The Strong City

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  “Do not be petty, Tina. Or stupid. This is no time for any of us to think of self, alone. We must understand. Tina, I shall hate you, really hate you, if you make him miserable. I shall feel guilty, too. You will make me miserable. I refuse to be any more miserable than I am now. If you induce him to send Matilda away, I shall go away. I promise you that you shall never see me again.”

  “Baldur!” she gasped, disbelieving.

  He nodded his head, grimly. “I am quite serious, Tina. You shall not make him unhappy, again. Matilda must stay. And you must arouse yourself to be more what he would wish you to be. You must stop this devilish terrified seclusion of yours, your self-preoccupation. You must find a way out, for him, and for you. Never mind mother and me. You must not think of us again. We are already dead.”

  She cried again, but silently, pressing her small fingers to her eyes in a gesture of utter defeat and sadness.

  He stood up, and turned to Irmgard. “You will help?” he asked, simply.

  “Always,” she replied, as simply, but her green eyes wet and shining. They looked at each other intensely.

  As though they had consulted each other, they went out of the room silently, parting in the hall, too full of words spoken before Ernestine.

  Ernestine sat where they had left her, rigid, staring blindly into the darkness, lit only by the candles on the table. She thought as she had never thought before. Sometimes a wave of crimson ran over her face, and she beat her fists again on the bed, vehemently. Then she would become quite still, her mouth drooping mournfully, and the tears would run over her face. A long time passed. She became more quiet. Her head fell on her breast, and a dry sob broke from her lips, a child’s desolate sob. Then at last, she was completely quiet, and her expression become grave, heavy, thoughtful.

  When she rose from her bed, a new maturity was on her pale face, a new resolution and womanliness. She bathed her eyes in cold water. She brushed and combed her disheveled hair. She returned to her bed, and picked up a book, holding it as though she were reading it. But it was upside down. She waited, her eyes still staring sightlessly, but with quietness and calm.

  A timid knock sounded on her door. She called serenely: “Come in, Papa.” The door opened slowly. Hans stood there, his short fat body not belligerent now, but flaccid, defeated, hopeless. His eyes surveyed her timidly, and he put his hand to his head and scratched it. It was that plebeian gesture which broke the last lingering resentment and hardness in her, and she smiled.

  “Papa! I thonght you’d never come. I’m so sleepy, and I was just going to blow out the light.”

  Her voice, sweet, high, fluting, rippled with pretended sleepy laughter. He stared at her, dumfounded. He looked at her face, gay, childish, loving, and at her extended hand. If it trembled, he did not know it. Like a man walking in his sleep, he approached her, and with each step his dull expression lightened. He stood beside the bed, still incredulous, not daring to hope. She closed her eyes in her old childish gesture, screwing up the lids and pursing her mouth for his goodnight kiss.

  She heard a sound break from him, a dim, heart-breaking sound. She felt his lips on hers. She thought: He has just kissed that abominable creature. But she sternly repressed her sudden wincing. She returned his kiss with passionate affection. The bed creaked; he was sitting beside her. He was putting his fat arm about her. She dropped her head on his shoulder. They sat like this for a long time, with no sound about them but the rain, and no light, but that of the flickering candles.

  Then he said, hoarsely, haltingly: “Tina, my little pet, if—if Matilda annoys you, I shall send her away at once. We—we can get another housekeeper.”

  She lifted her head and stared at him with pretended astonishment.

  “Papal How silly! Matilda is an excellent woman, and our house has never been kept so well before! Of all things! It is true she never liked Irmgard, but that is settled now, thanks to you, darling Papa. I really shall not let Matilda go, even if you want her to!”

  He looked down into her eyes. They were lucid, innocent, surprised, as always, and shining with a clear virginal light. He did not know what that acting was costing her. He was convinced that nothing had happened, that he had imagined everything. The indignation in her voice lifted the tightness from his chest. His pince-nez dropped from his nose, and lay on his chest. His belly heaved a little. His large gross face seemed to dissolve into helpless, humble lines of gladness and relief.

  “Well,” he grumbled, pretending reluctance. “She was very bad, tonight. She was impertinent. But, Tina, if you insist—”

  “I do insist,” she replied, vigorously, giving him a gay admonishing tap on the cheek. “I never heard anything so ridiculous!”

