With his hands still silently and impotently on the keys, he thought, suddenly, with a strange weak sickness: What am I doing here, in this house? Am I still Franz Stoessel? What is all this to me? And the piano seemed to breathe and listen to his thoughts, understanding them. Now the pain became dark and diffused, like old remembered grief.
He stood up, and uttered a loud Teuton curse, which was partly at himself for his folly in indulging in these thoughts, and experiencing this grief. Feeling better, and smiling a little, he flicked the keys derisively with his fingers, and walked away. He began to complete his inspection of Baldur’s pictures.
The spring sunlight now quickened, brightened, flooded the rooms. There was one last portrait. He came upon it, utterly unprepared. He found himself looking at Irmgard’s face, close to his. For one instant he cried out, then was silent, staring, paling.
The quiet green eyes, so remote and cool and living, gazed back at him. There was a light on the golden shining hair, a finger of light in the hollow of her throat. It was not paint, this portrait. It was translucent flesh. The rosy mouth, so firm, so contemplative, so still, only faintly smiled, and now it seemed to him that there was bitterness in the corners, and memory.
The stunning shock of his recognition slowly passed, like the shock of a profound physical blow. Now through its retreating anesthesia came the familiar monstrous anguish which he thought he had conquered in this last year, the familiar twisting torment and unbearable hunger. He bent a little, like a man who feels cold steel in his bowels, and doubles up instinctively to stop the gushing blood and alleviate the agony. Now his flesh turned to aching fire, and there was a hollow in him, as if his heart had been wrenched forcibly from his body, and he still lived, bereft, dying. He put out his hand, blindly, and supported himself by the back of a tall carved chair. His eye-sockets burned, as at too close an approach to flame. His nostrils distended. He said aloud, almost with a cry: “Irmgard, Irmgard.”
He thought to himself: There is nothing for me, without her. I have got to find her. Nothing shall stop me now.
The hunger increased in him, and the overwhelming sorrow. He put his hand to his head. His sense of being an alien, an intruder, in this house filled him with a slow hating rage. He did not belong here. He was still Franz Stoessel. Irmgard was still a part of him. This house would make him something he was not, removed from all vigor, all beauty, all splendor, all desire. Irmgard’s face was an open door, wide to escape.
Then he heard a faint sound. He swung about. Deep in the recesses of a large velvet chair was little Sigmund. The child did not wriggle, did not move. But he regarded his father with profound gravity and quiet, as if he understood. Usually, he looked at Franz with shy fear, and retreated. But now there was no fear, only prolonged contemplation.
Franz was slightly stunned for a few moments. Then, suddenly, devastatingly, he was enraged. He could not endure those grave childish eyes, so mature, so understanding. He was filled with a savage hatred. He came to the child in three quick steps. He caught him up, and set him on the floor so abruptly that little Sigmund staggered. Then he struck the small face violently, and it was as if he struck himself.
“Little swine!” he muttered, through his teeth. “Spying on me!”
The child did not cry out, though one cheek became purplish red. He usually cried even at a slight rough word of disapproval. But now he only stared at his father, his eyes widening, repudiating the man, disdainful of him. Franz lifted his hand. He would have struck that proud little face again, had he not heard Baldur entering quickly.
Baldur’s face was white and drained from the past anxiety he had been suffering for his mother. But his eyes were blue fire, blazing harshly. Franz flushed. His hand dropped to his side. He tried to smile, to speak jocularly:
“I know you don’t want any one to enter here. I passed your door, and saw this impertinent little brat. I came to take him out, and gave him a slap to teach him better manners.”
Baldur did not speak. He turned to Sigmund. He put his hand on the small dark head. Suddenly the little one, without a cry or a word, convulsively embraced his uncle’s legs, and buried his head against Baldur’s side. That gesture told Baldur everything he needed to know. He looked at Franz, with open anger and deep contempt, and his arm went about the child protectingly. He felt the trembling of the small body, the loathing, the fear. Deep within Baldur’s large strained eyes the spark grew, brightened, became vivid and dangerous.
