The Strong City

by Caldwell, Taylor;

“I shall pay when I am ready,” he said, quietly.

  “Rules,” muttered the man, disconcerted, but angered.

  “I shall pay when I am ready,” repeated Franz. They stared at each other in a momentary silence, and then the man, quailed by the other’s eyes, wandered away, muttering. He barricaded himself behind his bar, and looked at Irmgard with knowing insolence. Damn’ foreigners! America should get shut of them. If he had his way he’d pile them all on boats and ship ’em all back where they belonged. It was gettin’ so a decent American got shoved around too much, in his own country. Uppity, they was, the swine.

  The ham was salty, the eggs hard-rimmed, smelling of burned grease. Irmgard tried to eat, but the food was insufferable. She drank a little of the black coffee, and gave it up. Franz sampled the food, frowning. “They spoil the simplest things,” he muttered. He struck his knife loudly on his plate, and the proprietor, after a prolonged wait, sauntered to the table. “What’s the matter?” he demanded belligerently, but avoiding Franz’s eyes.

  “This food—it is rotten,” Franz replied. “Have you nothing better?”

  “What’s the matter with it?”

  “It’s rotten, I said. The lady cannot eat it. If you have nothing better, bring us some milk and some bread and butter.”

  “Choicy, ain’t you?” muttered the man. “Good American food not nice enough for you?”

  “No, it is not,” said Franz, coolly. He put his hands on the table, as if to rise with one spring. The man saw the gesture, and hastily carried the plates away.

  “You are brutal,” remarked Irmgard.

  “I know when to be brutal, and when to be amiable,” replied Franz, laughing. “I believe that is the secret of success. Am I not remarkable? I have discovered a fine formula.”

  “If he put us out, your formula would be no good.” But she smiled in return.

  “But instead, he will bring us something fit to eat. Perhaps.”

  He lit his pipe while they waited for the bread and milk. The fire flickered and snarled. The lanterns which hung from the wooden ceiling swayed in a draft of wind. The storm outside was increasing in violence. The dismal chill of the place sank deeper into Irmgard’s bones, but she felt this only abstractedly, for Franz sat near her. A light fever was running through her, like an intoxication.

  “If there were enough of us Germans in America, we might be able to accomplish something, bring some solidity and richness to American life,” said Franz, contemplatively. “We might bring some gemütlichkeit.”

  Irmgard stared at him with sudden steadfastness, and it seemed to her that she saw him so clearly that it was not to be borne.

  “But you care nothing for gemütlichkeit, Franz,” she said quietly. “You are an alien to it. You have no real place, either in America or Germany. You are a stranger in both countries.” Her eyes widened with a kind of surprised discovery. “An alien everywhere. And I feel that there are many men like you, who have no country anywhere in the world. It is all just your hunting ground. And—and I feel you are a danger to the people wherever you live.”

  She added, almost to herself: “It is not a matter of race. Men like you have no race.”

  She thought he would be angry, with that quick brutal anger of his. But instead, he began to smile with complete enjoyment, as though she had said something both remarkably funny and remarkably true.

  He leaned towards her, and put his hand over her cold fingers.

  “I like you, my cousin. That is because you know all about me. It is such a relief not having to be a hypocrite.”

  She remembered something Baldur had said, about hating brutes and hypocrites.

  “You are both a brute and a hypocrite!” she cried, involuntarily. She tried to draw away her hand, but he held it tightly. He still smiled. She was lost in the blue smiling blaze of his eyes, in which she saw something both evil and implacable.

  “But you have no desire to change me?”

  “None.” She finally wrenched her hand away. Her fingers stung.

  He leaned back contentedly in his chair, smoking, still smiling. “That is such a relief. You are not like my mother, who tries to change everyone. But you are no Prussian, such as she is.”

  The proprietor brought some thick coarse bread and a pitcher of milk, which he thumped down before them. He was now so angry that he would have liked a fight. He saw Irmgard’s perturbaton, and shot a sidelong glance at Franz. “Anythin’ wrong, lady?” he asked.

  “There is nothing wrong. Go away at once,” said Franz, sharply, again putting his hands on the table, and half rising.

