Wilhelm paused on the threshold with unusually heavy seriousness. “Help you, Charles? Always. You know that.” He smiled his mercurial smile. “And now, let us join the Greek chorus of approval for Friederich, and our dear Jochen. I should imagine they are now basking in the reverence of the newspaper men. And, Charles, do not forget Friday night. I am delighted you are coming.”
CHAPTER IX
It seemed to Charles, in retrospect, that he had never asked anything exorbitant of life. He had never yearned after the lightning-lit, the sensational, the magnificent, the trumpet-heralded. Fairly good health, tranquillity, something to love, a respectable bank balance, an unimpeachable reputation, a casual peace of mind built on a sound character—these ought to satisfy any man, he had believed.
But now he knew that no one is invulnerable. His world, so good-tempered, so plainly urbane, so quiet, had been shattered. Something in him, never before consciously known, had thrown everything into disorder. He had become vulnerable because he had become suddenly perceptive.
Even his God had been built on his own image, a sensible God, just slightly materialistic, not metaphysical, possibly even a solid business man in His way. Charles was President of the Board of the First Lutheran Church, but he had never been disturbed by religion overmuch. Now, as he thought about it, he realized that he had never fully considered God at all.
But something had stirred, and suddenly nothing was “sound,” nothing was “sensible.” As he sat alone in his office, after his lunch, he began to think about God, confusedly, and all the other matters which had invaded his life with such ominous insistence, and even terror. His brothers were no longer merely nuisances, to be outwitted and manipulated.
He thought about his brother Friederich. Now he began to see Friederich as a man, as a soul, as something hidden and incomprehensible, as something to be pitied. Pitied! He needed help, Charles decided, suddenly. He needed to be helped to gain self-esteem. Friederich might be arrogant, but he had no normal conceit or vanity. A good opinion of one’s self made a man courageous, well-balanced, reasonable, and harmless. It also made him constructive. Friederich, Charles decided by some obscure intuition, had a very low opinion of himself, and this made him vengeful, and vengeful men were full of menace. They were also sad and lost men. Charles was not one to feel too much compassion for anyone, for he had not known that most men needed compassion. Now he was full of compassion for Friederich, and he did not know why.
He was also very afraid, and of so many things, each one amorphous and without outline. He remembered that Leon Bouchard was in the city. He remembered that Leon Bouchard had been a quiet man, “deep.” He had respected Leon, for Leon had had a matter-of-fact air about him; he had been broad of face and shoulders, somewhat stocky, but potent, with a good color and reserved manners. There had been a thick power about him; Charles had thought that if any murdering was to be done it would be done openly by Leon, with a thrust of a short wide knife.
“Oh, damn,” said Charles. Leon Bouchard was in town. But Leon Bouchard had not called him. Colonel Grayson was running after shadows. His telephone rang, which meant that Mr. Parker had considered the call important. Charles looked at the black instrument. He reached for it, then stopped. Then he said again, aloud: “Oh, damn.” He lifted the receiver to his ear.
“Mr. Wittmann?” The voice was assured and quick. “This is Mr. Elson Waite, of the Connington Steel Company. Perhaps you remember me? You will remember, too, perhaps, that you promised to inform me of the decision of your company about that river property?”
A weak sense of relief flooded over Charles. Almost eagerly, he said: “Yes, yes, Mr. Waite. Of course. Of course. I didn’t know you were in the city. I—I was about to write you, Mr. Waite. We’ve made our decision. This morning.” He heard his voice, uneven, almost stammering.
“Yes, Mr. Wittmann?” The voice was courteous, but a little sharp and patronizing. Good stern annoyance came to Charles. He, Charles Wittmann, might be president of only a middle-sized machine tool company, and Mr. Waite might be an officer of the Connington Steel Company, so monstrously large that they were being investigated by Congress for a possible violation of the anti-trust laws, but Charles Wittmann had his importance also, and his own personal dignity. He was very important, too, to this exigent Mr. Waite, for he had frustrated Mr. Waite.
So, quite coldly, Charles said: “I’m sorry, Mr. Waite, but I have bad news for you. We’ve voted not to sell you the river property.”
