The Strong City

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  She looked at his face, not his hands. Her expression became cold and withdrawn, and only the sudden blaze of her eyes disturbed the calmness of her pale drawn face. She said nothing. She showed no fear, no confusion. But her hands clasped suddenly together in a convulsive gesture.

  Baldur rose slowly, flushing a little. He held the back of his chair as though to support himself. He was profoundly embarrassed and uneasy.

  “Irmgard,” said Franz, again, in a choked and muffled voice.

  Irmgard gazed at him steadfastly, silently. The corners of her white lips quivered, and her nostrils distended a little. She thought: I feel nothing. Nothing at all. Small blue lines, like trembling threads, appeared about her mouth, and in her temples. She was dimly surprised at the coldness which seemed to spread from her heart like ice-filled veins.

  Then to her terror, as she looked at him, her heart plunged, lifted, dissolved in exploding heat. This was Franz, standing before her, imploringly, smiling slightly, his eyes saying what words could not say! She felt the lurch of her body towards him, irresistibly, as steel is drawn to a magnet, and she held herself rigidly and desperately against the inexorable pull. She said to herself: This is a stranger, and I never knew him. Surely this was not Franz, this man no longer young, with the gray shadow at his temples, and the deep clefts in his forehead, about his eyes, and his mouth. She saw, acutely, that he was harder and thinner than she remembered, that his fresh robust color was gone, and replaced by a duller pallor. This was a tighter, more compact man, more attenuated, harder and grimmer, as though he had forgotten to smile impulsively and easily. He was like the hated Prussians she remembered from her childhood, and girlhood, the Prussians of the cold and merciless eyes, the harsh jutting nose, the heavy drawn lips, the stony forehead, the high skeletal cheekbones, the carved sharp chin and the icy flesh. It is not Franz, she said to herself, while all her body shook and trembled at the lie. She looked into those Prussian eyes, and she knew that it was always Franz.

  “Go away!” she cried out, in her despair, and stepped back from him. She fumbled blindly for Baldur’s hand, and he took it in silence, and held it tightly. But she did not look away from Franz. Her face became distorted with fear, not of him, but of herself, and her eyes overflowed in wild sorrow and rising fright.

  He did not move towards her. The changed face, which was his, and yet not his, turned dark. He turned slowly and regarded Baldur with cold vindictiveness. He was terribly shaken, and his breath was audible, and harsh.

  “So,” he said, “you knew all the time—you Schafskopf?”

  Baldur was not angered at this insult, nor intimidated by the evil look of the other man. “Yes,” he said, very calmly, looking at Franz straightly.

  Franz doubled his fists, and his eyes narrowed so that they were only slits of blue flame. “And you never told me.”

  “No,” replied Baldur, and there was a quick gleam of contempt for this display of wrath on his own face. “Why should I? Why should I have betrayed Irmgard, who wanted nothing of you?” He drew Irmgard a little closer to him, with a tender and reassuring gesture, as though to protect her. “You see, I know all about you and Irmgard. You have no right in this house. You can see she doesn’t want you here. You are a trespasser.”

  He was disdainfully amused at Franz’s expression, and not in the least frightened by the red shadow of the blood-lust in his eyes. He was more concerned at Irmgard’s constant trembling, and the cold sweating of the hand he held.

  Franz stared at him, and his mouth opened as if he drew an incredulous breath. He had lived in the house with this man for many years. They had been as friendly as it was possible for them to be. They had understood each other. Baldur had been his friend—of that he was certain. He felt a sudden sickened pang of betrayal; he was literally aghast at this treachery, he who had always been treacherous and devious. He hated himself for the ignominious shock of grief and bewilderment which assaulted him. He was conscious of a disintegration in himself, of wounds and sufferings, and now his rage rose against himself for this shameful softness, this ache. He has always been my enemy, he thought. Fascinated, he stared at Baldur, and he saw, or imagined he saw, an aloof amusement in those pensive eyes, and in that calm and level look, an amusement not untinged by an impersonal triumph and cruel curiosity. He felt himself, in the midst of his pain and aching, a contemptible and impotent figure of a man, defeated by a cripple who had never really been his friend. In his extremity, he told himself that Baldur had waited for this time, as he himself, in a similar position, would have waited.

