The Balance Wheel

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  “You were a humorless, fat little fellow, Charlie,” said Mr. Brinkwell, in a very amiable and laughing voice. “You had three brothers, Willie, Joe and Fred.”

  You set your dog on Fred, thought Charles, and remembered Friederich’s dreadful terror, and the blood on the small arm, and Roger’s laughter. They always laughed, did these people.

  Mrs. Holt looked uneasily at Charles. Now, what was the matter with him? She had never seen such an expression on Charlie’s face before; it was really horrible, even if it was so quiet. Fred, Charles was thinking, and now he knew a great deal more.

  If Mrs. Holt was surprised by the still ferocity of Charles’ eyes, Roger Brinkwell was not. He had forgotten the incident of the dog. He was only remembering that he hated the Charles Wittmanns of the world, and never enjoyed anything so much as injuring them. Almost always, they came to look at him like this, with set jaws and eyes that fixed themselves upon him, as if in recognition.

  He smiled. “I hear two of your brothers are here, Joe and Willie,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Charles. He stood there, immovable, and the two men regarded each other in the mutual acknowledgment of hatred.

  “Waite’s told me all about you,” said Roger Brinkwell. He smiled, as if at the memory of a fine joke. “He said you’ve done very well with your father’s business. He thinks very highly of you, and said to give you his regards.”

  Charles said nothing.

  “And now I’m home again,” continued the other man, lightly. “We’re to begin building on that land we bought from you—Charlie. Very soon.”

  “So you do remember Roger, Charlie?” asked Mrs. Holt.

  Charles turned to her. “Yes, Mrs. Holt. I remember.”

  It was with a deep sensation of relief that Mrs. Holt said: “Well, here is Pauline, too. Pauline, this is Mr. Wittmann, a very dear friend of mine.” She repeated, turning to look directly at Brinkwell, and at the tall woman who was with them now: “A very dear friend of mine.”

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Pauline Brinkwell was exactly the kind of woman Roger’s mother had been, and she was exactly as Charles had known she would be.

  Roger Brinkwell’s kind liked only a certain type of woman. They were the lovers of the faceless but pretty women, with meek, downcast eyes, and lips that were constantly being moistened by the tips of furtive tongues. The Roger Brinkwells preferred the fair women, of diluted paleness, and with ashen hair and rather watery blue eyes, taller than themselves, and with pallid personalities. Did they know that these women, pliant and withdrawing, were almost as dangerous as themselves, and as conscienceless?

  Mrs. Brinkwell was no frump. She had even a good figure, and she dressed unobtrusively and with a subdued style. Her jewelry was restrained, her blanched hair dressed becomingly in a classic way. Her gown was of the palest blue, the color of her eyes, and she wore turquoises in her ears and in wide gold bracelets on her arms. Her voice had a trailing and uncertain timbre, and the gloved hand she extended to Charles was weak in its pressure.

  She gave Charles an absent glance, but he was not deceived. She, like Roger, was ridiculing him, and despising him. She said: “Dear Minnie’s told us so much about you, Mr. Wittmann, and Roger remembers you. You must have gone to school together, or church?”

  “Oh, Charlie’s a lot younger than me,” said Mr. Brinkwell, amused. “We did go to the same church, or rather, Sunday-school. Didn’t we?”

  “Do you go to church?” asked Charles.

  Roger laughed. “No, honestly, I’m an agnostic. But Pauline’s very strict about such things. You must tell her about our old church. I hear your minister is a—a rather remarkable man. That is what Minnie told us. We’ll have to meet him.”

  He was already restless. His shoulders moved. His eyes glinted at Charles, and Charles felt himself becoming stolid and immovable in his usual fashion. Once I was afraid of you, he thought. All of the kind which is you. But not any more, thank God. I know how to fight you.

  Pauline was studying him curiously, beneath her drooping lids, and with a distant air of patronage.

  Mrs. Holt, who felt so much and knew so much intuitively, said: “Roger’s got a boy, too, Charlie. He’s here, tonight. Why there he is, over there.”

  Charles turned indolently and saw a young man at a little distance, a young man very much like Pauline, pale and without color, and listless. He was talking to a girl who was trying to impress him.

