The Strong City

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  The doctor paused. “It is a question,” he said. “As the husband and father, I must ask you to make a painful decision, if it occurs.”

  Franz averted his head. Baldur saw his strong broad shoulders, his straight strong back. What was he thinking? In his heart, he despised Ernestine, even hated her. But there had been times when Baldur had seen him look at her with real, if passing, compassion. What was streaming in his mind, now? thought Baldur, objectively. The possible release from Ernestine? The release from a cloying domestic existence in a horrible house?

  Franz spoke: “If the question occurs, the mother must be saved, of course.”

  Baldur frowned to himself. The voice was natural, and firm enough, but there was something else there. Was it hope? Was all this sheer hypocrisy? Was it a quiver of a calloused conscience? Irmgard had told him years ago of that scene in the parlor of the Harrow house. Franz had been guilty, but he had not been acting. His grief had been real enough, and his shame and wretchedness. He did things that brought him equal torment with the torment of those he wounded and destroyed. If he caused destruction of others, he also brought himself destruction. He perpetrated the ruin with open eyes, and suffered. But he could not refrain from the ruin.

  He heard Franz say again: “She must be saved. That is all that matters.” His voice, with its hard gutturals, its accent, was stronger than ever. Even he does not dare to say otherwise, thought Baldur.

  He accompanied Franz into the bedroom. Franz went immediately to Tina and knelt down beside her. He took her hand. He called to her urgently. She opened her eyes and looked at him, and a well of light rose into them, and her whole face brightened as though struck by the sun. She moved towards him, and he held her in his arms. Baldur saw his profile, full of compassion, and very pale. Ernestine’s head lay on his shoulder, her thin dark hand pressed against his cheek.

  “O Franz,” she murmured. “O Franz,” and the sound was like an expiring breath.

  Baldur left the room, returned to his study. The young people had gone. A servant had removed the tray and cleared the table. The fire was low. There was no sound in the great mansion, only far and muffled echoes. Baldur sat before the fire, which slowly died. It began to get cold in the large dim room. He went to a window and pulled back a curtain. It had begun to snow. An hour passed, so. No one came to his rooms, as he sat there, waiting.

  One by one they had died, his mother, his father, and now his sister. Soon, there would be no one left tied to him by blood or by love in this house but Sigmund. Little Sigmund, with his fear and courage, his desperate rages, his weakness, his vulnerability and his loneliness and despair. Baldur felt his own loneliness now, like an empty gale out of eternity. He had always fought it contemptuously. Now it inundated him. The cold of the room and the cold of his heart turned his deformed flesh into ice.

  Some one knocked at the door, and Mrs. Trenchard entered, with reddened eyes and twitching lips. Baldur regarded her in silence.

  “Ernestine,” she said, and could say nothing more.

  Baldur did not speak.

  “And the child?” he said, finally, after a long emptiness.

  “A little girl, Baldur. Such a pretty little girl, with golden hair and blue eyes, but so very frail, like all our family.” She began to weep, with hard sobs.

  “It would have been better if she had died, too,” said Baldur, calmly.

  Mrs. Trenchard stopped her sobbing. She gazed at him with horror. She tried to speak. Then, with a choked sound she turned and went away.

  It was almost midnight when Baldur went to Franz, who sat alone in the sitting-room adjoining the bedroom where Ernestine lay, now so quiet, and at peace.

  A fire had been built, and was kept burning in the sitting-room. Franz sat before it, his elbow on the arm of his chair, his hand supporting his head. Baldur had entered so quietly that Franz did not hear him. Baldur saw his profile against the flickering fire. It was white and tense, and exhausted. Moreover, it expressed profound melancholy and sadness, though sorrow was absent. He looked older, absorbed, haggard.

  Baldur spoke gently: “I am sorry, Franz.”

  Franz lifted his head, and smiled painfully. But he said nothing.

  Baldur stood near him, and they both looked at the fire. Then Baldur said, very softly, almost meditatively:

  “You have been a bad husband, and you are a bad father. You are a liar and a hypocrite. I know all about you, Franz. You are a swine. Quite a thorough swine.” He paused. “But you brought Ernestine the only happiness she ever had. I don’t think you cared whether she was happy or not. Her happiness was accidental. But it existed, whether you wanted it or didn’t want it, or cared. I thank you for it.”

