Jimmy was well, at least, back at school and studying furiously. Perhaps it was this concentrated haste of his son’s which made Charles feel that everything was in the same state, lately. A secret but powerful haste. He tentatively inquired among the few sturdy business men he knew, men of medium-sized business like his own. They were puzzled. They scratched jaws. Well, now, they didn’t rightly know. Maybe there was something—They looked at Charles in bewilderment. What was the matter with old Charlie? He was always so sure and so firm. But here he was, looking much older than he should; after all, the man was only forty or thereabouts. What did he mean: “Something”? A few answered him, frowning in a baffled way. There was the Connington, going up so fast. Usually a plant like that took at least eighteen months. Yet here it was, almost finished. Come to think of it, they’d heard that the steel mills in Pittsburgh were very busy, and they were getting orders for things, long before the season. And the saw-mills, those Prescott mills, were working overtime. Funny.
Charles called up Oliver Prescott, who was a director of the Prescott Lumber Company, a subsidiary of the Northwest Lumber Company. Oliver said: “Yes, you’re right, Mr. Wittmann. All right: ‘Charlie.’ My brother-in-law, Eugene Arnold, would know more about it, but I can tell you, myself, that we’ve had a lot of big orders recently. Why? I don’t know; I only know about the orders. It could be, you know, that we’re coming out of the depression, and things are getting better. After all, even depressions don’t last indefinitely.” Charles hesitated about calling George Hadden, of the sheet metal works, because of George’s bereavement during the previous fall. But George Hadden seemed glad to hear his voice. “I haven’t forgotten about meeting your brother Friederich, Mr. Wittmann,” he said. “But things—”
“I know,” said Charles, with sincere regret
“Well, there’s another on the way, we hope. I’m wondering if that meeting could be arranged sometime next week. Mr. Friederich should be back by then, shouldn’t he? And I’d like him to meet my sister, Helen. She has just returned from The Hague. You’ve never met her.” He paused. “I didn’t write, or call, but thank you for the flowers, at this late date.”
Charles asked him if his company was “doing well.” George answered immediately, pleased: “Yes, indeed. A lot of new orders, from big companies, too. We’re very happy. We are calling back all our old workmen. It’s been a bad time for the country, this past year or so.”
Charles looked at the heap of new orders on his own desk, urgent orders for his best precision tools. He was still looking at them when Mr. Parker came in to inform him that Mrs. Holt wished to speak to him.
She cried at once: “Now, Charles, I know I ought to have waited until you got home, but I think it’s important. What? ‘Charlie?’ Well, yes, I always did call you that, didn’t I? But I’ve been reading some novels recently, about King Charles of England. First or second—I don’t remember. But very romantic. What? Yes, I said romantic. Charles is such a reckless name; reminds me of lace collars and velvet and silver buckles. And swords. Things like that.”
In spite of his despondency, Charles began to laugh. But Mrs. Holt was defensive. “You’re so prosy, my dear. That’s why so many people call you Charlie. ‘Charlie’ sounds solid and obstinate and money-in-the-bank, and no nonsense. I suppose that describes you. I can imagine that nothing ever goes wrong with your ledgers and accounts. I’m going to call you Charles,” she added with determination. “Perhaps it will make you feel romantic, yourself. Perhaps you’ll even have a love affair, or something, and get married to a perfectly giddy female with golden hair and a past, and buy a house of white stone with white marble inside. And an automobile.”
“I have a big red one. But Jimmy drives it all the time.”
“Is that so? I’ve never seen you in it, yourself. Incidentally, have you bought yourself a new dinner jacket yet?”
Charles was alarmed. “I’ve not been going to parties,” he protested.
“Well, you’re going to one very soon. A small but late supper party.” She laughed. “Not mine, dear Charles. But one given by the Brinkwells. You’ll receive an invitation. Now, wait, please. Pauline’s been telling me that you’ve refused all three of the invitations she’s sent you. So I suggested that you might accept an invitation to a small and exclusive little party, say at ten o’clock at night.”