“Sigmund comes in here frequently. I am painting him.” He paused. The spark quickened into a cold flame.
Franz shrugged, easily. “Then, I am at fault, it seems. I am sorry.” He reached out and pulled Sigmund away from Baldur, gave him a humorous tap. “Run away, little one. It is time for your sleep.”
The child literally flung himself out of the room. Baldur watched him go with a curiously sorrowful expression. His lips tightened to a pale tense line.
Franz, very uncomfortable, tried to put himself at ease. He smiled at Baldur, who did not return the smile.
“I have a bad temper,” he said, disarmingly.
Baldur turned half away. “Don’t brag,” he said, quietly. He went to his easel, and stood there, looking down at Sigmund’s face. There was dismissal in his air. Franz sensed the dismissal. He was infuriated at what he termed this impudence and gentlemanly contempt. He followed Baldur, still smiling.
“You are a great artist,” he said. “You have concealed yourself.”
Baldur was silent. He turned the portrait on the easel. Now he looked at Franz steadfastly.
Franz included the room with a wave of his hand. “I have been looking at your work. You have no right to hide it.”
Baldur’s mouth relaxed in a slight frosty smile. “Who has a right to it?” he asked.
Franz felt his disdain of him. “Every one,” he said, largely. All at once he wanted this great artist to think better of him, to listen to him without that polite scorn. “I know something—of this. I am not only what you think me, an opportunist—”
“I have thought nothing of you at all,” said Baldur, quietly, and with unaffected indifference.
But Franz would not be turned aside. He laughed a little. “I, too, used to play. I was once a considerable musician. When we were in Paris, my parents took me to the opera, to the museums, to the Louvre. Once I thought of painting, also.” He assumed a humorous, self-deprecating air. “We Germans appreciate all art. We are a nation of artists. We love all that is beautiful, and are lavish with honors for those endowed—”
Baldur said nothing. He still regarded Franz levelly. But, despite himself, there grew in him a faint compassion for this handsome lusty man, so greedy, so rapacious, who had not yet completely murdered his inheritance and could still feel an eager wistfulness for it. He was touched by Franz’s adulation, and this seemed deserving of pity. He saw, startled, that Franz, at rare moments like this, might despise himself, might have contempt for all the things he seized so ruthlessly. He felt his first kindness for his sister’s husband.
“Some day,” he said, “I shall ask you to play for me.”
Franz was surprised at this kindliness, and almost humbly touched. “I have not played for years,” he replied.
There was a little silence. Baldur was dismissing him again, he discerned, though the spark had gone from his eyes and he was smiling gently. Franz did not want to leave these rooms. They drew him, held him. In some confusion, he looked away, and once more he encountered Irmgard’s portrait, watching so intently from the wall. He paled again, forgot Baldur. He lifted his hand and pointed.
“That portrait—” he said, in a stifled voice.
“Ah,” murmured Baldur, and there was some annoyance in his tone. He pulled the draperies close about the windows with a quick gesture, and the great room was plunged into gloom. “It is nothing. It is a portrait of my mother’s maid. The girl, Irmgard, about whom Ernestine has told you before. She left very suddenly, without explanation
, as you know. She was very beautiful.”
Something in his voice struck through Franz’s sick preoccupation. He swung about, and confronted the other man. For an instant there was a swift wolfish gleam of teeth against his suddenly drawn lips. “Yes,” he said slowly, watching Baldur, “she was very beautiful, it seems.”
But Baldur had forgotten him. He approached the portrait and stood below it, his eyes lifted with deep sadness to the painted face. He appeared to have fallen into a sorrowful and withdrawn meditation. He seemed to be speaking silently, addressing the portrait. Franz saw his sadness, his preoccupation, the look of lostness about his mouth and eye-sockets. He might have been looking at a dead face, and remembering.