  He left him then. Franz watched him go, and his expression was inscrutable.

  CHAPTER 16

  By late summer, the new mansion was ready for occupancy.

  Franz had bought a large piece of ground near the outskirts of Nazareth, some twenty acres of gently rolling land, its highest point crowned with a circle of high pointed poplars. In the midst of this majesty he built his new house, of clean white stone with red roof and red chimneys. He hated the tall narrow red houses of his era, with their high narrow windows and gloomy box-like rooms. “It is the English tradition.” he said. “They build their houses to match their climate, and their characters.” He had the German’s love for space, for cleanness, for light and air. The house was long, rectangular, with broad deep windows full of sunshine, and verandahs that ran all the way around the building, supported by shining white columns of stone. Ivy was started even before the rooms were finished, and by late summer had added its fresh dark green to the pellucid whiteness of the building. The rooms were huge, with light walls and ceilings, and clear polished floors. Scores of men worked feverishly on the grounds, landscaping them, filling them with flower-beds, grottoes, red-flagged walks, broad driveways, summer-houses, servants’ quarters, and red stables.

  Mrs. Trenchard was horrified by all this light and windswept space. “The sun will fade these expensive carpets and draperies,” she protested. She was already aghast at the furnishings, chairs in blue, gold, rose and white damask, and delicate sofas in soft colors, and fragile graceful tables. She thought it all frivolous and unstable, for she had a love for heavy gloomy mahogany, dark fabrics and thick dull textures. She sniffed in outraged disapproval of the light soft carpets, the fragile chandeliers of crystal and gilt, the white winding stairways. It seemed to her that the whole air of the house was insecure and a little immoral in its lightness and color, for she had no eye for simplicity, openness and grace. She was further confirmed in this opinion when she learned that most of the furniture, the draperies, the ornaments and the rugs came from France. “Louis Fifteenth!” she complained. “It is all very disturbing, and no atmosphere for children. All this French furniture! I really do not know!”

  To her daughter, she said severely: “Of course, Franz is a foreigner, and has no taste. I prefer crimson plush and wine velvets, and lace, which is proper, and rich. Whatever could have inspired him!”

  Marcia replied gently: “I think it is beautiful. And so kind of him to let us furnish our apartment as we wish.”

  “That is one consolation,” said Mrs. Trenchard, primly tossing her head.

  Her own apartment was furnished with the furniture she had chosen from the Schmidt mansion. Here she could draw ponderous draperies against the sun, and revel in mighty plush sofas, leather chairs, horse-hair couches and mahogany, and line her walls with what-nots crowded with bric-a-brac. “Everything will soil in this house,” she said, grimly. “Servants will be forever cleaning and scrubbing. Dark colors are wearable, economical and do not show dirt.”

  Marcia had furnished her bedroom with nothing but a narrow white bed, a dresser and a commode. There were no carpets on the shining floors, no draperies at the windows. It was a convent room, chaste and pure and hard. She had not yet told her mother that she was to enter the Convent of the Sacred He
art of Mary in Philadelphia after Christmas. In the meantime, she secretly took Catholic instruction from Father John Brunswick of the Nativity Church in Nazareth. She thought of nothing else. She had already withdrawn from the world. Her mother’s insistence upon returning calls and visits was endured by her with silent patience and meekness. She lived alone, in quietness and unearthly peace, reading her pious books, studying, walking in the solitude of the beautiful grounds, her eyes luminous with virginal and ecstatic thoughts. Baldur often saw her slight pretty figure moving over the sun-swept grass, and he was saddened. A life of love and completeness awaited her, if she wanted it, a life full of the clamorous and adventurous world. But she did not want it. Her soul was cloistered, shut away, shining with silence. When she entered the convent, her body would follow where her spirit already lived.

