For the first time in his life he felt securely strong, and even superior to Charles, who had not seen what was obvious. Poor Charles. Wilhelm felt his old affection for his brother return to him, deeper and warmer than ever. However, he held back an inclination to incite Charles to further rage with gentle ridicule, for he remembered what he had believed of him, and of Phyllis, only a little more than an hour ago. “I must talk to Jochen alone. Let us go downstairs. Please wait for me, Charles. When I’ve finished with Jochen I want you to join us.”
He stood up. “What do you think we should do to Jochen?”
“I don’t know,” said Charles, boiling. “I know what I’d like to do to him. Kick him out!”
Wilhelm smiled leniently. “We might be able to get to that, one of these days. Yes, I think we might. I have a small matter of my own I’d like to settle with him. No, I can’t tell you, Charles. It’s too mortifying—” Phyllis was standing beside him. “Too mortifying. Too shameful,” added Wilhelm. “And then, again, he might become so enraged, when he finds out that we know all about him, that he might, very possibly, say something so unpardonable that he couldn’t remain with the company.”
Wilhelm considered this, no longer smiling. “Come down with us, Phyllis. Stay with Charles, while I talk to Jochen. I think, in your presence, after we’ve had a talk, that Jochen will hold his tongue. I don’t think any of us is quite ready, just now, to ‘kick him out,’ as Charles says.”
“I am,” said Charles. They walked to the door, then Charles paused. “I don’t like mysteries, Willie. What has he been telling you? I’ve got to know.”
Wilhelm turned, and looked at his brother. “No,” he said. “No. That’s something I’ll never tell you, Charles. For if I did you could never be friends with me again. You’d despise me, and you’d be right. I don’t want that to happen.” He looked at Phyllis. “You’d despise me, too, my dear. That would be even worse for me.”
He quickly opened the door, and Charles and Phyllis followed him. Charles said: “And to think that all the time I was thinking that Brinkwell was just wanting to set up his shops in competition with us! And all the time—”
They reached the stairway together, then stopped. Jochen, having become uneasy at the long delay, and the silence upstairs, had come back into the hall. He was standing there below, squinting up at them in the subdued light.
“Well,” he said, trying to see.
Wilhelm drew back and let Phyllis precede him. She went down a few steps and Charles, near the banister, and Wilhelm, near the wall, followed her, side by side.
It was Wilhelm’s intention to be dignified, and not to make a scene before his wife. But as he went down the stairs with Charles his hatred and anger became too much for him, and his shame. He did not want Jochen to be near Phyllis, or even to look at her. It was too much! So, he began to hurry, to catch up with Phyllis. “Don’t—” he exclaimed.
It was then that he slipped on the glimmering marble stairs.
Charles instinctively threw out a hand to catch him, but it was too late. Wilhelm’s sleeve was torn from his fingers as Wilhelm went hurtling past him. Phyllis, hearing Wilhelm’s exclamation and Charles’ cry, turned just in time to see her husband flying headlong down the stairs. She drew back with a scream as he neared her, his arms flaying. Then a moment later he had crashed below her, on the last steps, almost at Jochen’s feet.
Charles stood paralyzed on the stairway. He heard Phyllis screaming, over and over. He saw his brother lying huddled together, motionless, face down, a broken body in rumpled black. He gripped the balustrade, for his legs were weakening with horror and disbelief. He could not move. Dazed, he watched Phyllis running down the stairs. He saw her kneeling beside Wilhelm, her violet gown spread all about her. She was still screaming. And he could not move.
Jochen looked at the man near his feet. Then, very slowly, he lifted his eyes to Charles.
“So, that’s how you settled it,” he said.
It was terrible, to hear Phyllis screaming like that. Charles wanted to go to her. But the stairs were wavering before him, and he had to sit down to save himself from falling, also.
CHAPTER XXXVI
Colonel Grayson looked at Charles sympathetically. “I know it’s hard for you to think of anything just now,” he said. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, but time’s pressing, and we must be prepared.”