He was filled with elation and pleasure. The issue had been of sufficient value so that Mr. Waite, himself, had come to Andersburg. It gave Charles satisfaction to checkmate him, and thus increase his own self esteem.
There was an incredulous and affronted silence on the part of Mr. Waite. So, thought Charles, you thought it was all settled, and that the little Wittmanns would be only too happy to give you what you wanted. He went on: “No, Mr. Waite. The answer is no.”
“I think,” said Mr. Waite, “that we offered you a very good price. A very good price, indeed.”
Charles kept his voice cool. “I agree with you, Mr. Waite. But still, we have rejected your offer.” Then, not knowing why he said it, he added: “Why are you so insistent upon that property, Mr. Waite?”
There was a pause. Was that the murmur of another man in the background? Mr. Waite said: “This is confidential, Mr. Wittmann, and I’ll answer your question.” He hesitated portentously. “You see, Bouchard and Sons are interested in that property also. For us. They have steel mills of their own, of course, but they will soon need a great deal of steel, and even we—we, the Connington, are not, at the present time, able to give them all they wish. So, you see that it is very important that we have that property.”
The Bouchards. The “butchers.” They, the Bouchards, needed a “great deal of steel.”
“Hello?” said Mr. Waite, vexed at Charles’ long silence. “Yes,” said Charles. “Yes, I am here.” He waited a second or two. “I think I read that Mr. Leon Bouchard is in town.”
“Yes, he is,” said Mr. Waite, in a light and friendly voice. “In fact, Mr. Bouchard is here at the Imperial Hotel with me. Mr. Wittmann, could you have dinner with Mr. Bouchard and me, at this hotel? Perhaps we can come to some agreement. When we met here—quite by accident, of course—he mentioned that he intended to see you, if you had time.”
“Mr. Bouchard wishes to see me?” Charles spoke thickly.
Again, there was that murmur in the background.
Mr. Waite was all suave indifference. “I’m just surmising, Mr. Wittmann. Perhaps I am wrong. Mr. Bouchard is just passing through. However, we’d like to talk with you, at dinner. Will you give us the pleasure—”
“That is very kind of you,” Charles heard himself saying.
“You will come, then?”
A broad ray of sunlight lay across Charles’ desk. He looked at it. He was filled with a bitter anger and fear.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ll come. But you understand, Mr. Waite, that nothing can change our decision? On the other hand, I have another proposition. I have an option on some land five miles beyond the center of the city; on the outskirts. If you want that, you may have it. At a lesser price, of course. But it is desirable property.”
“Shall we discuss that at dinner?” asked Mr. Waite, amiably.
Charles hung up the receiver. He sat in his chair and looked at the telephone. He could refuse the Burnsley land to the Connington. But they would buy somewhere else. The Bouchards needed a “great deal of steel.” He, Charles, could do nothing. If he refused, he would be quixotic, and nothing more. He was a business man. He was a small business man. The Connington Steel Company and the Bouchards were giants. He could do nothing. To repudiate a profit would benefit no one. Nothing could save—Save what? Charles shook his head over and over. When powerful men decided an issue, little men were powerless. They could only take what profit they could get. Colonel Grayson. Charles could do nothing about the Connington St
eel Company. But he could do something about the Bouchards.
He lit one of his own inexpensive cigars. It tasted acrid in his mouth, and he put it down. Then he got up. He felt tired and old. He went in to see Jochen. Jochen was busily signing mail. When he saw Charles, he scowled. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. He put down his pen. “Remember what I told you, Charlie? You think you are very smart, but one of these days you might be too smart.”
“Perhaps.” Charles saw that Jochen had his cigar case on his desk. He opened it, took a cigar out, without asking, lit it Somehow, it did not have quite the same taste as usual. Jochen squinted at him, inquisitively. Something was bothering old Charlie. Jochen waited.
“Mr. Waite, of the Connington, just called me,” said Charles.
Jochen was immediately interested. “He did? From Pittsburgh?” He added, with suppressed rage: “And I suppose you gave him the good news, eh?”
“He’s right here, in Andersburg.” Charles paused. He felt confident again. “He was just ‘passing through,’ I believe he implied.” He looked at Jochen. “And Leon Bouchard is ‘just passing through,’ also. They invited me to dinner tonight.” It was silly, and it was childish, but he could not help feeling a little malice.
