The Strong City

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  “I never intended to disobey any orders, Mein Herr. But it was a nice day, and Mrs. Schmidt seemed so much better. I suggested a drive. She was eager for it. I consulted Miss Ernestine, and she believed her mother might benefit. That was all.”

  “You suggested a drive!” shrieked Matilda, half lifting her heavy buttocks from the chair, and glaring at Irmgard with concentrated ferocity. “You, knowing the poor lady’s condition—you took her into the cold, after I had told you a thousand times that she must be protected from all air and chill!”

  Irmgard turned slowly, and gazed at her fixedly. “It is not I who wishes Frau Schmidt’s death,” she said, very quietly.

  Hans did not understand, nor hear, the significance under her words. He glowered at Matilda, who had subsided, her nostrils distended, her teeth glistening wetly between her full lips. She looked like a clean fat sow, with bared fangs, waiting, but fearing to attack.

  “So,” said Hans, slowly, to Irmgard, turning again to his pleased contemplation of her face and body. “You believed it would benefit your mistress? Then, perhaps, it was your judgment that was at fault, if your discretion was bad.”

  “She is sleeping peacefully, and well,” said Irmgard, in a low voice. “Much better than any other night. The drive gave her great benefit. She is not such an invalid as one might believe. She needs encouragement to rise from her bed, and resume a normal life. I give her that encouragement. I am certain her physician would approve of this.”

  Hans smiled. “You are a bold piece,” he said. “An obstinate hussy, like all the Dutch.” His smile broadened to a grin. “You are obstinate,” he repeated, as though he were complimenting her. “So. But you must admit that you disobeyed Matilda, who is in charge in this house.”

  Irmgard again smiled radiantly. Her jade-colored eyes softened deliberately as she gazed at the man. “But Frau Schmidt is still the mistress, is she not, Mein Herr?”

  Matilda grunted coarsely. Hans’ eyes shifted away from Irmgard. He thrust out his thick lips, and stared at the fire. “It is true,” he muttered. “But Frau Schmidt’s judgment is not always reliable. She is of a gentle nature. If you insisted, then she had no strength to resist you.”

  “There was no harm done,” said Irmgard, very quietly. “But much good, instead. She is sleeping well.”

  “Obstinate,” repeated Hans, smiling again. He paused. He twiddled his thumbs. “Nevertheless, the opinion is yours. Matilda differs. I am not the one to interfere with servants. Matilda is housekeeper in this house. It is she who gives the orders, and whose commands must be obeyed. I should not have interfered, now, allowing her to discharge you if she saw fit. But it seems that you have gained some influence over Frau Schmidt and over my daughter.”

  “A sneaking, contriving baggage!” cried Matilda.

  “Hush,” said Hans, sternly, flashing his eyes upon her. He looked at Irmgard, more mildly.

  “I am a man of peace, my girl. Matilda tells me that you have repeatedly disobeyed her orders, and created confusion and annoyance in this house. This is bad for all. It undermines discipline. It cannot be endured. You are intelligent. You can see that. There must be order and discipline in any establishment. If one is allowed to disobey, then there is only anarchy.”

  Irmgard paled. She clenched her hands together, kept her voice steady. “I am sorry if this is so. I shall endeavor to obey in the future.” She was terribly frightened, and sickness struck at her heart. She thought of Mrs. Schmidt and Ernestine, and Baldur. She thought of the little peace and pleasure she had brought them. Only she stood between them and black wretchedness. She would promise anything, if she were allowed to remain and protect them!

  Hans grunted. He tapped his knees thoughtfully. All at once he was ill at ease. Finally, he shook his head.

  “Do not think I do not appreciate your kindness to Frau Schmidt. Fräulein Ernestine has spoken well of you, frequently. But this cannot go on, this hostility between my housekeeper, and you.” He paused, and added, almost conciliatory: “Let us be sensible. You, yourself, cannot be happy in this atmosphere. But I am not insensible to what you have done. I intend to give you five hundred dollars and an excellent reference.”

  Irmgard was silent.

  Just at this moment Gillespie, with his usual discretion, was knocking at Ernestine’s door. She came and opened it, dressed in a ruffled white wrap.