  He regarded her with humble love. It was this expression which finally completed her melting, fused her new understanding into pity and clear pain. She flung her arms about him. She kissed him passionately, holding him tightly.

  “Papa, papa!” she mourned. “I am afraid we have all been so horrid, so contemptible, to you!”

  “No, no!” he exclaimed, holding her so strongly that her bones seemed to bend in his arms. “You are my liebchen, my little one, my dear little one, Tina!” He had relapsed into German, and the guttural voice was full of rough music. “Tina, Tina!” he crooned. “My little flower, my little star. My little happiness. There is no one like my Tina.”

  He pressed his lips to her forehead. She felt the prickling of his yellow mustache. The pain in her heart was a physical one now, and she sobbed and smiled at one and the same time.

  “Papa,” she said, softly, and with pretended reluctance. “Would you mind if I had a party? A party at Christmas? I should so like a party.”

  “A party!” he cried, waving his hand. “A thousand parties for my Tina!”

  She lifted her head and gazed at him with simulated joy.

  “Papa, I bought so many pretty gowns and hats and boots today! I shall show them to you tomorrow—”

  “No, now!” he commanded, animation making him clumsier than ever. “I wish to see them, now!”

  She leapt out of bed with a shy gay laugh. She ran to her wardrobe and began to pull the boxes from the depths. In a few minutes the bed was covered with glistening fabrics, the new bonnet, the new tasselled boots, the gloves and kerchiefs and reticules, and even the brave new silk stockings. Hans, blinking, smiling foolishly, lifted each article in his small fat hands, holding it up, loudly admiring it, stealing glances at his daughter’s bright animated face, so girlish now, so happy, so flushed. She put on the bonnet at a coquettish angle, tying the ribbons beneath her chin, sparkling upon him. He was entranced. He smiled even more foolishly.

  Then he pulled her to his knee, bonnet and all, and they sat among the shining litter. He began to stroke her hair.

  “Tina,” he began, haltingly, “that young man, who stares at the house—He works in the mills. I—I have investigated him. A fine feller. He will go a long way. I—would you mind if I’ invited him some evening, for dinner?”

  She lay still in his arms, so still that he was suddenly frightened. Then he glanced down at her face. Her eyes were closed. Tears were running down her cheeks. But she was both flushed and smiling.

  CHAPTER 23

  Irmgard sat quietly near the window, holding a letter in her hand, but not reading it. She had read it several times. Each time that she had read it, she had been alternately angered and amused. But now she gave all her attention to the animated scene before her.

  She was sitting in the sewing room, in the midst of a colorful confusion. Miss Zimmermann, the seamstress, and two of her assistants, were busily fitting Mrs. Schmidt and Ernestine. Lengths of shining cloth lay over everything. Ernestine stood on a stool, turning gravely and anxiously. The new gown was almost completed, and the seamstresses worked feverishly. The pearly satin Ernestine had chosen was comparatively simply made. The basque was decorated with a close row of tiny black velvet bows from neck to waist, and was topped with a sho
rt cape bordered with thin black lace. The skirt was looped and draped with large bows of black velet, and the bustle was topped by another bow. “Very chic,” said Miss Zimmermann, proudly, sitting back on her heels and gazing upwards at her creation. “Very Parisenne.”

  But Irmgard looked at Ernestine’s face, illuminated and alive, as though the girl had some secret and passionate excitement and joy within her. Her curls were untidy, her mouth as red as a moist rose. Her eyes shone and sparkled and danced. When she spoke, it was with little catches in her breath. Mrs. Schmidt sat nearby, shawled and smiling, her feet on a hassock, a copy of Harper’s open on her knee. She could not look away from her daughter. She had had a fitting, herself, and was very tired. But her expression was serene and contented, and though illness still strongly marked her face, a faint glimmer of health rested in her eyes.

  “Charming, Tina,” she said, and sighed a little, and smiled.

  “It is very lovely,” said Irmgard, slowly.

  Ernestine laughed. She pointed a small finger at Irmgard. “I was waiting for you to speak,” she said. “You have been so absorbed in that letter of yours.” She sparkled roguishly. “A beau, Irmgard? If you do not tell me about it, I shall really hate you!”

