Baldur, thinking of this night which must come, had contemplated it with anticipatory amusement. But for some reason he was not now amused. He was only quiet. He was reading “Madame Bovary,” which was one of his favorites. Nevertheless, he believed that Flaubert had touched only the surface in his analysis of the unhappy woman, and this irritated him. Absorbed, the hours went by. He aroused himself with a start. The clock chimed a soft eleven. He frowned. Had his judgment been wrong? Surely, it was too late for Franz to come now. The house was sleeping.
There was a curious quality to the slumber of the great old house, hideous as it was in a sort of formless deformity of stone and brick. It was when the mansion slept that Baldur realized with what intensity and repulsion he hated it. Then it lay like an unconscious giant, all its ugliness, its sinister outlines, its brooding darkness, revealed. No matter how high the fires were piled, how well the new central heating worked, there was a dank coldness like a vault or an underground cavern about it. Since poor Hans’s death, this quality had seemed to thicken, to become dense, like a fog. Once, Baldur had heard Ernestine mention that they would soon be thinking of a new home in the suburbs, a “bright, pretty house, with flowers and grass and trees.” Baldur, who knew the reason why Franz had remained while Hans was alive, knew now that again Franz did not dare to leave, because of himself, Baldur.
He stared at the fire, listening to its slow dropping of coals, louder now in the Stygian stillness, and to the ticking of the clock, dropping the moments into oblivion. Then he heard the knock at the door, subdued, but firm. It was Franz. Baldur began to smile irresistibly, then composed his features. He called gravely to enter.
Franz came in. Baldur watched him with deep curiosity. Yes, he had lost much weight. He was no longer sleek and suave, like a well-fed blond seal or well-scrubbed hog. He was no longer pink. His fine broadcloth, dark and smooth, seemed too large for him. His linen was immaculate, his cravat was tied with its old fastidiousness. Leaner, quieter, not smiling, there was a dangerous fixed quality about him, which held Baldur’s attention. Those eyes were the eyes of a deadly enemy. His pale wide lips were smooth and pale, faintly glistening. He moved with sureness and quickness. He did not smile. He sat down on the opposite side of the fireplace, and the two men looked intently at each other.
“It is time for a talk between us,” said Franz, in a hard voice.
Baldur inclined his head, gravely and courteously, without speaking.
Franz had expected a look of mocking or ironic surprise, a light superficial word, which was Baldur’s usual manner whenever he approached him. He was somberly angered at Baldur’s gravity, his polite indifference, and a cold shaft of flame sprang from his eyes to the other man’s. His pale lips stretched in a grimace, and Baldur saw the sudden white gleam of teeth, like those of a savage. Dangerous, he commented again to himself, and felt a thrill of amused and contemptuous excitement. What does he expect? Does he actually believe he can frighten me with his hating looks and his murderous eyes? And yet, he felt compassion again for this man driven by himself, sometimes against his own will, sometimes against the cry of his own misery.
Franz caught his breath, and his nostrils distended. He was trying to control himself, trying to be cold and calm over his inward passion and fury.
“I have decided to take my wife and children away,” he said, in a low harsh voice. “Perhaps to another city.” He paused. “Perhaps to Windsor.”
“Indeed,” murmured Baldur, inclining his head again, thoughtfully. His expression was all brotherly interest. “The climate, they say, is very superior.”
He saw the spasmodic clenching of Franz’s fists, their sudden relaxing, as though at a command. His body retained its calm, but Baldur felt its iron coldness and tenseness as though Franz’s flesh were his own. When Franz suddenly smiled, he felt the aching of his own facial muscles.
“You will miss Sigmund,” said Franz.
There was a little silence. All compassion for him left Baldur. He felt his heart grow molten with detestation, contempt, anger, and even a small bitter fear. Deep in his large blue eyes the ominous spark grew. But he said, very quietly:
“Yes, I shall miss Sigmund. However, you must let me see him often. He is my heir, you know.” He paused, then continued tranquilly, watching Franz: “The mills, of course. Everything. However, I have decided, in the event you leave, to sell the mills. Not to the Sessions Company.” He shook his head, gently smiling. “No. No. To Carnegie. He has already made me a private offer through his agents.”
