Balance Wheel

by Taylor Caldwell

  Jochen’s face cleared astonishingly. He looked at Charles with an expression of amazed delight. “She did? Well, why hasn’t she asked us, herself?”

  Charles put a note of irritation in his voice: “How the hell should I know? Do I keep a record of your social affairs? Maybe she was just sounding me out, or something.”

  Jochen sat back in his chair, importantly. “Well, of course, our calendar is usually filled, so perhaps it is understandable. Do you think I should call her, or have Isabel call her?”

  With alarm, Charles said: “No. You are right, Joe. I told her that I wouldn’t relay the message, so she’ll probably write, or call Isabel very soon.”

  He went back to his office, cursing himself. What had made him say all that to Joe? There was no necessity. But he had acted on his instinct. He immediately called Mrs. Holt, and after an interminable parley with servants Mrs. Holt came briskly to the telephone. “Charlie? Now don’t tell me you aren’t coming to my party, or I’ll stop that check I sent to Mr. Haas! And I wrote those letters you told me to write, and I do think—”

  “Mrs. Holt, I’m coming. But will you do a favor for me? Will you call my sister-in-law and ask her and my brother for dinner that night, too? I know this is irregular, and an imposition, but—”

  There was a long amazed silence. Then Mrs. Holt uttered a very unladylike exclamation. Then she laughed. Finally, she said: “Up to something, Charlie? All right, I’ll call Isabel. And, incidentally, while I’m speaking to her I’ll tell her how much I admire your minister.” She continued: “But Isabel’s such a bore, and you know she is. By the way, the party is for Roger Brinkwell, who is returning to Andersburg.”

  “Brinkwell? Don’t know him.”

  “Oh, Charlie,” said Mrs. Holt, impatiently. “He used to live here. Of course, he is about seven years older than you, and he left Andersburg with his parents when you were six, I should think. They went to Pittsburgh. You must have heard of the Brinkwells of Pittsburgh. You haven’t? You’re a very ignorant man, Charlie. Roger’s been with the Connington Steel ever since he left Yale. He’s going to be superintendent of their new mills, here. He and his wife, Pauline, are to be our house guests beginning next Saturday, while they decide where they will live in Andersburg.”

  Something very vague and unpleasant stirred in Charles’ mind, but it refused to come to the surface.

  Mrs. Holt went on: “Roger’s wife comes of an old Main Line family in Philadelphia, Charlie. The Brighams. And so Roger and Pauline are very aristocratic, indeed.” Her voice became satirical. “Braydon has something in common with Roger. Roger collects Gobelins.”

  “Gobelins?”

  “Charles, I’m really getting annoyed with you. Tapestries, of course. You don’t know anything about tapestries?”

  Charles suddenly remembered a very wet and dreary afternoon he had spent in Brussels many years ago, inspecting particularly unattractive tapestries in some castle or other.

  Mrs. Holt was telling him more about the Brinkwells, of whom Charles had already formed a very low and prejudiced opinion these last few minutes. “Braydon collects modern sculpture,” Mrs. Holt said, “and everybody who collects always seems to find someone else who collects, too. And they become Davids and Jonathans. You ought to collect something, Charlie.”

  “I’ve already got a Picasso,” said Charles. And on this high note of mutual amusement they said their goodbyes.

  Charles returned to his office. He took up the pile of foul and anonymous letters, studied them, wondered again at the perspicacity of the “brotherhood,” and tore up the sheets.

  Friederich would not have suggested these letters. He might be a madman, a fanatic, and a hater, but he was no coward, and he was never, unfortunately, anonymous.

  Why, the damn fool’s naive, too! thought Charles, looking at the torn pile in his basket. He wondered, after thinking that, why he should feel so suddenly relieved, as if a kind of dread had subsided in him.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Years later, in retrospect, it seemed to Charles Wittmann that this September of 1913 was the most beautiful month he had ever known. There was so much that troubled him then, he remembered in those later years, but it was so small in comparison with all the Septembers that followed.