Charles nodded. He looked at the papers which Colonel Grayson had placed before him; they were copies of certain patents he held in his own name and in the name of the company. But it was difficult to see; it was difficult to focus, or to care.
“When I read of your brother’s death, I delayed for three weeks,” said the colonel.
“Yes,” said Charles, in a dull voice. He tried to look over the papers; he moved his glasses on his nose. The papers were without meaning. He shifted them about a little, then his hand just lay on them.
“A terrible blow to you,” continued the colonel.
Charles said nothing. “A terrible blow.” Willie. Willie in the burial plot beside his parents. It wasn’t possible. Willie with his “modern art,” his elegance, his affectations, his fastidiousness, his mercurial delight in living: it wasn’t possible. It had happened six weeks ago, but still Charles could not believe it. Wilhelm had lived for five hours after his fall, though he had never regained consciousness. Charles would never forget those five hours of waiting. Charles took off his glasses and rubbed the red spot on his nose. During those five hours it had begun to rain, and finally there had been a thunderstorm. He would never hear thunder again without seeing Wilhelm’s dying face, and without hearing Phyllis’ smothered weeping. “A broken neck,” the doctor had said. He had tried to console Charles and Phyllis, while Jochen had stood at a distance. “He didn’t suffer,” the doctor had said. How could he know? The dying have no voice. Charles looked at the copies of his patents.
“No,” he said.
Colonel Grayson frowned, though he was still sympathetic.
“Perhaps I haven’t made it clear to you, Mr. Wittmann,” he began.
“You’ve made it clear that when the Amalgamated Steel Company in Pittsburgh asks for these patents I should lease them to them,” he said. “The answer is ‘no.’”
The colonel shifted his slight body in his chair. “Why not, Mr. Wittmann?”
It was difficult to talk, and it was an actual physical effort which involved strain. “I’ve been thinking of my brother Wilhelm,” he said. “You wouldn’t understand, Colonel Grayson, when I say that I just thought to myself: ‘The dying never have a voice.’”
The colonel considered this seriously. Then he said: “I think I do understand. But—”
“Since you were here last August, I’ve been doing a lot of reading, and a lot of questioning,” Charles interrupted. “I know what’s in the wind. No one, but no one, is going to get any of my patents for any such purpose. The Amalgamated makes munitions, doesn’t it, just like the Connington? My patents won’t ever be used to make munitions, Colonel Grayson.”
The colonel was silent, smoking. Charles stood up, and thrust his hands deep in his pockets. “Who are the Amalgamated making munitions for, if they are making munitions now?” he asked.
“They aren’t making munitions, not just yet, Mr. Wittmann. But if they do—”
“Germany?” said Charles.
“No. Not Germany.”
“For England, perhaps, and France, or possibly Russia?”
“Mr. Wittmann,” said the colonel, “I’m not in a position to tell you anything. Frankly, I know very little, anyway. The Amalgamated may never ask for your patents. I hope not. We’re doing everything we can in Washington.”
“But you didn’t do enough, in time.”
“I know what you’re thinking of, Mr. Wittmann. I remember the conversation we had last August very clearly. You’ll remember that I said that some things happen no matter what is done, or what is tried. Maybe what we both don’t want to hap
pen never will. I admit our State Department is inadequate, and that they’re confused with rumors—”
Charles broke in: “You may not know it, but the Connington Steel Company, which has just opened here in Andersburg, has been trying to get these patents from me for months. Maybe they know more than our ‘inadequate’ State Department seems to know.”
“Very possibly,” said the colonel, gravely.
“They knew. Everyone in Europe knew. I’ve been reading, as I said, Colonel Grayson. I’ve been asking questions. Everyone knew but our State Department. Or didn’t it?”
“Mr. Wittmann, I’m a military man, not a member of the State Department. If our State Department knows, it doesn’t want to believe. And then again, it may be right. Nothing may happen.”
“Even though the Connington, and the Bouchards, are sure it will?”
The colonel rolled his cigarette in his fingers. “You can’t be certain of that.”
“Not with actual quotations from them—no. But I had a talk this winter with Brinkwell. I know what he tried to get from my brother Jochen. I stopped that. Brinkwell and I understand each other very well.”