  “Say, who you think you’re talkin’ to?”

  “You. Get away.”

  “Franz!” protested Irmgard.

  But the two men’s eyes were locked again. It was the proprietor who finally looked away. He lumbered back to his bar. “God damn’ bohunk!” he said, aloud.

  Having conquered him, Franz ignored him. He returned his attention to Irmgard. She was white with indignation. He poured a glass of milk for her, and then for himself. He spoke, tranquilly: “No, you are not like my mother. You are a realist. Knowing all about me, you still like me.”

  Irmgard was silent. She drank her milk, but her sickness increased.

  They ate without speaking for a few minutes, under the glare of the proprietor. Then Franz said reflectively: “Yes, we Germans might do a lot for America. But there is one difficulty. Bismarck knew it when asked what was the most important political fact in the world today. He said: ‘America speaks English.’”

  An unaccountable tiredness was stealing over Irmgard. All at once she cared for nothing. Her depression was like dust in her mouth and a weight on her heart. She said mechanically: “That may be so. But Americans are not a race. They are only a people. Perhaps in that there is enormous hope for the future.”

  She stood up. “Shall we go, now?”

  They could hear the thundering of the storm, which was increasing. Franz walked calmly to the bar, and laid down a bill. “Ninety-five cents,” said the proprietor.

  “For what? Two glasses of milk and a slice of bread? Not more than twenty-five cents. You owe me seventy-five.”

  “You had ham and eggs! And coffee, too!” shouted the proprietor.

  “We couldn’t eat that hog-swill, and you know it,” said Franz, softly. He drummed on the bar with his fingers, and looked at the man. “Seventy-five cents, please.”

  Irmgard stood near the door, overcome with mortification and uneasiness. She saw the proprietor reach under the bar for something, and cried out. Franz’s hand shot out, fastened itself about the man’s wrist, wrenched it upwards. He was holding a short thick club. He tore the club from the man’s hand and flung it far across the room. Then he twisted the other’s hand savagely. “Seventy-five cents,” he repeated, still softly.

  The man was completely cowed, now. He had felt that great and unexpected strength. He had seen the capacity for murder in Franz’s eyes. He whimpered, rubbed his sprained wrist. He flung seventy-five cents upon the bar. Franz picked it up amiably, and said: “Good night.”

  He went to the door and took Irmgard’s rigid arm. He opened the door, and they stepped out onto the flat unsheltered porch. The wind and rain tore at them, howling. The light of the tavern shone out fitfully onto the river-like earth. Then Franz cursed aloud. The horse and hack had gone. He ran down into the mud and the water, stumbling, and tried to see up the black and swimming road. The horse, terrified, had broken loose from the hitching post, and was no doubt miles away, heading for the stables.

  Franz ran back to the porch, and thrust Irmgard back into the tavern. He spoke in a low rapid voice near the door: “The horse has gone.”

  Irmgard cried out again. Franz stood near her, biting his lip. “We cannot walk through that storm. We should lose our way. There is a flood outside. It is ten miles to town.”

  “What’s the matter?” asked the proprietor from behind his bar, grinning evilly. He had seen the horse an
d buggy tear loose not ten minutes before, when he had glanced through the window.

  Franz looked at him thoughtfully. He had nothing to gain, now, by being brutal and arrogant. He walked to the bar. “Have you a horse and buggy to lend us?” he asked.

  “Nary a one,” gloated the man. “I ain’t a rich feller. Can’t get rich on twenty-five cents.”

  Franz clenched his fists, but spoke quietly: “My buggy has gone. The horse got away. Is there any way we can get back to town?”

  “Well, sir, the milk carts go by here at five in the morning,” said the proprietor, happily. He wiped the bar with a rag, with meticulous care.

  Franz paused. He looked at Irmgard, pale and shivering near the door.

  “I must go home, tonight,” she said, through quivering lips.

  The proprietor glanced airily through the window. “Beginnin’ to sleet, too,” he said, thoughtfully. “Folks out on a night like this, walking ten miles knee-deep in water and mud, ’ud come down with lung fever, likely as not.” He added: “If they didn’t end up in Blindman’s Creek, a piece up the road, or get lost in the fields.” He sighed, deeply. “A lady’d never make it—ten miles to town. Freeze to death. It’ll be snowin’ hard in an hour.”

