“I’m not thinking of his pride,” said Margaret, her temper flaring. “I’m thinking of my husband.”
“Who is also my brother,” said Sylvia, lifting her chin. “Have you forgotten that? And after all, he owes me a great deal, more than you’ll ever know.”
Margaret clenched her teeth to hold back the bitter and tumultuous words that surged in her throat. For the first time in her life she wanted desperately to hit someone very hard, flat in the face, preferably Sylvia. Her mind ran on like a turbulent river. Ed would never be free from his family, never. Sylvia was still a young woman, just thirty-three. There would probably be children. Then the “genius” would have to study abroad. It would go on, everlastingly. There would never be freedom for Ed, who was so beset, and who had never taken a holiday in his life, and had only worked.
“What does Ed owe any of you?” asked Margaret, holding her voice down with a tremendous effort. It shook, however, with her struggles. “You’re all men and women, now. He educated you, provided a wonderful home for you, gave you large allowances, paid all your bills, indulged you in every fancy, built a theater for you, supports Greg and Ralph and Violette in Europe, takes care of André and his parents, and spares nothing and refuses nothing. And what has he gotten for his work, all the work he has done all the days of his life? Not even gratitude!”
The nurse overheard, and discreetly bent her head and listened avidly. Heinrich slept in his chair.
“I didn’t expect you to understand,” said Sylvia, stiffly.
“He owes none of you anything, now,” said Margaret, and furious tears rushed to her eyes. “Why, you’re not even young any more! How long does this have to go on, before any of you are self-supporting—in your genius?”
Sylvia smiled viciously. “Naturally, you are thinking of yourself and your children’s inheritances.”
Margaret restrained the hand that trembled to flash up and strike Sylvia. “I am thinking of my husband,” she said. “When it comes to him, I don’t mean anything. Nor do my children. Have you looked at Ed lately, any of you? Have you seen how exhausted he is? Does he indulge himself in anything? You have your own car, Sylvia, and your mother has hers, with the chauffeur. Why, Ed doesn’t have a chauffeur any longer and he’s the mainstay of all his relatives! What has he ever gotten out of life? Tell me!”
Sylvia said, “He has power, and that’s all he ever wanted.”
Margaret was shocked. “Power? Why, you’re out of your mind, Sylvia! Power!”
Sylvia stood up. Her face was without expression. “I’d hoped you would help me, by telling Ed and asking his help for Ellis and me. Of course, if Ed won’t help, then I’ll just have to persuade Ellis to come here, to our home, to live, and I’ll get a private teacher for him.”
Margaret was aghast. There was just no escape, no escape at all. Sylvia was smiling down at her again in that ugly fashion. “After all,” said Sylvia, “this was my home before it was yours, or have you forgotten?”
She swung about on her heel and left Margaret, who swallowed painfully against her tears and rage. She leaned back in her chair, her hands clenched on the arms, and tried to control herself. Ellis Lang in this house forever, with Sylvia and their children! The idea was unbearable. The alternative was even more unbearable. If only Ed could be persuaded to inform Sylvia that when she married she would have to establish a home of her own—Margaret closed her eyes and considered. If only he would be sensible! But this time surely he would. The situation was outrageous.
“Do you have a headache, Mrs. Enger?” asked the nurse. She was bending over Margaret solicitously. “Shall I get you an aspirin?”
“No, thank you,” said Margaret, opening her eyes. She glanced at her wrist watch, crusted with diamonds, which Edward had given her for Christmas. “Oh, dear, it’s after five, and Mr. Enger will be here any minute. I must go to meet him.”
She stood up. She found that her knees were trembling. She braced herself and walked to the far spot where Edward met her every evening.
“Yes,” said Edward as he sat beside his wife under the trees. “I know how you feel, dear. Lang! I just about remember him, but only just about. He’s like a fixture you overlook. But let’s be sensible.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to get you to be!” cried Margaret, clutching his hand, her heart sinking, as it always did, at the sight of his weary face and haggard eyes. “This time you just have to set your foot down, Ed.”
