties and your disgusting loyalties to your mother, then you can be off and never bother me again!”

  Angus sprang from his chair. He retreated a pace or two from Stuart. He almost turned and ran from the room. But he stopped himself. His love was greater than his outrage. Stuart glared at him. He burst into nasty laughter.

  “Your delicate mama might think it ‘immoral,’ eh?” he exclaimed. “Why, you young imbecile! What do you know about your mama? You have some maudlin painted-glass picture of her in your mind, or it pleases your confounded vanity to have such a portrait, and to believe it.”

  He got heavily to his feet, and winced at the agony in his foot. He looked at Angus with detestation and contemptuous outrage.

  “Take your fairy stories away, and be damned to you! ‘Immoral,’ indeed! I won’t have a man about me who lies to himself! Let us be honest, curse you. If you don’t know what your mama is, I can forgive you. But you are no child. You know what she is, or you blind yourself to the knowledge. I can pity ignorance; I cannot forgive wilful blindness.”

  He fully expected Angus to leave him now. But Angus only stood there, shaking, looking at him with despair and agony, with overwhelming shame.

  Stuart made a violent gesture with his whole right arm. “I am sorry for you, Angus, for what you are. You love your sister or you’d never have stood there like that, while I told you the truth about your mother. Yes, I am sorry for you.” He paused for breath. His treacherous heart was melting again, for all his rage. He could feel its softening, its pity, its weakening sadness. He tried to make his voice stern and harsh when he continued:

  “You came to me to ask me to help Laurie. I have not said I would not. I have asked you if your mother would help your sister. You say she would not. Now then, suppose that I brought such a teacher to your Sister, and the verdict was good. Suppose, then, I offered to send Laurie to a school of music and voice culture in New York, and your mother refused to allow her to go? What would you suggest then?”

  Angus half turned from him. Stuart could see his bowed head, his thin and trembling shoulders. Then Angus said, in a faint and muffled voice:

  “When Mama is convinced that Laurie will make a fortune with her voice, and the teacher has told her so, then Mama will not refuse. There would be too much money—”

  “Ah,” said Stuart, and then was silent. But he looked at Angus with pity.

  “But Mama would not advance the money. She—she says she does not have it. But she would allow you to—to spend it, Stuart.”

  “Doubtless. Doubtless.” Stuart’s voice was hard and sardonic. He sat down again. He tapped on the desk with the fingers of one of his big strong hands. He regarded Angus’ averted face and body with increasing compassion.

  He said: “You have asked me for a great deal, Angus. Have you any idea what this would cost me?”

  Angus turned fully to him. Now his face was white and proud again. His gray eyes shone like frozen stone.

  “It would not be for long, Cousin Stuart. And I would repay you. You see, I am to marry Miss Gretchen Schnitzel when she is seventeen years old, which will be in about a year and a half. Her father has given his consent.”

  Incredulous, aghast, Stuart fell back into h is chair. He turned quite pale with his disbelieving consternation. “The devil you say!” he exclaimed, thickly. “The devil you say!”

  Angus was prouder than ever. He flung up his head, and replied steadily: “It is quite true, Cousin Stuart. Our betrothal will be announced in June, when Miss Gretchen is sixteen. We shall marry a year later. I can then repay you for any expenses you advance for Laurie.”

  But Stuart was furious again. “Do you actually mean to say that you will marry that repulsive, lardy, squat young female, you, Angus Cauder? That—that German creature, with the disgusting and odious parents? The tanners?”

  Angus was silent But his proud and haughty eyes did not leave Stuart’s face.

  “Where is your pride?” cried Stuart, still incredulous, still unwilling to believe, still enormously concerned. He could not endure the thought. “Where is your honor, your self-respect? What has this young female but money? There is no grace in her, no accomplishments, no charms. She is ugly, hideous. She is the proper daughter of her parents. And tanners! My God! If she had beauty of person, one might overlook her parents, and the tanneries. But she has nothing at all! My God, Angus!” He got to his feet again, and limped over to the petrified Angus. He put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, and he shook him vigorously. “Angus. Look at me. Tell me it is a farce, a lie. Angus, I cannot bear it. After all, you are my kinsman.”

  But Angus quietly removed Stuart’s hand, and faced the older man.

  “It is not a lie, Cousin Stuart. And I must say I take offense at your remarks about Miss Gretchen.”

  Stuart stood there helplessly, his hands at his sides, his face wrinkling. He shook his head over and over, numbly. Then he said: “You love this—this Miss Gretchen, Angus?”

  Angus compressed his pale lips. He answered, at last: “I intend to marry Miss Gretchen, Stuart.”