  “Your son looks like you, Mrs. Brinkwell,” Charles said, and he allowed his tone to say what he could not put into words. The drooping eyelids lifted, and the watery quality beneath them congealed.

  Mrs. Holt took Charles’ arm again. Then they all saw Wilhelm and Phyllis. Phyllis wore a long tight dress of the lightest pink, and her bright hair was caught up under two blush roses. Mr. Holt was with them. They saw Charles, and Phyllis smiled.

  “Phyllis and Wilhelm,” said Mrs. Holt.

  Roger Brinkwell had dismissed Wilhelm after one glance. But he was looking at Phyllis with keen dislike, instinctive and immediate.

  “Who are they?” murmured Pauline.

  “My brother Wilhelm, and his wife, Phyllis,” said Charles, and his voice was loud and hard. Pauline appeared startled, and murmured something faintly. Two or three people, passing, stopped at the sound of Charles’ voice, as if they, too, were startled by its quality, which carried through and over the surrounding hubbub.

  Mr. Holt, who was always distracted and vague of mind, said at once: “How do you do, Charles. Wilhelm tells me you have acquired a Picasso. Now, while I—Oh, very sorry, Minnie, very sorry, indeed. Mrs. Wittmann, Mrs. Brinkwell. Wilhelm, you probably remember Roger.” Mr. Holt having ended the introductions returned to Charles: “That particular Picasso, now, is in his old mood—”

  Wilhelm coolly inspected Roger Brinkwell. He knew at once that here was not a man he could ever like, though Mrs. Holt was telling him that the feller collected Gobelins. Wilhelm had no objection to Gobelins, except that one definitely did not go in for tapestries these days. As for Mrs. Brinkwell, she had ceased to exist for Wilhelm the moment he had shaken her hand, and had released it.

  “Have we met before, somewhere?” asked Wilhelm, politely, but without interest.

  “Why, yes,” said Roger, with amusement. “You perhaps wouldn’t remember, of course. You were about five or so. I lived around the corner from you, on Broadhurst Road. My parents took me to Pittsburgh, and I’m now with the Connington Steel, and I’ve returned here to be their superintendent in Andersburg. We’ll all be together, again, Willie, as in the old days.”

  Charles felt a small happiness at the use of this nickname. Wilhelm became very reserved and fastidious. Nevertheless, it was evident that he was interested.

  “Indeed,” said Wilhelm. “You’re building on that Burnsley land we sold to you, I suppose. An excellent spot Yes, yes, Mrs. Holt told us, I believe. My dear,” and he turned to Phyllis, “Mrs. Holt spoke to us of Mr. and Mrs. Brinkwell?”

  You know damn well she did, thought Charles, even more happily.

  Very demurely, Phyllis nodded. Wilhelm put on an air of satisfaction. “I seldom forget a name,” he assured Roger, whose expression was becoming very alive and unpleasant.

  Mrs. Brinkwell, meanwhile, had been inspecting Phyllis thoroughly, in her languorous way. She decided that Phyllis’ gown was undoubtedly from Paris, that it was very unbecoming, that the roses in Phyllis’ hair were unusual and therefore vulgar, that Phyllis was too thin, and that Roger disliked her. Roger always disliked these nervous women.

  “Now, about that Picasso of yours, Charles,” said Mr. Holt. “I confess I don’t know too much about Picasso, myself, but from Wilhelm’s description, I think—”

  “Now, don’t begin, please, Braydon,” said Mrs. Holt. She threw a swift glance at her guests. “Roger, Pauline, there are a number of people who are dying to meet you. They just came in. Braydon, do come and greet your new guests.”

  She smile
d at Charles and Phyllis and Wilhelm. “Now, don’t you three run off somewhere’ and talk Picasso. I’ll be back in just a few moments.”

  When they were alone, Wilhelm said: “That feller, that Brinkwell. Loathsome.”

  “You think so—too?” asked Charles, quickly.

  “Certainly. Collects Gobelins. But it isn’t that. It is something else. I’m not exactly a sloth, myself, but he’s too quick, if you know what I mean.”

  “He knew us when we were children,” said Charles, nodding. His fondness for Wilhelm became almost passionate. “I just remembered. You wouldn’t, Wilhelm. You were too young.” He paused. “He set his dog, once, on Fred.”