The colonel sighed. “All right, Mr. Wittmann, suppose we grant your premise that there’ll be a war in Europe.” He hesitated. “I returned from a visit to Germany two months ago.
“I’m thinking of the Germans, Mr. Wittmann. Have you been to Germany recently? No? There’s been a change in Germany. I’ve talked to people close to the Kaiser. The man is definitely insane. Do you know anything about insanity, Mr. Wittmann? I do. Insanity is contagious. Ten years ago the Germans were an enthusiastic nation, proud of what they had done, full of ambition, hopeful. They had a right to be. Now they’ve caught insanity from their Kaiser.”
The colonel smiled wryly. “I’m not a scholar, Mr. Wittmann. But I remember something Epicurus said: ‘Nothing is enough for the man to whom enough is too little.’”
“He’s being pushed, goaded, manoeuvered—”
The colonel gave Charles a sharp glance. “Perhaps. Knowing what I know about European tensions and ambitions and hates and envies, I can say ‘perhaps.’ But you can’t ‘goad, push or manoeuver’ a sane man into anything, or a sane nation. A nation can be proud, but not proud enough to plan for world conquest, or even to want it.”
“You think the Kaiser wants it?”
“Yes. Definitely. He’s out of his mind. And he’s afraid; that’s part of his insanity. Perhaps other nations are deliberately frightening the Kaiser. Yes. Because they want Germany to commit suicide, which is the real name for war.”
“And you want me to lease my patents, if they are called for, to help in a general suicide?”
The colonel frowned.
Charles said: “I’ve been reading. I’ve found out a lot of things. The munitions makers of Europe are very active, and have been active for the past three years.”
“But if they had no potential market, they wouldn’t be active, Mr. Wittmann. Let us say they ‘smell’ a bad situation coming up, an explosive situation.”
He waited for Charles to speak, but Charles was silent. He continued: “Do you know what Friederich von Bernhardi recently said? ‘The inevitableness, the idealism, and the blessing of war, as an indispensable and stimulating law of development, must be repeatedly emphasized.’ That is the sort of thing he tells the Kaiser, and the Kaiser is listening.”
“Now, Colonel Grayson, let me tell you something Bonar Law just said: ‘There is no such thing as an inevitable war. If war comes it will be from failure of human wisdom.’”
The colonel smiled sourly. “Yes, I can see that you’ve been reading, Mr. Wittmann. ‘Human wisdom’? Can you mention one instance of human wisdom, anywhere, in the whole history of man?” He gave Charles a long, hard look. “Why did your grandfather, and your father, leave Germany?”
Charles did not answer.
“Do you want the condition which existed, and now exists again, in Germany, to spread all over Europe, Mr. Wittmann?”
“Is it existing?”
“Yes, it is. Now.” He looked at the copies of the patents. “France is free; Scandinavia is free; England is free—Don’t you prefer that kind of freedom to the kind of thing which now prevails in Germany?”
Charles sat down. His face had flushed, and his heavy eyes were stern. “You may be a military man, Colonel Grayson, but I’m a business man. We have free enterprise in America. I’ve been reading very nice accounts of ‘free enterprise’ in England. That’s a lie. There never was free enterprise in England, as we know it here in America. And there probably won’t ever be. I don’t want to help the English, Colonel Grayson.”
The colonel nodded. “But that’s not the point. The thing in Europe is now just a powder-keg, waiting for a spark. Something is sure to set it off.”
“And if it’s set off, the Amalgamated will use my patents to help England? No.”
“Perhaps by helping England we’ll be helping ourselves.”
“Europe’s always fighting. There’s no reason for us to be embroiled.” Angry panic rose in Charles’ voice.
“Quite true. We may be able to keep out of it—by helping people who are just expedient, and not insane. You may think them the same thing, but they aren’t.”
“I don’t care what happens to Europe,” said Charles, stubbornly. “I care only for America.”
Again, the colonel considered what Charles had said. “Let me put it this way: by helping England, if there is a war, we’ll also be preparing to defend ourselves.”
