Irmgard began to think more quietly. Franz could not go to live in that appalling house! He had never walked through those somber rooms; he had never smelt the sickly fetidness of its corridors, nor felt the crushing weight of those walls. Franz, with his health and strength, locked in those gloomy catacombs! It was not to be permitted! Slowly, as she neared the hotel where he was now living, she thought: What have we, he and I, to do with the Schmidts? He is mine, and I am his.
Now it began to seem incredible to her that she had ever entertained the grotesque thought that he had been plotting to enter that house and marry Ernestine Schmidt. She laughed silently to herself. She, too, had become infected by the disease in those rooms. Her imagination, distorted and inflamed, had conjured up fantastic visions. Hans Schmidt had invited Franz to a New Year’s Eve party. That was perfectly normal. But it was far-fetched, ridiculous, to believe that anything subterranean, dark and fiendish lay in that invitation. She, Irmgard, could imagine nothing more impossible than that Franz would be able to endure Ernestine Schmidt, or would ever presume to think of an intimate relationship with her.
As her febrile dread subsided, she could think of Franz more clearly. I have built up a monster in my mind, she thought, with some compunction, and with a deep internal smile. She could remember nothing, now, but that night she had spent with him. Her cheeks turned scarlet, and her eyes clouded with mist. He loved her. She knew that. She had never doubted it. He had said that he would never let her go, even if she might want to leave him. She knew he had spoken the truth. He had not cheaply seduced her. She remembered every moment clearly and sharply. Franz was hers! No matter what else happened, they would be together. The thought of him was a hard bright gale sweeping away smoke and noxious fumes and shadows.
I have been so hysterical, she thought with mortification, remembering her dramatic scene with poor Baldur, and her passionate decision not to remain in that house for even another night. Her next meeting with Baldur would be embarrassing.
The car stopped at a corner, and she got out, followed by admiring glances. She stood before the neat four-story hotel and family rooms. It was built of clean red brick, and was very respectable and reserved. She entered a lobby full of rubber plants in huge brass jardinieres, dignified oak chairs and tables, and gas-globes. The turkey-red carpet was clean and fresh under her feet, and everywhere polished brass glittered. The great windows, draped in crimson plush, discreetly admitted the light of the December day. The usual “drummers” who infested small town hotels were absent, and all the chairs and horse-hair sofas were occupied by sober bearded gentlemen with their stout wives and children. Irmgard climbed wide carpeted stairs to the second floor, which was paved with shining white stone and covered by the same turkey-red carpet. She was pleased by this middle-class luxury, despite its intrinsic ugliness. Her heart was beating rapidly again when she knocked at a door, and waited.
Franz opened the door, smiling. Without a word he reached out his hand and drew her in. He did not close the door. “We are very respectable here,” he said, raising his brows. He left the door open some twelve inches. He appeared to be taller and handsomer than ever, in his black broadcloth coat, long and full, and his gray-striped trousers. His black satin cravat was tied elegantly, and in it nestled a fine pearl pin. Irmgard, with gentle amusement, but with heightened color, saw that he had begun to grow a mustache. It was a slight but flourishing yellow line above his mouth, and made him look very distinguished. This was not the young working-man she had first seen such a short time ago. This was a burnished gentleman.
Her embarrassment and joy kept her speechless, even while he helped her remove the new jacket. She glanced about her, shyly. Franz had done himself well. He had a small but comfortable sitting-room, with a chuckling fire under a hooded fireplace of black marble. The turkey-carpet was repeated here, but the walls were gay with huge roses and bright green leaves. Large brass and china lamps stood on round mahogany tables which were covered by velvet cloths reaching to the floor, and weighted with fringe. A mahogany bookcase against one wall was full of books. A large leather sofa was heaped with pillows. The windows, draped in fringed red plush, looked out on the busy snowy streets. A far door stood open and she saw the brass bed and the huge dresser and wardrobe.
