Father Hagerty looked at him with consternation. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Wittmann. What would be that ‘purpose’?”
“I don’t know, yet. But there is a purpose. I, myself, am seriously convinced that the purpose behind the lies is to set one American against another.”
“But why?”
Charles shook his head wearily. “I’m not quite sure, as I said. Once divide a people, set it to hating its own members, and they are off guard. I don’t know who the plotters are, but I can assure you they are waiting for the day, the right day of sufficient confusion and disruption. Then the purpose will be accomplished, the people deceived, and ready for anything.”
The priest considered this somberly. Once or twice he glanced at Charles quickly, as if about to speak, then he resumed his thinking. He rubbed his damp cheek with the back of his hand; it left a mud stain upon it. This made him appear very young, and Charles was touched.
“I don’t know if these lies, this hatred, can be halted, Father Hagerty. It’s probably gone too far. What can any man of good will do, in a world where there is so little good will? But at least we can try.”
He stood up. The priest looked at his garden sadly, in silence.
“Father Hagerty,” said Charles, gently, “your people know of these lies, don’t they? There is something you can do: You can urge them not to hate, in return. That is very important. In the end, it might be even more important than you can believe just now.”
He, too, looked at the garden blazing in the hot sun.
“You can tell them that the American people are being distracted from something which is very terrible, but which is growing right up before them. The plotters don’t want the people to guess the plot.”
“You frighten me,” murmured the priest. He stood up. Helplessly, he stared at the ground.
“Good. I want men like you, millions of men like you, to be ‘frightened.’ I want them to know.” He held out his hand. “You see, Father Hagerty, America is in some frightful danger. I think the whole world is in danger.”
Father Hagerty took his hand. He tried to smile, but it was a mournful attempt.
“I am beginning to see—a little,” he said.
CHAPTER XVI
Charles came home a little earlier than usual the next day because of Wilhelm’s dinner. He wished to bathe and freshen himself for what he knew would be an exhausting evening.
He found Jimmy and Geraldine, his niece, in the garden, contentedly eating early golden apples under the shade of a great walnut tree. They were doing nothing, and doing it with joy. Jimmy lay sprawled on the cool green grass; Geraldine sat near him, her thin young arms wrapped about her knees. Charles could hear only the lightest murmur of desultory conversation. Sun filtered down through the branches of the tree and lay in bright streaks on Geraldine’s straight black hair, which fell in heavy lengths upon her shoulders. Her thin, clear profile was sharply defined. Charles thought again, with surprise, how much she resembled Wilhelm. A dear girl, he thought, a lovely girl.
He called to the children, and waved his hand. “No,” he said, “don’t get up. I’m going to rest and dress, Jimmy, then I’m going to dinner at your Uncle Willie’s. How are you, Gerry?”
The girl turned her face towards him, and smiled. “I’m wonderful, Uncle Charlie. Jimmy and I are just talking. I’m staying for dinner. Mother said I could.” He saw the shine of her great, dark eyes, the glimmer of her pretty teeth.
Charles nodded, and retreated. But he stood in the doorway and watched the children, who had resumed their consumption of apples, and their talk which was as drowsy and murmurous as the sound of bees. Surely nothing, nothing, could threaten them, in their grave innocence, their certainty that all was well in their world, their trust. Their trust in whom? In me? thought Charles, as he went into the house. But what can I do? Nothing. What can any of us do in the face of “traditional markets” and Emperors who celebrate their “peaceful reigns,” and Chancellors who talk of Germanentum and Slaventum, and a world of people who instinctively want to kill?
Charles called Phyllis. “Charles?” she said. “Oh, Charles, you aren’t calling to say you can’t come?” Her voice was humorous, but underneath it he thought he detected dismay.
“Of course I’m coming,” he said. He had never before realized how much he liked her voice. He could see her so clearly, and something strengthened in him. “Not that I’m going to add anything inspirational to the conversation, you know.”
She laughed. “Poor Charles,” she said, softly. She laughed again.
