Balance Wheel
Page 33
Isabel smiled up at him in her aristocratic way, and the smile was malicious. “How are you, Charles?” she asked. It was as if she had some secret and infamous knowledge about him, for her hazel eyes were sly. Apparently something was pleasing her these days; her rosebud complexion was prettier than ever; her dark hair had an extra shine. Her hand, in Charles’, was warm and heavy. Her gray satin gown was in fine taste, and very becoming,
“Old Charlie’s always all right,” said Jochen, boisterously. He was standing beside his wife. “Good old Charlie.”
“But not ‘Good-time-Charlie,’” said Isabel, with much graciousness. “You are getting so thin, Charles. And so pale. But then you are all working so hard these days, aren’t you?”
Charles tried to remember that she was nothing at all. He tried to remember that gentlemen did not hate women, even if they were sisters-in-law.
He said: “Yes, we all work hard.”
Mrs. Holt had seated herself in a prominent chair, and the least delicate. She overflowed it. The pink dress looked more remarkable than ever, and her face glowed and reddened. She had waved her hand at Jochen and Isabel, but when she had seen signs that Isabel was thinking of approaching her, she had leaned over the gilt arm of her chair and had immediately begun to speak to Phyllis. Now she called to Charles: “Charlie, do come here. I don’t think anybody has really appreciated how handsome you look tonight.”
Charles was glad of the call, but he was embarrassed. Everyone looked at him acutely, except Wilhelm, who was making a special effort at lighting a cigarette. Charles went over to Mrs. Holt and she took him by the hand. Then Charles knew that she was making a point, and his fingers tightened about hers. She swung his hand to and fro, lovingly. “I’m getting to like this man very much,” she said. “I always did, in fact. Braydon, you ought to be jealous. You needn’t; Charlie’s four years younger than I. But now, if I were single, and young, I’d take this man out of the widower-class, I really would.”
Charles laughed. “And you’d have to ask me only once,” he said.
Everybody was looking at them. There was a tense feeling in the room. Roger Brinkwell, standing poised in the center of the room, watched Charles and Mrs. Holt. His alert face sharpened. Pauline stood in a languid, draped fashion against the side of a chair, but there was nothing languid in her eyes. Jochen and Isabel appeared startled. Phyllis seemed happy. Only Wilhelm was abstracted, on the surface, though he was smoking even faster than usual and carefully not looking at Charles.
Mr. Holt said his usual: “Now, Minnie.” But he regarded Charles with friendliness. Really a nice feller, this Charles Wittmann, if slow and a little obtuse.
“Well, you see,” said Mrs. Holt, still swinging Charles’ hand. “This man is very special, to me. And he’s got a nice house. Charming. I love it. Wonderful man. What would everybody do without him, in Andersburg?”
She gave the room a wide, beaming smile, gayly unconscious that her legs showed to the knees, or not caring. “If anybody so much as lifted a finger against my boy I’d—well, there just wouldn’t be a minute’s peace for him in this town any longer.”
Then she pushed him away and said: “But go and flirt with the pretty ladies here. Not too much, though, mind. I’m your best girl, Charlie.”
“Charles has no best girl,” said Isabel, sweetly. “Have you, Charles?”
He started to answer her. But her light-hazel eyes were full of malice and dislike. He finally said, slowly: “Yes, I have. Minnie. And Gerry.”
The smile left Isabel’s face. A swift glance went between her and Pauline, now. “Really,” said Isabel, raising her brows.
“Geraldine’s Kenneth’s best girl,” said Roger, lightly. “Besides, you’re too old for her, Charlie.”
A servant came in with glasses and sherry. “What’s that? Sherry?” asked Mrs. Holt “None for me, thanks.” She informed the room: “Braydon and I had some beer with Charlie, at his home.”
“Now, Minnie,” said Mr. Holt.
“Good cold beer,” said his wife. “Oh, by the way, Wilhelm, I saw your Picasso,” said Mrs. Holt.
Wilhelm took the cigarette from his mouth. He started towards Mrs. Holt, then stopped, as Charles was still near her. But he was no longer so cold and neutral. “Did you, Mrs. Holt? And how did you like it?” His voice was interested.
