The Strong City

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Emmi leaned out towards her and called: “Guten Tag, Meine Frau!” And the young woman, with a pleased, surprised expression, called a similar greeting.

  They passed one or two little trim white churches, uncompromising and plain. They passed a small cemetery, on the side of a low hill, and the tombstones appeared to have been scrubbed with strong soap and water. The people had planted evergreens in a fence about the cemetery, and their deep dark green gave a promise of rest and eternity to the passerby.

  The farmer humped forward on his seat, scowling. “They got the best land,” he muttered.

  “Nonsense,” said Emmi, vigorously. “They know how to farm, and to work, and they have self-respect.”

  “Maybe you don’t think I work hard, ma’am,” replied the farmer, irrately. “Work my fool head off. It’s no good, with sour land. Mighty poor crops.”

  Emmi said nothing. She wished he would drive faster, though even at this slow pace she found the riding hard. She glanced at the silver watch pinned on her black alpaca blouse, under the black jacket. It was half-past three.

  Now they approached a low white farmhouse, with the familiar red silo and barn behind it. The windows were polished like mirrors, and hung with coarse white curtains. A brass knocker gleamed in the sun on the white door. On the window-sills Emmi could see pot after pot of crimson geraniums and ivy. A small wooden sign on the brown lawn proclaimed that a farm was for sale. It was lettered both in English and German.

  “Here ye be,” said the farmer, surlily. He bit his pipe. “I’ll wait here for you, ma’am.”

  Emmi climbed down with her abrupt and agile movements, and marched up the walk, which was paved with unevenly shaped terra-cotta flag-stones. She lifted the brass knocker. Somewhere, in the interior, she heard the laughter of very young children, and then a sudden startled silence as the knocker clattered in the clear and silent air. Footsteps approached the door. It opened, and a young woman, plump, smiling and very pretty, stood there. She wore a much-washed and clumsily made dress of blue cotton, covered by a frilled and stiffly starched apron. On her hair, which was soft, brown and shining, and coiled at the nape of her short white neck, was a stiff white cap, tied under her round fresh chin with long cotton streamers. Little tendrils of her hair curled tenderly about her round pink cheeks, and her eyes, vividly blue and large and innocent, like a child’s, were bright and merry. Her lips were scarlet, and parted over teeth like pearls. Her bosom, firm and young, could not be hidden by dress or apron, and rose comfortably, like a pigeon’s breast. From behind her there was wafted the odor of good baking bread, and boiling sauerkraut.

  “Ja, please?” she murmured. Now Emmi saw that two very small girls stood on each side of their mother, clutching her skirts, and peering out shyly and avidly at the stranger. They were dressed like the young woman, in bulky, old-fashioned garments, which fell about their tiny feet. Their hair was yellow.

  Emmi spoke at once, in German. She smiled as she spoke, like a wanderer who had eagerly returned home.

  “You have a farm for sale, yes? I am looking for such a farm.”

  The young woman opened the door. “Yes, we have a farm. Not ours, gnädige Frau, but the adjoining one. You will come in, while I send for my husband?”

  Her manner was simple and gracious, and her smile ingenuous and simple. Emmi stepped across the snowy doorsill, and into a large immaculate “parlor,” filled with horse-hair furniture, which was covered by lace antimacassars, large round walnut tables, heaped with books and religious literature, and the floor was covered with a thick rug flowered in sprawling roses and violent green leaves. There was a large round iron stove in the center of the room, warmly radiating, its top holding a brilliantly polished copper tea-kettle, from whose spout rose a thin bluish plume of steam. The sunshine came through the high small windows, lay on rubbed wood, and streaked the flowered wall-paper with fingers of light.

  “You will sit, please?” said the young woman to Emmi, who was gazing about her with nostalgic pleasure. “I am Frau Barbour,” she added, and waited.

  “And I am Frau Stoessel,” said Emmi, her voice gentle. She spoke slowly, in order to be comprehended, because the accent and phrasing of the German in which Mrs. Barbour spoke had a quaint and unfamiliar sound. A dialect, thought Emmi, and could not place such a dialect in her own memory of Germany.

  Mrs. Barbour turned to one of the staring little girls, and said in English: “You will call to Hans, in the barn, and he will bring your Papa.” Her English, like her German, had a peculiar accent. “Run, now, Liza. And May, too.”

