Charles thrust his handkerchief in his pocket. His hand was damp. “Europe, hell!” he exclaimed. But the sound of his own voice could not reassure him. One could not forget Colonel Grayson. One could not forget the implication behind the Colonel’s visit. If there was any war, America would be in it. America had recently become friendly—oh, so very friendly!—with England. America, who only very recently had ceased to bait, and jeer, at England on every national holiday, such as the Fourth of July!
Charles shook his head violently. Let’s be sensible, he said to himself. I’m getting worked up, probably about nothing.
He went downstairs, where Jimmy was waiting for him among the dark behemoth-like furniture of the dining room. He, Charles, had only to wait If that mysterious official from an even more mysterious “company” never called upon him,he would forget all this nonsense. “Hello, Jimmy,” he said to his son. Jimmy rose at his father’s entrance. Ever since Sunday night the boy’s eyes had searched his face anxiously whenever he had seen him. Charles did not know why he should feel so irritated at Jimmy, when he again caught that glance of concern and worry. But he smiled determinedly, sat down, shook out his big white napkin. “Hot again today, isn’t it?”
Jimmy sat down. “Mrs. Meyers and I were wondering about you, Dad,” he said.
“Stop worrying!” Charles exploded. Then seeing Jimmy’s bewilderment, he controlled himself. “Look here, Jimmy, you’ve got to stop it. I’m all right. I’m not ‘disappointed.’ I’m damned glad about your decision. Now, let it alone, will you? I can’t have you following me around like a lost dog any more, son.”
Jimmy had turned bright red. He was not accustomed to hearing Charles scold him, nor to seeing his father’s eyes so angry when they looked at him.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, hurt. What was wrong with Dad? Why was he so unnerved these last few days? “It was just that you’re late, and today’s the day you talk about the river property. You remember you told me about it?”
“I always tell you about everything,” said Charles, remorseful. There was his morning paper at his plate; he pushed it away. “It’s the heat, Jimmy. And everything.” He smiled at the boy again. “I’m not worrying about the river property.”
Jimmy returned his smile. But furtively, he glanced at his father. Dad was pale; he looked tired and strained. Jimmy had few memories of his father which were not strong, controlled, even serene. Until recently.
Elsie Meyers, a round little ball of a woman, came in with Charles’ bacon and eggs and coffee. She was a widow of fifty, and had been Charles’ housekeeper for many years. She kept her eyes down, and her lips pursed, as she placed the plate before Charles. She, too, was hurt. Charles sighed. “Mrs. Meyers,” he said, “I shouldn’t have shouted at you, I know. But I didn’t sleep well. It was the heat.”
“Yes, Mr. Wittmann,” she replied, with dignity. But she was mollified. It wasn’t like Mr. Wittmann to lose his temper. She, too, gave Charles a furtive glance. “You ought’ve taken a vacation this summer, Mr. Wittmann,” she remarked. “You look tired.”
“I’m not tired, Elsie.” Then Charles looked at Jimmy. “I’ve an idea. How about you and me going fishing over the weekend, eh?”
Jimmy was overjoyed. Jimmy was young; he was only seventeen. Nothing could happen to Jimmy. Let Europe seethe, let the whisperers whisper. It had nothing to do with Jimmy. Then Charles, about to drink his coffee, let the cup go back to its saucer, untouched.
What had Grayson said? Murder. Kill. Men’s love for war.
Charles lifted the cup to his mouth and drank slowly. He said: “How’s the tutoring coming along, Jimmy? By the way, what are you studying just now? History?”
“Sometimes,” replied Jimmy. “It’s part of what I have to make up from last year, when I had no sense.”
Charles attacked his breakfast. He made his tone casual: “I never particularly liked history. Sort of stupid, in a way, all those wars. Why can’t people live in peace?”
“Well, we haven’t really had a war since the Civil War, Dad. You can hardly call the Spanish-American fracas a war, can you?”
“The Balkans are always simmering,” said Charles.
“It seems to me they always did.” Jimmy laughed.
The food was dry in Charles’ mouth. “Well, America will never be in a war again, thank God. But what if she did, Jim? What would you think of it?”