“Let’s look at it this way then. I’m supporting Greg, Ralph, and Violette in Europe. Greg and Ralph, of course, will be self-supporting one of these days, I know. But look at it all from Sylvia’s point of view. Is she to be the only one to be thrown bag and baggage out of her home, without any help from me?”
Margaret was distracted. “You shouldn’t be supporting any of them, Ed! Not one of them, except your parents. And they have their own income from Enger’s. Never mind your parents, though. Do you actually think that that Lang will ever be able to take care of himself and Sylvia? Don’t be foolish, please, please! You’ll never get rid of any of them. They’ll take care of that.” She clutched Edward’s arm and wept. “You’ve got to start somewhere, Ed. You might as well start with Sylvia, as a hint to the rest of them. Do you know what she said about you? She said you have what you’ve always wanted—power. You!”
Edward’s face changed. “Power?” he said, in an odd voice. “I want power?” The ashen color ran under his dark skin. “I want power, I who hate men who want it, and who’ve fought such men for years?”
Margaret was frightened. “I shouldn’t have told you that, that cruel and stupid thing! Sylvia doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and I told her so. Ed, you look so ill. Oh, never mind your family, damn them! Nothing matters but you.” Her fright increased. Edward was staring at her blindly, as if she were not there, and his lips had a purplish tinge. He put his hand suddenly to his left side.
“Oh, what is it, Ed?” Margaret exclaimed with a terrible sense of foreboding, “What is it, Ed?”
“Nothing,” he said, weakly. “Nothing at all. What’s the matter with you, darling?” he managed a smile. “I never saw you so hysterical. Suppose we forget the family. I think I’d like a Scotch and soda; my bootlegger delivered some very good stuff last week. And I think I’ll mix you one, too. It’ll do you good. And we’ll drink to the new President, Mr. Coolidge.” He stood up and pulled Margaret to her feet. “Stop worrying, dear. Why, I’ve made over ten thousand dollars the last two days in the stock market. What is ten thousand dollars? Why does it worry you? What if it does cost that much a year to get Sylvia out of the house? Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted, even if you didn’t say so?”
And he kissed her and led her away, his arm about her waist.
CHAPTER V
All the family was at home, at Christmas, which made Maria contented, for though her children usually forgot their father even in his presence and rated him of no importance, she believed that they had some affection for him. Ralph and Violette and Gregory had returned from France a few days before, and David was between engagements. Ralph had had to return for a few weeks to discuss bridge designs with his clients, and Gregory had his completed book and was in search of a publisher. Ralph was the most practical member of the family, and this, with his earthiness, did not make him the most popular. However, he was the youngest, and he was amusing if vulgar, and Violette could bring deft gaiety in spite of the mistrust in which she was generally held.
With the exception of David, whom Sylvia declared she could no longer understand, there was an immediate and confiding solidarity against Edward, even more emphatic than usual. Now that none was very young any longer, their dislike and hostility were more mature, more directed, and, in their belief, more rationalized. However, perhaps because of some emanation from Sylvia, whom all respected, Edward’s children were great pets with their aunts and uncles, even with Violette. The brothers and sister spent hours bitterly discussing Rober
t’s and Gertrude’s “frustrations.” “Of course,” said Sylvia, “what can you expect of a man who knows nothing of genius and its needs and a woman who is absolutely stupid and ignorant?”
Violette made a moue and shook her head. “There you are wrong, my dears,” she said. “Ed is not a fool, and Margaret is very wise, though sometimes childish in the American manner.” She looked mysterious. “It is very wrong to underestimate the enemy.”