“No!” exclaimed Jochen, forgetting his rage. “My God! Maybe the Bouchards will give us some business. Maybe, after all, the Connington will buy that damn Burnsley property! I’ll go with you—”
“No,” said Charles. The cigar tasted better. “They only invited me. After all, you know, I’m president of this company.”
“But, God damn it, I’m vice-president. Why do you always have to hog the limelight, Charlie?”
“They only invited me,” said Charles, pleased. He turned away. “Thanks for the cigar, Joe. I’ll call you tonight, and tell you the news.”
The Imperial Hotel was still the most imposing hotel in Andersburg, though; in 1911, the Pennsylvania House had been built in that city. The Imperial Hotel had a majestic history, even if its crimson plush and scarlet velvet and gilt had suffered some deterioration through the years. Important visitors, remembering its grandeur and comfort, still preferred it to the Pennsylvania House.
It did not surprise Charles to discover that Mr. Elson Waite and Mr. Leon Bouchard occupied a suite together at the Imperial. It was a fine suite, the best, Charles remembered, even if “Victorian” and violent with red velvet and plush. Did they think, him such a fool as to believe that they had met here by “accident,” and were only “passing through”? All his fears took on sharper form and ominousness.
Mr. Waite, answering his knock, greeted him with great cordiality. He was a tall gray man, inconspicuous in appearance, but with a pair of pale eyes like bits of stone. He had a look of authority and hardness, in spite of his affable manner, and he reminded Charles of Colonel Grayson.
“You don’t need an introduction to Mr. Bouchard, Mr. Wittmann,” said Mr. Waite, indicating the powerful, stocky man in the background. “You have met, I believe?”
Charles shook hands with Mr. Bouchard. Leon had not changed much in the past two years, except for a slight soft paunch and even more reserve. He had a lethargic air about him, which only increased his impression of potency. Mr. Bouchard looked at him, and smiled: his smile was unexpectedly attractive. He was of French ancestry, but there was nothing quick and Latin about him.
Leon said: “I’ve been in Chicago, Mr. Wittmann. Then when I found I could get no train until tomorrow, to Windsor, and when I had to remain in Andersburg, I suddenly remembered you.”
Mr. Bouchard went on, with heavy graciousness: “Your precision tools are the best in America. I’m not sorry I had to stay over. I think we ought to discuss a certain order I have in mind—”
A bribe, thought Charles. But he was immediately disgusted with himself. Shadows: he was becoming a victim of shadows. He was seeing danger where none existed.
“Any business you can give us, Mr. Bouchard, will be more than appreciated,” said Charles, seating himself at Mr. Waite’s invitation, and holding his briefcase on his knees.
Mr. Bouchard sat and studied him. “I understand that you haven’t suffered much from the present lag in business,” he said.
“No. We aren’t as busy as I’d like us to be, but we are still in the black.” Charles smiled.
“No labor troubles?”
“No. We have a union, a company union, sir.”
Mr. Bouchard exchanged a glance with Mr. Waite. Was there a flicker of amusement at him, between these men? Charles remembered that the Bouchards, too, were always having labor troubles. He ought to have felt proud, he knew; it angered him that he could only feel foolish, a small-town manufacturer of no real importance.
Mr. Bouchard said, politely: “You should be congratulated, Mr. Wittmann, that you are able to control your workers so well.”
“I don’t control them.” It was rare for Charles to feel so explosive. “I only treat them decently. The laborer is worthy of his hire, I think the Bible says.”
A curious expression passed over Mr. Bouchard’s strongly muscled face. “I have a nephew, Peter, who always says that,” he remarked. “But Peter isn’t interested in our business. He is an idealist.”
I am certainly nervous these days, thought Charles. “Idealists don’t do any harm, if they are really idealists,” he said, lamely.
“But, every man is a hypocrite, according to Frederick the Great,” observed Mr. Bouchard. However, he was smiling. “I don’t think my nephew, Peter, would harm anyone, and I don’t think he is a hypocrite.”