“Why did you say that?” asked Charles, irately. “Minnie, that’s too bad of you. You know I dislike those people.”
There was a little silence. Then Mrs. Holt said slowly and carefully: “Charles, I think you ought to accept.”
He was about to refuse, in annoyance, then remembered Mrs. Holt’s serious voice. He said: “You think I ought to go, eh?”
“Yes. Decidedly.”
Charles waited for a moment or two. Finally he said: “I don’t suppose you’d know, Minnie, and I realize that Braydon has retired. But would you have the slightest idea if the oil wells Braydon owns are—well, doing much business? Any particular call for oil, say?”
“What? How funny you are—Charles. Have you oil stocks? No? Well, you should buy some. Yes, Braydon mentioned to me only very lately that his oil companies are literally ‘booming.’ Orders just pouring in, he says. What did you say, Charles? Who is buying the oil? Really, I don’t know. But I think it is some exporting company, or companies. For Europe. Do buy yourself some stocks. You’re just the kind who would never invest in common stock, I know. But do it now. Never mind. Just remember to buy a new dinner jacket. That other one is so old-fashioned, and green. I want to be proud of you. And,” she added, again reverting to her former slow and careful voice: “you’ll want to concentrate on something else besides how anarchistic and shabby you might look in your old jacket.”
“All right, Minnie. I’ll buy the jacket, and I’ll go to the Brinkwells.”
She said, with affection: “Good. Oh, I’ll call you ‘Charlie,’ again. I just remember that it was a King Charles who had his head cut off by somebody very disagreeable. A vegetarian, or something. I’d hate to see your head cut off, Charlie.”
Her laughter was loud, but Charles thought there was a curious subtlety to it. All his imagination, he told himself, as he hung up. For a man who had a reputation for no imagination I’m doing very well, he reflected.
Concentrated, secret haste. New orders, for everyone. Nonsense. The country was just taking an industrial upturn for the better. What did he expect? That the depression had become a permanent thing?
He went into the shops. He was glad that so many of his best men had been recalled; there were even a number of new apprentices. Young men didn’t care, these days, about being good artisans, fine craftsmen. It was good to see apprentices once more, seriously applying themselves to learning to make excellent precision tools. Tom Murphy was contented and busy. “I like to hear the shops humming again, Mr. Wittmann,” he said, looking at Charles with deep liking and respect. “I thought it’d never happen again. Even orders for warp-tying machines and looms, from the silk companies. I thought we’d never get ’em again. But the best, of course, are precision gear-cutting machines, and the boring machines, and the micrometers and drills, and milling cutters, and reamers. Just like old times, only better. Damn much better.”
The young man was elated. His fair-skinned face was flushed; his sandy hair fell over his forehead. He looked about the noisy shops with pride. “And that big order on that patent of yours, Mr. Wittmann, for the micrometers, and the other for the lathes. From the Bouchards. They know good tools when they see ’em; know they can’t get better in the whole country. Even if we charge more.”
It was hard to be depressed, in the face of this new prosperity. Charles said, absently: “No trouble in getting the new men to join the union, Tom?”
“No, sir. They don’t get hired if they don’t join. But there was one fellow I wouldn’t take, though he was good.” Tom frowned. “He said company unions weren’t any good. We ought to join one of the others. Maybe so.
I don’t know. I told him we was satisfied, and he sneered at me.”
Charles patted his shoulder. “Well, don’t be too stubborn, Tom. Company unions are fine. But perhaps there might come a time when they won’t serve the best purpose. Keep an open mind.”
When Charles arrived home Jimmy was deep in his books. Charles said: “Now, look here, son. What about the iceskating? And the hockey you always liked? Studies are good, especially when you have something definite in mind, as you have. But you’ve never gotten your color back since your illness.”
Jimmy might be pale, and he might still be very thin, but his air was vivid and alive. He said: “I’m going ice-skating with Gerry on Saturday. Honest.” He scowled. “She never says anything, but I’m getting the idea she has to sneak off, sometimes.”