In his mind he reverted to his father’s tongue, and thought: schweinehund, I have you there!
It gave him a savage and even violent pleasure to see Franz’s face, to observe his efforts to maintain a control fast slipping, to watch him use his actor’s ability, so transparent now, to impress his brother-in-law. He watched the indulgent smile, in which there was no real indulgence, spread over Franz’s haggard and ghastly face, already faintly glistening with moisture. He watched the blond eyebrows lift, as though in affectionate surprise. His own face, calm and pale, became grim and fixed.
“To Carnegie? But that is foolish. If you sell, you will of course sell to me.” And then Baldur heard his indrawn breath, harsh and painful.
Baldur stretched out his hand calmly, took a cigarette, extended a wax taper to the fire. He lit the cigarette, and indicated the box of cigars to Franz. “Excellent,” he murmured.
Franz took a cigar, and Baldur courteously lit it with his taper. He saw the trembling of Franz’s fingers, and despite himself, he felt a thrill of compassion again. But, he thought, if you will play, then I will play with you. I am a better master of playing than you, my good murderous friend. You play as a German plays, not even trying to understand your adversary. For that, you will have to suffer a little.
He said, aloud: “What price?”
The cigar almost fell from Franz’s fingers as he held it to his lips. Then he withdrew it. His face had come alive, and tense, and viciously relieved. He relaxed. But his hand still trembled.
“What is your price?” he countered.
Baldur stared at him with a strange expression. Then he stood up, faced the fire, standing in his complete deformed profile before Franz. In spite of his efforts, his voice shook.
“You haven’t sufficient money to buy—my mills. You must understand that at once.”
He turned his face to Franz, and his eyes were full of anger, sadness and contempt.
“Are you never honest? Must you always think other men are like you? Must you always lie, and expect nothing but lies from others?”
Franz did not answer. He could not look away from Baldur. But his face became congested, crimson. His temples, beneath his thick yellow hair, became knotted with purple veins. Then he stood up, suddenly. He threw his cigar into the fire. His fists clenched again. All at once his wild savagery, his rage, his hatred, his frustration and despair, boiled to the surface, and he could no longer control himself. He began to speak in a turmoil of furious gasping words, hurling them at Baldur like stones, stones flung by a vehement but distraught hand. And he spoke in German.
“What are these mills? I have made them? They are mine! Even you must admit that! All my life, it is in these mills! They were nothing. They were failing. Do you hear? Failing! I took them, and made them what they are! Your father,” and his face, his voice, were terrible in their hatred, their malignancy, “your father!” He paused, and the crimson turned purplish in his swollen face; he struggled for breath. “I had every reason to believe, from what he said, from the things he did, that the mills would be left, rightfully, to me! You had no need of them. They were nothing to you. You knew nothing of them, cared less. But they were mine!” He struck himself a dull blow on the chest with his fist, and in his mad and almost insane sincerity, there was nothing melodramatic in the gesture. “It is not I who lied. It was your father! For some reason, at the last, he turned against me—” He glared at Baldur, and then was silent, hi
s voice choking in his throat.
Baldur regarded him silently, with deep gravity. Then he said: “You are quite right. I agree with you. The mills ought to have been left to you. My father turned against you, yes. Because he was old. Because he hated and dreaded this new day of industrial development.” He smiled slightly. “You see, we agree much better when you are honest, when you play no games with me, when you are yourself, instead of a controlled counterfeit gentleman, and a liar.”
Franz, still choked by his fury and despair, was completely bewildered. His color paled, until he was ghastly again. He was trembling violently. He was compelled to reach out his hand and grasp the mantelpiece to support himself. And he looked at Baldur, without comprehension, and even with an idiot’s look of complete blankness. Then his mouth began to twitch, and a muscle stretched and throbbed in his drawn cheek.