  Gillespie coughed. “Miss Ernestine, I thought you might like to know. Irmgard has been called to Matilda’s rooms. You know that Matilda is very angry with the girl.” He coughed a little. “The master is there, also.”

  Ernestine stood before him, her dark curls on her shoulders. Her little face paled, and her lips dried. Then a light of resolution flashed into her eyes, and her mouth tightened. She looked much like her father in that moment.

  “Thank you, Gillespie,” she said, very quietly. She closed the door behind her, and ran down the corridor. She disappeared up the stairway. Gillespie, smiling with smug satifaction, went down to the kitchen, where he and Mrs. Flaherty awaited new developments.

  “Like a little white flame she was,” he said to the cook, “running up the stairs. Not a sound out of her.”

  “It will take more than a little white flame to scorch that fat pork of a Matilda,” said Mrs. Flaherty, grimly.

  Hans was saying, almost with sympathy: “I am sorry, my girl. But there is nothing else to be done.”

  Irmgard turned to Matilda. “It is you who wishes me to go,” she said, bitterly, “for your own evil reasons. I know them.”

  Matilda smiled widely, with malevolence. “You have heard the master. Go and pack your bags at once. You will not attend Frau Schmidt in the morning. I shall do that, until I can replace you.”

  The door opened. Ernestine ran into the room, curls and white draperies flying. She ran to Irmgard, and took her hand. She faced her father, who gaped in angry surprise. She did not look at Matilda, who rose and stood near the hearth, rage and hatred in her eyes.

  “Papa!” cried Ernestine, vehemently, “what is this?”

  “It is none of your affair,” replied Hans, trying for his usual brutality. He glowered at his daughter, so small and childlike, so furious and aroused, and in spite of himself, he was delighted at such unusual spirit and passion. The child had changed; there was life in her, at last! His voice became mild, fond. “Go away, Ernestine. This is a matter between servants. You have nothing to do with this.”

  “Haven’t I!” exclaimed Ernestine, furiously. “I have a great deal to do with this, and I won’t stand by and see Irmgard abused, or dismissed.” She swung like a small nemesis upon Matilda. “It is all you! You have always hated Irmgard, because she is young and pretty, and good, and you are afraid of her! It is you who should be dismissed. You have caused us a great deal of trouble. You are insolent and tyrannical. I have wanted to talk to my father about you before—”

  “Ernestine!” roared Hans, half rising out of his chair.

  She turned upon him, almost beside herself, and before that diminutive rage, he fell back, open-mouthed, but strangely and happily amazed.

  “Papa! How you can listen to this—this woman, is beyond me! She hated Irmgard from the first. She has always persecuted her.” Suddenly shame turned the girl’s cheeks scarlet. She looked at her father, and tears of grief and humiliation filled her eyes. She began to stammer, in a choked voice. “I—I know you have always listened to Matilda, Papa. It—it is more than I can bear—”

  He stared at her. And then, very slowly, he knew that she knew. His eyes dropped. He thrust out his lips. He was overcome with embarrassment, and pity, and a dull anger. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her shame and loathing, her wild misery and sorrow. It was unbearable. In all the world, he loved only this little daughter of his. Now, she was despising him. It would take little more on his part to make her hate him. His heart began to beat painfully. He was suddenly impersonally enraged, as though some one, but not himself, had tarnished her innocence and de
stroyed her virginal simplicity.

  His rage turned upon Matilda, who had done this thing against him and his daughter. He hated her, savagely. He lifted his eyes, and they struck the woman like a whip. His face became crimson, swelled.

  “Is it true then, that it is you, and you alone, who have looked for reasons to dismiss this girl?” he bellowed.

  Matilda was stupidly aghast. Her mouth fell open. She stared, idiotically, at Hans.

  Ernestine began to sob, aloud, as though her heart was breaking. She put her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out the sight of her father. Tears ran through her fingers. Hans could not bear it. He shot to his feet. He stood on the hearth, breathing stentoriously.

  “Take Miss Tina to her room,” he said to Irmgard. “Put her to bed. I will be in to see her, later.”

  He stared at Irmgard. His thick features worked. “Everything is as it was. If you wish to remain, do so.”