  To his own horror and disgust, he heard himself say lamely: “I thought you were my friend!”

  He did not know of the wave of compassion that struck Baldur. He only heard him say coolly: “Why should you have expected any one to be your friend—you who were never a friend to any one? It is very impudent of you, you know. Very egotistic.”

  Franz had wanted to kill many times before in his life, but not with this overpowering obsession, this lust and hunger and irresistible urge. But it was not because of Irmgard he felt this. It was because of Baldur’s betrayal of him, his deceit in maintaining a pretense of affection and friendship upon which Franz had come to rely with enormous simplicity. Only now did he realize what trust he had had in Baldur, what ease and relaxation, what relief and pleasure. He forgot Irmgard. He forgot everything but Baldur, and he was physically prostrated by the tremendous sense of loss and desolation he was experiencing in the midst of his rage and madness. Baldur had struck at him, silently, like a thin long blade held in a friendly hand, and even in his fury he could think: Now, there is nobody, in all the world.

  His fists were knotted like stones, and he said in a thick and trembling voice: “You have always hated me.”

  Baldur saw the pain in the protruding eyes, the blanched lined lips, and he felt the weakness of compassion and gentleness in himself.

  “No,” he said, very quietly. “I have really liked you, at times. There was something in you, which made me feel very sorry for you. You aren’t really as bad as you would like to be. You are rather bad; in fact, you are a rascal, a mountebank, a murderer, a thief, and a monumental scoundrel. But I always suspected you hated yourself for all this, and that, had circumstances been different, you, yourself, might have been happier not to be what you are. I always knew you were miserable. True rascals are never miserable. It was your wretchedness which made me your friend. Whether you believe it or not, I am really your friend, after all.” He paused. “But I am also Irmgard’s friend.”

  Franz was silent. The sick darkness in his mind clouded his vision. He saw Baldur glance deeply at Irmgard, and he turned to the silent and shaking woman. He tried to speak, but he could say nothing.

  He heard Baldur say to him: “Please go away. There is nothing for you here. Shall we go together? Now?”

  But Franz did not look at him, though his pain and rage against him was like a seeping wound. He looked only at Irmgard. He began to speak, in a stifled and incoherent voice, in German:

  “I have looked everywhere for you. All over the world. I never stopped looking. You knew I never would. It is my stupidity, that I did not look for you here. There has never been any peace for me, since you ran away from me. Did you think I would ever forget?”

  This was the young Franz now, pleading with her, and suffering divided her like the cleavage of an ax. She saw his changed face, his tormented eyes, the uncontrollable jerking of the muscles about his mouth. She wanted to turn from him, to run away, but she could not move. Tears ran down her cheeks, touched the corners of her shaking lips.

  He approached her, very slowly. But he did not touch her, though he felt her overpowering nearness, and he was wrenched by his longing.

  “Irmgard,” he whispered. “My darling, my dear.”

  She stiffened, as though with terror that he would touch her. “Go away!” she cried, hoarsely. “I cannot have you here, Franz! I did not run away from you—you left me! It is all
over now. I have had some peace here. Leave me in peace. If you stay, even for a moment longer, I shall really hate you! Believe me, I shall really hate you!”

  Her voice rose on a louder cry, as if she was affrighted. He saw the real anguish, the real fear, in her eyes, and he responded to it, in convulsed pain.

  “Irmgard!” And then his hands dropped, despairingly. Only his eyes pleaded with her.

  He felt Baldur take his arm, and he shook him off. But Baldur took hold of him again.

  “Franz, you must listen to me. Irmgard has had a lot to bear. Your mother—her aunt—just recently died. She is upset. Perhaps another day—”

  Franz heard the words, but it was some moments before they made an impression on his mind. Then he turned slowly and regarded Baldur with a changed look.

  “My mother—she is dead?”

  He heard Irmgard’s renewed weeping.