“How is Gerry?” asked Charles. “I miss her. She used to come in almost every day after school, with you.”
Jimmy hesitated. He put aside his book, but left a finger in it. “She doesn’t look very happy. We don’t talk about it. We—we know what we think about each other.” He became reserved. “She’s busy studying, too. And she thinks she’ll be going away to school next September.” Jimmy looked at his father, directly. “Have you told Uncle Joe I’m going to Harvard?”
Charles studied his son. “I could tell him it isn’t settled. I could even say, later, that I think you’ve picked some other university.”
Jimmy nodded. “Thanks, Dad. You see, there’s a school for girls right near Harvard—Uncle Joe’s been thinking of it, Gerry says, but Uncle Joe’s ‘considering’ he said.”
Charles did not discuss the subject any further. But he was sickened with his hatred. His liver was bad enough, God knows, these days. Something else, however, had been added to his misery. Now, when he felt like this, there would come a vicious spasm in his stomach which would last for hours. Pyloric spasm, Metzger called it. Whatever it was, it was infernally painful. It interfered with the digestion of his favorite dishes. He had had to give up spareribs and sauerkraut. He held that against Jochen, virulently.
After dinner, Jimmy returned to his books. Charles took down a volume of Goethe’s in the parlor, and reread a certain verse. He had read it very often. In the beginning he had begun to read Goethe for a special reason; now he read the great sonorous poetry for himself. This sometimes surprised him. But there was something about Goethe which he understood, deeply and simply. Once his father had said that Goethe had brought a tremendous world-dream to the Germans. But Charles believed that Goethe had brought the mightiest of the old German dreams to the world. It was indeed a mighty dream—if an innocent one. A dream that man could be godlike and noble, childlike and infinitely wise, simple and heroic. Charles reflected that this would probably never be possible. He also reflected that no other man, with the exception, perhaps, of Goethe, ever believed it either.
Perhaps Goethe appeals to me because I’m an innocent, too, thought Charles, replacing the book. He had memorized a certain portion of a certain poem. He repeated it to himself, silently, as he put on his hat and coat and gloves and went out into the cold March night. Almost bemused, himself, he remembered other poems, other phrases, other words so luminous, so grand, that he was stirred and touched with emotion. He looked up at the black and windy sky; the white stars burned there, without a moon. The streets were empty and silent, the trees dark and bare. Yet there was a faint milky light, like a lighter shadow in the darkness. Starlight. Charles had never known before that stars could cast light like this, a dreamlike radiance, a mystic gleam. He was at once moved and lonely.
He began to walk faster. He had to keep these treacherous thoughts of his down. There was no sense in longing, in dreaming, in desiring, for there was no hope. He could not always turn away the pain, but he could endure it calmly, and say to it: There’s no use. Once he had read that a man could not live without hope. He knew this was nonsense. He was alive, and had no intention of dying. He never allowed himself to imagine that Phyllis was walking beside him, when he walked like this. It was only too possible that she was playing for Wilhelm, or laughing with him, or holding his hand. That was right.
After a considerable time he came to Chestnut Road, and Friederich’s house. It was more dilapidated than ever, with no green trees to hide it from the glare of the arc light a little distance away. A dull light burned near one window. Charles climbed the icy wooden steps carefully, holding on to the rusted hand-rail. He tugged on the bell, but it gave out no sound, so he hammered irritably on the splintered door. Friederich, himself, opened it. There was a book in his hand, and he was wearing his overcoat. Charles knew why, at once. The house was cold, as usual. Friederich was too parsimonious to give his furnace much coal, and there was probably no fire on any hearth.
“Karl,” said Friederich, in an affronted voice. But he stood aside and let Charles go into the house. The air, here, was heavy, smelling of kerosene, old pork fat, dust, and acrid coffee.
Charles said, in German: “Why are you surprised to see me? You received my note, did you not?”
“Yes. But I did not think you meant you would come tonight. Your note was indefinite. Why should you wish to see me?”
