Balance Wheel

by Taylor Caldwell

  Charles nodded. “Yes. That is quite true. I am not denying it. It was wrong; it was unjust. However, you were never very interested.”

  “Because none of you ever allowed me to be interested.” Friederich began to walk unsteadily up and down the room, huddled in his old and wrinkled coat. “Our father: he was not anxious for me to come. I was always in the way, he told me. I was stupid, he said. I had not the feeling for the shops.”

  He stopped in front of Charles. “That is what was said to me. I was never wanted—by anyone.”

  “I know,” said Charles.

  Friederich put up a trembling hand and scratched his neck. “You know,” he repeated.

  Charles sighed. “I want you now, Friederich. I do not want to ‘use’ you. It is necessary for you to be with me. There are dangerous days coming, and I will need your help.”

  Friederich sat down. He let his arms and hands fall helplessly between his slack knees. He shook his head, over and over. “I am trying to believe you, Karl. It is very hard to do this. I do not understand.”

  Charles said: “Friederich, listen to me. Do you still have those scars on your arm?”

  “Scars?” repeated Friederich.

  “You have forgotten? Where the dog bit you?”

  Friederich fell back in his chair, as if exhausted. “I have never forgotten. I was only four years old, but I have never forgotten. The pain; the blood. The doctor with the needle. It is a long time ago. But I have hated dogs ever since. I have always been afraid of them.”

  He sat up, and almost hysterically pulled off his overcoat, his undercoat. Charles saw the soiled shirt underneath. Friederich was rolling it up, and with it came his underwear. The thin dark arm was revealed. There, just above the elbow, was the long whitish scar, jagged and narrow, and gleaming in the light of the kerosene lamp. “There it is!” cried Friederich.

  They both looked at the scar, in silence.

  Then Friederich said: “Why are you interested in this, now? What is it to you, Karl?” He had turned crimson, as if with shame. He rolled down his sleeves. “Are you laughing at me again?”

  “No,” said Charles. He waited until Friederich’s clothing had been straightened. “I know you think all this is very peculiar. But I have a reason. Do you remember the boy who set the dog on you?”

  “The boy?” Friederich, confused by the conversation, shook his head. “Ah, yes, I remember. It was so long ago. There was a boy, certainly. A big boy—”

  Bewildered, Friederich waited. But Charles was waiting, also. Friederich again scratched his neck. “Your manner is most peculiar, Karl. You speak as if you knew this boy—this man he is, for it is long ago.”

  “He is here in Andersburg. He is very rich, and he married a rich wife. He will live in this, our city.”

  Friederich’s emaciated face stiffened. He put his hand to his covered arm as if he felt the pain he had felt as a child. “Here, in this city,” he repeated.

  Charles stood up. He said: “We had all forgotten his name, because we were small children. But when I met him I remembered; he recalled his name to me, and where he had lived.”

  Friederich gripped the arms of his chair and rose slowly. “Who?” he repeated.

  “An ugly man, as he had been an ugly boy. In character. What is born in a man is always with him. It is with him today; he would like to set a thousand dogs on a thousand men.” Charles pushed his cold hands into his pockets. “His name is Roger Brinkwell, and he will be the new superintendent of the Connington Steel Company, in Andersburg.”

  Charles had told himself that it was impossible to predict how Friederich would take this news. He had been right. He was prepared for an outburst of rage, for exclamations of incoherent fury. But he was certainly not prepared to see Friederich become scarlet, and to remain in a fixed silence, even after almost a full minute had passed.

  Charles said: “You have met him? You have seen him? Is it possible? He is a friend of Jochen’s.”

  Friederich turned away with a short swift gesture which was full of a mysterious violence. He walked rapidly to the windows. He pulled aside a dirty curtain and stared, still in silence, out into the darkeness.

  Charles watched this curious behavior with alarm. He started after his brother, then stopped halfway. He said: “What is wrong? You have met this man?”

  Friederich did not turn. His thin bent back remained motionless. He only said: “I have not met him.”

  Then he swung about. He pointed one of his lean fingers at his brother. “What a wily liar and plotter you are, Karl! I understand it all. Is there anything you never know? Did you think to deceive me?”

  Thunderstruck, Charles almost stammered: “Are you mad? What is wrong with you?” It was not often that he was frightened; he was frightened now.

  Now Friederich became extraordinarily excited. “Jochen has told me of this man. It is true that I do not like the Connington Steel Company, for they refuse to recognize a union. It is also true that I will work with the men they employ to organize them. All can be arranged. This, Jochen has told me, has almost been promised me.”