  It may be true, thought Baldur, that every soul is dedicated at birth to a certain life. The unhappy are those who never find their own life. Marcia has found it. That is why she is happy. Nevertheless, he was sad. All that sweet youth and grace and beauty locked away like a flower behind stone walls! How had this child, of Anglo-Saxon blood and tradition, conceived such a cool passion for an alien strange creed, born of Jerusalem and Rome in inexplicable marriage? Faith was universal, but this Church had arisen from Paganism, had incorporated in itself this Paganism and more than a touch of Hebraic ritual, and had produced a creed and a faith distinct to itself, and alien to the robust factualism of the Anglo-Saxon. Baldur’s German blood dimly asserted itself, and he thought: It would be more natural for Marcia, with her English and old Teutonic heritage, if she worshipped the gay Freya, the Nordic Odin or Wotan, the Tannhäuser-Thor. These are creatures of our own blood and our own flesh and soul, creatures of our forests and earth and streams and mountains, and their birth was our birth. Was there in Marcia a Latin or Hebraic strain now suddenly come to life in her Nordic flesh?

  These uneasy thoughts mingled with his real pleasure in the mansion, which Franz, suddenly demonstrating his lack of imagination, had banally called “The Poplars.” Baldur was especially pleased by the fact that Franz had frequently and persistently consulted him about the house and the furnishings, and Mrs. Trenchard complained of them without knowing their source. Baldur, coming out of his solitude, had actually gone to New York to purchase the furniture, and when he saw Franz’s admiration, he was absurdly gratified. “Ah, I had to fit the furnishings to the house,” he said, with sincerity, for the house pleased and delighted him. He had a large apartment for himself, which he furnished simply and with elegance. He shared, with Franz, a love for space and largeness and light.

  The family moved into the new home in October. At Christmas, Franz entertained a number of family friends, very quietly, in deference to the memory of Ernestine, who had been dead not quite a year. He was very popular, and had many friends, charming every one with his amiability, his elaborate courtesies, his attentive and fascinating smile, his good temper and air of Teutonic kindliness. Moreover, men as well as women admired his handsome face and figure. “Not quite a gentleman,” some of the older men would say, stroking their beards with consideration. “But a man,” they would add, judiciously. Manhood was beginning to be regarded as almost as valuable as gentlemanliness, and though it was a heresy, and daring, more and more people looked on the idea with tolerance. It is true that Franz was not “elegant,” and would never be a “gentleman of fashion,” but these things were already becoming suspect even among the city elect as savoring of Continentalism. The opening of the west, and the production thereafter of virile and sweaty men, had aroused the suspicion, even among “gentlemen,” that there was emerging in America a true American type, healthy, strong, unhampered and robust. It was becoming common knowledge that even in New York, the railroad aristocracy, and the old financiers, were graciously accepting into their midst even such unlikely characters as Lillian Russell and Jim Brady, and others of slightly odorous kind. Of course, it was all very tentative, but “gentlemen” were beginning to lose some of their sanctity and almost pious repute.

  Relations between Baldur and Franz grew increasingly amiable and friendly as the months after Ernestine’s death passed. It was evident to Baldur that Franz sincerely regretted his wife’s death, that he found the sudden absence of adoration depressing, however much he had been revolted by it during Ernestine’s lifetime. Perhaps remorse was mingled with this regret, Baldur thought. At any rate, he was kinder to his children, especially to Joseph, of whom he now seemed genuinely fond. He ceased his old habit of speaking shortly and harshly to Sigmund, and he punctuated long periods of complete neglect of the child with kindliness. Sigmund had a room of his own now, near Baldur’s, and seemed freer and happier than ever before. No one but Baldur truly missed Ernestine. He forgot her years of petulance and enmity against him. He remembered her only as the young Ernestine, with her shyness, fragile gaiety, and quick light eagerness. Mrs. Trenchard remained with the family. Franz disliked her secretly, but she was convenient, and he was grateful. Moreover, she found no wrong in him, and admired him, which was soothing. He pretended, at the least, a friendship for young Richard, who had entered the mills, much to Franz’s puzzled amusement. Mrs. Trenchard was a rich woman, and though Franz had not yet thought of a way in which he could use her wealth, he liked to have affluent people about him as potentialities.