“It was perfectly horrible,” said Mrs. Holt, happily. “Just horrible. Of course. But Braydon admired it.”
“Perfect example of Picasso’s break with tradition,” said Mr. Holt, hastily. “It will be very valuable one of these days.”
“I don’t see why,” said Mrs. Holt. “But I think it was lovely of you, Wilhelm, to give it to Charlie. He explained it very well, to me. Erudite. He’ll soon catch up to you, though I hope not.” She gave Wilhelm a pleased smile. “So kind of you to give it to Charlie, though. I’ve always had an idea you two had a lot in common.”
“Oh, they have,” said Isabel.
Jochen was alarmed. He was no longer afraid of Charles. He, himself, had set some whispers moving in Andersburg, in spite of what he had told Isabel last August. One of these days his brother would be utterly ruined. The stubborn mule would never give in, or even if he did, he would be ruined. But the time had not yet come. Charles was still dangerous to him.
He said, quickly: “Well, Charlie and Willie are near the same age. They always ran around together, as kids. Fred and I have more in common—”
Wilhelm looked at Charles, and the cold enmity was there for the other man to see, and the aversion. What’s wrong with him? thought Charles, dismayed. Have they gotten to him about something? Is he in “it” with them?
“Yes,” said Charles. “Wilhelm and I always trusted each other. I think we still do.”
Wilhelm sipped his sherry. His hand shook a little.
“I think it is because they understand each other so,” said Phyllis.
The tension was very strong in the room. Roger Brinkwell let it impress itself upon everybody before he said: “How about looking at some of my tapestries, Charlie? You’ve never seen them, have you?”
Charles studied that nimble face and cruel mouth. Before he could answer Jochen said: “I wouldn’t mind seeing them again, myself.”
So, Charles thought. “There is one I like,” said Wilhelm. The four men, trailed vaguely by Mr. Holt, left the room. “The best,” said Roger, “are in the library.”
“But that was a good early Flemish over the mantelpiece,” said Charles.
Roger stopped for a moment in the black-and-white hall. He was amazed. Jochen stared blankly. Wilhelm frowned, studied his cigarette.
“You noticed it?” asked Roger. “I didn’t think you knew anything about tapestries.”
“He learns things all the time. Especially when he needs them,” said Jochen, meanly.
Charles said hurriedly: “Let us see those Gobelins, Roger.”
The library, long and cold and perfectly furnished, was hung with tapestries between the book-cases. Charles was pleased to see that they were every bit as dismal as those he had seen once in Brussels, if smaller. He scrutinized each in turn, nodding to himself, standing off a little, then approaching for a closer look. Jochen watched him, nastily. “Learning, Charlie?” he asked.
“Now those at Versailles—” said Charles.
“You’ve seen them at Versailles?” asked Roger.
“I spent three days, looking at them,” replied Charles, mendaciously.
Roger was uncertain, and he was distrustful. His vivid face was as sharp and quick as an animal’s in the lamplight. “I always thought of you as the perfect type of the Pennsylvania Dutchman, Charlie. Not interested in—”
Charles was very grateful. He glanced at Wilhelm. “What’s wrong with the Pennsylvania Dutch?” he demanded. “What do you know of them? You’re not one of us.”
Roger laughed. “I lived among you for quite a while, didn’t I?”
“You think we have no culture, eh?”
Wilhelm frowned. “Thank you,” he said.
Roger saw the trap into which Charles had led him. He also saw Charles’ smile. He had a moment of consternation. Perhaps Jochen might be wrong. This man might possibly not be the slow thick fool he had been told he was, not only by Jochen but by Waite, also. Roger turned to Wilhelm, with that rapid dancer’s movement of his. “I have something special for you to see, too,” he said. “A genuine Maurer, practically his first revolt against academic art, poor devil.”