  The sweet softness of this September was never forgotten by him. In spite of the things that nagged at his mind, and his vague fears, he could still enjoy this month. Its blueness and greenness, its still and meditative nights, its crickets shrilling peacefully at the golden moon, its long sunlit lengths under the chestnut trees, its vivid gardens, the warmth of its noonday on old brick walls and the roofs of housetops—who could deny that September was the loveliest of months? September turned the hills to heliotrope in the evening, and the sunsets had a great and majestic calm. A faint scent of smoke trailed in the air, and a deep red fire burned in salvias before almost every verandah. The meadows dreamed, the skies were entranced, and the elms turned yellow.

  Every thrifty housewife made grape jelly, and the scent of this, and the scent of tomato ketchup bubbling on stoves, became part of the scented wind in the streets. There were mornings that were cool and quiet, and misty, filled with shadowy light that had an aster-colored quality. And there were mornings that quivered with chill gold, and chestnuts fell from the trees and burst open, showing their ruddy hearts.

  It was more a feeling than anything else which assured Charles that the hatefulness that had begun to flourish in Andersburg was retreating. No more windows were broken anywhere; copies of The Menace were almost impossible to find. Pamphlets ceased to arrive in the mails. A sudden kindness began to show itself among people who formerly had looked at each other coldly or suspiciously. When Father Hagerty modestly reported in the Clarion that he hoped all Catholics would respond generously to his plea for support of the new, small Sisters of Charity Hospital, he was stunned by the response. The Catholics of Andersburg were, so far, quite a small minority. They could not, of themselves, have raised such an amazing fund.

  The Church Board voted Mr. Haas an increase in salary before he returned from his holiday. It also issued a letter to him expressing its gratitude for his “courage and justice.”

  Charles could not remember where he had once read: “One just man can save a city.” He had thought it idealistic romanticism at one time. Now he was not so sure.

  In this September, he could even look forward with equanimity to the dinner at the Holts’ home. He remembered the last of the two dinners he had had there. Mrs. Holt had “peculiar” tastes in guests. She mingled old and young together, indiscriminately. Mr. Holt was absent-minded, concerned only with his sculpture, and tending to limit his conversation to fellow collectors of the arts. Charles suspected that Mrs. Holt, with a fine disregard for selecting congenial guests, did all the inviting. There were sure to be young ladies present, from the larger cities, who, in their great darkened eyes and tiny vicious-looking red mouths, were imitating the current, and adored, moving-picture “vampire.” They had a tendency to slink, their long tight skirts slit almost to the knee; they rattled with tremendous ropes of wooden beads, of every color; their wrists jingled. Their hair was bushed out about their ears, and swarmed around their cheeks in tendrils. They were really nice girls, and so damned innocent

  There would be young men present, ostentatiously untidy, with solemn eyes, brothers, suitors, and fiances of the girls, and they talked learnedly of Picasso and Van Gogh and Debussy, and many other things. Sometimes they would sit on the floor near the girls, and smoke cigarettes in long holders, and toss their hair artistically over their foreheads. Charles would be bored by them, but he would look at them in a kindly way.

  Charles did not like untidiness. And so, he did not like these parties. They were infernally disorganized and noisy, and everyone exhibited his ego, and it was always too hot in those gigantic rooms crowded with sculpture and modern paintings, and always too smoky, and the food was served on tables at which everyone helped himse
lf while servants fluttered in the background. A dinner, to Charles, meant a nicely appointed and decorous table, at which everyone sat and was served. This business of everyone filling his plate, casually, and then wandering about all over eating messily, seemed anarchistic to Charles.

  Mrs. Holt enjoyed her parties, and so left everybody alone, only swooping, occasionally, upon a group, to express her loud opinion, and then diving somewhere else. And everybody also enjoyed her parties. Except, of course, Charles.

  Charles liked conversation, too, but usually about business or local events, or the iniquity of the Democrats. None of these subjects were at any time mentioned by the Holts’ guests. They did not exist for them. So Charles, fortified only by the thought that Phyllis and Wilhelm would be present, expected nothing of this party but a headache from champagne, an upset stomach, and agonizing boredom. He was even more depressed, when he entered the first of the mighty and clamorous rooms, to see Jochen and Isabel at a distance. He had forgotten they were to be here. He had arrived in a swarm of other guests, entire strangers to him. Perhaps if he just hovered in the background, he might escape meeting anybody.