Then Franz was filled with fury and outrage and animal jealousy. How dared this monster, this distorted parody of a man, look at Irmgard like this! His fists clenched, and his face swelled murderously, coloring. It was this look, this attitude, which Baldur confronted when he turned from the portrait.
He was both appalled and astonished. He watched Franz visibly relaxing. He saw him struggling to smile. His astonishment grew, and he could not prevent himself from exclaiming: “You knew her!”
It was not possible! Yet those eyes, that look, on Franz’s face, so revealing!
Franz smiled with difficulty. Baldur saw the moist gleam on his forehead. “No,” said Franz, deliberately. “I never saw her before.”
But Baldur, more and more astonished, looked from the living face of the man to the painted face of the girl. He was incredulous. Strange that he had never noticed it before, the resemblance between these two! It was a flesh resemblance never to be denied. Baldur’s brows drew together, wrinkled. Some faint memory of something Irmgard had said began to tantalize him, sharply. He could not recall it, but it remained, like a dim nagging pain. He stared closely at the portrait, as if to find the answer there. The mouth, the nose, the wide forehead, the modelling of cheek and chin, and attitude of head! They were all there. It was not to be denied. Baldur’s heart began to beat quickly, with a curious sinking excitement. He turned back to Franz and studied him thoughtfully. And now he saw that the other man was coloring with guilty painfulness.
“She had much character,” said Baldur, slowly, deliberately. “We missed her very much, when she left.” He watched Franz closely. He discovered, without much surprise, that Franz was also watching him as closely, with a savage eagerness.
Again, he was not too surprised when Franz said, quickly: “You know where she is? You have found her?”
Baldur did not reply for a moment. He was too engrossed by the betraying expression on Franz’s face, the tenseness. Because of his disability, his sensibility, he had learned to read expressions, even the more subtle, in self-defense. He read much, now. A cool warning thrill ran through him.
He said, slowly: “No. I do not know where she is. I have not seen her since she left.”
Once more, he was not astonished at the sudden darkening of Franz’s eyes, the sudden misery and passionate disappointment. He watched Franz, forgetting him, move to the door, reluctantly. He saw, to the last, that Franz looked at the portrait, and that his expression was that of a hungry beast.
When he was alone, Baldur turned back to the portrait, frowning. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps Franz, being the healthy animal that he was, had only been lustfully hungry and aroused at this girl’s beautiful cold face. But there was the resemblance. Of course, these two were both Germans. It was probably only a racial resemblance.
Baldur rubbed his forehead. Then suddenly he remembered the remark he had been trying to recall. He remembered that Irmgard had once remarked that she had, in Nazareth, an aunt, an uncle, and a cousin. She had been reticent at Baldur’s polite inquiries, and had changed the subject. He remembered that she had blushed a little, uneasily. She had admitted that the cousin was a man, and that he worked somewhere in some factory. Then she had said that she was tired, and must return to Mrs. Schmidt who no doubt had awakened. The whole insignificant incident had then passed from Baldur’s memory, and he had not thought of it again.
Now the blood rushed violently to his head, and his pulses roared. It was fantastic! He was too imaginative, like all recluses. He was too given to romancing, to fabricating, to dreaming! It was not possible. He was a fool.
He turned with a sudden wild resolution. Since Irmgard had left, she had steadfastly refused to see him, though she wrote him once a month, now, still, after these four years. She promised to see him some day, but was vague about the day.
He almost ran from the room, fastening on his cape, catching up his hat. He called for a carriage.
CHAPTER 7
Baldur was hardly out of the little city when he became aware that he was going on a foolish and fantastic errand. He remembered, suddenly, that he had always written to Irmgard addressing her as “Mrs. Darmstadter.” He had assumed that this was the name of her relatives, and that by addressing her so at the farm in that remote farming district, his letters would have a better chance with the erratic mail delivery in the rustic regions. Of course, there was a possibility that “Mrs. Darmstadter” was another relative, but he remembered distinctly that she had said she had only these three relatives in America. There was still another possibility, and this gave him some slight hope: that “Mrs. Darmstadter” was indeed Franz’s mother, but that she had remarried a “Darmstadter.”
