“Why don’t you have the guts to fight this—this deadliness—then?” shouted Edward. “Haven’t you any sense of responsibility—to men’s minds?”
“We can’t fight it,” replied Mr. Standard, gravely. “It’s the present trend. We’ve become a mediocre people, a spiritless people. All we want is safety. The clods never think of working for themselves in small businesses any longer. They don’t want risk, or the chance of failure. Everything guaranteed, so they can live their maggot lives in peace. Do you think these are the days of the Founding Fathers, when a man would bet his life and everything he had on just being free in his manhood? No.”
“Then we’re a sick country,” said Edward, in a stifled voice. “A very sick country.”
He seemed personally stricken. The graven lines in his face deepened. He rubbed his cheek with the knuckles of his right hand, and his weary eyes blinked in despondent thought. “But one of these days the maggots, as you call them, might want to grow wings again—”
Mr. Standard shook his head. “No. That’s not what history tells us. You’ve only to remember Rome and her housing developments, her bread and circuses, her lotteries, her steady alms to those who wouldn’t or couldn’t work because they were too unfitted for life, her free entertainments for the mobs, her securities for the mobs—well, you know the end of Rome. The healthy barbarians came in. Sometimes,” and he leaned closer to Edward and dropped his voice, “I’m frightened myself. I think of the Russian barbarians—and I think of the Visigoths. Governments, at the last, don’t make people weak. They were born that way and they have to pay the penalty eventually. Governments, at the last, give them what they want, because there’re so many damned millions of them!”
He sighed. He looked at Edward, waiting for his comments, but Edward was silent, furiously thinking, furiously despairing. He was no longer antagonistic toward Mr. Standard. Before them both lay a situation that was terrible for humanity, because humanity had created that terror out of its own cowardice and lack of courage—a deep flush of blood ran through Edward’s body, as if his very flesh were trying to call his attention to something in his own precarious life.
At last Edward said, “Well, I’m not going to pimp for the weakness in my own employees. I’m not going to cater to their lack of courage.” He suddenly brightened and brought his fist down on his desk. “Look! I don’t pay them what your chain pays its employees! I do give them a certain amount of sick leave, and I do give them a chance to invest in my chain, but I do insist that they put some of their own money into our private pension fund! I’m not an Organization, and my people stay with me. They aren’t clods, and there goes your argument!”
“But you do have strikes—and we don’t,” said Mr. Standard. He was a kind and realistic man at heart, and he was sorry for Edward. “And you do have debts and God knows what else, while we’re solvent. And so we’re prepared to make you a good price for your Green and White Stores, to clear up your debts and mortgages, to get rid of your outstanding commitments. If you agree to sell to us, you won’t have to worry about the future, yourself, Mr. Enger. Isn’t that a consideration?”
Edward was aghast. “What, then, shall I do with my life?” He swallowed in humiliation at this involuntary outburst, and he shook his head to conceal his humiliation. “No. No! I’ll struggle along some way. I don’t know how, but I will. I feel I owe it to my country to remain independent; I owe it to my employees to force them to be men, not secure ‘maggots.’ I don’t move them from city to city as you do. I employ managers for my stores right from their own community, after we’re satisfied they want to stay there. And our employees are local people, too. The clerks often quit to go into one of your stores. But the managers stay, in spite of what you can offer them! And that’s a gain—for America. It helps my managers to be independent, to make their own choices.”
Mr. Standard reluctantly knew this was the time to be ruthless. “We know what you owe, Mr. Enger. We know you are getting deeper into the hole every day. And perhaps next year, or the year after, or the year after that, you won’t be able to go on. You can’t compete in prices with us; the government won’t let you redeem its food stamps. Why? How long can you go on bucking the government, which wants to give people what they demand?”
He stood up. He looked down at Edward, but Edward seemed to have forgotten him. “Think it over, Mr. Enger,” he urged. “We’re always ready.”
A little later Edward looked about him with a start. He was alone. He had not even been aware that Mr. Standard had left him. The rain filtered against the windows, and there was no sound but the muffled clatter of distant typewriters. “Oh, God,” he muttered. He was surprised to see that it was nearly half past four. How long ago had his visitor left him? He could not remember. He looked at the piles of papers on his desk and shivered. He would go home—but to what? To the absence of his children, away at school, to the immured silence of his mother, to the scorns and barbs of his sister, Sylvia, to the anxious love of Margaret, from which he tried to run away? With the exception of Sylvia, Maria, and Margaret, there was no one in that big mansion today, and all its rooms rang with dull quiet as if life had permanently withdrawn from it.