“Nevertheless,” said Baldur, seating himself, “the mills are mine. Willed to me, out of my father’s bewilderment, fear and hatred of change. Perhaps it was a revenge upon you. But it still remains that the mills belong to me. The mills you have made from your duplicity, your cleverness, your opportunism, your greed and relentlessness and exploitation of your betters. Is this fair? Logically, and as a civilized man, I am compelled to answer ‘no.’ It is not fair. But ironically, and I appreciate irony, it is fair. The idea gave my father the only pleasure he has had since he was unfortunate enough to have known you. Do not look at me like that. But it was a misfortune, in a way, for him, was it not? Let us be honest. You took from him everything that made his life worth living. You took his self-respect, and his vanity, for he had met in you a worse rascal than himself. And he did pride himself on his rascality!” He smiled with humor, a humor which Franz most visibly did not appreciate.
Baldur fitted his slender fingers together so that they formed a fragile tent. He smiled at them, as though they were a pattern of intense jocularity.
“I do not agree with my father, as I have said. ‘Industry must go on.’ But why? Do not mind me. I am given to improper reflections. I see no progress in an ever-growing industrial civilization. But that is because I have the spirit of a recluse, and men of action are always detestable to me. I am not incomprehensible?”
Again, Baldur saw the gleam of Franz’s teeth, like a flash in his lead-colored face. He saw the narrowed eyes, in which something unhuman and monstrous eddied and swirled.
“You are not incomprehensible,” said Franz.
But you would kill me if you dared, thought Baldur, with enjoyment. He made a large gesture, deliberately intending to inflame the other more.
“If I had my way—and who knows but what I will?—I would turn these mills back to the workers, who, speaking in fairness, really deserve them, and own them. It is they, after all, who have made it possible for you to be a rich man. Ah, but there I am becoming improper again! Men of my kind are not realists. But when I think of this, I come against another logic: in another sense, the mills really do belong to you. In fact, they belong to all of us!”
He smiled blandly, pleased, assuming an expression of childlike surprise as though he had come upon some sweet shining truth.
Franz had become as white, cold and rigid as death. Baldur, with sudden admiration, studied him. He admired the quiet voice when the other spoke:
“You have asked me to be honest. I now ask you to be honest. You are playing with me. Speak honestly. This is too serious to me.”
Bladur nodded his head, and his look became stern.
“Play, then, with fools. Not with me. I know a few tricks of my own. Will you sit down?”
Franz sat down. They surveyed each other with gravity and with bitterness. And then Baldur knew that he had not been mistaken in believing that this man possessed valor. He knew, also, that those who had valor deserved a measure of respect even from enemies. For valor was not courage, which was purely a physical phenomenon, and not more to be admired than the animal strength and brutality of a wild beast, or the mane of a lion, or the audacity of a tiger. Valor frequently accompanied cowardice, fear and despair, and was admirable because it surmounted them in one supreme gesture. In his valor, Franz was not a German. He was only a man. The true German had courage, but no valor.
His thoughts finally dissolved the bitterness in Baldur’s level gaze. He said, almost kindly:
“I have discovered something about you, Franz. To you, it would seem contemptible, if I explained it. I do not find it contemptible. It deserves candor and honesty, and demands dignity in my treatment of you.”
Franz’s eyes narrowed craftily. He smiled slightly, and because of the inexplicable stroking of his vanity, he felt an odd warmth for Baldur, and an ease. Color returned to his face. His hand had stopped its ceaseless trembling. Yet, Baldur sensed a wariness in him. He is trying to maintain the mysterious thing which has aroused my admiration, he thought, even though he does not know what it is.
“I shall not waste your time, Franz. I do not want to waste my own time. You spoke of going to Windsor. At first, I thought that was a crude lie on your part, calculated to force me to some of your terms. I do not think it is a lie, now. Tell me about it.”
His vanity again stroked, Franz said candidly: “I was not lying. Since your father’s death, I have been to see Jules Bouchard. He has offered to make me Vice-President of Sessions, at a very large salary. We have been having some very amiable conversations, for the past few years. He wants to use me. But I can play his game! We can have a very fine time playing games with each other! I think I would win some of them. He knows that. He would enjoy my winning, if I were clever enough. I have seriously thought of accepting his offer.”