  Franz was silent. He drummed on the bar. The back of his neck slowly turned red. Then he looked thoughtfully at the proprietor, who grinned.

  “Five dollars for the night, for the two of you. Paid in advance,” he said. “Got two nice rooms, connecting, upstairs. Milk carts go by at five in the mornin’.”

  Franz glanced at the sign over the bar. “Accommodations—one dollar per night,” it read. The proprietor saw the glance, and grinned again.

  “Five dollars to you,” he exulted, wiping the bar again. “I’ll throw in breakfast, free. Cheap at the price,” and he winked.

  Franz knew when he was beaten. He laughed a little, and turned back to Irmgard, who was shivering violently, pressed against the door. He felt some regret for her. She watched him approach, and her eyes widened, and she pressed still closer to the door.

  “You see how it is, Irmgard,” he said gently. “We cannot go out. We must remain here till morning.”

  “That is impossible!” she exclaimed, passionately. “I must go home! I promised. If you do not come with me, I shall go alone.”

  “Do not be a fool,” he said, reasonably. “You will never reach town. It is ten miles, and it is beginning to snow. You do not even know the way.”

  “I cannot stay here,” she said. Her lips were as white as her face. But she looked steadfastly at Franz.

  He shrugged. “Well, I am not such a fool as to go with you. I never cared for gallantry. If you must go, you must go. I shall stay here till morning.”

  Irmgard wrenched open the door. She looked out at the wild black night. In the light of the lamps, she saw the new swirling flakes of snow, and felt the wind lash her with whips of iron. She closed the door again, whiter than ever.

  Franz turned to the proprietor. “All right, then. Show us the rooms.”

  “Five dollars, in advance,” said the man, smiling sweetly.

  Franz laid five dollars on the bar, and the man, with great amiability, pocketed it, and came from behind the bar, warily keeping a distance between himself and the other. “If the lady and gentleman will follow me—”

  He led them up a bare steep flight of stairs, ricketty and dark, carrying a lantern before them. Irmgard, holding up her skirts, ignored Franz’s offered hand. They followed the proprietor down a narrow black hall, from the distempered walls of which strips of paper were peeling. It was as cold as the grave here. The proprietor flung open a door, and they entered a bitterly chill chamber, dank and dusty. Irmgard saw a white iron bed, a commode, a chair, and a strip of ragged carpet. There was also an empty fireplace, filled with dead white ashes. He opened a door off this room and revealed a smaller chamber, without a fireplace, and as poorly furnished as the larger room.

  “Lovely rooms,” said the proprietor, rubbing his hands. “I call this the bridal suite.”

  “I call it a pig-pen,” said Franz. “Can’t we have a fire here?”

  “Of course, of course! But that will cost you a dollar extra.”

  For one moment, the frightened girl thought Franz would leap on the other man. But he evidently thought better of it. He produced another dollar.

  “I do not need a fire!” cried the girl, miserably.

  “But I do.” Franz’s voice was quiet and deadly. “I am cold to the heart.”

  “Nothin’ like a fire for cheeriness on a night like this,” said the proprietor, picking up the coal scuttle. “I’ll have a fire for the lady in a jiffy.”

  He scurried out of the room. “Schweinkopf,” said Franz, reflectively, but without rancor. He began to laugh, almost with appreciation. He turned to Irmgard, who was standing rigidly in the center of the room. The lantern, placed on the table, showed her despairing face.

  “What shall I tell Mrs. Schmidt tomorrow?” she asked, wretchedly. “How can I ever face any one again, after spending the night here, with you, alone?”

  “You are afraid you are being compromised?” he said, amused. “No one need know. Tell her you spent the night with your aunt. It is a wild night. She will understand that you could not return.”

  “Lies come so easily to you,” she said, bitterly.

  He shrugged, with impatience. “Do not be a fool.”