A small table with a white cloth and heavy silver had been set before the fireplace. Holding her hand, Franz led her to a chair near the fire. She lifted her eyes, and smiled at him.
“Well?” said Franz, returning her smile.
“You have accomplished much,” she replied, embarrassed, but intoxicatingly happy.
“I have only begun,” he said, sitting near her, and looking about him with satisfaction. His eyes came back to her, and now their somewhat bold and shallow blueness became more intense. “I have missed you,” he said, in a low voice. He took her hand again, and held it tightly.
All her body seemed to expand into a widening glow of ecstasy and joy. Her lips trembled. She stammered: “You have seen the farm?”
“The farm? Oh, the farm. No, I have not seen it, yet. Have you?”
“No.”
There was a silence. They had tried to cover their thoughts with banal words. Now they could not speak, only looking at each other. Then, after a long moment, Franz got up, went into his bedroom and brought out a small white box. Irmgard opened it. He stood over her as she did so, smiling. It contained a beautiful gold bracelet, elaborately chased. Irmgard’s fingers shook as she tried to fasten it about her wrist. At length, with an amused murmur, Franz bent down and snapped it. His fingers lingered on her wrist, and his touch sent waves of fire through her. Then he lifted her hand to his lips, and pressed it almost fiercely against them. She closed her eyes, all her senses swimming in rosy light, her flesh aching with rapturous pain.
“Next year,” he said at last, “it will be diamonds.”
He still held her hand as he sat down again. Now he did not smile. He was quite pale. “My dearest,” he said, and again, “My dearest.”
If she had ever doubted that he loved her, all doubt was gone now. She could only look speechlessly into his eyes, her own wet, her lips faintly smiling, her breath quickening. Never had she felt such peace, such happiness, such fulfilment.
She said, faintly: “I thought you had forgotten me.”
“Forgotten you?” His voice was quiet, but she heard his incredulity, his astonishment. “How could I ever forget you? Have I not said that you belong to me, that I shall never let you go?”
She drew her hand from his, and clenched it on her lap. She looked at him levelly. “But you have not said when we shall be married.”
She could not believe it when he did not answer immediately. She saw that he dropped his eyes, that he made no effort to take her hand again. Slowly, the rapture faded, and a dark coldness seemed to steal through her. She shook her head a little, as though she were puzzled, and bewildered. She looked at the top of his bent head. She could not see his face. Her lips opened on an indrawn breath, and again, she was incredulous. She was imagining that he had stiffened, that he had subtly withdrawn from her.
“Franz,” she began, and then stopped, choking, more and more disbelieving. She heard the throbbing of her pulses in her ears. Her hands made a futile gesture, and her eyes stared blankly.
He stood up, abruptly, and went to the window. He kept his back to her. She saw the sleek broadness of his shoulders, his thick yellow hair. She could not endure it. Shaking violently, she stood up. She forced herself to go to him, to touch him. She was not prepared for the sudden fierceness with which he seized her in his arms, nor for the savagery of his lips on hers. She struggled for a moment, then relaxed, clinging to him, trying to draw hope and reassurance from his mouth, from his arms, from his strength. The floor appeared to move under her feet; the walls, the bright window, the room, disappeared from her sight. She felt as though she were floating in space, filled with passionate hunger and mounting fever.
She was amazed, after a whi
le, to find herself sitting in her chair again, with Franz sitting quietly near her, gripping both her hands in his. She stared in bemusement at him, her veins still running with liquid fire. He was looking at her with pale but inexorable gravity.
“We must be sensible, my darling,” he was saying. (Incredible, meaningless words!) “We cannot be married yet.”
Hands seemed to be gripping her throat, and she shook her head numbly. “Why not?” she asked, forcing her voice to be audible.
He hesitated. His eyes shifted a little. “I have much to do.”
Then she knew, fully and devastatingly, that he had no intention of ever marrying her. What the reason was, she could not know. She moistened lips suddenly cold and parched.