  Charles stood very still. His hands clenched in his pockets. Friederich must have thought his expression strange, for he forced himself to greater excitement. The finger still pointed at Charles.

  “They will bring prosperity to Andersburg. Jochen has said that this mill will give us orders, such orders as you have refused to the Bouchards—”

  “I have not refused orders from the Bouchards,” said Charles, quietly. “That is a lie. I have refused them only my aeroplane steering-control assembly, and our special gun-boring machine.” He watched Friederich closely. “I will never lease or sell these patents to them. That, I have sworn to myself.” He showed no excitement of his own, but his heart was behaving painfully. “Jochen has been lying to you. But it appears you prefer to believe him than to believe me.”

  “Karl! Karl!” said Friederich.

  The hating disgust in Friederich’s voice frightened Charles more than ever. There was something wrong, something very wrong.

  “Great God,” said Charles. “Do not look at me like that. I do not know what you mean. Believe me, before God, I do not know what you mean.”

  Friederich passed Charles, as if he were not present, flung himself down in his chair. Then he looked at his brother, and saw that he was very white, Charles who always had such a good color. A queer uneasiness came to Friederich.

  “Jochen warned me,” he muttered. He put his soiled hand over his eyes a moment as if very tired and dizzy. “He warned me that you would come to me, when you eventually discovered—”

  “What?”

  Friederich sighed. Then he went off into a fit of coughing. He almost strangled. Charles’ first impulse was to go to him; but he held himself back. He had to know. He wanted to take Friederich by the shoulders and shake him roughly.

  “Karl,” said Friederich, when he could get his breath, and could speak only hoarsely. “Jochen has told me that you do not like this Brinkwell, that you would, perhaps, come to me with lies about him. You are jealous of our company, Jochen says. I do not quarrel with you about this. But a company can expand, can grow, by—”

  “By what?” asked Charles.

  “By cooperation. That is what Jochen says: by cooperation.” Friederich’s uneasiness had mounted to panic. He, too, had his intuitions. He cried out: “You all lie to me! I am just a fool before you! You use me and laugh at me!”

  Charles had to sit down. He sat on the edge of his chair, his hands still clenched in his pockets. He stared at the floor, grimly. He said: “Listen to me, and you may tell Jochen if you wish: There shall be no cooperation, in the way that Jochen might have implied to you, between us and Brinkwell. Never, never. I am president; I will fight to my death to prevent that ‘cooperation.’”

  “You see?” said Friederich. “You knew, and you came to me tonight, and you lied.”

  Charles did not speak. He could not question Friederic
h any more, for he knew that the befuddled man had been told as little as possible by Jochen.

  My company, thought Charles. What is it that they want of it?

  Friederich gave a weak and bitter laugh. “How are your lessons in modernistic painting proceeding, Karl? Have you discovered the difference between Van Gogh and Picasso?”

  Charles said: “Yes, there are many things I see, now.”

  Friederich scratched his cheek. “Your German, Karl. It has immensely improved. You could not have improved it, possibly, with the intention of using it on me?”

  Charles stood up again. He walked slowly up and down the room. Friederich watched him. Charles said, without glancing at his brother: “You will never understand. I have had to fight all of you to save our father’s company. For years, I have had to fight—”

  “Ach, yes,” said Friederich, trying to sound cunning. “How you have bustled, Karl. Always, you have bustled. As a very young man you moved so fast in the offices and in the shops. Always so important. Did you know I observed that importance, and hated you?” He added: “And how I laughed.” He laughed now, and it was a most pathetic sound.

  Charles, though engrossed with his own dread, heard his brother. He stopped before him, began to speak, then closed his mouth. He had a sudden vivid picture of himself, before and after his father’s death. Yes, he had “bustled.” He had been “important.” He might even have been arrogant, with his new responsibilities. And there had been Friederich, young, too, dumbly hoping for recognition, being given none, and finally coming to hate.

  Charles said: “Listen to me, Friederich. You may not believe; if you do not, I cannot help it. I have hurt you, perhaps. I did not mean to do it. I was young, and I was egotistical. But our father’s company was always first with me. I am sorry I hurt you. I came to you tonight to ask for your help.”

  He paused. Friederich was fascinated. He began to suck in his lips. He felt for his pipe, and his hand trembled.

  Charles went on: “You see, I have a son.”

  Friederich said, bitterly: “So you have told me before.”

  But Charles continued: “I want you to think for a moment. You have been to many cities. This depression—it is passing? Tell me if it is so.”

  Friederich was again deeply confused. “Yes, it is so,” he muttered. Then he sat upright in his chair. “What do you mean, Karl?” He was suddenly excited. “No!” he exclaimed. “It is not possible for you to know anything!”