“I suppose there’ll be something to drink before dinner?”
“Drink? Why, of course. If you want it.” She sounded a little puzzled.
“Yes. I want whiskey. Quietly, and behind a door, if necessary. But whiskey. Perhaps even a lot of it.”
He waited for her laughter, but it did not come. Instead, there was only a humming on the line. After a few moments, he said, tentatively: “Phyllis?”
“Yes, Charles.” Her voice was a little faint. Then she said more clearly: “Is it as bad as that?”
He said, bitterly: “Yes.”
“Perhaps you can tell me, tonight.”
“If we have a chance. Phyllis,” he said more normally, “who the hell is, or was, Monet? I thought you might give me some information before I arrived.”
He could see her smiling again. “He still ‘is,’ Charles. He’s a French Impressionist painter. He paints things in different ‘lights.’ For instance, he painted the Cathedral of Rouen in them.”
“The same Cathedral?”
“The very same. Also, he exhibited some pictures called ‘Le Bassin aux Nympheas,’ in 1900. That is what they’re going to talk about, tonight. But don’t worry about it. Just talk about the different lights on the Cathedral. Casually. Don’t let them draw you out. Just toss it into the conversation, then retreat. Poor Charles,” she added, and laughed ever so gently. “Come at quarter to seven, instead of seven, and I’ll see you get the whiskey before the others arrive.”
“It sounds as if I’m going to need the whiskey,” said Charles, with gloom.
“Frankly, Charles, I don’t think any of them, except Wilhelm and Mr. Bartholemew, know very much about Monet, and even Mr. Bartholemew doesn’t know too much. He is to give the talk, after all, and he’ll say a lot of things which you needn’t try to follow.” She dropped her voice, and again it was humorous. “You know, Charles, I’ve been waiting a long time for you to tell me that you detest sherry. I always knew you did. But you are so polite, or something.”
Now he could laugh, and with his involuntary laughter much of his anxiety lessened. “So, you’ve been teasing right along, have you, with that damned sherry?”
They laughed together. Charles felt almost gay. He could see Phyllis’ blue eyes, sparkling.
“I’m sorry about the dinner, though,” said Phyllis, very frankly. “It’s the kind you don’t like. Wilhelm ordered it, especially, the poor darling, and has been fussing at the chef all afternoon. You wouldn’t like a ham sandwich with the whisky, would you?”
“I might, I really might. But not with lettuce.”
When he went upstairs his burden did not feel so heavy. He could still hear Phyllis’ voice. Then he remembered that he was thinking a great deal of Phyllis these days. Phyllis, whom he had once wanted to marry.
He looked at himself in his mirror as he removed his collar and tie. He said to himself: I ought to have married Phyllis, after all. The thought shook him. He stood there, stupidly, with the tie in his hand, and a sickening desolation made his heart thump. No, no, he cried to himself. I had Mary, and I loved Mary. What is the matter with me these days?
But he could not shake off his devastating distress. He could stop thinking of Phyllis, but he could not stop the nebulous misery which hung in his mind. Once, he had the impulse to call his brother’s home and plead sudden illness. Then he was revolted by the cowardly idea, and humiliated that he
should think of it. Excuses were craven things, if they were used to avoid facing a necessary issue. This issue must be faced. He had once loved Phyllis; in a way, it was very possible that he had never recovered from this love. He remembered his delight in her presence, the deep sympathy and understanding between them. This was not a recent development; it had always been with him.
So, he had once loved her. And then he had loved Mary, and had married her. Never once, during the years of his marriage, had he ever believed that he had not loved her. He loved her still, as a dear memory. He looked at the photograph of her on his dresser, in its gilt frame, and he saw the lively young face, and he said to it, in his inner silence: I loved you, Mary, my dear. But now I see I never loved you as I loved Phyllis. As I am terribly afraid I love her, still, and have always loved her.
It was out now, and he could face it with his own kind of dogged resolution. He could not control what was “brewing” in an evil world, but he could control, sternly, any outward indication that he loved Phyllis. There was no use in deceiving himself that he could, by any effort of his will, “forget” Phyllis, for there was no way of avoiding her. He would simply have to acknowledge that he loved her.