Jimmy frowned, thoughtfully. “Well, it’s impossible, of course. Who would we fight? Who would want to fight us? Nobody. None of the major countries would ever want any more wars. They’d have too much to lose, because any modern war would become too big for any nation to handle. That’s what Mr. Trevor says, anyway.”
“But what would you think of it?” Charles persisted.
“I?” Jimmy was surprised. “Well, Dad, to tell the truth, I can’t imagine us in a war with anybody.” He considered his father’s suggestion more closely. “Still, if we were attacked, I’d like to help defend America. Of course,” he added.
“But how would you feel about killing other men, Jimmy?”
“Killing?” repeated Jimmy. “Why, Dad, I don’t think I could kill anybody. Unless, of course, we were attacked. Even then, I’d hate it. Yes,” he went on, with young vehemence, “I’d hate it. I don’t think I’d ever get over it.”
Powerful relief filled Charles. Grayson was wrong. People did not instinctively desire to kill, to murder. Here was a young feller, and he’d “hate” it.
“But then,” Jimmy was saying, “I’ll be a doctor, and I suppose I have a doctor’s mind. Doctors want to save, not murder.” Jimmy leaned his elbow on the table, and rested his chin in his hand, thoughtfully. The morning light, muted through the trees, struck through the window and lay on the wide angle of his young jaw.
Charles could not finish his breakfast. He pushed a piece of toast around his plate, then dropped it. How could he have forgotten the joy and excitement in the country during the Spanish-American War? How could he have forgotten how he and his own young friends had fought imaginary “Indian” wars, and had revelled in combat and fighting? The fury, the happy race, the impersonal hate, the stimulation, the freeing of some dark and primitive instinct! He, himself, would never feel all that again, for he had become a man, and he was a father. But what of the millions, the hundreds of millions, of young men everywhere, all over the world, who would delight in war, who would go lusting after it with a lust far beyond the desire for a woman? How could he, Charles, have forgotten that so soon?
“What’s the matter, Dad?” asked Jimmy, with alarm.
“I was just thinking,” Charles answered, and he heard his own voice stifled and unnatural even to his own ears. “I was just thinking that man is the only species on earth which bands together to kill his own kind. I suppose,” he added, heavily, “that’s what’s behind crusades, ‘holy’ wars, ‘defense of country,’ everything—just wanting to kill. We’re bad; man should never have been created.”
Jimmy’s alarm increased. There was silence in the room. It was there a long time before Charles became aware of it. When he saw his son’s face, he wanted to smile, he wanted to say something light and sensible. But he could not. He could only stand up and sigh.
“Well, I’ve got to go, Jimmy,” he said.
A man tried to live a placid, well-ordered, and useful life, meeting each problem with prudence and detachment. He liked calmness and sense, despising hysteria and emotionalism. He had proved to himself that this was the only intelligent way to live, and he had discovered that by living like this he remained master of all circumstance, and nothing disturbed him overmuch.
Then a day, or days, arrived, and everything was in disorder. He could control nothing, not even his own thoughts. Some center in his life, or the life about him, disintegrated, and flew apart. He suddenly realized that he was not only not master of himself, but was not master of circumstance.
So Charles thought, on the way to his office. A week ago everythi
ng had been tranquil in his life. His brothers were sources of annoyance to him at times, true; but they were also sources of amused interest. Jochen had even furnished a kind of excitement for him. Strategy was one of Charles’ most potent characteristics, and he liked to exercise it. It gave him a feeling of well-being, of power, of control. Wilhelm’s eccentricities were the spice of his life; Friederich might bore him, but there was an unpredictability about Friederich’s absurdities which nullified the ennui he aroused in Charles.
The shops were doing well. So, everything, until very lately, had been proceeding according to a sensible man’s desire. Life had been mastered; it went through its paces with the easy obedience of a loping circus horse, alert for the crack of the whip of the master.
Then all at once the circus horse, plump, dappled, clean and well-mannered, had changed into a wild and savage beast. A few words here and there, disconnected; a melodramatic visit from an unknown Army officer; a whisper, a movement in the dark. But in consequence, life had become dangerous and sinister.