  Both little girls, their butter-colored braids flying behind them, ran off, giggling shyly. Emmi sat down in a low rocker near the stove. The house was filled with clean, warm, homelike odors. Mrs. Barbour put fresh coal in the stove, and the red embers shone out of its cavernous depths.

  “You will have some coffee, please?” she asked timidly, with her pretty smile. “And I have baked some fresh apfelkuchen.”

  “Please,” said Emmi, relaxing in her chair, her umbrella and black reticule on her knees.

  With a murmured apology, Mrs. Barbour went off to her kitchen. Emmi could see it through the doorway, a huge room with red-stone floor and brick walls, white-painted furniture, flowered curtains and great black range.

  “It is home,” thought Emmi, with subdued envy. She had never been able to create this warm and fragrant atmosphere, and she knew it. Love and happiness and gaiety lived here, gilded with faith and content. If I knew how to be simple! thought Emmi. But simplicity is not in me. I do not know why. Perhaps it is because I have always thought too much. How Egon would love this! Perhaps I can recreate it for him, and give him contentment and peace at last.

  Mrs. Barbour, moving with her light young step, returned, carrying a silver tray covered by a white linen cloth, and holding a blue plate of cake, a blue cup of coffee, and sugar and thick yellow cream. She placed the tray at Emmi’s elbow, moving aside a large black Bible as she did so. The cake was still warm, and rich, golden syrup ran between the slabs of apple. The coffee was excellent, and very hot. Emmi ate almost ravenously, and thought with distaste of her own flat cooking. “How delicious this is,” she said. “I am no cook. I have been concerned with less valuable things.”

  “Ja, is that so?” murmured Mrs. Barbour, with a sympathetic glance.

  “I have been concerned with the social and spiritual welfare of mankind,” said Emmi, with a wry, sour smile. “I have been tormented by dreams beyond my grasping. That is very foolish. It is better to cook, and polish furniture, and have little girls with yellow hair. And perhaps a garden.”

  Mrs. Barbour smiled, again with sympathy, but also with bewilderment. She was not repelled by this strangely speaking woman, but the fear of the unfamiliar subdued her smile somewhat.

  “God has been very good to us,” she said, uncertainly, and then her smile became bright again, with simple confidence.

  “And in my seeking after Him, I have completely lost Him,” Emmi said. She wiped her hands on the snowy napkin, and sipped her coffee.

  Mrs. Barbour was bewildered again. Her round blue eyes stared unaffectedly at Emmi, as though with wonder and surprise.

  The outer door opened again, and a tall angular young man entered. He had a long pale face and a dark beard. His brown eyes were melancholy and grave and brooding, and he wore a broad-brimmed black hat of odd shape. He wiped his feet carefully on the mat near the door, then advanced into the room. His work-clothes hung on his lean frame. When he smiled at Emmi and his wife, that smile had in it a strange sweetness, which lighted his whole somber countenance.

  He acknowledged his wife’s introduction, with a respectful inclination of his head, and when he spoke Emmi was surprised at his quiet and perfect English, which betrayed that he was no German. Emmi had half-suspected this. He sat down deliberately as he said:

  “Yes, the farm. It was left to my wife, Mrs. Stoessel, by her widowed uncle. We have a large enough farm, over tw
o hundred acres. We do not need this. My wife,” and he smiled slightly, “did not wish it to pass out of the family, but there’s no one left of it, except herself. It’s a very good farm, one hundred acres of good pasture, and fifteen acres of first-growth timber. It is well-stocked, also, twelve cows, four hundred chickens, fourteen hogs, four horses, and a flock of turkeys and guinea-fowl. There are farm wagons, too, and plows, and all other equipment. Johanna’s uncle died in September, and the furniture is for sale, also. A young farmer is taking care of the property just now. Perhaps, if you bought the farm, you would like to keep him, if you have no sons?”

  Emmi’s face took on a gray tint. She compressed her mouth. But her eyes looked straight into Mr. Barbour’s. “I have no sons,” she said, clearly and loudly. After a moment, she added: “There is only my husband and myself.”

  “I must be frank with you,” said Mr. Barbour. “This is Amish country. We first offered the farm for sale to our own people, but all had sufficient land. I see you are a German, and it might not be too strange to you, here. The Amish are very friendly, though reserved at first.” He smiled at his pretty wife, who blushed as though at an intimate caress. Her eyes beamed upon him with adoration.

