The Strong City

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  “Child!” she sighed. “I hope you are not too disappointed.”

  “I am never disappointed in anything,” replied Irmgard, in a low deep voice.

  “You are very like your mother,” said Emmi, gazing at her sadly.

  The girl was silent, and only smiled again. She gave an impression of profound spiritual strength and tremendous calm, without inflexibility. Yet, there was nothing bovine in her composure, nothing static. She was one who accepted everything, Emmi thought, without rebellion or despair. But for all the girl’s silences, Emmi suspected there were depths which very few would be permitted to know.

  Emmi lifted the bundle again. “We must go,” she said, briskly. “You must be tired, after a night on that dirty train.”

  They went out into the sooty rain. Their feet splashed into puddles. Irmgard glanced about her, at the slums, the mills in the distance, and the bowed women creeping along the sidewalk.

  “This is probably much different from what you expected,” said Emmi, hoping the girl was not too discouraged.

  “I never expect anything,” replied Irmgard, and smiled once more.

  Is she stupid? thought Emmi, for a quick moment. But surely the daughter of Hertha and Emil Hoeller could not possibly be stupid! She was so involved in her thoughts that she did not speak to the girl on the car, and only sat beside her, staring straight ahead. The passengers on the car, awakened from their lethargy by the sight of such spectacular beauty, gazed at Irmgard with expressions of sullen astonishment. If the girl were aware of the attention she attracted, she gave no sign of it. She sat upright, and quietly, her hands in her lap. Emmi studied those hands, large, well-shaped, chapped, but of fine formation. Serenity and stillness flowed out of Irmgard, like a calm light.

  When they were finally walking up Mulberry Street, Emmi said:

  “You will find America much different from Germany. This is a strange and hopeless land, Irmgard.”

  The girl did not reply. Emmi was yet to learn that the hard rigidity about her mouth was not customary, but was an evidence of tremendous self-control. She must learn to be more communicative, thought Emmi. But she is probably feeling very strange just now, and overwhelmed.

  Emmi opened her flat door, and they entered into the clean dim chill of Irmgard’s bedroom. The girl looked about her briefly. The hard lines about her lips softened. “You must unpack immediately,” said Emmi, “and change. Then, come into the kitchen, in the rear, where it is warm. I must prepare my dinner.”

  She went away, closing the door after her. She mounted to her room and removed her jacket, stole and bonnet. She was surprised to find that her hands were trembling a little, and curious excitement thrilling in her blood. She thought of Franz, and how astonished he would be at seeing such loveliness and strangeness. She descended to the kitchen again. It was odd that the loneliness of the flat had gone already, and it seemed filled with comfort. Emmi peeled some potatoes, and prepared some cheap lamb for the stew kettle. But her thoughts were occupied with that bare bedroom in the front of the flat.

  The door opened and the girl, dressed in an obviously new black gown, entered. The dress was old-fashioned, without taste, and clumsy. It was evidently her best. She came into the kitchen with a slow quiet step, full of dignity and composure. Emmi had laid out a place on the table, which she had covered with a clean white cloth.

  “There is some hot coffee for you, my dear, and some fresh rolls and jam. You must be hungry.”

  The girl, not speaking, sat down. She looked about the kitchen with her long slow gaze. Without her misshapen bonnet, she was more handsome than ever, and her golden head more regal. She was only nineteen, but seemed much older. She ate obediently, and with appetite. Emmi busied herself about the stove for long silent minutes. There were so many things she wished to say, so many questions to ask. But that silence held her back, like an upheld hand.

  Finally, however, she said: “You must not expect much of America, Irmgard. What we heard in Germany about this country is only lies. There may be beautiful places here, but I have not seen them yet. I have seen only dirtiness, ugliness and hopelessness. All this is for the poor. There is no dignity here. In Germany, even the poor have dignity, even the poorest peasant. But unless one is rich in America, there is only shamefulness and weariness.”