  The man returned with fuel for the fire. Franz sat on the bed, but Irmgard would not sit down. She stood, tall and rigid, her hands in her muff, her bonnet still on her head. They watched him make the fire. Soon it was spluttering and burning. The proprietor lit the oil lamp near the bed, lifted his lantern. He saluted Franz derisively. “Happy dreams,” he said, with a lecherous wink. And went out, closing the door behind him, giving Irmgard a last hungry look.

  Franz stood up. “I do not trust the pig.” He locked the door. He turned to the girl. “Let me take off your jacket. And remove your hat. You might as well be comfortable, now that we are staying.”

  She resisted him for an instant, then hopelessly let him remove her damp jacket. She took off her bonnet. Her face was young and distraught between its bands of pale yellow hair. She wrung her hands.

  “This is very terrible. I shall never be able to face any one again—” She looked at him despairingly. “What will your mother say?”

  “Nothing,” he answered, tranquilly. “I am often away at night.”

  She stared at him, then suddenly flushed a dark hot red, with mingled shame and embarrassment. He returned her stare with a bland expression, and she dropped her eyes. She sat down stiffly in the chair near the fire. He saw that she was trembling a little. He went into the next room and brought out a chair for himself, and sat near her. She was amazed to hear him begin to laugh.

  “That rascal! But he had me. I admire him for that, anyway.”

  “It is not amusing,” she said, with anger. She looked at the sagging bed, and shuddered. “Nothing will induce me to lie on—that. I shall sit here until morning.”

  Franz glanced idly at his watch. “It is only eight o’clock. You will be very uncomfortable in that chair all night. You can lie on top of the bed, and I will cover you with my coat, if, as you suspect, the bed is dirty.”

  She was suddenly touched at this generosity. “But what will you do, Franz? I, at least, have a fire in here, but your room will be very cold.”

  “I am not so fastidious as you, child.” He looked at her, his blue eyes smiling. “But if you feel charitable, I will lie down before this fire, and sleep.”

  “That is impossible,” she said, coloring again.

  “You women,” he said, with affectionate derision. “You must be proper, even if no one sees you. How will it be compromising you more for me to sleep before your fire than to sleep in a connecting room?”

  She was silent. She felt foolish. But her heart had begun to beat with sickening strength and rapidity. All at once she could
not endure his nearness, in this silent mean room, with the storm shrieking and thundering outside. She knew he was watching her. She felt his eyes on her profile, and she knew those eyes had become, in an instant, the eyes of a ferocious and hungry enemy, still lurking in ambush, but waiting. She bent her head. The fire warmed her feet, and the heat of it seemed to rise through all her flesh. Terror began to drum in her pulses. She clenched her hands so tightly that the nails wounded her palms.

  She felt him draw closer to her. “I may sleep before the fire?” he asked, very softly.

  She shrank away. “Yes. Of course.”

  Her terror rose fiercely. She tried to calm it. This was not a strange man, locked alone with her in a desolate room. It was her cousin, Franz. Almost her brother. His mother and hers had been sisters. He was almost her brother! She was a fool. She was making a small matter a thing of importance.

  She forced a smile to her stiff lips. She turned her head and looked at him. And then she saw this was not her cousin, almost her brother. It was a stranger, rapacious, congested of face, red and savage of eye. He did not touch her. But he looked at her, and it was this look, intent, predatory, lustful and implacable, which fired her terror to new heights.

  I must talk. I must talk, constantly, she thought with frantic fear. A long slow trembling ran over her entire body.

  “It will be dreadful if Mrs. Schmidt sends the carriage after me,” she said, and her voice was muffled.

  “Is she likely to do that? Are you not entitled to the night, also?”

  His voice was calm. She did not look at him again. She must have imagined that look, she thought. If it had really existed, his voice could not have been so calm, almost so indifferent.

  She tried to reply as indifferently: “She knew I was anxious to return.” Then, full realization came to her, and she exclaimed: “If she sent the carriage after me, I can never return to that house! And your mother—! She will know we are together!”

  “Not necessarily,” reasoned Franz. “I did not tell her I was to see you. If the carriage came for you, no doubt she will be worried. Have you made no friends? Can you not say you stayed with them for the night?”