  Wilhelm might regard his brother Friederich, without love, but he was a Wittmann. He turned to watch the retreating backs of the Brinkwells. He said, quietly: “So. I don’t remember it, but it’s very likely. He’s the kind. I doubt very much he’s even a collector. Probably does it to give himself éclat, or something. Yes, definitely loathsome. What do you think, Phyllis?”

  “It’s very strange,” said Phyllis without hesitation, “but it seems to me I’ve always hated the kind of man he is. I’ve met quite a few of them. One sat behind me in school, and he used to pinch me, and he always laughed when he did it.”

  Wilhelm dismissed the Brinkwells. He frowned at Charles. “Now will you tell me why Jochen and Isabel are here? I know Mrs. Holt doesn’t care much for them. Are you behind this, Charles?”

  Charles was so soothed by the conversation that he said at once: “Yes. Don’t ask me why, Wilhelm. I don’t know. It was just—”

  “I know: your instinct. You’ve told me about it before.” Wilhelm smiled.

  “It’s an infernal nuisance,” continued Wilhelm. “I hope your instinct is right. It seems a little—shall we say—unbalanced, these days. We’ve been avoiding them from the moment we saw them at a distance. It isn’t that I particularly dislike Jochen, but Isabel is extremely boring.”

  Charles said: “I promised to go back to Oliver Prescott and George Hadden. They are here, too.” And he hurried away, after smiling at Phyllis.

  He found George Hadden and Oliver Prescott hidden behind a piece of statuary; in this haven they were discussing something with much seriousness. They welcomed him, and suggested, as the rooms were hot and noisy, that they go out upon the terrace. No one noticed them go.

  The September night was calm and dark and moonless, and very cool. The terrace was deserted. The men stood in silence for a few moments, listening to the high mountain wind among the trees, which, though hardly turning as yet, had a tattered look in the flood of light from the house windows. Here and there, as boughs blew aside, one caught the twinkle of the lights in distant houses on the mountainside. Everything was so very quiet; even the uproar in the house behind the men hardly reached them. Carriages littered the circular drive. They walked to the edge of the terrace, which ended at the brink of a long downward slope. Far below lay Andersburg, glittering, and they could see the motionless black water around which it curved. From the opposite mountain came the faint moan and tiny thunder of a passing train; a steamboat whistle, and then a series of hoots, came up from the river. Crickets cried in the dusty grass, but there was no sound of any disturbed bird. It was still hardly past summer, but there was a sadness in the night, a nostalgia. Charles thought: I am forty, and my youth has gone. Perhaps I’ve a lot of years ahead of me. But still, my youth is gone. I don’t look forward to next year, the spring, as I used to do. I cherish every day, now.

  Oliver was smoking, and so was George Hadden, and Charles fished a cigar from his pocket. They stood and looked down at the city. The wind came to them, stronger, louder.

  “Feels like frost, soon,” said George Hadden. “Early, this year.”

  “Hope we don’t have a bad winter,” said Oliver Prescott. “My farm clients tell me they’re having good crops, and if the winter isn’t too long they’ll have good crops next summer, too. Poor devils, they need it.”

  Charles said to himself: Not next summer. Only tomorrow. He looked at the two young men. They were much younger than himself. They could speak of coming summers and springs, of crops.

  “How many children do you have, George?” he asked.

  George Hadden smiled. “A little girl, and this boy. We hope to have more, of course. We’ve just begun.”

  “Good,” said Charles. “Good. Good.”

  George Hadden said: “I heard your brother Friederich speak in Philadelphia a few weeks ago, Mr. Wittmann.”

  “You did?” asked Charles, incredulously, wondering why George had wasted his time.

  “Yes, I was there on business, and I read the announcements in the newspapers. So I went. Very interesting,” added the young man, thoughtfully.

  “Interesting?” repeated Charles, frowning. “Why? How?”

  George hesitated, “For many reasons. I’d heard your brother was a good speaker.”

  “Fred?” said Charles, more incredulous than ever. “Of course, I’ve never gone to hear him.”

  “He’s good, very good,” said George, even more thoughtfully. “Then there was the audience. It was almost as interesting as the speech.” He hesitated again. “I hope you won’t be annoyed, Mr. Wittmann, when I tell you that your brother seems to draw a—well, a very peculiar audience. In some respects.”