  The little girl, Gretchen, however, was loved by every one, even the sly and cruel Joseph, and even by Franz. His German instinct for children bloomed suddenly for this child, who resembled him remarkably. He delighted in her soft golden hair, her large blue eyes, her rosy mouth, and warm baby flesh. She was dimpled, very amiable, and exceedingly pretty. There was something of Ernestine in her shyness and fragile timidity. From the first, she worshipped her father, and, flattered and pleased, he spent hours in the nursery with her, singing German lieder to her as she sat on his knee, and even tucking her into her bed. He had never demanded any religious instruction for his sons, but now he seriously discussed the matter with Mrs. Trenchard, declaring that as soon as the child was mentally and physically capable of absorbing instruction, she must have it. As a preparation, he drove his sons rigorously to Sunday School every week, and saw to it personally that they accompanied Mrs. Trenchard to the Episcopal Church in spite of their protests and sullenness. “You’ve been heathens long enough,” he told them sternly. On Holidays, he even accompanied them himself, sitting upright, attentive and very handsome in the family pew which he had never honored with his presence before. He contributed large sums to the church, even larger sums than Ernestine and her mother had given. The minister became his devoted friend. From the very first day when Gretchen began to form words, he taught her German phrases as well as English. As the months passed, his devotion became almost fatuous. He saw himself reflected in the blue eyes so like his own, and to himself he promised that those things which he believed had destroyed his own innocence would never destroy hers.

  The Schmidt Steel Company, in the meantime, was expanding enormously. Franz found comfort in this. He was increasingly engrossed in the company. Once or twice he had attempted to acquaint Baldur with certain procedures, and was relieved when Baldur laughingly refused to listen. “Do as you wish,” he would say. “I care nothing about it. Once a year, I promise you, I will look over your reports. But that is all.”

  No one knew that young Richard Trenchard was Franz’s wife’s cousin. He worked in the mills as a laborer with the other men. Franz soon lost interest in the peculiar conduct of the young man. He soon forgot him. He had a vague idea that Richard wished to be a writer, and was gathering material. But so long as no one annoyed him by forcing himself into his awareness, he was grateful, and did not interfere.

  The lovely new mansion had its effect on every one who lived in it. Light, beauty, space and air contributed to a more healthy atmosphere. Little Gretchen bloomed daily. Joseph was less restless. Even Sigmund took on tranquillity and a new young dignity. He and Baldur had a plot ma
rked out for themselves, which they cultivated. They had a green-house to themselves, also, where they could continue their gardening.

  Franz, moving among his family with amiability, tolerance and good temper, was a pleasant stranger to every one but Gretchen. Even Joseph saw less of him. He lived his life in the mills, and, after Gretchen was in bed, in another section of the city.

  Every one thought less and less of Ernestine. She was connected in their minds with the dark gloom of the mansion on Mulberry Street, which lay empty and dusty for many years before it was converted into a rooming-house. Only Baldur remembered. But even with him, the ghost of Ernestine did not come into “The Poplars.” She remained behind on Mulberry Street, a disconsolate and weeping shadow, mournfully searching through the echoing rooms for her lost family.

  Sometimes Baldur had his carriage driven by the mansion, as though to visit his sister, and comfort her. He would look up at the tremendous windows, blank, dust-filmed and blind, and he could imagine that he saw Ernestine’s pale face looking out from her bedroom window, sadly and eagerly watching for Franz, as it had done many years before. He would half lift his hand in sad greeting to her. He had the strange idea that she saw him, and waved in return, and that she was grateful and less sorrowful.

  CHAPTER 17

  Mrs. Ethelberta Chisholm shared a handsome residence on Goddard Street with a remarkable milliner, Mlle. Le Clair (née Murphy). It was gay and baroque, this residence, of white wood, with many turrets, grilled windows, and brass-decorated doors. It had no particular style, having managed to combine the most rococo Victorianism with early Regency and American Colonial, all of which gave the house and its furnishing a slightly incoherent air, more than a little disreputable, but very amusing and light-hearted. Everything about it was very expensive and plushy, from the draperies with their gilt threads mingling with the lavish embroidery, to the thick rugs and the many high-colored vases and mirrors. Mrs. Chisholm was reputed to be a lady with a “private income,” though there were serious doubts about the sources of the income. Mlle. Le Clair, of course, shared the expenses, but her share could hardly have accounted for the two polished carriages in the stables, the six sleek horses, the two coachmen, two parlor-maids, cook and butler. Too, not one of Mrs. Chisholm’s gowns could have been bought for less than one hundred and fifty dollars, and her furs and gloves and reputedly silken underwear, must have cost thousands a year.