The Strong City

by Taylor Caldwell

  She smiled vaguely to herself, with deep content. Soon she would see him, tall and strong in his arrogant young twelve years, his head gilt in the last sun, his bare legs and feet as brown as the leaves through which he would walk. He would not run to her, but would come purposefully, whistling softly to himself, and pretending sternness when he knew she saw him. He would help her rise from the stone bench, and would tuck her shawl carefully round her. He would insist that she hold his arm, and would watch her every step with frowning solicitude. The absurd sweetness and strength of the little fellow, whose head was already on the level with her eyes! Her smile deepened, and her breath caught in her throat. She was unbearably moved. Her diffused joy increased, sharpened, and she looked at the sky, her dry lips moving soundlessly as though she spoke a prayer of gratitude and humility. Her hands clasped together tightly. To control the shaking rapture of her heart, she looked again at the autumn fields, sky and hills, and content welled in upon her with enormous peace.

  It was good to feel like this, fulfilled, drained, yet brimming with ecstasy. She had never known it was possible to feel like this. The turbulence, pain, grief, despair, frustration, disappointment and sadness of her life were less than the dark memory of a dream. They were like the winds and storms and rains and tempests of spring and summer, which drenched the earth, made it fecund, and at the last, brought forth the harvest. The torment of plowing and seeding in the dark, turning the iron earth stiff with frost, assaulted by the bitter winds, doubtful that the seed would root, fearful that it would rot or be lost, despairing of the summer: this she had known in her soul. She had seen the young fields flatten under hail, and laid waste. She had seen the fruit trees beaten bare of the flowers. She had seen the rivers overflow the land and drown it. She had felt in her heart that it was all hopeless, this living, this hoping, this struggling. And then the autumn had come, and the harvest lay thick and golden in the valley, and she saw at last that all the storms and the furies had nourished the soil and strengthened the roots, and the seeds she had planted had become the bread and sustenance of the soul. So knowing, the hatred and sorrow and torment of her life seemed after all, only the sowing and the rains, followed by fulfilment and peace, and the barns full of corn. All that man had known, all that had caused his weeping, and, at the end, his joy, was carried out in the cycle of the earth’s growing and harvesting, its tempests and its serene rivers, its dark afternoons and its silver nights. Why was it not given me to know before? she thought, with wonder. And then she knew that she had been blind, and the story had been waiting for her own sight to see it.

  There was no fear left in her. She knew now that fear is the craven egotism of the spirit. She thought of the multitudes of men who lived only in the livid reflection of it, and saw, in its deathly glow, a distorted universe filled with hatred and death, with greed and madness, and relentless enemies.

  She could think of Franz, now, not with the hot misery of years ago, but with mournful understanding. He had always been afraid. Fear made men frantic, made them cruel and ferocious, striking blindly in the dark. Now, thinking of him, she was overwhelmed with sorrow. Her hands lifted a little, and she whispered: “My son.” The words were like a prayer, spoken humbly and softly. Tears trembled in her eyes. She wanted to tell him. But how could one describe the colors of the earth to one who was still blind?

  She looked at her hands, seeing how knotted and veined they were, how brown and hard with work. The nails were stained and bent. She smiled again. Good tools, that had served her very well. She felt a fondness for them, and a gratitude. They had helped her sow and tend the farm. She thought of the richness of her land, and then of the faces of her friends and neighbors. They had been there, those friends, when she had almost died this past summer, full of solicitude and affection, bringing homely dainties and flowers from their own gardens. One woman had brought a quilt she had made herself, and another a shawl, and one a concoction of herbs from her fields. The Amish deacons had come to pray beside her bed, their beards dark on their grave brown faces. They hoped she would live, for they loved her. (How beautiful to be loved, not merely by the few in one’s household, but by many whom, earlier, she would have called “strangers”!) But they would not feel sorrowful if she died. They had learned very well the lesson of the earth, and knew that winter was only prelude to another spring, and another sowing and another harvest.

  She thought of foolish old Miss Florence Tandy, pottering in the kitchen. She was fat and wrinkled now. She had forgotten the horrors of her life. They were a dream which had gone with the light of day. Just as my nightmares have gone, thought Emmi.

  She thought of Irmgard, not young now, but more beautiful than ever, quiet, steadfast, always working, always serene and full of golden dignity. Had she forgotten her mournful dreams, also? Or was she still too young? Emmi could not know. But she did know that her niece was happy and content, strong and gentle. The management of the farm was in her hands now. Hermann Schultz had married, and he and his comely fat young wife lived in the farmhouse and helped Irmgard with the work. There was always laughter and singing and industry in the house, always the smell of bread baking, and new milk, and apples and spices, and flowers and the odor of scrubbed wooden floors. Emmi could see the sunlight on the kitchen windows, and the red geraniums on the sill. She could see her hollyhocks, and the sun-streaked backs of books in the “sitting-room.” All those books! She had given them to Siegfried. She had taught him German, and the names of the great German poets and musicians. But she had never taught him the terrible names of German warriors. To Emmi, these names were shameful and detestable. But she had taught him the old folk-lore of the old Teutons, and she had filled his young mind with visions of Thor and Odin, of Freda and Loki. She had gone with him and Irmgard to the old gray stone church in the valley. She knew that in his young mind God did not live in a cloudy and unreal heaven, but in the earth and the sky. She had failed with Franz. But she had not failed with his son.

  She came slowly out of her thoughts as one comes out of a cathedral, looking about with bemused eyes, heavy, still, with the memory of incense and holy quiet. The sun was less warm on her shoulders and her face and hands. It still glittered on the tops of far red trees. Yet, there seemed a dim shadow over all that burning color and yellow fields. Was it really turning colder, and a little darker? The night comes early now, she thought to herself. She shivered slightly, drew the shawl closer about her. She looked down the golden tunnel of trees. Siegfried would come soon. He ought to be here. In a moment she would see him, hear his whistle, see how the squirrels and the rabbits scurried out of his path into the saffron leaves.

  Then, a dull premonition struck her ponderously in the breast. It is coming again, she thought, remembering the horrible twisting pain which had assaulted her heart in the summer. Irmgard was right: she ought not have climbed the hill today, for she had been unusually weak this morning. But she had wanted to come to Egon’s grave, as she always came. Here, in this shining solitude she could think of him, and talk to him. All her thoughts were conversations with him, and here she felt the ecstasy of complete fulfilment.

  She said aloud, simply: “Egon, I hope it will not be so bad this time.” The rememberance of the pain could bring her the only real terror of her life. She could feel it creeping upon her, like a deadly enemy in ambush. She clenched her hands on her knees, fixed her eyes sternly on the tunnel of trees. Ah, it was here now, in the open, seizing her throat, throttling her. She leaned against the back of the bench, fighting for breath, holding down her whimpering. It surged over her, a tide, a drowning black wave, and she fought in it, gasping, tightening her teeth. “Egon,” she whispered.

  Then it had gone, completely, leaving only weakness and a great lassitude behind it. She looked about her, dazedly. A veil of milky radiance had fallen over the landscape, and the earth trembled in it, as in water. But how supernally beautiful it was, like a vision of heaven! She was filled with amazement and rapture, and deep solem
nity.

  She looked down the tunnel of trees. The radiant mist at the end was brighter than ever, like a glory fallen from the sky. She could hardly look at it, so dazzling was it, as though the sunset had wheeled to the east and was shining down the tunnel.

  She saw a figure in the light. It was Siegfried at last. She heard her voice calling to him. But she could scarcely see him. He was only a moving outline in the light. He was coming closer. But he was not singing. He was taller, and moved slower than usual, the light brightening steadily behind him.

  And then a great cry broke from her. It was not Siegfried. It was Egon. And she saw that he was smiling, and holding out his hands to her.

  CHAPTER 20

  Franz listened to the wild, soft, half-mad notes leaping along the wide white corridors of the upper rooms of his house. He had left his room to listen, leaning against the closed door. The lights, in their high crystal prisms, burned dimly overhead along the corridor with its soft blue rug. The children were in bed. It was nearly eleven o’clock.

  He had listened for a long time, not thinking, only his emotions, vague and dark, rising and falling like chips of wood on curling waves, without voluntary movement of their own. When the notes became minor, a somber depression made his vision opaque, so that he seemed to be watching slow dusky clouds mounting and falling very slowly and heavily. Then it seemed to him that he could hardly bear his own melancholy. When they rose in sudden wild frenzy, his heart took up the beat, his pulses clamored, and he thought that the blood which had rushed to his head would surely burst its veins. And then there would be notes of pure and ineffable sweetness, like slowly poured gold, so poignant in their sweetness that he was certain he could taste their essence on his tongue. Something of Schubert’s, he thought vaguely. But Schubert had surely never been played like this before, with such loveliness and clarity, such passion and ecstasy and sorrow. The formlessness of sound became of gentle yet terrible substance, so that he had sudden flashes of vision, blinding and disturbing. A tree in the wind, a fork of lightning splitting open a black sky, a flower reflected in a pool, the bright curve of a bird’s wing in purple forest shadows, a river under the moon, a precipice outlined against flame, a thin white mountain spire against a green heaven, a face, an upflung pallid hand, a cry from parted lips, a gleaming torrent, or a red rock in a violet sea. He saw them all, in blinding instants, saw them dissolve into each other in dizzying succession, so that his head began to spin.

  He felt the urgent sorrow which only those who truly know music can feel. Yet, with the sorrow was a sudden simple gladness that he had not yet lost the capacity to experience emotion. The keenness was blunted to a certain extent, but the impulse was there, trying to cleave through the callouses. It was absurd, childish, to feel such gladness, and his hard realism was affronted.

  He straightened himself, prepared to return to his own apartments. Yet, with his hand on the door handle, he paused. He was angrily appalled at the sudden malaise which took hold on him, the sudden overpowering weariness and loneliness. It was like the opening of a deep scar, which suddenly gushed blood. His thoughts rushed to a spinning point. He must leave the house, though he was tired. He thought of friends, and women, and was sickened. There was no place for him to go!

  Then he knew for a long time that he had never really had any place to go at all! Everywhere was just an escape. From himself. He had no friends. He had no one who knew him. He could think of no one who really knew him, except Baldur, whose playing had sunken again to a sad and melancholy meditation.

  He released the door handle, turned with sudden determined purpose, and went down the hall to Baldur’s room. He knocked on the door. Despite himself, he could not make the knock firm and quick. It was only tentative. The music stopped instantly, and Baldur called to him to enter.

  He opened the door, forced himself to smile affably. Baldur had swung himself about on his stool, and sat there, slightly surprised when he saw his brother-in-law. Gnome-like, deformed, he was like an old child perched on the stool, his light hair heavily streaked with gray, his face pale and furrowed. But his eyes were still large, blue and clear, and unswervingly level.

  “Franz,” he said, courteously, and smiled. “Come in. Did you knock?”

  “Who else?” replied Franz. He was absurdly delighted. Baldur was not reserved, as usual. He appeared almost pleased at the intrusion. Franz came into the room, and sat down. “I heard you playing. Schubert?”

  “Schubert. Yes.”

  There was a small abrupt silence. Baldur waited, calmly. It pleased him to give Franz the impression of polite waiting, for Franz invariably aroused him to rare thin cruelty in spite of his understanding and compassion. He liked to see the faint color of discomfort rise to the tired and haggard face. Even the expression on that face, worn, preoccupied and exhausted, gave him pleasure, while it newly aroused his pity.

  Slightly disconcerted, Franz glanced about the room, which he had seen only a few times. Its loftiness and beauty soothed him, its open space and uncluttered shining floor gave him the sense of having drawn a deep clean breath. It is what I have always tried to produce, but never could, he thought. His wandering eye rose, fixed itself on Irmgard’s unchanging portrait, and the old pang, deep and aching, divided his heart. He thought he had forgotten. Now he knew he would never forget. In spite of the uselessness of any renewal of search, he could not forget. But hope had gone. Baldur saw his look, the sharp tightening of muscle which caused Franz’s jaw to grow sharp and hard, as though with unexpected pain. His compassion was gone, all at once, in the poison of envy and anger.