His club? His club bored and wearied him. He could not drink as other men drank; his life had been too much of a gamble to be satisfied with little cards. His Lutheran life had been too austere for him now to take pleasure in foolish and ribald stories. The pursuits of his contemporaries disgusted him. Their talk of their mistresses revolted all his instincts of stern morality. It was all very well for a boy to caper in his youth, but a man with a wife did not caper. Besides, thought Edward, with a dreary smile, there was never anyone for me but Margaret, in spite of her probing eyes and the fear in her face for me. What would I do with a mistress? She’d bore me to death, and give me a bad taste. Friends? He had no friends, for he did not share the interests of other businessmen, who thought him straight-laced and dull. There was just no meaning in his life—a pang of terror so strong that it translated itself to a physical anguish made him start up from his chair.
His secretary came in with a look of inquisitive surprise on her angular face. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Enger, but there’s a—a priest—out here who wants to talk with you. It’s probably charity, though he says it isn’t. He says he’s an old friend—”
“Father Jahle!” Edward blurted with amazement. “Why—why, send him in, of course.” He sat down in his chair, and all his nerves twitched. He had not seen Father Jahle for years, and he was suddenly awkward and embarrassed.
Father Jahle, smiling gently and almost with supplication, came in, emaciated, old and worn, as always, but with that indomitable large brilliance of eye. Edward went to him, and in silence they shook hands, while the priest’s merciful and understanding eyes studied the younger man sorrowfully. Yes, yes, all that George Enreich had been telling him all these years was true. Edward was beset; he was distracted; he was lost. He needed the comfort of God; he needed to know that God was always with him, that he was not alone.
“Sit down, sit down, Father,” Edward urged, his awkwardness making him stammer. “It’s good to see you—it’s been a long time—terrible day isn’t it?—I’ve been very busy—should have gone to see you before this—”
“You never forgot me, Eddie,” said the priest, and clung for a moment to Edward’s hand. “I get your check every Christmas. It’s done so much—”
“It wasn’t anything,” said Edward. He removed his hand and hurried behind his desk, as behind a battlement. He tried to smile broadly. “Well, you seem all right. I was sorry about your mother, of course—”
“It was kind of you to donate a hospital room in the Clinic, in her name,” said the priest. “She was old, and died in her sleep. In the grace and mercy of God.”
Edward said nothing. His mind was blank and empty, and there was nothing in it but the sound of the whispering rain. The priest had suddenly lost reality for him, and his uneasiness in
creased. His skin itched; he almost scratched, ferociously. The priest’s eyes, so searching, so tender, unnerved him. What was there to speak about after all these years of silence and absence! A dull old priest with a child’s unclouded eyes; what did he know about the life of men and the world? All at once, while hot with a sudden resentment, there was envy in Edward. Not to be beset, not to lie sleepless, not to quarrel or argue, not to be despairing, never to be worried—a child’s life, but a peaceful one. While looking at the priest with that false, fixed smile, Edward was besieged again with that awful desire to die, and not to know, and not to be aware. Little drops of moisture appeared on his forehead and on his upper lip.
The priest waited. He understood that his appearance had done something violent to Edward and that the younger man was suffering. Then he said, “I’ve come to say good-by, Eddie. You see, I’m a monsignor now; I’ve been assigned to Detroit.”
“Good-by?” Edward echoed stupidly. He stared at the priest, and he was bereft. He had not seen him for years—yet he was bereft.
Father Jahle nodded. “I’m very sad at leaving Waterford, but when it is God’s will, a priest must obey.”
The rain quickened; now it was a pelting insistence like small stones against the glass. Edward did not turn on the office lamps. The big room lay steeped in deep grayness, like a cave.
“Well,” said Edward, lamely, “when you receive orders, you must go—”
Please help me to reach him, the priest prayed. He leaned toward Edward urgently. “I want you to know that you’re always in my prayers, Eddie,” he said. “You see, our old friend, George Enreich, tells me all about you, and I know what your struggles are, and all about your family. I haven’t left you alone, Eddie. There isn’t a day that I don’t remember you and pray for you. Eddie, what can I do to help you?”