  The girl, having finished her small meal, rose and went to the kitchen window. She had not spoken since she had entered the room. She stood, and looked through the streaming window at the grimy wall of the court opposite.

  Emmi, at the stove, paused, and looked at that young and vital figure. She spoke again, in a loud harsh voice of bitterness:

  “Do you understand, Irmgard? There is no spring here.”

  Irmgard turned and looked at her aunt with those brilliant green eyes. “No spring?” she murmured. And then Emmi knew she understood.

  “No springtime of hope, Irmgard. It is always winter. A new land, without spring. A land of promise and strength and newness, which was blasted in midwinter, and went no further. Noise and confusion, and much running about, and fever, and no brightness. I have seen other cities in this state, and they are all the same. There is a sickness in them all, and a sick madness. A money madness.”

  She paused, then went on in a lower, but an even more bitter voice: “When we came here, I thought: It is a new land, and all the hopes of men are here, all the hopes which were killed in Europe. Here, anything can happen, everything brave and glorious and free, and good. I have found it different, Irmgard. I have found that men came from Europe, but brought their illness in a worse form with them.”

  Her long pale face contorted in a sudden spasm, as though she could not control her years of grief and despair, and acrid disappointment.

  “It was not money I wanted, Irmgard. I wanted a chance to live in a land where all things are born, and great things accomplished. Where all the dreams of noble men could come true, and live. Perhaps those who made this country thought so, too. But it is all a lie.” She added: “I left the sickness which was the new Germany, and the cruelty, and the misery and oppression. I found them here. They were even worse in America, for they were dirty, and men were even more corrupt.”

  Irmgard had been listening intently, her eyes fixed on Emmi’s working face. Emmi then turned abruptly to her stove. “But what can one do?” she muttered. There was a salty burning at the corners of her lids.

  “And Uncle Egon? And Franz? They find it so, also?” asked Irmgard.

  Emmi bent her head over her kettle. “Egon never speaks,” she said in a stifled voice. “He is a bookkeeper in the same mill where Franz works. Franz—well, you will hear Franz, himself. He is a foreman in the mills, and doing well. We have twenty-eight dollars a week, and I save much of that. That is all one can do—save a little, grimly. Beyond the money, there is nothing. We all work very hard.”

  “And I shall work, too,” said Irmgard. “I am not afraid of work. Will you let me help you, now?”

  Emmi turned from the stove. She paused. Irmgard smiled at her, and the smile was so sweet, so understanding, so gentle, that Emmi could not speak.

  CHAPTER 8

  Egon Stoessel worked only until half-past five. He arrived home at about six o’clock. But long before that time Emmi was at the front windows, peering carefully through the lace curtains. By six o’clock she was usually in a nervous state of apprehension. Egon had been careless, as usual, and was crushed under the hoofs or wheels of the horse-cars. He had fallen, and injured his skull. He had got lost. He was ill. She alternated between her stove and the windows, her face dully flushed, her eyes sharp with fear. Irmgard, setting the table, watched her with sympathy, listened to her mutters about Egon’s carelessness and absentmindedness. As time passed Emmi became more and more irascible, and railed against her husband, telling Irmgard, in a high stifled voice, about the time that Egon had forgotten to leave his desk; the time he had forgotten his overcoat and had walked home in the cold rain, subsequently developing a br
onchial trouble which had never left him; or another occasion when he had “taken a walk” after his work and did not arirve home until eight o’clock, seemingly much bewildered because it was so late.

  “What can one do with such a man!” she cried, with a manner that implied that Egon exasperated her to the point of active dislike and fury. But Irmgard saw the passionate love and fear in Emmi’s pale blue eyes. “It is not yet six o’clock,” she said soothingly. Emmi stared at the kitchen clock angrily.

  She went to the window again. Egon was coming up the street under his umbrella, walking with his slow uncertain step, his head bent. A pang went through Emmi, as she watched him come. The street-lamps had been lighted. Their yellowish flickering light wavered over the wet and glistening street. Egon bent before the wind, struggling against its force. Across the street, lamps had been lit in the miserable cottages, but these lights merely enhanced the gloomy desolation of the whole scene. Now hail was mingled with the wind and rain, and just as Egon entered his flat, the fusillades of icebullets rattled against the windows.