Then he forgot, partially, this part of his errand, and began to feel a great quickening at the thought of seeing Irmgard again. For nearly four years, he had tried to invent an adequate excuse for invading her strict privacy, and ignoring her pleas that he not try to see her “yet.” He now had this excuse, however impertinent or fantastic. Should he approach her seriously, or lightly? He became involved in the matter of the adequate approach. Then he became aware that he was sitting excitedly on the edge of the plush seat of the carriage, and that his lips were dry and his breath quick. He looked through the polished windows, and it seemed to him that the opening countryside was taking on a sharp brilliance and significance.
Unlikely many recluses, he was not fond of the country. Some delicate, or decadent, timidity in him repudiated largeness, open spaces, strangenesses and enormous winds. In such surroundings, he felt exposed, vulnerable to attack. Four close walls and shut windows and barred doors gave him the only sense of security he could know, the only safety. His nature made him a “cave-dweller,” he would say to himself. In his “cave,” he could deceive himself that the world was small and compact, cleared of danger. In darkness, he could hide, and be hidden from menacing eyes.
But now, because of his new excitement, he felt no strangeness, no danger, in this unfamiliar wide country. He could look at it with a detached and surprised and appreciative eye. I have missed much, he thought. He considered that here was a beauty he might paint. Heretofore, in his absorption with the faces of others, he had painted only portraits. A man paints what interests him most, he knew. His infirmity had caused him to scan other faces with anxious and suspicious interest, until every shade of thought could be discerned by him. He looked at the countryside, now, with the eye of a bemused and startled stranger.
It was late spring, and late afternoon, and a Sunday. The fields were empty of plowmen and farmers, but here and there a mute plow stood, waiting, in seas of fixed brown earth. He saw few houses, and these were buried in new masses of thick bright green trees. He saw splashes of hollyhocks against walls and white fences, and the ruddy round silos and roofs of red barns stood in light against ineffably blue skies. In the distance, drifted the pale purple smoke of far hills. And over all the country ran tides of blue, translucent shadow, clarified and cool. He passed meadows of brilliant green, in which cattle stood kneehigh in lush grass, lifting their brown and white heads in curiosity at the sound of the carriage. Long leaf-shadows fretted the dusty road, and birds sang long liquid trills in the trees. He had never seen nor heard such lofty and contented peace, untroubled and unconcerned. He wondered i
f the men who lived here were removed from the hot fever of living which infected the cities, or, if they too, were suffering from the miserable disease of living. When he passed the Amish cemetery, and saw the stones leaning, shining, against the sky, he felt no melancholy, but only peace. Nothing, he thought, was quite so melancholy, so somber, as city cemeteries, grimed, drooping, dirty, separated only from life by a wall or an iron fence. Even in death, in such a place, there was no escape. Not to have an escape, was what made life so intolerable. Surely, if there was a God, He would have, in His compassion, allowed man brief escapes into death, to relieve them of the monstrous prison-house of living.
He smiled whimsically to himself. Perhaps there were such escapes into death and darkness, before the torment of living must proceed again. I am getting fanciful, he thought. If I lived here, I might soon burst out into “Gloria in Excelsis Deo!”
The carriage was turning into a narrow but smooth brown road, and Baldur saw before him a snug red-brick house surrounded by white picket fences overgrown with hollyhocks. He smiled in appreciation, and his excitement grew. In a few moments, now, he would see Irmgard! It was not possible. She had become a remote, cold and lovely dream, which he had dreamed within his dark walls. She was no reality at all. Yet, reality stood waiting before him now. He could hardly contain himself. He was on the edge of his seat, gripping the folds of his cloak, long moments before the carriage stopped before a white door embellished by a shining brass knocker.
The Strong City Page 52