  He paused. His hands twitched. He wanted to put his arms about his child. He could not. He stood before her, humiliated, frightened, filled with remorse and yearning. His expression was very moving to Irmgard, so humble was it, so sad, so confused and wounded.

  Irmgard took the weeping girl’s hand. She bent and whispered in her ear, urgently: “Miss Ernestine, speak to your father.”

  Ernestine’s hands dropped from her face, which was covered with tears. She tried to speak. Her voice choked. Then, followed by Irmgard, she went out of the room.

  Hans stared after them. His face worked with his painful efforts to breathe and swallow. Matilda sat in silence, shrinking in her chair, forgotten.

  CHAPTER 22

  Baldur heard the sound of muffled weeping trailing by his door, as he paused in his melancholy playing. He tiptoed to his door and opened it, just in time to see his sister, with Irmgard supporting her, disappear into her room. There was a sound in that weeping which frightened him, so desolate and abandoned was it. He waited a moment, then followed the two young women, and tapped softly on Ernestine’s door. irmgard opened it, and when she saw him, she silently admitted him.

  Ernestine had flung herself upon her bed, and lay there, sobbing, clutching the coverlet, her head buried in the pillows. He had seen her cry before, but never like this, as though her heart were breaking. His first thought was that his mother was dead. Black sparks suddenly flickered before his eyes. He ran awkwardly across the room, took his sister by the shoulders, and cried: “Ernestine! What is it? Is it mother—?”

  When his sister did not answer, only weeping with increased desolation, he turned almost furiously to Irmgard.

  “What is it? Are you both mute? Can’t some one tell me?” His voice broke.

  He saw that Irmgard’s face was stern and pale, but full of pity.

  “No, Mr. Baldur, it is not your mother.” She paused. Now she flushed a little. “It is just that—that Mr. Schmidt wished to dismiss me. He called me into Matilda’s apartments. Some one told Miss Ernestine about it—”

  A strange look of blue fury blazed in Baldur’s eyes. “Dismiss you, Irmgard? That is impossible! We shall not allow it!” His chest tightened with dread and a frantic fear.

  Irmgard clasped her hands tightly together, and went on as though he had not interrupted: “Miss Ernestine came into that apartment. She—she accused Matilda, before Mr. Schmidt, of plotting against me.” Her color deepened. “Mr. Schmidt was very kind. He understood. I am not to leave.”

  “Then why—,” began Baldur, giving his sister’s shaking body a puzzled glance. Then he knew. He hated himself for first instilling that unclean suspicion in his sister’s mind. But what could one do? She would have to know. It was ridiculous, a woman of her age. But he remembered, then, that she had the mind and soul of a child.

  He went back to his sister, and sat beside her on the bed, gently smoothing the disordered dark curls.

  “Ernestine, you will make yourself ill. You are not a baby. There are some things which seem intolerable—in one’s father. But they are really little things.”

  Ernestine suddenly paused in her weeping. She sat up so suddenly, and with such small violence, that, startled, Baldur recoiled. He looked at her face in amazement. It was almost purplish in its suffusion. Her teeth were bared. Her father’s eyes looked at him, distended with fury, shame and grief.

  “Baldur! How can you talk like this? This humiliation, this disgrace—mama—! Such a terrible, shameful thing to do this to mama, in her own house!” She beat her hands on the bed, in a frenzy, her little fists clenched. “It is unendurable! Disgraceful! Contemptible! Disgusting! I cannot bear it!”

  Her curls lay disordered against her wet and swollen cheeks. Baldur was silent. His eyes studied her gravely, thoughtfully, as though he were seeing her for the first time. Irmgard brought a glass of water, but Ernestine thrust it aside fiercely. She was panting now. Her breast heaved. The process of becoming mature, thought Baldur, was very painful in those who had long passed childhood and early youth. Ernestine’s eyes were horrified, but they were also enraged. She repudiated the hot wet hand of life, suddenly placed on her naked flesh. She denied it. She shuddered at it, feeling herself unclean, polluted.

  “I shall tell him, tonight, when he comes in to see me, as he promised, that he must get rid of that—that creature! Tonight! He must send her away! I shall tell him—”

  Baldur’s hand reached out and seized her by the shoulder. His fingers pressed into it, painfully. But his voice was quiet.