  “I should imagine so,” said Charles, wryly. “Go on; tell me, George.”

  “Well, there were many workmen there. But there was something clean about them. I’ve noticed that about men who work hard, and with their hands as well as their brains.” George smiled slightly. “Honest, I believe the right word is. But there were others. I could pick them out. I knew them, in a way.”

  Charles came closer to the younger man. “Yes?” he said. “Tell me.”

  “Well, I could see that these others were unsuccessful professional men, lawyers, perhaps, or doctors, school teachers, newspaper people. Or, I should say, they felt they were unsuccessful, that they deserved more than the world had given them, or they wanted more. It’s a kind of man—I’m not very successful in trying to express what I mean.”

  “I understand, completely,” said Charles. “People who lacked the capacity to succeed in any major way, as their fellow professional men had succeeded.”

  “Inadequate wretches, who knew exactly what they were, and hated the world, and even themselves, for being what they were,” suggested Oliver. “Too bad our Founding Fathers, when they spoke of all men being created equal, didn’t go on to explain that men should be equal before the law, but that nature hadn’t endowed them equally when it came to brains or capacities or imaginations.”

  George said, reflectively: “Children ought to be taught that, in the schools. Every man has high dignity as a man, and he has his rights, which God has given him. Once, long ago, a man felt he was valuable even if his work was humble. That went, however, with the industrial revolution.”

  He had a slow and hesitant way of talking, almost apologetic. “When ‘work’ became a ‘commodity’ the individual worker lost his dignity and his importance as a man. But now, ‘work’ has just become hands to be bartered in the market place, and so—” He thought for a moment, feeling his way. “And so man lost, in so far as society is concerned, his magnitude as a soul. That was a terrible thing.”

  “The industrial revolution emphasized, too much, the importance of money,” said Oliver. He looked at Charles. “I’ve always admired your emphasis on individual craftsmanship, Mr. Wittmann. Your men have respect for themselves.”

  “I never wanted our business to grow too big,” said Charles. “I wanted, always, to have some sort of—call it comradeship—with my men. I’m proud of them, and I’ve always hoped they knew it. There’s a lot of talk about ‘mass production,’ for the future. Maybe it’ll be a good thing, as they say. Give everybody more, and cheaper. But I think what it’ll take away will be much more important. However, I don’t think we can do anything about it.”

>   “The churches can,” said George, somberly. “They can reemphasize, to every man, his personal dignity and stature, no matter what work he does. And they can emphasize the equal importance of any work, just so long as it’s honest work.”

  They were silent, together. Then Charles said: “But tell me about Fred.”

  George continued: “Well, the workmen were all right. They came to hear your brother, because they work too hard and too long, and for too little money. They have their grievances, and we must admit it. I wasn’t worried about them; they’ll find their way, eventually. It’s the others I was worried about. The—the—”

  “‘Little men,’” said Charles. “The inadequate, mediocre men, who knew it.”

  “Yes.” George laughed shortly. “I think everyone was disappointed that night. Your brother didn’t talk about the rights of labor. He talked about war.”

  “War!” exclaimed Charles, stupefied.

  George was very serious. “Yes, that’s what he said: War. He said it was coming. That it was being ‘plotted’ all over the world. And that we must be ready to stop it before it begins.”

  Charles stood there, blank and amazed, and very shaken.

  “No one, of course, believed it,” said George. “The workmen were only confused, and looked at each other. Now, that’s a very funny thing,” he reflected. “I just remembered. The other men—not the workmen—looked at each other, too. And it was in a strange sort of way. Almost as if they were satisfied. And hopeful.”

  Charles was stunned. Then he said, a trifle hoarsely: “You’d think Fred would be happy—in a way—about a war. I don’t understand. I’ve always thought of him as being one of the inadequate ones—”

  “Oh, no,” said George, slowly and carefully. “He isn’t, really, Mr. Wittmann. It’s just that nobody’s ever tried to tell him he’s important, or made him feel that, either.”

  Charles said nothing. There was a violent disorder in his thoughts, and some shame, some remorse, and urgent anxiety. Then he said: “Did Fred say how he had found out there might be a war?”