  He continued: “When I first came here, after marrying Johanna, every one was friendly to me, though I was a stranger. Now, I’m one of them.” His gloomy expression lightened, and the sadness left his mouth and eyes. “You will find it so, too, I’m certain.”

  “I shall bring you some coffee, Reginald?” asked Mrs. Barbour, starting energetically to her feet. She left the room. In a little silence, the young grave man studied Emmi. She gazed back at him, and then her heart slowly warmed. Here, she thought, is a dreamer of dreams, also. Like myself, he perhaps found them untenable. Now, he has become content. A band of unseen but living understanding radiated between them, in which no words were necessary.

  Then Emmi said: “You are an American, Mr. Barbour?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Stoessel. I was born in Windsor.” Now his expression darkened, as though with painful memory. His voice was somewhat curt and abrupt, and Emmi saw that he did not wish to continue the subject. She asked him some questions about the farm, and then the price.

  “Four thousand dollars,” he said. “But we ask only half down. Is that satisfactory?”

  He went on: “I advise you to keep Hermann to help you. You need pay him only ten dollars a month, and his board. I can recommend him without reservation. The Amish, when employed, are good and faithful workers. Then, I’ll be glad to give you any advice or assistance you need. Johanna’s uncle made a profit of nearly a thousand dollars a year on the farm, which is very good.”

  He drank his coffee.

  “Now, if you wish, I’ll drive you over to see it.”

  He went out to hitch his horse, and Johanna, her blue eyes swimming with love and sympathy, murmured:

  “He is so sad. His dear sister died a little ago, when she had a baby. And before that, his favorite brother was killed by miners, when there was a strike.”

  Something unformed stirred in Emmi’s memory, and her expression became somewhat severe. “Ah, Barbour. I remember, a little. It was in the papers. But was there not some question? Was it not hinted that the young man was inadvertently shot by some member of his own family?”

  Johanna dropped her eyes, miserably. “Reginald believes that. But it cannot be true!” Her lashes flew up, revealing distressed blue. “It must not be believed! People cannot be so wicked.”

  At another time, Emmi would have been gloomily moved by such pure innocence, but she was engrossed in disentangling the skein of newspaper memories. She looked about her, with surprise. This farm was comfortable and pleasant enough, and the house was filled with love and simplicity. But certainly no luxury.

  “Your husband’s father—is he not very rich? Herr Ernest Barbour?”

  “It is so,” said Johanna. Her round placid face became uneasy. She picked up Emmi’s tray, and with a murmur, left the room hastily.

  Emmi mused, with interest. Did one give up wealth and luxury, for this hard toil, frugality, and austerity? How was it to be explained? Franz, with cynical delight, would have been amused at her conjectures, and would have pointed out that her thoughts justified his cruel estimate of her. Moreover, though she would have denied it, her peculiar and passionate zest for life made her more than usually curious. Unknown to herself, she was interested more in mankind than in theory. Once Franz had said that an idealist and reformer was only a sublimated busybody and gossip, with a passion for minding the business of others. Emmi never acknowledged that there might be some truth in this

  In the midst of her musings, Reginald Barbour returned, a black coat over his working-clothes. He led Emmi outside, and she saw, for the first time, the odd squarish black buggy of the Amish people, boxlike and neat. She asked the chewing farmer to wait for her, and after an antagonistic stare at Reginald, he nodded curtly.

  Emmi found the buggy more comfortable than the wagon. Reginald, with his whip, indicated the good points of the country to her. A little wind had risen, and it was much colder. A few flakes of snow danced in the clear dusky air. But Emmi was protected by the shining leather curtains of the buggy, and regarded the countryside tranquilly through the ising-glass windows. Through the young man’s cold aloofness and reserve, she felt his shyness and intellectual goodness, his courtesy and refinement. She looked at his hands, brown, soil-stained and callous. However, the fingers were long and sensitive, and slightly tremulous. But his manner, though scrupulous, kind and repectful, forbade any prying, even of the most casual sort, and she experienced a deep respect for him.

  It was evident that he was greatly concerned for the welfare of the farm which was for sale, and questioned her if she had had any experience with the land. Discovering that she had, he became more enthusiastic, and smiled at her with his sad dark eyes.