Charles struggled with himself. His mind, always so disciplined, was in a wordless panic. I’m just tired. A little rest, perhaps. A change of scene. Everything will straighten itself out. But he knew he was not tired; he knew everything had moved, shifted. There was a terror loose in the world, somewhere. He could feel it. All about him were sunshine and amiable people going about their business in the streets. He tried to concentrate upon this. But it was like looking on the bright-colored and happy façade of a nightmare, knowing that something horrible was mounting and shaping behind it, which would soon topple over the painted front and reveal churning chaos.
“Nonsense,” was Charles’ favorite word. He repeated it to himself like a litany as he walked into the offices. But it had no power to exorcise the shapeless fear in him. However, when he entered the directors’ room, and found his brothers impatiently waiting for him, he had so far controlled himself that he seemed almost as usual.
“You’re late, Charlie,” Jochen said, looking at his watch. “Bad night, eh?”
Friederich gave him a surly but reassuringly furtive glance. “I never knew you to be late before, Karl.”
“And I am meeting some friends from New York at twelve,” said Wilhelm, pointedly. “Of all mornings, you ought to have been here on time, Charles.”
“Sorry,” said Charles, curtly. He sat down on his chair, at the head of the neat polished table. He studied his brothers. Then he was sick of them. He wanted nothing but to be rid of them, to hide himself somewhere, to try to get his thoughts into some kind of order.
Jochen said, yawning: “Did you see the paper? Leon Bouchard’s in town. At the Imperial Hotel. Just passing through, the paper said, on the way to Windsor. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s behind the Connington deal for getting our river property. Say, what’s the matter, Charlie?”
For Charles was gripping the edge of the table so tightly that his whitened knuckles showed in the brilliant August light. “Leon Bouchard?”
“Why, you remember Mr. Bouchard,” said Jochen, his alert senses making him sit up. “You remember they invited us to visit their big plants in Windsor, when they gave us that juicy order two years ago. You went, and I went with you. Leon’s the quiet one, the square short one. The vice-president. Mr. Jules was out of town—you remember. Leon showed us around the plant. You know.”
“How long has he been here? How long is he staying?”
Jochen chuckled. “Thinking of wangling an order out of him? That’s dandy. Go to it, Charlie. How long’s he been here? The paper said since yesterday evening. Came in late. Seeing that he was so nice to us, I’ve been thinking we ought to invite him out to see our own shops. A mouse showing an elephant, in a way. But we’re all right, if I do say so, myself. And he could do worse than having dinner at my house.”
“Your house,” said Wilhelm, with elegant consideration. “Why not mine? I’m having a dinner for some friends tomorrow. What do you think of my inviting him, Charlie?”
“No,” said Charles. His hands gripped the table harder. “No,” he repeated.
All of his brothers looked at him, surprised. He saw their faces so clearly, Jochen’s big and flushed and gross, Wilhelm’s fine-drawn and dark and patrician, Friederich’s surly and suspicious. Their faces seemed to advance upon him like nightmares; he wanted to put up his hand to protect himself. “No,” he said again. Now his voice sounded more normal. “There’s no use running after Mr. Bouchard. If he wants anything, he’ll find us. Ridiculous—toadying to him. Undignified.”
“I agree with Charles,” said Wilhelm. He looked meaningly at his thin gold watch, beautifully inlaid with enamel. A French watch.
“I hate the Bouchards,” said Friederich. “The most reactionary bastards in the country. Why doesn’t the Government get its anti-trust laws out against them? They have subsidiaries all over the damn country. They control too much.”
Jochen gave him an irate look, then remembering the business of the morning, he subsided. “I don’t know,” he said. “We’re in the business of selling our machine tools. It wouldn’t do any harm to remind Mr. Bouchard we’re alive—and willing.”
“No,” said Charles. The panic was rioting in him. “Let him make the advances, in this instance.” He turned to Friederich. “I don’t like the Bouchards much, either—Friederich.” He spoke carefully. “We can get along without their business.”