  Irmgard glanced at her letter, folded it tightly, and put it in the pocket of her apron. “No beau,” she said. It was time for Mrs. Schmidt’s afternoon rest, and Irmgard conducted her to her room. Once there, Mrs. Schmidt turned to her with imploring anxiety: “Irmgard, are we very wicked, working on Sunday? Those three poor women—I feel I have done something very unchristian in asking them to come today. But it is so necessary, if the dresses are to be ready by Christmas—”

  “I am sure you are not wicked,” smiled Irmgard. “Besides, are you not paying them much extra? Money covers a multitude of sins.”

  Mrs. Schmidt regarded her with sad reproof. “Irmgard, my dear, aren’t you a little cynical? And so young, too. I am afraid, though, that you are trying to salve my conscience. The Sabbath—”

  “If they are not concerned, you ought not to be, Mrs. Schmidt.”

  “But I asked them,” persisted the poor woman. She sat on the edge of her bed while Irmgard removed her boots. She wrung her hands anxiously. “I am afraid we have done so wrong. I feel quite sinful.”

  Irmgard felt some impatience, but when she glanced up and saw that thin troubled face, the impatience disappeared. “The Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath,” she said. “It is very important for Miss Ernestine that the gowns be finished. I am certain that God is not angry. Who could be angry with Miss Ernestine?”

  The mother’s face softened, melted. Tears rushed to her eyes, but she smiled through them. “I have never seen her so gay, so light-hearted, Irmgard. You have brought sunshine into this house, and health, and brightness. Ernestine is so changed, lately, I hardly know her. She is like a bride.”

  “She will be soon, I know,” replied Irmgard, with warm conviction. Mrs. Schmidt looked at her intensely, and then bent forward with Ernestine’s own impulsiveness, and kissed her cheek. “My dear,” she murmured, and began to cry, helplessly, but not with pain.

  Irmgard made her comfortable in bed. Another thought made Mrs. Schmidt raise her head from the pillows. “I am so selfish!” she cried. “It is your Sunday, Irmgard. No, no, you must listen to me, my dear. I have taken all your Sundays—”

  “I wished to stay in,” said Irmgard, her lips tightening obstinately.

  “But it is not good for you, child. Surely your aunt must want you to visit her. It is such a lovely day, almost like summer. Please me by going out today. If you would like the carriage, for a drive? But today must be your day, alone. I insist upon it. Do not worry about me. Ernestine is here, and will not be going out.”

  Irmgard drew the silken quilt up to her mistress’ chin. She smiled gently. “If I change my mind, I shall go. But I shall return early.”

  She went into her own room and sat down. She drew the letter from her pocket. It had arrived yesterday. She reread it again, her lips twitching, her color heightened.

  It was written in German, in a hard flowing script:

  “My mother reproaches you constantly for your neglect of her, which gifts and letters cannot condone, nor make her forget. You have visited her once in almost two months, and then only for an hour. No doubt your new life and duties are engrossing. But have you remembered that we are the only ones of your blood in America, in the world? It is not a German spirit, which forgets these things.”

  “But you never remember,” thought Irmgard, angrily.

  She continued to read:

  “If the weather is fine on Sunday, I shall be waiting for you at the corner of Howard Street. I shall begin to wait at two o’clock. If you are not there at three, I shall come to the house, and demand to see you. That will cause you embarrassment. I shall not care. I shall continue to embarrass you until I see you. Do you not owe some duty to your relatives?”

  Irmgard glanced at the small gilt clock on her dresser. It was ten minutes to three. She had doubted, since receiving the letter, that Franz would really carry out his threat at three o’clock. But now, suddenly, she did not doubt. She stood up. She had only to request Gillespie to say she was not at home. That would settle everything. She took a step towards the door. Then she paused. This was insufferable. She would go, herself, to Franz, and request him not to annoy her again. She had no wish to see him. His letter was impudent. She would tell him so.