  The country increased in fatness. Now Emmi saw a distant red-brick farmhouse, compact, austere yet friendly. Clumps of great bare elms were scattered on wide lawns. Behind the house she discovered the immense red barns and silos of the country, and heard the lowing of cattle waiting to be milked. The country was rolling and rich, and very calm and wide. Against the clarified darkening of the sky an umbrella of smoke was opening from the tall stone chimneys, and the air was full of the fresh astringent odor of impending snow. Despite the wintry aspect of the country, there was no bleakness or desolation here, but only promise and security.

  This is my home, thought Emmi, with lofty and almost reverential excitement, even before she entered the house. A short, stout and very blond young man, with a shy grin, opened the door for them, wiping his hands on his trousers. He ducked his head respectfully at Emmi.

  There was a huge long parlor here, with tall narrow windows, a mighty fireplace in which logs of apple-wood burned. Emmi was startled by the furniture, which, though severe and unornamented, was of the best mahogany, and indicated exceptional taste. The carpet, a deep wine-color, was thick and almost luxurious, and plain. Along one side of the room were bookcases, filled with morocco-bound books. One glance convinced Emmi that the world’s best literature stood here, waiting for friendly and understanding hands.

  Reginald saw her surprise and appreciation. “My wife’s uncle was quite worldly,” he said, but he spoke with a smile and a glance of softness and appreciation at the dignity and formality of the room. “It is very like the house in which I was born, only smaller,” he added.

  They investigated the four large bedrooms, with their canopied fourposter beds of mahogany, the beveled mirrors, the stone fireplaces, the quiet carpets. Here had lived a man with the instincts of the aristocrat, and the reserve of a prince.

  I can be happy here, Emmi thought. And again: This is my home.

  After they had investigated the barnyard and the gardens, Emmi said abruptly:

  “I shall buy it.”

  Reginald was surprised at this precipitation. “But your husband—wil
l he not want to see it, and discuss the matter with me?”

  “He is ill. I make all decisions,” said Emmi, with her uncompromising stare into his eyes.

  They went out towards the road again, to the waiting buggy, Emmi looked back at the house, which seemed to express some silent disappointment that she was not remaining. She sighed, heavily. She looked at the west, and over the massed darkness of the thick bare trees was a clear intensity of pale green light. Never had she seen such light, so limitless, so pure, so cold. It caught at her heart as an impulse of adoration catches at the heart of a worshipper. Tears rose to her eyes. She could only stand and look, her face uplifted, a reflection of the light on her face.

  On her way home, in the springless wagon, she was silent. The profundity of her emotions absorbed her. She did not feel the thick wetness of the snow on her cheeks and lips. She stared before her, her eyes remote and entranced, her heart filled with a calm yet quivering ecstasy.

  CHAPTER 39

  Egon was accustomed to Emmi’s sudden loud enthusiasms, and had lovingly learned to discount most of them. However, when she told him of the farm she had purchased, she spoke in a low, almost unemotional intensity. He listened, gazing at her colorless taut face, and knew that she was inexpressibly moved.

  “It is home,” she said, quietly, and there were tears in her eyes.

  “Home,” repeated Egon. He took her hand and held its hard roughness to his cheek. He felt her trembling.

  In all his life with her, he had never complained of illnesses either of his body or his soul. And so he did not tell her now that he was ill. He was like a marble bowl filled with water, which had developed a crack, and was slowly leaking away. Each morning he awakened with a slightly increased loss of strength. Each morning, it was a little more difficult to rise and go downstairs, and more difficult than all, was the necessity to smile gently and sympathetically. He felt no more, only that slow loss of vitality and life, like an oozing wound. His body seemed floating in a warm pool of lassitude. At times, it was enormously heavy to him, so that he thought of his flesh as some pressing extraneous weight from which he yearned to be free. A cup was heavy in his hand. If he rose suddenly, his breath stopped. Sometimes, lying in his bed, he felt so leaden that he wondered vaguely how the mattress and springs sustained such immense weight as his. Surely, he must sink through them to the floor, and thence into the earth. At this thought, his heart rose like a bird on wings, with a sensation of dim ecstasy. He would close his eyes, and he seemed to hear the warm murmur of grasses over him, and the sweetness of penetrating sunlight.