“Why?” asked Baldur, coolly.
Franz hesitated. He dropped his eyes. Should he lie? He glanced up, swiftly, furtively, to see Baldur watching him closely. The accursed, damned cripple, who saw everything! He must continue to tell the truth, and the truth was strange and unfamiliar to him.
He said: “As I have told you, I have made these mills of your father’s, because I believed I would have them when he died. I can work only for myself, never for others, never for ‘family.’ I am not made in that way. The instinct of a German is in, and for, his family. I lack that instinct. I can think only of myself, of my own game. If I remained here, I thought, I would be working for you, for my wife, for my children. That is intolerable to me, especially when I remember that I would be, in a large way, only your hireling. That is not sufficient. I would prefer to work for a stranger, for Jules Bouchard.”
He added: “Will you not sell the mills to me?”
But Baldur said: “I see. I understand.” He was silent for a moment, then resumed: “The mills are nothing to me. I can sell them, of course. But not to you. Why? Because I do not want you to have them that way.” He looked at Franz blandly, and Franz’s jaw tightened, and again his eyes were cold and hating flame. But he said nothing.
Baldur said reflectively: “You cannot ‘work’ for me, because you have your pride. I understand that, too. I understand many things. I have said I care nothing for the mills. But they are my hold on you. I do not trust you, you see,” he continued, smiling.
There was a long pause. Then Baldur said: “I will make you an offer. I hold the controlling interest in the Schmidt Steel Company, and I intend to keep it. That is, if you remain. If you do not remain, I shall sell them. Do not think for a moment that I shall regret this. I would prefer to be rid of them.”
A spasm, as of acute and aching pain, passed over Franz’s face. But he listened intently, hardly breathing.
“I hold the controlling interest,” repeated Baldur. “Nevertheless, if you wish, I shall make you president of the mills. I shall be a ‘silent’ chairman, never interfering with you, not even if some of the things you do in the mills strike me as outrageous. I am not concerned with social justices, or what you do. I am not a reformer. I shall retain the interest, if you remain with me, solely to have a hold on you.”
“Why?” a
sked Franz, in a low voice.
“Because of Sigmund,” said Baldur, coldly.
There was still another silence. Baldur observed Franz with great intentness, reading all his dark and obscure and malignant thoughts. Then he said: “However, if you think to use me through the child, you are wasting your time. Take the child away, and I assure you that I shall forget him. I can always forget what I want to forget. But if you remain, I have my demands, also.”
Franz looked at him, and said: “What are they?”
“That you leave the child to me. Listen carefully. I do not ask that you abandon the child to me, or that you live in continual fear that I shall be blackmailing you, and that if you do not please me by some treatment of him, I shall put unfair pressure on you. I could not endure such a life, for I am very lazy, very inert, and do not like unpleasantnesses. But I do ask that we have a secret between us, and that in matters I consider important, you will consult with me about him. And that, after due consideration, I have the final decision. That is all.”
Franz bit his lip. His eyes studied Baldur long and deeply, under his thick blond brows drawn and knitted and knotted together. Then he said: “And the mills—”
“I shall leave my shares to Sigmund. But he shall not inherit them until you and I are both dead. He will never know of this arrangement, however.”
His expression became stern and melancholy. “This is a curious pact. It is yours to accept or refuse.”
Franz stood up abruptly, and walked to the windows. He flung aside the draperies, and stared out into the wailing darkness. Without glancing at him, and looking only at the sinking fire, Baldur said softly:
“You are the child’s father. I ask you to treat him with a little more justice. But even if you continue as you have done, tormenting him, hating him, I shall do nothing more than to try to alleviate his misery, as I have always done. You do not care for him. That is your misfortune and his. But more your misfortune. Sometimes I believe you have tormented him, to hurt me. I must ask you not to do that again. That is the least I can ask. I do not demand, however: I believe that there is some humanity in you, some latent decency. Try to exercise it.
The Strong City Page 59