“No!” exclaimed Wilhelm. He followed Roger down the room to where a single picture was hanging on a space uncluttered by tapestries. The others followed. Charles saw a painting on the wall. It looked, he thought, like nothing on earth, an appalling nightmare of what was, if one looked close enough, a complete distortion of the human countenance. Angles, a tiny twisted mouth, a sudden eye appearing where no eye ought to appear, streaks of hard sharp color, like painted sticks, across what might be a human cheek indicated by four vertical lines in different hues. A nose like a miniature lamp-post, running halfway through the eye, with two crooked, horizontal lines slashing far out on either side of the mouth, presumably nostrils. A neck like two bones with nothing in between.
Why, that looks like the sort of thing Jimmy used to draw when he was four years old, Charles thought. All children draw such things.
“Of course,” Roger was saying, “this is pure modernism. Everyone despises Maurer just now, but he will be our first great American modernist one of these days. His father, I’ve heard, has about disowned him. But everyone knows that old Maurer is a traditionalist of the most obstinate and insignificant order.”
“Utterly without imagination,” said Wilhelm, with an edge of envy in his voice as he reverently studied the painting.
Charles was by now sufficiently conversant with the jargon of modern art to offer a comment. “Extreme,” he said. “Don’t you think he’s trying to surpass Picasso? In my opinion, he’s either imitative, or insane.”
Wilhelm and Roger regarded him coldly. “He’s entirely original,” said Wilhelm, momentarily forgetting his hostility. “And everybody who is original is usually regarded as mad by his contemporaries.”
Jochen was looking at the painting with complete bewilderment. “How old is Maurer?” he asked, disastrously. Wilhelm and Roger exchanged pitying looks, but did not answer.
Charles said, easily: “Oh, Maurer is a man. His father is a famous painter, himself, but, as Roger and Wilhelm have pointed out, in the academic manner. Young Maurer won the Carnegie gold medal and $1500 first prize, in 1901, for a painting. But more in the traditional mood. A study of a woman. Good vigorous coloring.”
About six weeks before he had visited New York, for the express purpose of doing some exigent research on modern painting. Wilhelm’s coldness had become evident at that time, and Charles had decided that he ought to please his brother by learning enough by himself to take part in a conversation. Modestly, he pretended to be unaware of Wilhelm’s and Roger’s frank amazement.
“Met Maurer, in person,” continued Charles. “He had just run over from Paris. We had quite a talk.” This was a slight exaggeration. Charles had seen Maurer wandering disconsolately about the tiny side-street gallery, which was almost devoid of customers, and, taking pity on the sad-looking man, had pretended enthusiasm—but vague enthusiasm—for the few “horrors” which Maurer had created. Maurer had listened, but he was very intelligent, and he had known that Charles was only trying to be kind. However, he was so grateful for this sympathy that tears had come into his eyes. He had not made a single comment, but had turned away, slowly.
“You talked with him?” asked Wilhelm, disbelievingly.
“Indeed,” said Charles, with a mysterious expression. “He had his An Arrangement there, too. He didn’t seem proud of it, however. We agreed it had been a sort of—a sort of prostitution. Apparently, he had needed the money. Though he was still having a hard time, he felt that the time had come for him to express himself honestly.” Charles added thoughtfully: “Tragic. A tragic man. Wouldn’t surprise me if he goes the way Van Gogh went, though perhaps without the dramatics.”
Jochen glared at him. Wilhelm and Roger listened intently. But Charles had now exhausted his repertoire about Maurer and was afraid of further questions. He wandered away to look at the depressing tapestries again, and assumed an interested air.
“I bought this for only fifty dollars,” Roger was saying to Wilhelm. He seemed shaken. Wilhelm, still rather startled, was watching Charles. Then he said to Roger: “Fifty dollars. See here, Roger, you don’t go in for this. Tapestries are your métier. I’ll be glad to—”
Roger said, smiling: “Now, I’m not selling. Frankly, I’m not an expert like you, Wilhelm. Suppose you send over for it one of these days, or, if you’ll allow me, I’ll send it to you.”
CHAPTER XXX
Charles had read few novels in his life. In one or two he had come upon the expression: “holding his breath.” He had thought that phrase very fanciful. But now he found himself literally holding his breath, after Roger Brinkwell had made his gallant offer of the Maurer to Wilhelm.