  But he heard a loud greeting voice over the hubbub, and there was Mrs. Holt, attired in a somewhat soiled and very elaborate white satin gown with sequins, plunging down the length of the parquetry floor, and skidding light-heartedly on an occasional and very valuable prayer-rug in her progress.

  “Charlie Wittmann!” she shouted, throwing out both hands to him. Her hair was very precariously dressed; a lock of it fell on her neck, which glittered with diamonds. Ignoring the other new arrivals, she grasped Charles’ hands and shook them vigorously. “Lots of your friends, here,” she beamed. “But you’ve got to meet everybody else, too—”

  “God forbid,” said Charles, with fervor.

  “Now, you behave. No sitting off in a corner somewhere, and brooding, the way you did last time. Charlie, why don’t you buy yourself a new dinner-jacket? You’ve grown too fat for that one. Besides, it’s green. Charlie, I love you.” She put her thick arm through his and began to tug him along. “Everybody’ll love you. You are such a perfect anachronism. So nineteenth century. Thank God.”

  This puzzled Charles, in view of Mrs. Holt’s taste in parties. He tried to hold back a little. She chided him: “You’re not going to be stubborn, are you? Everybody’s dying to meet you.”

  “I doubt it,” said Charles, desperately.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be so mulish. Such nice people here. Just don’t talk politics. We’ve got one of Wilson’s best friends present, and he hates Republicans. There! There’s Phyllis, and Wilhelm, talking to Braydon. You like them, don’t you? And, oh yes, here’s your friend Oliver Prescott. Oliver!” she shouted, at the back of a young man to the right. “Here’s Charlie Wittmann.”

  Oliver Prescott turned at this thunderous summons, and another young man turned with him. With deep relief, Charles smiled at them. The second young man was George Hadden, the Quaker businessman who had been kind enough to call upon Mr. Haas, personally, to congratulate him upon his sermon.

  There was something rustic about Mr. Hadden. He had the shy courtesy of the farmer, the simple reticence. Tall, almost gangling, he looked as ill at ease at this party as Charles, himself, did. His fair hair was neat and clipped very close to his head, in contrast with the long theatrical locks of the other young men present. He had a lanky face, a big nose, a very gentle mouth, and strong, quiet eyes full of kindness, and of such an intense blue that they gave the impression, at first, of being almost black.

  “How are you, Oliver?” said Charles. “And you, Mr. Hadden?”

  They all shook hands. Charles relaxed a little. These men were younger than himself, but he was happy with them. Though Oliver Prescott was dark and had a repressed look of swift alertness about him, there was some resemblance between him and George Hadden. Charles decided that it was the quality of integrity.

  “How’s the law, and the lumber business?” he asked of Oliver Prescott. “And where’s Barbara?”

  Oliver said: “The law’s flourishing, and the lumber business is terrible, and Barbie’s home with a cold.”

  Mr. Hadden, smiling, said: “My business is terrible, too. My wife? She’s at home; just had a baby, a boy.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Charles. But he did not see Mr. Hadden often, and he had met the young man’s wife only once. “Congratulations,” Charles added.

  Mrs. Holt was tugging again at Charles’ arm. “Now, come on, and meet everybody else.” Charles called over his shoulder, as he was borne along: “I’ll see you again.” They watched him sympathetically, and nodded.

  “Everybody,” as Charles suspected, did not love him. Neither did they like him or dislike him. They only paused vaguely in their conversations for the introductions, and forgot him as he was trundled off by their hostess. He forgot them, also. They were just faces.

  Charles’ feet began to hurt. So far, he had not been thrown into the group containing Jochen and Isabel. He did not see Phyllis and Wilhelm. He asked for him. “Oh, they’ve gone up to Braydon’s special room, where he keeps his best pieces,” said Mrs. Holt. “They’ll be down immediately. Really, Charles, it’s not as hot as all that, so why are you perspiring so? It’s that dress collar of yours. Why don’t you men realize you get fat? And you smell of mothballs. Never mind. I love you.”