What can you do to help me? thought Edward, incredulously. You, a priest? What do you know of my work, my business, my family, you who never had a business or a family, and who lived life at second-hand through your parishioners? He smiled with indulgence. “Why, there’s nothing, Father. I should be asking you that question, not you asking me.”
“Eddie.” The priest looked down at his thin clasped hands. “When you were a boy, you understood all about God. Don’t you remember how we used to talk together when I came into the old delicatessen? And the discussions we had? I would think then, Here is a soul that knows God deeply, and understands, and will never be overlaid with the heavy stones of the outer world.”
“That was a long time ago,” said Edward. “I was almost a child then. Now I have responsibilities.”
“The great responsibility is to God,” said the priest. “Eddie, have you forgotten that there is no reality but God?”
A foolish conversation, a silly, clerical conversation. Edward was really indulgent now, though there was a shocked sensation of loss in him.
“Of course,” he said smoothly. It was almost five. He wanted to go home, to get away, not to listen any longer to these medieval precepts. “We all understand that. But tell me about Detroit—”
I’ve failed, thought the priest with humility. There is something I should have said, but I don’t know what it is! His ears are closed, and perhaps it is all my fault. I shouldn’t have let him drift out of my sight so long. He said aloud, “Forgive me, Eddie. When you stayed away from me, I should have come to you. I might have been able to help.”
“I’ve done very well,” said Edward.
The priest sighed. “That isn’t what I meant, Eddie.”
Edward was impatient; he wanted to rise, take the priest by the hand, and let him out of the room. He could see the office without the priest: there would be the empty chair, but he would be alone with his frightful problems. Father Jahle was gazing at him with that compassionate and piercing regard which was intolerable.
Then Edward heard himself say simply, and with astonishment at his own words, “No one can help me, Father. No one at all. You know that. No, no. Don’t speak to me of God. I don’t believe—my father was right. God is only an abstract. In the light of that abstract, I’ve done all I could. You see, for a layman, life isn’t as simple as it is for you clergy. We have to deal with it with our bare hands.”
“Your hands are not the only hands which have bled in the world,” said the priest. “Remember that, Eddie. God lived as a man. He knows what it is to be a man. Won’t you give that some thought?”
It was imperative to Edward that the priest leave. He couldn’t endure his presence any longer. While the priest was here, there was such an agonized stirring in him, such a stretching—as if one were being crucified. Edward wiped the moisture from his upper lip with his handkerchief.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “I’ll give it some thought.” Go away! he shouted in himself. Don’t you know I want to die, and that every minute you’re here the impulse gets stronger?
The priest stood up, and thankfully Edward stood up also. The priest stood with bowed head, his hat in his hands. Then he said, “Eddie, I will be in Detroit, but I’ll be with you in my prayers and my thoughts. Someday, Eddie, you will know and understand.”
“I hope you’ll be happy with your larger responsibilities in Detroit,” said Edward, and took the old thin hand. “Keep in touch with me, won’t you? Let me know if you need anything.”
The priest was gone, and the room steadily darkened. Then Edward said aloud, “Don’t go away. Let me talk to you. Let me tell you—”
He suddenly fell asleep in his chair. The clerks left, and the secretary. When he awoke, the office was in utter blackness, and the blackness and emptiness were in himself.
CHAPTER XI
The view from the small upper bedroom in the sorority house showed only a quiet, snow-filled street, with students trudging under the twilight lamps. Sometimes they stopped in little groups to laugh and talk and brush the falling snow from their faces. It was very still; the snow fell patiently and inexorably, as if from eternity itself. In the corridor outside the dormitory room there was only an occasional footstep, only the occasional soft voice of a girl. The radiator hissed.
Gertrude returned her attention to the letter she was writing to André, and a sweet and gentle smile stood on her lips, for all the seriousness of her eyes.
“How can I thank you, dear, for the beautiful silver dresser set you sent me? It arrived today, right on time for my birthday. I feel terribly old at twenty-one. But I remember that you’ll be just as old in June, though twenty-one isn’t as bad for a boy as it is for a girl. Now don’t smile. See: I’m wearing the ring you gave me secretly for Christmas. I only dare wear it when I’m alone like this. I’m turning it now to catch the light of my lamp. I ask you again, how did you know that I loved dark blue sapphires more than anything else? The diamonds around it twinkle like white fire. I want to show it to everybody! Well, I will, in June, when I’m graduated from the nursing school.”