One accepted such things, and made no one else miserable because of them. So he bathed and dressed as deliberately as always, and his face, in the mirror, might be a trifle set but it was calm.
The children were coming in to dinner as he came downstairs. Jimmy said, sympathetically: “We have pepper-pot, tonight, Dad. And dump cake.”
“Well, we don’t need to eat all of it,” said Gerry smiling at her uncle affectionately. “We can leave some of it for Uncle Charlie.”
Yes, a lovely girl, with something that was much more than beauty in her fine features and large eyes. Plain, her mother called her. Plain! Isabel was a fool. Jochen, however, had not been a fool when he had spoken of his daughter’s intelligence, but he had been stupid when he had confessed that she had no charm.
Charles put his arm about the girl, and she put her arm about him.
“Yes, save me some of the pepper-pot, and the cake,” he said to his son, but he looked down at Gerry, and smiled. One of these days she might be his daughter. He hoped so, fervently.
His old carriage was waiting. He settled himself down in it. Then, as he often did when things became somewhat unmanageable for him, he consciously emptied his mind. The misery might remain, but he allowed no tangible object to arise in his mind to which the misery might attach itself definitely.
The brass sunset over the green mountains was there for him to see, and he forced himself to see it. As the carriage climbed the mountain roads the air became fresher and purer. Then he had a wide view of the river below, brazen, also, curving around the city. He made himself see it objectively. If something threatened it, it was strong enough to resist. “Yes,” he said, aloud, and strongly.
Like his city, he, too, could resist his own released torment. Storms blew up in men as they did in cities; if the foundations were well laid, the storm did little damage. He knew his strength, and even if he could find no comfort in himself, he could find resistance.
He found Phyllis alone, waiting for him. She greeted him with a conspirator’s laugh. “I have a ham sandwich for you, and whiskey,” she said. “Wilhelm’s still dressing. He won’t be down for ten minutes. But do hurry, Charles.” There was the sandwich and the whiskey on the delicate, round marble table. Charles looked at them, and felt revulsion. He said: “Awfully kind of you, Phyllis,” and sat down, and took up the sandwich and the whiskey. She sat near him, smiling, and shaking her head.
“Jellied soup, and lobster à la Newburg,” she confessed. “And asparagus vinaigrette, and a wine mousse, and demitasse.”
Charles took a deep drink of the whiskey. Then he took another, and the tall glass of liquor and soda was empty. Phyllis watched. She said, gently: “Would you like another, Charles?”
“Yes, please.”
She prepared another drink for him. Charles was in trouble, in grave trouble. She could not ask him, she knew that. If he wished her to know he would tell her. However, Charles rarely told anyone his troubles. She saw that he had replaced the sandwich, untouched, on the plate. She made no comment.
He held the glass, and tried to make his voice light: “The heat’s been too much for me. I can’t eat very much of anything these days.”
Phyllis nodded. Little ringlets, the color of bronze, curled on her forehead, and on her nape, moist and bright. The heat had brought a flush to her cheeks. But her blue eyes, though smiling and crinkling, seemed tired. Her mauve silk dress clung to her slender and pretty figure and outlined her arms. Her throat was bare, but there was a froth of airy lace over her breast Wilhelm had evidently chosen this gown, too; it blended so well with the delicate yellows of the room, the creamy panelled walls, the deeper mauve rug. Even the flowers had been carefully selected; golden roses in crystal vases stood on the mantelpiece, with every green leaf precisely flaring. The French doors stood open to the sweet evening air, cooling and freshening after the day’s glare of sun. Charles could see the gardens beyond, the dark vivid grass, the great silent trees, the beautiful flower beds burning with late summer flowers. He liked this room he sat in almost as much as he liked the “music room.” He liked the view of the mountain beyond, almost purple, now, as the sun sank.