  Stuart became excited again. “But why, why? In God’s name, why?”

  Angus was silent. Then Stuart had a stunning thought. He caught Angus by the arms. His expression had become terrible.

  “It’s your mother, isn’t it? Angus, it is your mother’s doing?”

  Angus tried to break free, but Stuart held him with painful strength.

&nbs
p; “I resent your questions, Stuart. It is none of your affair.” The young man’s voice was faint but steady. “And, if you please, I should be glad if you would release me.”

  Again, Stuart’s hands dropped. He was very grim.

  Then he limped back to his chair and fell into it weakly. He put up his hand to cover his eyes.

  He said: “I see it is all no use. Go away, Angus. And about Laurie: I will send for a teacher for her. We must wait for the decision.”

  He dropped his hand. Angus was still there, looking at him. “Oh my God!” cried Stuart, overcome. “Oh, may God have mercy on you, you wretched young fool! Go away, for God’s sake. It’s sickening you are, to me!”

  After Angus had gone, Stuart was left alone with his murderous and passionate thoughts. He whispered over and over to himself, beating on his desk with his clenched fists: “Oh, the besom! The black-hearted bitch! The horrible bitch!”

  CHAPTER 34

  Often, on Friday night, Stuart would go to Sam Berkowitz’ house. When he went to that house, it was usually because he was sick to death, bewildered, dimly frightened and lost. Or when he was fulminating with anger, and on the search for a sympathetic ear and kind concern. He did not find Father Houlihan’s company, on these occasions, especially soothing, for the priest was so certain of God’s eternal loving-kindness and eternal wisdom and mercy that he irritated, rather than soothed, Stuart, who saw too many instances to the contrary.

  He preferred, then, when full of impotent rage, to go to Sam’s house, where melancholy lived and patience was leavened with sadness and wit and brooding questions. Sam would listen to his raging and incoherent diatribes, sometimes faintly smiling, often sorrowful, and he would nod his head silently, smoking or gazing steadily at a little point just to the right of Stuart’s head. Then, when Stuart was quiet for sheer lack of breath, Sam would open his Scriptures and read. Stuart did not always understand, but he felt soothed by the cries of the prophets, the laments of Job, the vehemences of Elijah, the sternness of Isaiah. Here was wisdom, pain, sorrow or rebellion from the hearts of the old prophets, and they were nearer the turbulent heart of the Celt than the sweet hopefulness of the New Testament saints.

  Mrs. Berkowitz, old and afflicted with arthritis, would insist upon being carried or helped downstairs on Friday nights, where she could preside over her table and light the candles. Earlier, from her bedroom, she would relay the intricacies of Jewish cooking to the small German maid who bustled in the kitchen. Mrs. Berkowitz was especially insistent on the nights when Stuart came. He would watch her as she stood behind her candlesticks, tremulous with age and illness, so tiny, so gnarled and old. He would listen to her murmuring her prayers and her blessings behind the lighted candles, her wizened hands over her face, sometimes a tear or two dropping between her fingers. The candles would bloom in the darkness of the warm little room, and Mrs. Berkowitz’ frail and trembling voice would rise in strange words of prayer over the yellow radiance. This ancient and mysterious ritual would kindle another light in the Irishman’s uneasy and violent heart, and his old Celtic blood would be stirred unbearably, as if in nameless remembrance.

  His strong Celtic imagination would see similar lights blooming in quiet or sorrowful or fearful homes all over the world, following the waning light of the sun, carrying the illumination into the darkness as the earth turned. The trail of the lighted candles was like a chain of awakening stars, full of message, of faith, of eternal hope. A thousand thousand dark nights might come, with oppression and fear and dread and madness, but the candles would stand there, frail but dauntless, like voices of comfort calling to brother and brother across the borders, of every land, affirming their faith in God, their remembrance of His mercy and love, their belief in ultimate peace and brotherhood.

  Though he had no faith at all, and really no hope or belief in anything, Stuart found a deep and mystical comfort in the lighting of the candles, which not only were an affirmation of God, but a light to the heart and the eyes of those who sat about the tables. There would be a stiff white cloth on the Berkowitz’ table, and newly polished silver, and crystal glasses of wine. There would be strange rich dishes and new read, warm and white in the light of the candles. The fire on the hearth, the candles, the seductive odors of boiled chicken and hot yellow soup and dark old wine would give Stuart a sense of timelessness and strength, and he would look about the closed room with the tired satisfaction of one who had found refuge.

  Mrs. Berkowitz, with her kerchief over her head, and her tiny black eyes twinkling, and her worn face smiling eagerly, knew little English. But she would listen to the grave voice of her son and to Stuart’s angry heated words with the greatest of wisdom.