She lifted her left hand to her lips and kissed the large gleaming stone in its wreath of pure light. Then she held the ring against her cheek and her eyes dreamed in a mist of joy and contentment. It was several moments before she began to write again.
“I can’t wait until your book is published in September. And dedicated to me, too! I like to know it’s still only our secret. And the Yale University Press! I’m terribly, foolishly proud. I can hear you laugh at me, but I don’t care about that any longer. I’m not nearly as unsophisticated as you think I am. I’m really a very practical person. I’ve been thinking of that small neat apartment over the Clinic where Dr. Blenlow lives. He is retiring in July, and I’m determined to have it for you and me, when we are married in August. I think of August all the time. Of course, Daddy will want us to live in the house, but I simply can’t consider it.…”
I hate the house, the house where I was born, she thought with a sudden surge of revulsion. It’s filled with Daddy’s enemies, except for Grandma and Uncle David, when he’s there. You can feel the menace and discord in
every room, and the savage rage under the controlled voices. It’s as if they’re deliberately punishing him for something, and, in turn, that he is punishing them. Why can’t human relationships be clear and defined, kind and honest? Why must we complicate not only our lives but the lives of others, until we all wallow in the mud of our own confusion? I detest undercurrents. Are we the only creatures who must distort living, and the meaning of living, so that all significance is lost in a welter of complex emotions?
I would love my home if only Daddy and Mother and Robert and André and I and Grandma could live there, free of that crowding and suffocating atmosphere of unspoken hates and resentments and contempt. It all seems to be concentrated around my father; he’s like the center of a hurricane which never blows itself out, never becomes violent enough to disperse itself. And yet how little he speaks these days. How little he speaks to me in particular. He was sorry he struck me, three years ago, and he tried to atone for it—as if Daddy would ever have to atone for anything he did to me!—by agreeing to let me come here to the School of Nursing. But still, something’s been broken between us; I’ve disappointed him. It’s better, though, that I disappointed him by insisting on my own life than to disillusion him later and make him even more desperate than he is now.
And how desperate he is, her sad thoughts ran on. Of course there is twice as much unemployment today than there was in 1933, in spite of what the President tries to do. Three years, and it is worse than ever. It almost kills my father when he has to dismiss more of his employees, but there’s nothing he can do. I can’t stand looking at him when I go home, thinking of his mountainous worries and his debts and his struggles. He’s only forty-seven, but he seems an old man too exhausted to speak much, too besieged to laugh or to have some recreation. Why, he’s almost never taken a vacation in all his life! But the aunts and uncles have a fine time, indeed they do—at his expense. Never once has any of them asked him how his affairs are, nor have they ever cared. Once I thought I understood, a little, but now I don’t know at all. And there’s Robert, who looks at me blankly when I ask questions about this, and then pats my cheek kindly and reassures me that I’m just using my imagination. Dear, good, sweet Robert, who looks at life serenely and contentedly, with good will toward everything and everybody, quite unaware that something very frightful is brewing in our house and must, someday, break out into destruction. What will Robert think then? I’m sure he’ll just believe that somebody lost his or her temper, and it will all blow over, and let’s all be nice again—as if anyone were ever really nice in that house!—and he’ll pull his neat shiny blinders over his eyes and smile at everybody happily. Is he stupid or just one of those incurable optimists who are so infuriating? But I did notice, Gertrude thought wryly, that he had no battle with Daddy at all when he beamingly announced he was going to a business-administration school. Daddy looked shocked for a few minutes, and Robert kept on beaming innocently and affectionately, just exuding confidence and assurance that Daddy would be pleased. Could it be that Robert is wiser than I and never forces an issue, and absolutely refuses to attach deep seriousness to anything, and is perfectly sure that everyone is innately reasonable and benevolent? The strange thing is that he projects that pretty opinion onto people, so that it never occurs to them to disillusion him of the lovely idea he has about them! At any rate, Daddy just stared at Robert and blinked, as if hypnotized, and then he said he deeply appreciated it that Robert wanted to study business administration in order to help him. And that was all there was to it. The violin was completely forgotten. Robert gives Daddy some comfort no one else can.
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