  “You will do no such thing. You little fool! You will say nothing to him.”

  His words, the tone of his voice, hard and contemptuous, never heard from him before, quieted Ernestine’s hysteria as though he had thrown icy water over her. She crouched on her bed, glaring at him, her panting subdued to a faint whimpering. She was astounded. She kept blinking her eyes. Her mouth had fallen open, childishly, with her astonishment.

  Baldur stood up. He began to pace the room, his head bent, his hands clasped behind his deformed back. He began to speak, but softly, as though thinking aloud.

  “One must consider everything. One must go easily.” He continued to pace. Ernestine watched him with a blank, almost idiotic expression of complete amazement. But Irmgard, understanding, stood back in the shadows, only her face illuminated by the tall candles on a table nearby.

  Baldur turned to his sister, and his voice was low and bitter, if compassionate.

  “Think,” he said. He made a wide and desolate gesture with his arms. His face took on a look of deep sorrow. “Look at us. What has he got from us, from living? Mother? Let us be reasonable, if loving, about mother. I think she was like you, in the beginning, Tina. A silly, shrinking little thing, who would not admit that life existed. When she saw that it did, she ran away from it into terror and invalidism. Just as you probably will run away.”

  He lifted his hand. Ernestine had cried out, choked and gasping. But his gesture silenced her immediately.

  “Look at us, Tina. Look at us frankly, and honestly. Look at me. I am his son. He hoped for a son. Some one who would take his place, be a man beside him, inherit what he had built up, and created.” He laughed, lightly, despairingly. “Look at me! What am I? Am I the son he wanted? Perhaps it is not my fault. But it is not his fault, either.”

  Irmgard’s lips contracted with pain and compassion. But Baldur did not see her. He saw only his sister.

  “Look at you, Tina,” he resumed, a little more gently. “Are you the gay happy, lusty daughter he wanted? He has the peasant’s gregariousness. He would like a house filled with young dancing people, with parties, with balls and laughter. He would like a healthy daughter, who could give him grandchildren. That is the German in him. But we are like our mother. We have no blood or guts.” He saw Ernestine’s delicate wincing at the word. “Guts,” he repeated, inexorably. “Have you guts, Tina?”

  “O Baldur, do not be disgusting,” she said, sobbing again. He smiled wryly. He shrugged. “You do not like the word? But it is true, we are gutle
ss.”

  He paused, resumed his pacing once more.

  “He has frightened us, you might say. He has terrified us, sending us shrinking into corners. He has made us so spineless that we have forgotten how to live. We have made a grave for ourselves, in this house. But we also tried to make a grave for him. He has strength and health enough, fortunately, not to lie in it. If he frightened us, it is our own fault. He hated us, because he knew we hated him. Or, perhaps, because he made us hate him.”

  He was silent, then spoke again, reflectively: “If a man hates, he becomes hated. But that does not eliminate his deep human desire to be loved. Hatred breeds hatred. Had we returned his frightened and disappointed hatred with love and understanding, he might have loved us in return. We had neither the courage nor the intelligence to know this. We might have consoled him. It is too late for me, and for mother. But it is not too late for you, Tina. It is not too late for you to make him happy, with your understanding and sympathy.”

  “Baldur!” she cried, feebly. “What are you asking me to do? To countenance that woman in this house?”

  He made a despairing, a hopeless gesture, as though he thought it useless to speak again. Then, with determination, he sat down on the bed again and took his sister’s hand. He held it tightly. He looked into her streaming eyes.

  “Tina,” he said, gently. “Listen to me. It is very important. When he comes to you, promising anything, if you will believe in him, and trust him again, you must say: ‘I understand. It is all right. I want you to be happy. I will be very unhappy if you send Matilda away. Let us not speak of it again.’”

  She stared at him, blinking aghast. Then she said, not without some cruelty: “You can plead, so, for him, Baldur, remembering what he has done to you?”

  He made a slight gesture, as though to fling her hand from him. Irmgard saw the gesture, and when she saw him restrain it, her heart swelled and her eyes filled with tears. She heard his voice, even more quiet than before: