Balance Wheel

by Taylor Caldwell

  That was it. Charles remembered that Phyllis always looked fondly at James, his son, that she never forgot his birthday, and was always delighted when the boy accompanied his father on a visit. She wanted, and needed, children. Charles was very sorry for her. It was not her fault that she had no family; from the very beginning, Wilhelm had expressed his open dislike for children, and had said that he never intended to have any. No child would ever ruffle the perfect order of his home or disturb his meditations and his long hours alone with himself in his library or gallery. He and Phyllis, he frequently said, had the “ideal” life, a completely “adult” life. They were truly companions, harmonious and considerate.

  What would life be like for him, Charles, without Jimmy? The very thought was intolerable. He could not conceive of life without his son. He put down the glass of sherry after a distasteful glance at it. Why could not Mary have lived? Why had she and their little newborn daughter died together? It had been senseless. If the doctor had remained but five minutes longer, he would have been able to stop that hemorrhage which had killed Mary; he would have been able to restore breathing in the baby. The nurse had been inadequate in this double crisis. The child had suddenly died while the distracted nurse had tried to staunch that horrible, bursting hemorrhage in the mother.

  “Charles,” said Phyllis.

  “Eh?” Charles lifted his head. She saw the heavy gravity on his face.

  “You are thinking of Mary, aren’t you, Charles?” Her voice was very gentle.

  “How did you know?” He tried to smile at her. Then he looked at the windows, through which the August sun was shining so urgently. “It was on a day like this when she died. I remember. It was a very hot day. And the birth had been difficult for her. She was never very strong.”

  Phyllis stood up quickly, and walked down the length of the room to a distant window. She stood there, and fingered the lace edge of the Venetian curtain. “Poor Charles,” she murmured.

  “Well,” he said. He added, after a moment: “I could have had less. I might not have had Mary even as long as I did.”

  “You loved her very much, didn’t you?”

  “No one could have helped loving Mary,” he answered. He was uncomfortable. He never liked to talk about Mary, even now. What was wrong with Phyllis?

  She stood in profile to him, far down the room. She was definitely thinner; her whole body had acquired a fine and delicate contour. He had always known that Phyllis was pretty; now with the light beating on her face, lying in a pool of gold in the hollow of her throat, she was beautiful. The blue-and-white teagown gave her a frail quality, and though she stood so still, he sensed her restlessness.

  She turned to him. It was a swift movement, and impetuous. Something was trembling on her face, like reflected light. It was then that Wilhelm came in, and Charles was unaccountably relieved.

  “Good,” said Wilhelm, in his quick and slightly irritable voice. “I thought you wouldn’t wait, Charles. It was that damned Gordon. Calls himself a ‘handyman,’ and can’t even strike a nail straight. How are you, Charles? How is the tool factory?”

  “I’m all right,” said Charles, smiling. “The factory? You hardly ever go there, except when the directors meet. You’re always there then, however,” he added, with a friendly malice. “By the way, the next meeting is on Thursday. You’ll be there.”

  “Yes. I understand something important is going to be discussed.” He looked at his wife. “I hope you have some tea for me, Phyllis?” What was Phyllis doing, standing there so silent by the window? The natural irritability of his voice lessened.

  Phyllis moved towards her husband. Now everything about her was tranquil. She gave him a look of affection. “Are we to see the Van Gogh?”

  “Well, I certainly don’t intend to let Charles leave without seeing it,” he replied.

  Charles said: “Yes, there’s something important coming up on Thursday. I hope to have a talk with you about it before we all meet.” He frowned for a moment. He looked at Wilhelm acutely. Wilhelm was concentrating on the sugar his wife was dropping into his tea. “That’s enough, Phyllis,” he said. “You know I never take but one lump, and here you are, trying to give me two.”

  Wilhelm glanced at his brother over his thin shoulder. “‘Talk with me about it?’” he repeated. “Why? We’ll discuss it at the meeting.”

  Charles was silent. He had the ability to look more solid than ordinary on certain occasions. Now he sat like a rock in his chair. Wilhelm helped himself to a tea wafer, sat down with precise neatness on a small gilt settee not too near his brother. He said: “This is one of Van Gogh’s best. Even you will have to admit that, Charles, when you see it.”

  Charles said: “What do I know of painting?”

  “Oh, I know you like Victorian photographic ‘art’! Obvious. And meaningless, except when it is sickeningly pretty.”

  “So was Renaissance art. You’ve said so, yourself—Willie.”

  Wilhelm’s mouth became disagreeable. But he ignored the “Willie,” as he always did. “Yes, I’ve said so. I admit it had its place—in its time. But not now. Victorian art is only an imitation of Renaissance art, with an overlay of Puritanism. Or Presbyterianism. Why modern artists cling to it I really don’t know. Vapid imitators. There’s that Matthew Prescott. Another imitator. Do you know something? I could have bought one of his pictures for less than what I paid for this Van Gogh! This shows that the public taste is definitely growing more intelligent, and discerning.”

  He looked about the lovely room with satisfaction. “It isn’t as though I have no reverence for tradition. This room is all Louis Fifteenth. But it has a timelessness. Victorianism was only an era, sharply defined—and confined. Nothing about it will endure.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Charles. He was not interested. Why did Wilhelm evade the question?

  “More sherry?” asked Phyllis.

  “No, thanks,” said Charles. It was getting late, but something must be settled. It was very serious. He had not known how serious it would be. Had Wilhelm not evaded him, he would have taken his leave almost immediately. Wilhelm was usually with him, Charles, in any question which involved Jochen’s ideas. It was easy to see that Wilhelm knew of Jochen’s new idea and that he did not wish to discuss it with Charles. That was ominous.

  Was it possible that Wilhelm needed money? Absurd. He had his large salary as an officer of the company. Phyllis had inherited one hundred and fifty thousand dollars from her grandmother, who had brought her up after her parents’ death. Of course, he was always buying his infernal paintings, and this house must cost a fortune to maintain. Moment by moment, Charles became aware of the seriousness of the present situation.

  Wilhelm was unobtrusively ignoring him. He was answering Phyllis’ interested questions about the Van Gogh. Charles caught words such as “mood,” “emotion,” “feeling,” “intensity of line and color.”

  Wilhelm sipped his tea with his usual nervous haste. If he could get out of showing Charles the Van Gogh he would now be very satisfied. He felt Charles, sitting there. Charles could feel Wilhelm urging him to leave. He settled himself even deeper in his chair. But he must move cautiously. He was always having to move cautiously with his brothers, and sometimes it was a cursed nuisance. A man got tired.

  “I’d like to see the painting,” he said. “If it is what you say it is, then it’s probably more than worth seeing.”

  Wilhelm turned to him. He tried to resist, but he was flattered. He wanted Charles to go, but he also wanted Charles to see his new treasure. His uncertainty showed in his lean and narrow face, so dark and volatile. Some ancestor, and not either Emil or Gretchen Wittmann, had given him his slender height, his elegance, the fastidiousness of his appearance. There must have been one high-strung and patrician ancestor in that old German stock, an ancestor who had been a scholar, or a dilettante, like Wilhelm, himself.

  Wilhelm was no poseur. He was genuinely patrician. His taste was exquisite. He di
d not pretend to love “art” in any form. He really appreciated it. Ugliness was dreadful to him, whether in human beings or in landscapes. He wrote significant and brilliant articles for the various magazines devoted to music or painting or literature, and several of these articles had been gathered together in anthologies. He was known to every art society in Europe or America, and dealers knew him well, to their occasional sorrow.

  There was one thing he and his brothers had in common: a profound and instinctive respect for money. Charles respected it as evidence of industry and intelligence; Jochen respected it as an absolute thing in itself, and as power; Wilhelm respected it because it enabled him to buy the beautiful things for which he had such a craving. Using these various respects adroitly and cleverly, Charles had been enabled to preserve what his father had left to his sons, and to increase it. He had also used other traits in his brothers’ characters to this end.

  It must not be an appeal to money now which he must use to hold Wilhelm with him against Jochen. It must be Wilhelm’s hatred for ugliness.

  Phyllis said: “Do you want me to play something for you while you finish tea, Wilhelm?” She looked at Charles, a clouded look. “Charles?”

  Charles was about to say: “Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata.’” And then he remembered that this favorite piece of music had once made Wilhelm sneer: “Obvious!” So he said: “Debussy.”

  Wilhelm put down his cup. He regarded Charles, pleased. Then his face changed and he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Again, he was irresolute. “It’s getting late Phyllis. You know that Charles always visits the others on his calls.”

  Charles got up and went to one of the windows. He moved his strong and somewhat stolid body with careful leisureliness. “I suppose I should go,” he said. “But I always like to spend more time here than anywhere else.”

  Wilhelm was gratified. But still he resisted. He said: “Thank you. You’ve told me that before, and I believe you mean it, Charles. That’s why it’s so hard to understand why you don’t sell that hideous house of yours—our father’s house—and buy something that has a little attractiveness about it.” Charles wanted to say, as he had often said: “I’m a Philistine. I’m hidebound. You’re always telling me that, and it’s true. Besides, I like the house.” But now he said: “Perhaps you’re right. It’s dark and cumbersome. And cluttered.” Phyllis’ expression became serious. She knew so much about Charles. Something was disturbing him deeply.

  Charles was thinking: Jochen’s been at him. They’ve talked together; Joe’s determined to have his way, and he’s gone behind my back to Willie, even though they detest each other.

  He looked through the window consideringly, turning slowly from side to side in order to convey the impression that he was admiring the view.

  He said: “My mind’s been restricted. But then, I never had your artistic instincts. It’s a kind of color-blindness in me, perhaps.”

  “We can’t all be artists,” said Wilhelm, and his irritable voice had in it a note of sympathy. “You’ve done very well with the business, Charles. I don’t know what would have happened to it if it hadn’t been for you.”

  Charles’ shoulders relaxed a little. He turned back to the room. “Thanks,” he said with feeling. “I’ve done my best. The family’s important here, in Andersburg. We have a reputation for reliability and trustworthiness. Our tools can’t be excelled anywhere in America, and that is why the biggest concerns come to us. And this city trusts us. That’s why I’ve been thinking of doing something for the city—with a slight profit for all of us.” He smiled at Wilhelm.

  His brother was immediately intrigued. “What?” he asked.

  “That twenty acres we all own jointly, in the name of the company, along the river front.”

  Wilhelm glanced away. One of his slender hands moved on the arm of the settee, restlessly stroking it. He did not reply. It was not like him to be silent about anything, and Charles’ alarm increased.

  He said: “The city wants to buy that land from the company. The price offered is not too exciting, I admit. And there’s that Connington Steel Company wanting to buy the land for a new mill. You know what that means. They’ve offered us a big price, and I intended to discuss it with all of you at the meeting. Three times what the city has offered. They’ll ruin the waterfront, pollute the water, destroy what is now a beautiful area. They could build somewhere on the outskirts of the city, but they’d find it more convenient to destroy the local water scenery.”

  Wilhelm’s restless hand moved more rapidly. He looked down at his polished boots.

  Charles continued: “Andersburg can still boast of an undespoiled waterfront; even the Prescott Lumber Company hasn’t ruined it, for it is far down the river. I’m against selling the land to them. We aren’t that greedy. We don’t want to foul our own nest. Let the Connington buy the Burnsley land five miles back from the city, and keep its dirt and smells and shacks and smoke away from the people of Andersburg.”

  Wilhelm lifted his cup and extended it to Phyllis. She refilled it. Wilhelm’s small thin ears were turning a trifle red. “One lump of sugar, dear,” he murmured.

  “I have a much better idea,” said Charles. “We’ll sell the land to the city at its offered low price—if we all agree. On one condition: that it be called the Wittmann Civic Park. And on another condition, if you, Wilhelm, would care to undertake the job: that you supervise the planning, lay out the design for the flowers and the trees and the walks, select any statuary, approve any buildings. Only you could do this properly. The park would be a monument to the family; it would be a monument to your taste.”

  Wilhelm turned to his brother with such abruptness that his cup rattled on its saucer. He was enormously moved and excited. His full dark eyes flashed. “What an idea!” he exclaimed. His egotistical nature quickened. “‘The Wittmann Civic Park!’ What I could do, if everything were left in my hands! It would be the beauty spot of Pennsylvania!”

  Then he stopped. His eyes shifted. He stirred his tea. “But ought we to refuse such an offer from the Connington?” he muttered.

  Charles did not answer. He stood there, and let the turmoil rage in Wilhelm.

  Wilhelm was sick with the struggle within him. He put down his tea, untasted. He sat on the edge of the settee, his fingers wound together, his shoulders bent.

  “Jochen thinks we ought to accept the Connington’s offer,” said Charles. “But then, Joe lives on Beechwood Road, far from the river. Not like you, who would have the chimneys fuming almost under your nose, down there below. Joe isn’t thinking of the terrible drop in property values if the Connington gets our land along the water. What is it to him? It’s more money, I admit, and I’m not in the least averse to making money. Incidentally, the Burnsley land is for sale. The Connington hasn’t considered it. If we hurry, we can buy it cheaply, then sell it to the Connington. They’ll buy it from us, for they want a mill in this area, and though the price will be less than our land along the river, necessarily, it will be a good price. In fact, I’m going to take an option on the Burnsley property tomorrow, in the name of the company, if you agree right now.”

  Wilhelm stood up, involuntarily. “Buy the land!” he cried. “Don’t wait; do it as soon as possible, tomorrow.”

  He stared at Charles, and the excited light was vivid in his eyes.

  Charles’ tight muscles relaxed completely. “Good,” he said, with respect. “I knew you’d agree, Wilhelm. It’s unfortunate for Joe that he’s even more color-blind than I am. You remember how he rejected all of your ideas about his house? What did he call them? Well—” and Charles glanced at Phyllis, humorously. “There’s a lady present.”

  Phyllis laughed, and there was a little hysteria in her laughter. “Oh, I know what Isabel said, even if I don’t know what Jochen said!”

  But Wilhelm, remembering his brother Jochen’s remarks about his suggestions, frowned with cold fury. “I’ve given up Joe,” he said. At the sound of that nickname, uttered
with disgust, Charles knew that he had completely won. “As for Isabel,” continued Wilhelm, who had a touch of femaleness in his character, “we all know that she thinks of nothing but what she calls ‘social position.’ But then, her father was a butcher, and she wants to live it down.”

  Charles laughed. “But a very good and very successful butcher. There’s nothing wrong with butchering, or with any other kind of business or trade, provided a man is proud of his work, and does his best. It is only Isabel who has made butchering sound contemptible.”

  Wilhelm regarded Charles almost affectionately. Of all his brothers, Charles was the only one whom Wilhelm respected, despite his deplorable ignorance of the arts and his dreadful house. Wilhelm’s excitement was growing. He was visualizing the projected park. He went to a window, held back a curtain and looked down at the river. The park became an actual thing before his eyes. He forgot all about the money, for money to him had always been only a means with which to buy perfect treasures.

  The Wittmann Civic Park! It would be, in the end, his own park. He would be remembered as the artist who had designed and created it. A modest bust, but pure and simple and excellent, of himself, in a garden spot, a sort of arbor. He knew just the sculptor in New York—

  They all went out of the room and into the small marblefloored hall. A long flight of steep marble stairs rose upwards from it, its balustrade covered with dimmed green velvet. Charles walked up the stairs gingerly, for his soles slipped on the polished white stone. He had often remarked that some day Wilhelm would “break his neck” on these stairs, but he did not make this remark today. He was quietly exuberant. He clung tenaciously to the balustrade, and thought that he had made his city safe from the belching scar of a steel mill on the river front. He did not dislike steel mills, for they were necessary to his own business. But he believed they should not be allowed to ruin the natural beauty of any city. He was proud of Andersburg; it was his home, and he loved it. He wanted it to expand, to become even more prosperous, with industries and new factories, but he was convinced that it was not necessary to mutilate the residential sections of any town in the name of commerce.