  Stuart knew that he must not speak, however disturbed he was, until dinner was done. By that time much of his anger and misery had abated, and he could discuss matters with Sam with more calm, and less incoherence. He would look at Sam’s brown and furrowed face with the tight quiet lips, the gentle wise brown eyes, and his more infuriated exclamations would die away unspoken. Then it would seem to him that he had been very foolish, that he had given significance to things which did not matter.

  He came, on this Friday evening, still sore and wretched and infuriated from his interview with Angus. Sam, after one look at his dark and twisted face, led him into the small dining-room without speaking. Then he went for his mother, carrying her downstairs in his arms, while her eyes eagerly searched for Stuart.

  They talked of nothing but casual trivialities during the meal, while Mrs. Berkowitz anxiously filled Stuart’s plate over and over with yellow noodles and chicken. She was firmly convinced that he had a poor appetite and needed nourishing. Only when he could eat no more would she subside, with a sly smile of satisfaction.

  She was very tired tonight, so Sam carried her upstairs again while she feebly cried blessings upon the guest over her son’s shoulder. The little maid departed with the dishes and brushed off the white cloth. A February storm was rising. Stuart could hear the hissing of the blizzard against the windows; the draperies stirred in the bitter gale, and from some crevice under a door came the sharp whisper of icy cold. He drew aside a curtain and peered out into the thick darkness. By the flickering light of a street lamp he saw the whirlpool of little white flakes rushing beyond the faint yellow circle which that lamp cast against the furious background. And then even that struggling circle was almost obliterated by the thickness of the snowflakes. It was a bad night. Within an hour or two the streets would be drifted with hard white dunes, and the air would cut into the flesh like knives. Not a soul was abroad. The street was all desolation.

  Stuart returned to the fire, abstractedly cursing the Northern winter, and remembering the fur-lined warmth of his great-coat. He heard the distant wailing of a train as it shuddered its way through the choking darkness, and then that sound was abruptly shut off by the gale that swept over the frozen Lakes. It roared over the snug shingles of the roof; it battered the sturdy walls. It cried off into the night like a terrible voice rushing towards the sky. The fire leapt higher on the hearth.

  Sam returned, to pour old brandy into little glasses. Stuart and he sat by the fire and sipped the liquor in companionable silence. But Sam watched Stuart with furtive acuteness. He felt the other man’s dark unease of mind, his confusion.

  “A bad night,” suggested Sam, listening to the wind and the rattling of the window-panes.

  “It’s always a bad night, for eight months of the year, in this blasted country,” said Stuart, with gloom. He pushed his hand through his thick black hair, and recalled that he had noticed a few more gray threads in it that morning. Now his face was both surly and uneasy, its florid color deeper than usual. Sam saw the discolored pouches under the black eyes, which had lost none of their irate sparkle with the passing of time, and he sighed to himself.

  “It is always a bad night,” repeated Stuart, and now he talked as if he were alone. “I’m sick of it.”

  Sam said nothing. St
uart rose and threw more coal upon the fire with a brisk rattling. He returned to his seat.

  “I think,” Sam said, in his slow accented voice, “that we are sick of the things in us, or of the things we think we see there. It is our belief in them that makes us sick. If we do not believe—” and he spread out his hands and lifted his shoulders in the old immemorial gesture of his race, which was a combination of humor and sorrow.

  Stuart looked at him with temper. “Go,” he exclaimed, “You talk gibberish! I presume that if I do not believe in Janie, or the imbecility of her brats, they will not exist!”

  “If you think that perhaps what you believe of that woman is not true, then it will not be true. For you, my friend,” said Sam, thoughtfully. “For you. It will not be true, for you. If you think she is a good woman, and her children are good, also, then they will be good—to you.”

  “Oh, damn,” said Stuart, turning from the other in disgust. “You still talk gibberish. It still remains that that trollop is a dirty animal, and that her children are idiots.”

  Sam leaned back in his chair and looked before him reflectively. “There was a man I knew once. He was a bad man. He was cruel and harsh, and a murderer in his heart. That is what others knew of him, or believed they knew. The evil he did was all about him. One saw it. But there were his wife and children—they thought him the kindest and most just of men. To them, he was all that Who, then, was right?”

  “You are getting as bad as old Grundy,” said Stuart. “You are trying to come over me with all sorts of metaphysical nonsense.”

  But Sam was still reflective. “It is all a matter of where we stand, what view we see. The man on the mountain says: ‘The valley is low.’ The man in the valley says: ‘The mountain is high.’ The man at the foot of the mountain sees a height he cannot climb. But the man at a great distance sees only a low hill.”