Charles affected to be studying the picture with deep attention. Cupidity. That had always been in his brother. But acceptance would mean more than cupidity. If Wilhelm refused, he would refuse much more than a mere scrabble of distorted lines and rippling color. Charles could feel the three men behind him. He began to sweat between his shoulder-blades, though the big dark room was chilly. He understood that Wilhelm and Brinkwell knew what an acceptance would mean.
Wilhem did not speak. Roger said, lightly: “Well? I want you to have it. Let me send it to you, Wilhelm.”
Charles took a step nearer the Maurer. The lines and colors became a jumble before him.
Then Wilhelm said: “Thank you, Roger.” He paused. He added: “But no. I’ll buy it from you, but I won’t take it.”
Charles felt himself breathing. He also felt weak.
Roger was protesting and Wilhelm insisting upon purchasing. Charles heard the petulant desire in his brother’s voice, and something else, sharp and wary, and disliking.
“Very well,” said Roger, with a surrendering laugh. “You can have it for what I paid for it. Take it with you tonight, if you want to.”
“I’ll send you my check tomorrow,” said Wilhelm, and he sounded reserved.
Good old Willie, thought Charles. He looked over his shoulder at Wilhelm, but Wilhelm was drifting away to join Mr. Braydon, who was studying a distant tapestry. Charles said to Brinkwell, mildly: “It was a good try.”
Jochen said: “Eh? You mean a good buy, don’t you?”
“That’s right,” said Charles, and he smiled at Brinkwell.
Roger Brinkwell returned the smile. But he was thinking rapidly. This smug solid fool—or was he a fool? He touched Charles on the arm. “I want to show you something, Charlie,” he said. He led the way to a desk at the other end of the room. Wilhelm and Mr. Holt remained in the shadows. They were trying to impress each other, very elegantly, with their limited knowledge of tapestries. Jochen followed Charles and Roger. Roger picked up a frame on his desk. The glass covered some writing in an archaic style. “A letter written on May 30, 1785, by Thomas Jefferson to John Day,” said Roger. “A reproduction of the original.” He handed the frame to Charles. “It might interest you. In a way, it’s a prophecy.”
Charles held the frame a little distance from him, and read: “An improvement is made here in the construction of muskets, which it may be interesting to Congress to know, should they at any time propose to procure any. It consists in the making of every part of them so exactly alike that what belongs to any one, may be used for every other musket in the magazine. I went to the workman. He presented me the parts of fifty locks, taken to pieces, and arranged in compartments. I put several together myself, taking pieces at hazard as they came to ha
nd, and they fitted in the most perfect manner. The advantages of this when arms are out of repair, are evident. He effects it by tools of his own contrivance, which at the same time, abridge the work, so that he thinks he shall be able to furnish the musket two livres cheaper than the common price.”
Charles read the letter slowly, then started to put it down. But Jochen took it from him. “What is it?” he asked, curiously.
“It seems that Jefferson understood mass-production, and its possibilities, long before anyone else did,” said Roger. “Accuracy—interchangeability. We’ve come a long way since then, but not far enough. The battle for production. That will change America’s future, for we understand, or are beginning to understand, the advantages of producing in mass. We have Ford to thank for that, to a great extent.”
“Yes. Good old Ford,” said Jochen.
Roger had long ago understood that though Jochen was shrewd and cunning he could be managed. But Charles had remained the unknown quantity to Brinkwell.
“You’re going into mass-production, in the new mill?” asked Charles. He appeared to show little interest.
“Yes, indeed. Mass-production is the keynote of the Connington,” said Roger, enthusiastically. “There’s no limit to it. In spite of America’s resources, she lags far behind England in industry, and, of course, Germany is ahead of England in production. That’s why she’s invading all England’s markets. That’s why she’s dangerous. We’ll have to compete with her one of these days.”
“Good,” said Charles. He stood there, growing, thought Roger, more solid every moment, more dull and stupid. Waite was right.
“Why good?” asked Roger.
“Competition is the life-force of all industry,” said Charles. He had pushed his hands into his trouser pockets; he was the picture of the peasant Teutonic burgher, out of place in his dinner jacket.
“Yes, I’ve heard that platitude before.”