Mr. Waite had been listening to this apparently idle conversation with the utmost politeness. He said: “Very interesting. But it is six-fifteen, and I have engaged a table for three in the dining room at six-thirty. Mr. Wittmann, shall we conclude our business immediately, so that we can have a pleasant hour or two downstairs?”
Charles said: “I’m ready. But there is no business to ‘conclude,’ Mr. Waite. I told you our decisions.” He opened his briefcase, drew out a diagram which he had prepared only an hour ago. “Please look at this. It is the Burnsley property, on which I have an option.”
But Mr. Waite was looking at him intently, though he took the paper. “May I ask when you took this option, Mr. Wittmann?”
Charles said, without hesitation: “Very recently. When I decided we ought not to sell the river property to you.”
“And why don’t you want to sell us that property?”
“I want to sell it to the city, for a park. The Wittmann Civic Park.” It was intolerable that he should feel so sheepish, so stupid, among these men, and why everything he said should sound so silly.
“Oh.” Mr. Waite glanced enigmatically at Mr. Bouchard, who did not move, and who did not speak. “The welfare of the city, I see, Mr. Wittmann. Very wonderful. A sort of monument to your family.” Simple, ordinary words, but they could make Charles uncomfortable, and make him color.
“Yes,” he said, in an unnecessarily defensive voice. “That’s it. The city thinks quite well of us. We have a reputation. And we owe something to the city.”
Everything he had said would have been approved by anyone, he knew. They were honorable words. Why, then, should he believe that he was amusing these two men, and that they were secretly laughing at him, and making a fool of him? Again, he was angered, and this anger was turned against himself. Stop it, said Charles to himself, sternly. What is happening to me? No wonder they think I am a fool.
He tried for quiet deliberation, in spite of a profound antagonism against the two: “If you buy the Burnsley land, Mr. Waite, and we sell the river property to the city, we’ll lose very little.”
“But we really do want the river property,” said Mr. Waite, with a too meticulous courtesy. “Very convenient for us, for we’ll employ barges and flat-boats.”
Charles’ ears were burning. “If you buy the Burnsley land, you’ll be near the railroad. A spur can be easily attached.” Mr. Waite had laid down the paper on a table ne
ar him. Charles repressed a desire to snatch it and replace it in his briefcase. He could not stop himself saying: “Mr. Waite, a steel mill, such as you plan, would ruin our river front. I happen to live here, and so do my brothers. We don’t want our river front to be destroyed, and you would destroy it. No one has the right to disfigure a city, for his own gain.”
Mr. Waite said urbanely: “But you don’t live near the river, Mr. Wittmann. And I don’t believe your brothers do, either. Business is business, you know—”
Now Charles did take the paper. He felt pent and furious. “I gather you aren’t interested in the Burnsley land, Mr. Waite. Shall we just say it is all finished, then?”
Mr. Waite smiled. Again, he glanced at Mr. Bouchard. “Really, Mr. Wittmann, you are jumping at conclusions. I didn’t say we won’t consider the Burnsley land. I am just trying to persuade you about the river property. I haven’t met you before but I gathered, from Mr. Bouchard, that you were a reasonable man.”
“I’m very reasonable,” said Charles, holding down his voice. “I am so reasonable that I like my city, where I was born, and I like the people here. They ‘depend upon me not to do anything which would injure them, even if I am offered a profit, My brothers agree with me—”
“Except one.”
These men knew too much about him, Charles. But he made every muscle in his face smooth. “Yes. You are right. But there are three against ‘one.’ And we have given out our decision to the newspapers.”
Mr. Waite held out his hand patiently, a finely manicured hand. “May I see the outline of the Burnsley land, Mr. Wittmann?”
Mr. Waite, who was a gentleman of acumen, had guessed a great deal about Charles. He knew that Charles was uncomfortable, and that he, himself, by his every slight gesture, the very intonations of his voice, was making Charles feel uncouth and awkward. One of these loutish Pennsylvania Dutch, Mr. Waite had said to himself. However, he had also underestimated Charles. So, he did not notice the slight frown on Mr. Bouchard’s face. Mr. Bouchard was not a man to underestimate others, and he was annoyed at Mr. Waite, who thought that he could intimidate Charles by cosmopolitan manners and could disturb him by an air of adult tolerance.
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