  “Yes,” said Baldur, compassionately. “About a month ago. Irmgard wanted to tell you. But she was afraid—of this. That you would come here again. That she—that she would be disturbed. Why don’t you leave her in peace? This is doing no good at all—”

  Franz was motionless, staring blindly. His mother was dead. Chaotic thoughts moved numbly and painfully behind his forehead. He felt no real grief, only a heavy despondency and regret and weakness. He ran his hand through his hair. He sighed.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered. His head fell forward, and he regarded the floor unseeingly.

  Baldur sent a swift glance at Irmgard. The woman was looking at Franz with her whole soul. She had taken a step towards him. And then when Baldur saw her eyes, he knew it was hopeless, everything he had begun to hope. He could not bear it when he saw her touch Franz timidly, and then with a sudden quickening, as if all the hunger of her heart could not be frustrated any longer.

  Franz felt her touch. He put his hand over the hand on his arm. She did not shrink away from him. They looked into each other’s eyes, speechlessly, but with terrible and unashamed longing, seeing only each other.

  “O Franz,” said Irmgard, and the words were like a heartbroken cry, weary and sorrowful, but not surrendering. And in her expression were all her long years of loneliness and grief, of desolation and despair, of yearning and hopelessness.

  Franz put her hand to his mouth, and held it there. She closed her eyes. He pressed the hand to his cheek, and then again to his mouth. She was trembling visibly, but an ineffable light began to spread over her face, as if final relief from long agony had come to her.

  He dropped her hand gently. “Do you want me to go, Irmgard? And if I go, shall I come back? Some day? Soon?”

  Baldur, watching them, thought: It is all over for me. So, he could not help saying, out of his own bitterness and pain:

  “It is not so easy as that, Franz. Things—aren’t renewed so easily. There is some one else. Irmgard, why don’t you tell him?”

  There had been a glow on Irmgard’s lips, like a renewal of life. But now it faded. She gazed at Baldur with startled despair.

  “Yes,” she said, dully. She stepped back from Franz, and now her eyes were bitter and cold. “There is some one else, now, Franz. Did you think it could be so simple?”

  She turned from him with swift abruptness, and walked rapidly to the door. She opened it, and disappeared. Baldur and Franz were alone. Franz regarded the door with bemusement and confusion. He heard Baldur speak to him, and even then he was aware of the cold malignancy in the other’s calm voice.

  “You have a little reckoning to make. And then, if you are only a half a man, and have only a little decency, you will go away from here, and never come back.”

  A sensation of approaching dread pervaded Franz. He turned to Baldur slowly. The dread quickened, and he felt his lips become frosty and thick. His throat closed. He did not know what he expected, but in some way he knew he would be profoundly shaken when it came, and unbearably overcome.

  They stood, confronting each other in silence. Baldur was smiling faintly, cruelly. He was very calm. He sat down, and rested his delicate veined hands on his knees. He appeared to fall into some malevolent meditation. All his senses acute, as a sick man dreading renewed pain becomes acute, Franz saw the pencils of light on the books on the wall, the streaks of light on the white curtains at the window, the flowered old carpet, the smooth old mahogany of the furniture. He was even conscious of the serene brown countryside shining beyond the windows, and the blazing whiteness of the picket fence about the lawns. A hideous nausea welled in him. There was a ring of fire about his forehead, and the veins in his temples began to pound sickeningly, with premonition.

  The door opened again, and Irmgard entered the room, holding the hand of a tall young boy, perhaps twelve years old, or a trifle older. Franz stared at him, unbelievingly. He saw the clear fresh face, the level blue eyes, the shock of yellow hair, the broad straight young shoulders, the brown bare legs and bare brown arms. It was his own young face that confronted him, puzzled and interested, and intelligent.

  Baldur stood up, disturbed now, and regretful. “Irmgard,” he began, “do you think it wise? The boy—It is not fair to him.”

  But Irmgard looked only at Franz, whose face was graying rapidly. Her expression was grim and ruthless, and avenging. She said nothing. She knew that there was no necessity to speak. She had her revenge now. She could not resist it. She was not a soft woman, but a hard one. She dropped the boy’s hand, and stepped back from him, so that Franz and his son stood alone in the middle of the old room, in a deep and humming silence.