Everyone stared at her. The enemy. They had fear for Edward, and something close to hatred, and in spite of themselves they had a frightened respect for their puissant brother. But they had never, even during their angriest periods, ever actually considered him as an enemy. Now they gave thought to it, acknowledged it eagerly and excitedly, and their last vestige of conscience with regard to Edward vanished in a surge of relief. Violette’s statement had exonerated them from feeling obligated to Edward; he was now the open foe for whom there was no quarter. They smiled at Violette as at a deliverer. Later Sylvia, who seemed brighter than in years after this session, told David of the general conclusion. He had regarded her with that strange look which never failed to disconcert her.
“Enemy? Ed?” he had repeated, slowly. “It’s an unusual enemy who works himself to death for us. Yes, yes, I know your claim is that he always wanted power over us and power for himself. You know very well, Sylvie, that he’s not one of the typical rapacious tycoons you’re always talking about who think and live only for money. He’s neither gaudy nor grasping; he might complain often about our expenses, but he gives us whatever we want, and not out of love. Definitely not out of love. Perhaps because of power, but only a little because of power. It’s something more subtle and probably something more terrible, hidden even from him, and that’s why I pity him.” This so outraged Sylvia that when she reported this conversation to her brothers she betrayed David for the first time. “He’s not to be trusted,” she warned them. “Don’t discuss Ed with him. Why, he might even be reporting everything we say to Ed! Let’s change the subject when David’s around.”
So David, a little to his dismay, found himself a stranger in his home. His brothers and sister showed a cordial interest in his career and in himself, but there were no confidences any longer. He found the others overlaid with a bright and casual brittleness when he appeared. His loneliness increased. He spent most of his days at home with Maria and the twins. He tried, a few times, to be friendly toward Edward; he even strained himself in that direction. But the abysmal cleavage, dark and formless and without a name, which existed between them could never be bridged by words. Once he said to Edward, “I wish you’d rest. You look sick to me. And too tired.” His voice was honestly concerned and anxious, but Edward had given him a glance charged with what to David was inexplicable rejection and affront.
“It’s a little late in the day for any one of you to be interested in me, isn’t it?” he replied. “Let’s drop it.”
David spoke to Margaret of his growing concern for his brother. “Why, he gets grayer and grayer all the time,” he said. “Margaret, you’re his wife. In the name of God, what is it, what’s the matter with him?”
Margaret had become cold. “Why, you ought to know, David. So long as all of you exploit him and are such a burden on him and such dead weights, then he’ll never be free, he’ll never have any rest.”
“Don’t cry,” said David, with a tenderness he could not keep out of his voice. “I’m going to try to help him. I don’t know how, but I’m going to try.”
Two days before Christmas he went to see George Enreich in the latter’s home. George’s bristling hair was completely blanched now, his florid face paler, his body heavier and clumsier. But the green eyes were as vital as ever. He had come to have respect and even affection for David over the years, though he saw him rarely. He listened to David’s words thoughtfully, shifting his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other.
Then he said, “I have ways of finding things out, David. As you know, my good young friend, Edward is like a son to me though we speak no longer. It is not my doing. He does not know how I have helped him, and I will give you my confidence. You will remember the Save America Committee, which I told you he headed, and only you of the family know this. When America decided that Germany must be the enemy, against all the desires of the people, then Edward’s personal enemies in Washington prepared to ruin him. I was soon informed of the plot by means of several friends. Enough. I need not tell you of the months of efforts in his behalf on my part. I employed all and everything without restraint, and there was much money involved. Few politicians there are who can resist bribery. It is not something to deprecate or bewail, but only something to accept as in the nature of humanity, unfortunate though it is.
“Yes. I have my means of securing information. I am also not a stupid man. Nothing can make Eddie’s and existence blossom, only himself. His wife can do nothing for him, for she loves him too much and so cannot see him. And there has been a little estrangement growing between them this year, which I deplore but which I understand. The love is not injured, but the closeness is somewhat marred. It is because of the children. You seem astonished that I know so much, but Eddie is my business because of my affection. You did not know it? Margaret is a very sensitive and discreet woman, and is suspicious of what your family calls genius. She has reasons, as you know. She is not a deluded mother; she will never stand in her children’s way, but she considers them too young as yet to know what they really want and for what they are really fitted. Eddie is not so wise, so temperate, so tolerant. Some vague talents on the part of his children—and do not all children in early years show some talent which later withers naturally?—convinces him that his children are geniuses and that their genius must be developed immediately. My informants?”