  “Where have you been? You are wet to the skin. You are so careless, Egon!” upbraided Emmi, helping her husband with his coat, hat and umbrella. But though her voice was loud and impatient, her face was suddenly beautiful with tenderness. She bent her head and kissed his damp sunken cheek. He smiled at her. He was dimly excited. “Irmgard?” he murmured, rubbing his cold thin hands together.

  “She is here.” Emmi took his hand, as though he was a child, and led him into the warm kitchen.

  Irmgard stood up, as the two entered. Egon stopped in the doorway, his smile fading as though he were greatly shocked. He stared at the tall girl for a long moment. Hertha! said his heart, fainting in him.

  “Your Uncle Egon, my child,” said Emmi, briskly. The girl curtseyed, then came forward to kiss the old man. He looked up into her beautiful face, and then he thought to himself: It is Hertha’s face, and her body, but it is not truly Hertha. He had turned quite pale, but he smiled again.

  “I hope you will be happy, liebchen,” he said. “It is a strange country. But you have come to those who love you.”

  He held her hand between both of his tremulous palms, and gazed at her with sad earnestness. Hertha had been so modest, so gentle, so tender, blushing at a word with inarticulate shyness. But he doubted that this girl would blush much, that she would ever be shy or distracted. There was Emmi’s inflexible strength in her, and a still, immovable power. Her beauty was cold, almost static, like that of the moon. He saw her vivid green eyes, so at variance with her large calm features. Those eyes had fire, but as he looked at them, he saw it was an icy fire.

  He sat down in a wooden rocking-chair near the stove, and Emmi brought him his slippers. She removed his wet boots, scolding under her breath, and put his slippers on his tired feet. She brought him a glass of hot milk, which he obediently drank. As he did so, he watched Irmgard as she helped Emmi, noticed her sure firm movements. The curve of her shoulders and long back was amazingly lovely, but without fragility. He glanced quickly and with a question at his wife, and her answering look satisfied him. A faint thrill of excitement ran along his nerves. “Franz will soon be home,” he said.

  “Franz!” muttered Emmi, in a dissatisfied tone.

  While they waited for Franz, Egon asked Irmgard timidly about Germany. “Has it changed much, in the last ten years?” he asked.

  “I saw little change, Uncle Egon,” answered the girl, respectfully. “But then, there is very little change in villages. My father taught his school, and I managed the farm. It was very quiet.” Egon liked the low deep voice, though it was not Hertha’s voice.

  “It seems strange that such a one as Emil could have settled down to teaching school,” said Emmi, with a snort. “I remember him. He burned. He was like a torch. I admired him very much. He would have come to America, after he came out of prison, had it not been for his child, you, Irmgard. He seemed much subdued, like a banked fire. Did he become entirely a petty bourgeoise, Irmgard?”

  Irmgard smiled. “No. He still believed in mankind, Aunt Emmi.”

  Emmi, who was scrutinizing the stew, turned with a sudden sharpness to her niece, and frowned. “You speak as though you were amused,” she said. “And cynical.”

  The girl saw that her aunt was both annoyed and suspicious, and curiously startled.

  “No,” she replied, and that was all. But the frown remained between Emmi’s brows. She appeared to have been taken aback. Egon looked from one woman to the other with apprehension.

  “We must have some music after supper,” he said, helplessly. “Did you bring your violin, child?”

  “Yes, I have it. I have not played much, lately, Uncle Egon.”

  He brightened. “Ah, you must make Franz play. He does it so beautifully.”

  “You know very well that Franz has not played for months and months, Egon,” said Emmi, in a hard voice. Egon sighed, said nothing, sipped his milk.