  Her remarks did not put Charles at his ease, but it was impossible to resist her bluff heartiness. And she was enjoying herself tremendously. There were three huge electric chandeliers in this one room alone, each one blazing, and the windows were all shut, and shrouded against the soft September night in layers of tapestry. Why did the sight of tapestry repulse him anew? There was someone—

  “Ah!” screamed Mrs. Holt, urgently pulling at Charles’ arm. “There he is! Roger! Roger! You come here at once and meet Charlie Wittmann!”

  A man of about forty-seven detached himself from a large group, and came smilingly towards his hostess. Roger Brinkwell. Charles looked at him, and hated him. He knew Roger Brinkwell. He had known him all his life; he had known dozens of Roger Brinkwells, and he hated each one separately and violently, and in the same way.

  “How do you do, Mr. Wittmann?” asked Roger Brinkwell, with amiable politeness. “You don’t remember me, do you? But then, you were about six or seven when I left Andersburg. But I remember you very well, and all your little brothers.”

  Charles stared at him, and slowly every muscle became like stone in his face. “I don’t remember you, Mr. Brinkwell,” he said. But I know your kind, he thought.

  “I lived right around the corner,” said Mr. Brinkwell, Charles continued to stare at him, and now his eyes became small and narrowed. Mr. Brinkwell appeared slightly surprised at this scrutiny.

  Yes, thought Charles, I’ve always known you—and hated you. You might be a lawyer or a janitor or a mechanic or a salesman or shopkeeper. Anything. You can be an Englishman or a German, an American or an Italian, a Frenchman or a Swede. On the surface. But you are always you, no matter when you arrive.

  They were all alike. They were always small men, never above five foot five, and sometimes even a trifle shorter. They were over-active men, like beetles, Charles thought, aggressive and aware. Usually they were compact, or even slender, as this manifestation was. In contrast with the rest of their bodies they had big round heads, out of proportion—big hard heads like balls—and almost invariably they had a large quantity of crisp dark hair, crinkled and very much alive. They had nimble, cruel faces, maliciously humorous and vivid, and merciless eyes which never softened in spite of frequent and rapid smiles on very mobile lips. Their noses were almost always big, of the “Roman” type, hard and bony, and they had wide, high and bony foreheads with heavy black brows. Their chins were definite, and pugnacious. When their expressions were not jeering, they were malevolent, no matter what they said, no matter how courteous they were, or to whom they were speaking.

  “You seem t
o be remembering me, Mr. Wittmann. Or, I suppose I should call you Charlie, as I used to do,” said Mr. Brinkwell, smiling.

  I never forgot you, thought Charles. And you hate me, you hate my kind, as much as I hate you.

  He continued to look at Mr. Brinkwell. In spite of their general air of restless activity, these men seldom used their hands to add color to their speech. All their expressiveness was in their terrible natures, which were also pouncing and dangerous, and in their constantly darting eyes. They moved quickly and unerringly, like trained dancers, and never were they stupid. A race apart, these vigilant and treacherous men, without honor, without any decent human instinct. Their conversation was never dull, but always quick and witty. Never once had Charles encountered them among physicians, or on the boards of charity organizations, or in churches.

  Charles never hated a man without just cause. Why did he hate the Roger Brinkwells? In some forgotten corner of his mind, in some forgotten memory as a child, lay the first perception and knowledge of these men. Then he remembered Roger Brinkwell, suddenly and clearly, and his long hatred of the other man’s type became comprehensible to him.

  Roger Brinkwell had been the only child of his parents. His father had been a surgeon of very high repute, a kindly man. His mother had been something else, entirely. Charles remembered her. He remembered that the Roger Brinkwells customarily married the kind of woman Roger’s mother had been, and he knew that Roger’s wife must be like that, also.

  Now Charles faintly remembered that Mrs. Brinkwell had inherited a very great deal of money from a distant relative, and she had forced her husband to leave Andersburg. The neighbors had called her “uppity,” and were glad when she had left. A stupid woman.

  Now the memory was becoming clearer. Roger had been very popular with the local boys of his own age. But he had been a galling and cold-blooded tormentor of younger children. He had particularly sought out little Charlie Wittmann for his persecutions, with a kind of relentless humor.