“You mean,” she said, very quietly, and with such false calm that he was deceived, “that you will never marry me.”
She said to herself, feeling herself dying and disintegrating: What I believed this morning is true! She could not summon up her earlier rage and hatred. Complete desolation, horror and fear and grief inundated her. Stunned and incredulous, her face white and her emerald eyes dull, she could only look at him.
He pressed his lips firmly together. He seemed to be considering a decision.
“I must talk to you,” he said, finally. He had expected a turbulent scene, for he had long ago known that under Irmgard’s serenity there was a hard and passionate nature. He was relieved at her quietness. But there was something in her fixed eyes which made him uneasy.
He stood up again, and standing very close to her, he began to speak:
“I have come a little distance. But I have only begun. I have not even started! Some time ago I told you that I had many plans. I have accomplished one of them. But only one. The first step. Now I see the way more clearly. I must go on alone—”
“You will never marry me,” she repeated, heavily.
He hesitated again, then decided to be courageous. “I can never marry you, my heart’s dearest,” he said, very gently. “If I married you, I would have to give up all my plans. I might retain what I have gained, but it is so little! We would degenerate into a lower middle-class family, might even sink back. In fairness to myself, and to you, I cannot marry you. I will accomplish what I have set out to do, and you will not lose by it! All my plans include you. I will give you undreamed of things—We shall always be together, no matter what else happens.”
He had expected a feeble and outraged cry of wounded female virtue from her. But he was not prepared for her quiet, her increasing pallor. He was relieved. She was a sensible woman. She had understood. But something in her eyes, her expression, heightened his uneasiness. Something seemed to be kindling deep in her pupils, like a point of illuminated steel.
“Long ago,” he said urgently, “I told you that I wanted money, must have money. I am on the way. Nothing means so much to me as money. Without it, I cannot live. And I cannot take you into the hell of a moneyless life. I would be a demon to you. I would begin to hate you.”
She did not speak. The cold and kindling light now invaded her face, like the reflection of moonlight on snow. She kept her eyes fixed on him, and her body was rigid.
He pressed the palms of his hands together, almost convulsively.
“In another country, my dearest one, money is not of such extraordinary importance as it is in America. But in America is the true Götterdämmerung. A man is nothing without money. My mother has said this, and I have jeered at her. But it is true. A man might be the wisest, noblest, most endowed of his kind, his family and traditions impeccable and heroic—he might have the finest blood of race and breeding, and he might compose the most heroic music, or write the most beautiful of poetry. But all this is as nothing, if he has no money. America is a land where beggars ride on horseback, and princes walk in the dirt with bare feet.” He smiled, trying to woo her into a smile also, but her face remained rigid. “I read that once, in the Bible. It is true of America, more than of any other country. There is nothing here, without money. A rascal, a thief, a murderer, if he is wealthy, is adored, honored and served. This land is a pot of the foulest stew! It is filled with the ingredients of the most degenerate portions of all races. It is folly to think the brew, made of thistles, weeds and snakes and poisonous leaves, can become good wine. I am here in America. That is a fact I cannot, and would not change, now. In this den of brutish thieves, I will become a thief. I despise America, and all that is in it. I cannot live here, in obscurity. Therefore, I shall become rich and powerful, and the swine will bow down before me!”
As if the pressure of his thoughts was too great to be contained in him, he began to walk up and down the room rapidly. And Irmgard saw that he was speaking openly and truthfully today as he had never spoken before, standing unashamed before her. She saw his changing expressions, his hatred and detestation and triumph. His blue Teutonic eyes blazed. He kept clenching and lifting his fists.
“I shall get what I want—money!” he exclaimed, almost shouting. “Nothing shall stop me!”
She stood up, and confronted him. “And Miss Ernestine Schmidt is the next step?” she asked, very calmly.