“And their money, too, of course,” said Jochen angrily. “What’s the matter with you, Charlie? You skipped off fast enough, two years ago, when they invited us. Beamed all over. Almost curtsied to Bouchard. Almost rubbed your hands.”
Wilhelm and Friederich were now observing Charles with uncertainty.
Friederich cleared his throat with that rasping sound which Charles always found so intolerable. “It does seem—” he said. Wilhelm tapped aristocratic fingers on the table. “It wouldn’t do much harm, I think, to remind him of our existence.”
“He knows,” said Charles. “Yes,” he said, “he knows.”
Jochen’s tiny brown eyes narrowed upon his brother. “What’s the matter, Charlie?” he asked, in a very soft tone.
Now Charles was afraid. Once arouse the tenacious Jochen, and everything was lost. Deliberately, he changed the expression on his face to one of good humor. “Let me think about it,” he said. “Frankly, I’m more concerned just now about our immediate business. Later, I’ll think about Mr. Bouchard. Men like him hate to be coerced. I remember Mr. Leon Bouchard. Independent and reserved. He would hate crude methods.”
Wilhelm nodded. Friederich seemed restive. Jochen said nothing.
“Now,” said Charles, looking at the single sheet of paper before him, “let’s discuss that river property matter. Joe, you still think we should sell to the Connington?”
“Why not? They offer a big price. And big prices aren’t something to be sneered at these days”
“But—on the river front. You know I’ve always wanted to preserve the river front for the people. We haven’t any right to help destroy it, and make it ugly.”
“To hell with the people,” said Jochen, easily, winking at Wilhelm. “Who cares about them? Besides, it will bring more business into town. Andersburg could use a few more industries. And the Connington are a big concern.”
Friederich turned to him. “What do you mean: ‘To hell with the people’?” His bony face, so wide and pale, had darkened.
Charles could forget Bouchard and Sons now, for a few minutes. Joe had put his foot into it. Jochen saw this at once. He became flustered. He drew out his silver cigar case, chose a cigar, lit it carefully. “Oh, now,” he said, carelessly. “Don’t get on your high horse, Fred. I was really thinking of the work the Connington would create, for everybody. They’d even bring in more men, and more men mean more trade for Andersburg, and house-building—everything.”
Wilhelm broke in, in his precise and disdainful voice: “Everything. Yes. Especially chimneys practically under my n
ose.”
Jochen stared at him formidably. “They’d be far down, Willie. Too far down, almost, for you to see them. Besides, it’s a big tract of land. They could build their plant out of sight of your house, around the bend.” Again, he concentrated upon Wilhelm. “What’s the matter with you? You were strong for it only a week ago. Think of the price, Willie. That’s the main thing.”
“Think,” broke in Charles, “of the Wittmann Civic Park.”
Jochen swung in his chair to him. “Eh? What are you talking about, Charlie?”
Charles could lean back now. “I’ve been thinking of accepting the offer of the city for that property, to be made into a park. I’ve thought of insisting that it be called the Wittmann Civic Park, in honor of our family. A park for the people.”
Jochen stared at him. Then he said, very slowly, spacing his words: “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I can visualize it,” said Charles. “The river, the park, the trees, the grass. The Wittmann Civic Park. Stone pillars, at the entrance. ‘The Wittmann Civic Park’ on it on a bronze plaque, perhaps, or just chiselled into the stone. ‘In memory of Walther and Emil Wittmann.’ Very nice. And what a view from your window, Wilhelm.”
“Well, good,” said Jochen, sneeringly. “And a loss of two-thirds in hard cash. Keep the Connington out. Let us remain a backward town. Keep it tight.”
“I,” said Charles, “have taken an option on the Burnsley property. It’s just right for the Connington. Best piece of land around here, and the only land for sale. The Connington will take it, and they’ll keep their dirty chimneys and their shacks away from the city. Moreover, they’d be right near the rail-road. That would be an inducement, too.”
Jochen was breathless with rage. He tried to gather the eyes of his other brothers to him. But they would not look at him. So. Old Charlie with his idiot schemes, again.
The Balance Wheel Page 10