  Siegfried was interested in this strange man who stood regarding him without speaking. A sick man, apparently, from his color, and his attitude. Who was he? An elegant stranger, in black broadcloth, polished boots and white dazzling linen. Siegfried was intrigued by the diamond and black-pearl pin in the crimson cravat, and the glitter of the diamond on the man’s hand. His mother had no visitors but the neighbors, and Uncle Baldur. Why was this stranger here, this large and handsome man, a city man? Siegfried had seen the elaborate carriage outside. He was much excited. The man was looking at him with such passionate intensity. The boy saw the slack and shaking mouth, the wrinkling forehead, the fixed blue eyes. Was he some relative, some magnificent blood kin, come to make life exciting for him and his mother? He was fascinated by the man’s silence, and intense regard. He smiled a little. He decided that he liked the stranger, who was tall and strong and personable, and most evidently rich and cosmopolitan. Yes, he liked him. He felt response in himself, like an urge, and he was more than a trifle amused at the perturbation he seemed to have aroused in the man.

  He held out his hard young hand with a straight-forward gesture. “My name is Siegfried Darmstadter,” he said clearly. “Are you my uncle? Did you come from Germany?”

  Franz’s fixed eye travelled mechanically to the brown out-thrust hand of his son. He started slightly, as if struck by an invisible blow. He moistened his parched lips. He tried to smile. His hand rose slowly, and took Siegfried’s. He felt the warmth of the boy’s fingers, and involuntarily, almost convulsively, his grip tightened. He looked at Siegfried’s open smiling face, his own face. But he still could say nothing.

  Baldur rose. He looked at Irmgard warningly, concerned now only for Siegfried. In a loud careful voice he said, still looking only at Irmgard: “Yes, Siegfried, the gentleman is from Germany, also. He is your mother’s cousin. This is Mr. Franz Stoessel.”

  The boy was delighted. His fingers were being crushed in the man’s grip, but the sensation was warm and pleasurable. More and more, each instant, he was drawn to Franz, and the warmth on his hand rose to his heart in an affectionate surge. He spoke in German, in a slow clear voice, very formal and respectful: “It is a great pleasure to know you, sir.”

  My son, thought Franz. My son, he said to himself, in the bright and dizzying waves of a primitive exaltation. He said this to himself as if he had no other sons, and indeed, he did not think of his dark thin boys at “The Poplars,” w
ith their undersized scrawny bodies and smooth brown hair. Even Joseph, his pet, was nothing to him now. He remembered only little Gretchen, whose coloring, and whose large simplicity of expression resembled Siegfried’s. And then, after a moment or two, he saw that a firm hardness underlay the boy’s evident simplicity, and that the blue eyes, rather small like his own, were quick and alive with sharp intelligence and keen awareness. Is he a hypocrite? thought Franz. No, there was no hypocrisy in this son of his. But he decided, after a long full study, that there was ruthlessness, and uncompromising determination.

  Siegfried’s curiosity increased as Franz’s regard became more minute. He wondered, uneasily, if this elegant cousin of his found him too rustic, too boorish. He colored slightly, with mingled embarrassment and hauteur. His mother should have warned him, and then he could have put on his Sunday clothes, with the new laced boots, and the long pantaloons. He became irritatingly aware that his overalls, rolled at the knees, were stained and patched, and that his shirt, after working with Hermann in the fields, was soiled. He removed his hand, and stood in silent dignity, his mouth tight with annoyance.

  “So, you are Siegfried?” asked Franz, in an abstracted voice.

  “Yes, sir. What shall I call you? Mr. Stoessel, or Cousin Franz?” The questions were simple and direct, without impudence.

  Franz’s face colored darkly. He bit his lip. He glanced at Irmgard, and saw that she was smiling scornfully. He stammered when he spoke.

  “You may call me—Uncle Franz, if you wish, Siegfried.” When he said this, he felt shame, regret, embarrassment and real sadness. He added hastily: “You speak German excellently. You do not learn this in school?”