He stopped in his tracks abruptly, staring at her. Then, swiftly, his implacable face flooded with dusky color.
“How do you know that?” he asked, with frank brutality.
She smiled a little, over her devouring pain and despair.
“I heard her speak of her father’s invitation to you. Then, I knew it all.”
“You knew—” he began, then was silent. They stood face to face, regarding each other without moving. The girl was calm and composed, in appearance almost indifferent, in spite of her smile. But her eyes gazed into his with stern bright bitterness and limitless contempt. For an instant he felt shame, dwindled in his own sight. But it was only for an instant. He bit the corner of his lip, folded his arms across his chest.
“You are very astute, Irmgard,” he said, trying to speak with resolute gravity. “It is true. It may sound like a wild dream, but I intend to accomplish it. You see, I do not say: ‘If it is possible.’ I know that one can secure anything, if the will and the belief is there. Sentimentality does not enter in this. If Miss Schmidt will have nothing of me, then I shall waste no more time. I shall leave this town. I have a patent—”
Irmgard did not speak. He was aroused to a slow anger by her fixed smile.
“You do not understand!” he exclaimed. He forced an expression of hopeless wretchedness on his face, then abandoned it as she visibly detected his hypocrisy. Then he said, with enraged sincerity: “All my life, I have wanted only money! I have seen how humiliated, how despised, how detested and oppressed were those who had no money. And those who tormented them were lesser men, more contemptible. Would you have me endure what millions endure, hopelessly, sinking down into bitterness, pain and poverty, condemned—”
“You are a coward,” she said clearly, and without emotion.
“A coward,” he said. He spoke almost reflectively. “Yes, perhaps you are right. But I have seen that cowards are more intelligent than the brave. And more realistic. And, at the end, more courageous. For they refuse to endure evils they can remedy.”
“Even at the expense of others, Franz?”
Because he loved her so intensely, he was moved to some compassion.
“Even at the expense of others, my dearest. I am no sentimentalist. But it will not be at your expense. Nothing will change between us.”
A waiter came in discreetly, carrying a huge tray filled with covered silver dishes. He laid the tray on the table. Franz waved his hand. “It is enough,” he said, in English, and threw the man a coin. He waited until the waiter had left, then said, urgently, his voice sincerely breaking:
“Irmgard, you must tell me you understand.”
She turned her head to him, looking at him steadfastly. “Yes. Yes. I understand so many things.”
There must be some weakness in me, he thought, or I should not feel so. But he could not control hi
s sudden sadness for her, his longing to hold her again. She must have seen this, for she stepped back quickly from him. The green of her eyes was vivid, yet cold as ice, pointed with immeasurable pain.
“There is nothing you shall not have, Liebchen. Trust me. My life with you will be something apart, something we can keep beautiful and satisfying. You shall have everything. I shall buy you a house—” Even to himself, he felt his words were cheap and inane and insulting.
He became aware that she was regarding him with something strangely like remote curiosity and thoughtfulness, in spite of her great paleness, and her unmoved dignity. He broke out: “Irmgard! I cannot be other than what I am. That is impossible for any man. But you know that I love you, and that I shall never let you go.”
She stirred then. She walked without hurry into the bedroom, put on her jacket and toque. Her hands felt frozen, without life. But she calmly smoothed her hair, picked up her muff. He followed her, forgetting caution and “respectability,” and closed the door.
“Do not touch me,” she said, in a loud clear voice, looking at him fully. And her eyes were like the extended points of bayonets.
Now he was enraged, brutally, against this fool of a sentimental girl. His face flushed, thickened, his nostrils flared. In his temples, veins swelled and beat in purple knots.
“You are an imbecile,” he said. He stepped aside from the door. “But I have said it: You belong to me. I shall never let you go.”
He watched her leave the bedroom, walk slowly and firmly across the floor of the sitting-room. He saw her open the door. Now something hot and fierce exploded in him, and he followed her hastily.
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