  He envied and hated Franz for his handsomeness, his whole body, his ruthless health. He hated him because Irmgard loved him. He was amazed at himself for feeling this now, for he had not felt it before. Because I thought he had forgotten, and she had forgotten, he said to himself. But neither can forget.

  He became aware that Franz was regarding him curiously, and he forced himself to assume an expression of serenity. “You like Schubert?” he asked, somewhat inanely.

  Franz smiled. The mastery had passed to him from Baldur. He knew this, subtly, but what he had mastered he did not know.

  “Yes. But I didn’t come to discuss Schubert with you.” He stood up, and approached the piano. His large strong hands touched the keys. They moved awkwardly, like the uncertain hands of a blind man. He struck a note or two, finally, then another, and another. The sound was deep, hoarse and slow, discordant, yet with a strange music also. Baldur watched the hands, fascinated, saw their fumbling and their strength. The sound became deeper, more imperative, yet weary. It was no chord he recognized. He knew it came from the distorted spirit of this man, always restless and unsleeping, always wretched and rapacious. Then the slow march halted abruptly, and Franz smiled down at him sheepishly.

  “I’m rusty, now,” he said. “But once I could play. Not so well as you. But I could play, provided every note was before me. My mother used to say I played like a mathematician. That disgusted me, and finally I stopped playing. Music has nothing in common with mathematics. I had the emotion necessary, I think. But I couldn’t seem to express it.”

  He went back to his chair. He looked at Baldur, and said, lifting his eyebrows humorously: “Yet, music has always seemed to me the extreme essence of living. Am I extravagant?”

  Baldur shrugged, smiling gently. He ran his hand carelessly over the keys, evoking a long and brilliant ripple of sound, like a laugh, mocking, yet not really gay. He said nothing.

  “Aren’t you interested in knowing the progress of your company?” asked Franz. “It is nearly a year since you last asked me.”

  The old malice and cruelty returned to Baldur. “I’m afraid I’m not really interested,” he replied, with a bland and artless look. “I know you are very—adequate. You couldn’t help being. But if you were not, it wouldn’t disturb me much.”

  He was pleased at the surly darkening of Franz’s face, and felt amused at the long slow glance of
contempt. But he also saw that Franz was considerably disturbed. I have said this many times before, he thought, but he never really believed me until now.

  Franz waved his hand with affected indulgence. “After all, only the greater part of your fortune is invested in the Schmidt Steel Company,” he said, lightly.

  Baldur raised an eyebrow. “My wants are not lavish, Franz. I could subsist on much less.” He might have been speaking of something inconsequential, and Franz was both aghast and outraged. But he pressed his lips together, and only the hard blue sparkling of his eyes showed his anger. He recovered himself, tried to speak with a heavy assumption of jocularity:

  “I thought you might be interested in knowing of a certain encounter of mine with Jules Bouchard. And,” he added, with involuntary impressiveness that Baldur found very amusing, “with Mr. Ernest Barbour, himself.”

  “Please tell me,” said Baldur, his renewal of pity making his voice interested.

  He listened carefully and politely to Franz’s narrative. Subconsciously, however, he listened less to the words than to the voice, and he heard its forced triumph, its false enthusiasm, its heavy and mirthless gloating. Franz seemed a stage characterization of a successful man, who mouthed words but felt no echo of them in himself, but instead was infinitely weary of the character he delineated. When Franz had finished, Baldur said, trying to make his voice coolly admiring: “That was very clever. Indeed. But you thought out the plan well in advance, didn’t you? Men who make plans are never audacious. I congratulate you on your lack of audacity.”

  Franz was puzzled and affronted. He stared at Baldur’s calm face, trying to understand. “What is the use of being audacious, unless one is sure?” he asked, irritably. “Only fools—”

  “Plunge in where good businessmen fear to tread,” interrupted Baldur, with a smile. “Yes, yes, of course. Frankly, I’ve always admired audacity. But I can see where one can’t, and dare not, be audacious with stockholders’ money. They mightn’t like it. Finance, I can see, was never for me.”