George smiled. “I, too, have servants,” he said. “Do not be so annoyed. The consuming interest of servants is their employers, and I do nothing to discourage that interest and the reports, for I am concerned with Eddie.
“What is wrong with Eddie, you have asked. Many things, many dark and violent things, which are beyond him to comprehend. I do not believe in this Freud, who has insights, powerful insights, but only narrow insights, because he never truly loved anyone. However, I will bow to Freud this time, in connection with Eddie. I know the very year in which Eddie changed, not slowly but all at once. I know the time of the year. It was not long before Christmas of 1904. Something happened in his life, something which may seem insignificant to others, but was of terrible importance to him. I do not know what it is, and who is there to say what is significant or insignificant? He was injured; he suffered what is now called a trauma. He has forgotten it, in his conscious mind. But it brought out a hardness and a ruthlessness, and no doubt even a vengefulness, in him which possibly might have lain dormant—if that event had never happened. Or it is possible that he began to think, and thinking often leads to hatred as well as to enlightenment.”
“Nineteen-four,” repeated David, slowly. He shook his head. “We were only kids then. I can’t even remember that Christmas. Except one thing: I had a fight with Eddie over Billy Russell, that colored boy who used to work for my father. Yes, it was Christmas Eve! Wait, wait. Something’s stirring in my mind. Ed had begun to change long before that, though. I think the fight was only the culmination of something that was distorting him. He had always been very close to Pa; the closeness was gone by Christmas. Even then, Ed was showing hostility toward him, and contempt for him. Do you think it all has something to do with Pa? I can’t believe that. Pa has always been so simple and childlike and kind, and he’d be the last person in the world to hurt Ed, who was his favorite child.”
George considered. Then he said, “I think it is your father. How, or why, it is impossible for me to know. But there is a sureness in me about it.” He paused and looked at David, who was frowning in bafflement. “You have said, my David, that your sister has asserted that Eddie is the enemy of all of you. I believe th
at. I believe that he wants to retain power over you. I have always believed it. And is that not paradoxical in a man who loves freedom absolutely and who detests the power seekers? When we discover the nature of the paradox, which probably is not paradoxical at all, we will know what is wrong with your brother. But that will not help him. He himself must know.”
David was silent a long time, his handsome narrow head bent, his hands clasped between his thin and elegant knees. Then he spoke, without looking up. “I respect Ed. I can even say I love him. I understand him even more than Margaret does, though perhaps not as much as my mother. I would give anything, anything, to help him, for his own sake. You believe that?”
“Certainly,” said George, with kindness. He smiled mischievously. “And that is why you do not tell him who the famous composer of Samson Smith is, and who has been writing all those undeservedly popular songs? Ah, you are amazed, yet I have told you it is my business to know all’ about my Eddie and those surrounding him. I am glad that you have given me the occasion to congratulate you. It was my admiration for you which prompted me to give you the various tips on the stock market, and so to help you become a rich man. You are very ingenious and very clever, and you have found your métier, though I confess I do not understand this modern music. Nevertheless, it is your métier. I wonder,” he added artlessly, “if your brothers and sister have found theirs also. It does not matter. I am not much interested.”
He poured more wine into David’s glass. “I have this advice: continue as you are doing. I am growing old, and perhaps my German mysticism is increasing. I feel that someday Eddie is going to need you.”
David talked with Maria. She sat silently as he spoke, larger and more shapeless than ever, her pale hair now one drift of thick white, her pallid eyes inscrutable. “I’ve always thought you knew more about Ed than anyone,” said David. “And though no one else would believe it, I’ve always believed he was your favorite child.”
The Sound of Thunder Page 56