Charles took off his hat, but not his coat. He looked about the cold and dirty parlor, with its heaps of sliding books, its littered tables, its black hearth. Friederich’s pipe was smoking in a filthy ash tray. Friederich was wearing glasses with steel rims. Charles had not known that his brother wore glasses. They gave him a forlorn and deserted look, vaguely sad, in spite of his sullen expression. Apparently, too, he was not well, for his color was bad. Then he coughed.
“You have had a cold?” suggested Charles, with mild sympathy.
“Yes. But who would care about that? You, or my other brothers?” Friederich sat down, and Charles took two or three books from the seat of a very dusty chair and sat down, also.
He looked at his brother. Friederich had become wary, as usual, and suspicious. He stared at Charles with intense unfriendliness.
“Have you had the doctor?” asked Charles. He had never felt much concern for Friederich before. It must be the glasses, he thought.
“Everyone has colds,” Friederich replied. He peered at Charles, doubting that he had heard sincerity. But Charles’ face was genuinely solicitous. Friederich was disturbed at this. He coughed again. “I have a cough mixture, and a tonic,” he said. “It is not so bad, now. I am almost well.”
Charles thought: He has been sick, and nobody knew, because nobody cared. He hasn’t a soul in the world—though he has three brothers. He hates us, and we hate him. This poor devil has never had anyone. Even when we were at home, together, children, he never had anyone, not even our parents.
Charles remembered that during his childhood and boyhood he had suspected, a few times, that Friederich had loved their father deeply and inarticulately. He had never done anything, or said anything, to betray this love. A very terrible thing. Emil had never had any tolerance for the unattractive little boy, and when Brinkwell’s dog had torn his arm Emil had shouted to him not to be a “coward.” Even their mother, though frightened, had been impatient with his lonely howling.
“I wish I had known,” said Charles, thinking of all those past years.
“What could you have done? A cold is just a cold,” said Friederich.
“I could have done something,” Charles muttered.
Friederich shifted uneasily in his chair. He was still deeply suspicious. But something about Charles’ face and voice had reached him. He repeated that he had a cough mixture and a tonic. It was nothing at all.
“If you are ever ill again, you must send for me. I must ask you to promise that,” said Charles.
Friederich took off his glasses. He twiddled them in his fingers. He pursed his lips. He could not understand. He rubbed his nose with the back of a grimy hand. He said, suddenly: “Your son: he is completely well, now?”
“Yes.”
“You have been ill, yourself, Karl? You
have lost some flesh.”
“I have not been ill. But I have been worried.”
“Worried?” Friederich was incredulous.
“Yes, Friederich. I need help. Your help.”
Friederich stood up, abruptly. All his black suspicions had come back. He said, in a voice that shook: “It is not often that you come to me. You only come when you can use me. And it is always a lie, what you say to me. I discover that later.”
Charles did not turn to him. He said: “There is some truth in what you say. And I say again: it has always been for our company. For you, as well as for myself, and Wilhelm, and Jochen.”
“Yes, yes, I know that!” said Friederich, harshly. “It is always the same old story, and it is true in many respects. But I am tired of being used.” He waited, but Charles did not speak. Friederich threw out his hands. “What is it that you wish me to say, or do?” he exclaimed, with bitterness. “It is not necessary for you to wheedle me or to lie to me, now. I know your methods, Karl.”
Charles looked at him then. Friederich’s sunken face was twitching. He had replaced the glasses, which again gave him that vulnerable, sad expression.
“I am being honest with you, Friederich,” said Charles. “I need your help. I want you to come into the company. You are treasurer, but you rarely do anything. I want you to learn; I want you to be a part of your own company.”
Friederich was stunned. “You are lying,” he said feebly.
Charles shook his head. “No, I am not.”
Friederich became excited. “Why do you ask me this, at this late day? You never wanted me there before. If our father had not left the company to all of us you would never have permitted me to enter these offices, these shops! All of you would have kept me out.”
Balance Wheel Page 30