Once or twice Phyllis had used the word “étude.” He did not know what it meant, but it had a curious connotation for him. Cool evening light, soft and dim; silence; lofty graciousness and elusive nobility. He had always been afraid that “étude” did not mean these, so he had never investigated. He put down his glass. He could not look at Phyllis. He said, with deliberation. “What is an étude, Phyllis?”
She answered: “A finished composition, Charles. A study, in a way, a technical exercise in music.”
There. One had only to approach romanticism or fear or pain, definitely, and they all lost their mystery, and in losing their mystery they lost much of their power to exalt or destroy. He saw, now, that he had never wanted before to know what an étude was because he had sentimentally wanted to keep its mystery, the mystery which surrounded his repressed love for Phyllis.
“A finished composition,” he repeated.
“One complete in itself,” she added.
He discovered that he was looking at her in the bright dusk of the room. Complete in itself. The étude had not lost its mystery, after all, and all his pain returned to him. Why did she sit like that, regarding him so directly, so sadly? She sat gracefully on the small gilt chair, her white hands clasped in her mauve lap, and her sadness was like the evening shadow outside.
She said in a very low voice, as if thinking of something else: “I was glad to hear you had your way about the river property, Charles.”
She was helping him! He said: “Yes.” He told himself she was helping him because she recognized that he was tired. He repeated: “Yes.” He stared at his emptied glass. The whiskey was affecting him. Usually, it gave him a sense of exhilaration; now he could feel nothing but desolation and loss.
He said: “When I’m tired, this way, all sorts of things come back to me. I was thinking of Mary, tonight.”
Phyllis smiled. “Dear Mary,” she murmured.
“I suppose a man never really gets over something like—that,” he said, and he knew his voice was louder than it should be, and had a note of desperation in it.
Phyllis nodded. “That’s quite understandable. No one ever forgets anyone he has loved. Never. It always comes back, when one least expects it. And very often when one doesn’t want it to come back. Sometimes; too, it returns so very—”
But Wilhelm was entering the room now. There was a swish of mauve skirts as Phyllis stood up. The untouched ham sandwich disappeared magically out of sight, as did the glass. Phyllis then almost ran to her husband, and twined her arm in his. “Charles came a little earlier,” she said to Wilhelm, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
&
nbsp; Wilhelm, elegant in his black, brushed his lips against his wife’s hair. Then he said to Charles: “Yes, you are the first, Charles. I hope you won’t be bored.”
Charles stood beside his chair, and looked at Wilhelm and Phyllis, standing so close together. “I don’t expect to be,” he said. Should he throw in that business now about the cathedral and all its “lights”? “I’m really interested in Monet.” He went on, hurriedly: “I believe I saw one of his paintings of the Cathedral of Rouen.”
“Which one?” asked Wilhelm, surprised, and very pleased. “And where?”
Phyllis interrupted with light deftness: “Oh, Wilhelm! Sometimes you don’t listen. Charles told you about it at least three years ago. He saw it in New York. It was Monet’s third study.” She glanced at Charles. “Is that right, Charles?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
Wilhelm frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t remember. You see, Charles, I always thought you weren’t interested in Impressionist painting, or in any painting, in fact.” He bent his head, thinking. “The third study. Was that the one of the evening light, or the early morning, or at an angle?”
Dismayed, Charles saw that he had used his meagre information too soon. But Phyllis said, laughing: “Why, Wilhelm, don’t you know? Of course you do!”
Wilhelm bridled. “Certainly. I ought to have remembered. Stupid of me to forget.”
They heard the door-bell ringing, and the steps of the maid. “Our guests are coming,” said Phyllis, gayly. “I do hope your headache is quite gone, darling.”
“Have you a headache today?” asked Charles, quickly, breathing easier. “I’ve had one, too. It’s the heat, I suppose. I’ve been having them very often, lately, however. I suppose I should go to Dr. Mower. But I’m afraid he’ll recommend bifocals.”
“At your age?” said Wilhelm, annoyed, remembering that Charles was his senior by only fourteen months.
Balance Wheel Page 18