  She did not analyze the reason for her sudden trembling, for the sudden acceleration of her heart. She glanced through the half-open window. It was one of those deceptive days so well known in Southern Pennsylvania, which occur in midwinter, and which hold a false promise of the spring so long in the future. It was mild, almost balmy, this Sunday afternoon. The sun shone with a warmth that was heartening and exciting. A fresh spring-like wind blew, and sparrows chattered hopefully in the bare trees. A ruddy light lay on the corner of the roof which extended past Irmgard’s window. It was that light on the dark slate which now so strangely excited Irmgard, so that her breath stopped in her throat. Not pausing now to analyze or dissect her emotions, which was her frequent peculiar pastime, she opened her wardrobe and drew out her new dark-green cloth dress. She fastened the basque with fingers that were cold-tipped and shaking. The black velvet buttons marched severely from neck to waist; about the throat there was a ruffle of delicate real lace, which Mrs. Schmidt had made, and which she had insisted upon Irmgard accepting. There was a jacket to match, which was trimmed with a strip of black astrakhan, also the gift of Mrs. Schmidt, as was the black astrakhan muff. Irmgard put on her new green bonnet and tied the ribbons under her chin. She looked at herself in the mirror, directly, appraisingly. Her smooth pale cheeks were now flushed with rose, and her green eyes sparkled with a new lustre. For one of the few times in her life she saw herself as a woman, studied the bands of pale gold that framed her face on the underside of the bonnet. There was one final hesitation, rueful and wry: Ernestine had given her a vial of sweet scent for her birthday. It was with a reckless gesture that she now opened the vial and touched her hair with the glass stopper, and her throat. She suddenly laughed, not without bitterness, but also with a catch in the laughter.

  She went out of the house through the servants’ entrance. Her knees were trembling, and a curious dreamlike quality began to pervade her, a sense of unreality which was heightened by the unseasonly warm sun and the cool scentless air. Several times, on her way to the corner of the street, she halted, telling herself that this was ridiculous, that she did not wish to see Franz Stoessel, that she ought to return to the house and give Gillespie the message. Her face was burning; her breath came fast; there was no sensation in her feet.

  She reached the corner. The four streets stretched far away into the distance with herself like the spoke of a wheel. There was no one in sight, save three young children playing on a walk, and no sound but the wind and the sparrows. Irmgard stood there
, looking in all directions. At a little distance stood a buggy, the horse idly nibbling at sparse blades of grass. But that was all. The Sunday quiet lay over the city, faintly echoing, and muted.

  He is not here, he did not come after all, thought Irmgard. He has forgotten. He never meant to come.

  A great coldness gathered in the region of her heart, and like veins of ice, crept through her body. The sun was no longer bright, the air no longer thrilling with excitement. She stood and waited. Her eyes dimmed. And then a strong and bitter anger and humiliation assailed her. She was some cheap serving girl, waiting for a man who would never come, standing there alone and exposed on the street! It was unendurable. She thought of Franz with hatred and rage. It would not be beyond him to stand in some distant hidden doorway, laughing at her, watching her mortification. She had the sudden impression of his eyes, and her heart began to throb strongly with a gathering fury.

  I will walk on, she thought. But something held her, waiting. She waited for nearly ten minutes. A carriage rolled by, the occupants eyeing her with severe disapproval, this loitering servant girl exposing herself immodestly on the street.

  At the end of the ten minutes tears of shame were thick in her eyes, and her face was scarlet. She heard the clock of a distant church-tower strike the half hour. Then, lifting her chin resolutely, her eyes blind with a furious hatred she had never felt before, she walked down the street. She reached the idling buggy, and was about to pass it when she heard a light voice calling her. She turned swiftly. Franz was sitting on the seat, the reins in his hand.

  For one terrible instant it seemed to her that her very flesh dissolved in a fire of joy, that her heart stopped on one upward leap, that her blood murmured and sang. She could see nothing but his face, full of suppressed laughter, and his knowing blue eyes. She could not move, could hardly breathe.

  The next instant, her rage returned. He had been waiting there, all this time, watching her, hidden, exulting and laughing over her. He had seen her looking up and down the streets, for long minutes, and only heaven knew what he had been reading in her changing expressions. Humiliation turned her as white as snow, now. She wanted nothing in the world but the ability to move on proudly, not speaking, not acknowledging him. She made a tremendous effort, and her legs obeyed her, carrying her on. Her breast felt tight and full of intolerable pain.