Charles exclaimed: “It is impossible that you’re thinking we’d get into a war!”
“We might. We just possibly might.”
Charles said: “It wasn’t even a year ago when you asked me not to sell or lease or lend my patents to anyone, under any circumstances.”
“Quite true. I’m still asking you that, unless you hear from me to the contrary. But the situation has changed, in Europe. It is changing hour by hour.”
“You’ll never get the American people to believe that they must embroil themselves in any European struggle for power!”
“The American people will resist war. Let us hope that it will never be necessary for them to change their minds. If there is a war in Europe, we won’t be able, I’m afraid, to stay out, passively or actively. Let’s hope we’ll only need to help arm England, and the other free nations of the world.”
“Like England’s tacit ally, Russia,” Charles sneered.
The colonel sighed. “You don’t know what’s going on in Europe, Mr. Wittmann.” He stood up.
“You’re a ‘military man,’ as you said, Colonel,” remarked Charles bitterly. “And military men never have denounced war.”
“Mr. Wittmann,” said the colonel, “I’m also the father of sons, and the grandfather of my sons’ sons.” He looked at Charles gravely. “I don’t want my sons and their sons to die. I want to protect them, in any way possible. That’s why I’m here now.”
Charles felt ill. He was feeling ill very often these days. He leaned his forehead on the back of his hand. “I can’t think clearly,” he muttered. “My brother—” He then thought of Friederich. “I have another brother, here, who wouldn’t consent—”
“But you’re the president of this company. Mr. Wittmann, try to believe that there might not be any war. I’m just asking you to give your own consent when the Amalgamated Steel Company asks you about the patents. When they do, you’ll know it’s urgent.”
“I can manufacture anything necessary,” said Charles.
“I’m sorry, but you aren’t a big enough company. The Amalgamated could produce twenty times as much as you could, and more rapidly.”
Charles looked up, exhausted. “I’ll wait. I’ll see,” he said.
“There’s just one other thing, Mr. Wittmann: Don’t let the Bouchards or the Connington have anything. If there is a war, they’ll be manufacturing for Germany, directly, and they’ll be sending patents to Germany, for ma
nufacture. I happen to know that. They’re already doing it, in fact, through their European subsidiaries.”
The colonel was a man of sympathy. He studied Charles’ shrunken face. He said: “I’ve got to go at once. And, Mr. Wittmann, I want you to know how terribly sorry I am about your brother.”
CHAPTER XXXVII
Jimmy had been accepted at Harvard. There was just the small matter of somewhat low marks in Latin, so again the weary tutor was called in to assist. Jimmy was saying nothing, these days, about seeing Geraldine, but Charles knew that the boy often saw the girl. He appreciated Jimmy’s thoughtfulness in not telling him of this, or rather, he appreciated what Jimmy was trying to do for him. He trod delicately around Jimmy’s high opinion of him, and Jimmy’s conviction, since the quarrel between his father and uncle, that Charles would prefer him not to see his cousin.
When Jimmy had announced the last day of school Charles had nodded abstractedly. Time passed, now, without visible trace for him. There was too much grief and fear in him, too much apprehension and sense of helplessness. He worked harder than ever. He had not slept well since Wilhelm’s death, and when he did sleep he dreamt of his brother. Once he dreamt that he was talking to Wilhelm, and he heard himself saying: “Only when death comes do we realize how much in common we had with the dead. Willie, why didn’t we talk about so many things, together?”
There was, of course, Jochen. There was Jochen’s plot with Brinkwell, which Wilhelm had so easily explained, to Charles’ mortification. The estrangement between the two brothers was complete. Charles often said to himself: There is no turning back.
He often heard Jochen’s quick but heavy step, lumbering past his office door. There was no hesitation in that step. Plot, Charles would say to himself, savagely. I know, and I’m prepared, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
He told himself that he no longer felt regret, and he knew that this was not true. He knew it was not true when he found himself hating Roger Brinkwell more than he hated Jochen. Then one night Charles thought: Why go on deceiving myself? There was bound to be a Brinkwell, eventually, in Jochen’s life.
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