  An odd constraint filled the warm lighted kitchen. Something had gone wrong, reflected Egon. But what was it? Had he said something wrong? He was always offending Emmi, his poor Emmi. That was probably because he was very stupid. His gentle face became humble and distressed. He removed his glasses and polished them on his clean white handkerchief. His weak eyes blinked in the strong light, and were moist, as though full of tears. Irmgard went about her work as calmly and quietly as ever, seeming to know exactly what to do.

  Egon made another attempt. “I have always wanted a farm,” he said timidly. “I can never reconcile myself to living in a city.”

  “But not in America!” exclaimed. Emmi. “Oh, never in America! When Franz marries, and is settled, we might return to Germany, and see what we can do.” Her voice had repudiation in it, and resistance, and bitter defeat. Irmgard lifted her head slowly and gazed intently at her aunt’s flushed profile.

  “You would return to Germany, Aunt Emmi?” she asked. “My father said you would never return.”

  The flush deepened roughly on Ernmi’s lean cheeks, and the bitter lines became sharper about her lips. “I never thought to return. It was the last thing I desired. I turned my back upon Germany, forever. I had a dream of America—” She straightened up, and turned away from both the old man and the girl, and her tone became lower, and a trifle hoarse. “There is no dream. The only thing I wish to do, perhaps very soon, is to go home, and forget I ever had a dream, or a hope.” She pressed her clenched hands savagely on the window-sill and stared at the blackness outside. “I was a fool,” she said, huskily.

  There was no sound in the kitchen, except Egon’s sigh of distress. Then Irmgard said softly: “There never was, and never will be, a Utopia, Aunt Emmi. We must live as we find life, and human beings. But with the stuff we have, we can approach our hopes.”

  Emmi did not answer for a long time. She did not seem to have heard the girl. Finally she turned and regarded Irmgard strangely. She was very pale. If she meant to speak, she was prevented from doing so by the arrival of Franz.

  Franz came in, laughing to himself. He had completely forgotten that his cousin was to arrive today. His strong fair face, all squarenesses and angles, was flushed and damp with rain and wind. The shoulders of his shabby gray coat were black with moisture, and he took off his cap and shook it, shedding sprays of water. His thick yellow hair rose like a crest from his forehead, and under it, his blue eyes glittered in the gaslight. There was an exuberant Norseman quality about him, suggestive of seas and forests and long open plains, a quality of vital and savage energy and strength. But his mother, as always, saw that though he laughed his mouth was long and brutal, and the same brutality was in the square wide line of his jawbones and the breadth of his nose.

  “A bad evening, Mama, Papa,” he said, still laughing at some inner joke. He kissed his parents lightly. Irmgard stood in the pantry door, still unnoticed.

  Emmi had turned her dry colorless cheek to her son to receive his kiss. Now she said severely: “Franz
, your cousin, Irmgard Hoeller.”

  Franz turned with a startled air of remembrance, and saw Irmgard, quietly watching him from the door. His eye ran over her quickly. He saw that she was almost as tall as himself, and he was much taller than average. His first thought was: A handsome cow. A stupid, handsome cow. He did not like tall fair women, and this was perhaps rooted in the antagonism between himself and his mother. He preferred delicate fragile women, small and dark. A level flash of hostility darted between himself and Irmgard. Very stupid, he thought again, and smiled.

  He greeted her courteously enough in German, and in a low indifferent voice she answered. She moved to the table in her bulky shapeless clothing, and laid fresh silver upon its whiteness. She could manage a plow like a man, Franz’s contemptuous thoughts continued, and he saw her hands and felt distaste. Bigness in women revolted him. This was no dainty piece of woman-flesh, but a girl who could run a farm with Teutonic thoroughness and hot health and strength. He stared covertly at her broad shoulders, but was pleased by the slenderness of her waist, so compact and fluid.

  Emmi had been watching the girl and the young man with passionate attention. She saw Irmgard’s indifference and her son’s contemptuous hostility. Anger and furious disappointment seized her. In essentials, her nature was so like Franz’s that she could almost always guess or feel his thoughts.