  “It could be war,” said Charles. He took his hands out of his pockets, gestured slightly, dropped his hands.

  Friederich clenched one of his own hands; he pressed one knuckle against his mouth. Over it he stared at Charles feverishly.

  “I have a son,” repeated Charles. He was so tired; his legs were shaking. “I have been watching, ever since last summer. And I am much afraid. There is something about to happen. There is something moving in the world, and it is terrible. And again, I must say once more: I have a son. I have nothing else.”

  “You have no proof,” said Friederich, almost whispering.

  “Nor have you. But I know a little of something, which has been hinted to me in confidence. I cannot tell you about it. I can only say that you must think of this steel mill, and the great speed with which it is being built. As if in preparation.”

  It was all so hopeless. Charles had heard of fatalism, and he had despised it. But now he knew what it was. “There is nothing very much I can do,” he said, and he did not know that he was shaking his head over and over. “I must work alone, as always.”

  He picked up his hat from a table, shook it mechanically. “Yes, my German has improved. I thought I might need it; I improved it in order to try to reach a common ground with you, for I have felt this thing in the world. I believe George Hadden has felt it, also. I have told you before that he heard you speak. He wishes to meet you now. His sister has just returned from The Hague.”

  Friederich stood up, the cold pipe in his hands. He began to clean it; he fumbled and the pipe fell. He bent to reach for it, then let it lie. He had turned a sickly color.

  “Great God,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Charles. “Grosser Gott.”

  “I will meet this George Hadden, and his sister,” said Friederich.

  Charles put on his hat. “In this house, or in mine?”

  Friederich looked about him, dazedly. Charles wondered if his brother was seeing the filth and disorder for the first time. “Here,” said Friederich. “I will ask Mrs. Schuele—” He looked at Charles. “You will want to come, too!”

  “No,” said Charles, after considering the intonation in his brother’s voice. “Not unless you ask me, freely, and of your own will.” He took a step or two towards the door. “I am tired of being insulted. I have said all I wish to say.” He spoke in English. “Yes, I have tried to reach you, as I have said. I have studied Goethe, too, for I heard that you belonged to a world Goethe society. That, I have done. But now I read Goethe for myself, alone.”

  Friederich’s hand rose as if to stop his brother from leaving. He coughed loud and long. He tried to jeer: “So, you have been reading Goethe, for yourself. Tell me, Karl, what is it you have read, that, perhaps, has interested you in Goethe?”

  Charles quoted:

  “Wer nie sein Brot mit Tränen ass,

  Wer nie die kummervollen Nächte

  Auf seinem Bette weinend sass,

  Der kennt euch nicht, ihr himmlischen Mächte.”

  (He who never ate his bread in tears, who never sat weeping on his bed through long nights of anguish, he knows you not, you heavenly powers.)

  He waited. But Friederich only looked at him in a deep misery.

  Then Charles said, nodding: “Yes, yes. I’ve said that to myself many times, lately. I’m afraid it’s too late for any of us. We can do nothing.”

  He went out of the room, leaving his brother, leaving this ugly house with its grime and its cold. He felt the cold in his very bones. He stumbled down the icy steps outside. Then he heard the door, which he had closed behind him, open. Friederich stood on the threshold, framed in feeble light.

  “I shall ask you to come, Karl, when George Hadden is here.”

  Charles turned. He stood on the sidewalk below. He heard his brother’s voice. It was defiant, but it was also pleading, as if the poor man was hopelessly wanting to believe, to reach out, and asking not to be deceived.

  “Thanks,” said Charles. He walked away, and Friederich stood in the doorway until his brother disappeared.

  Yes, thought Charles, walking heavily and tiredly. I reached him. He’ll help me, the little he can. It won’t be much, perhaps, but it will be something.

  There was such a fear in him.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  On the night of the Brinkwells’ “small, exclusive party,” Mrs. Holt called Charles, an hour before he was to leave his house.

  “Charlie, we’re down in the city, for dinner with friends,” she said in her hearty voice. “We’ll pick you up in our limousine and take you to the Brinkwells, and our chauffeur will drive you home, afterwards. Now, Charlie, don’t be stuffy. Do you know what I think? You ‘independent’ people aren’t fine characters, after all! It just makes you feel inferior to accept a ‘favor’ from somebody else, and you simply can’t bear to feel inferior. Such conceit. You’re such a conceited man, Charlie. Yes, you are, too. So you go around, all puffed up, and being all proper and dreary and trying to be just a monotone.”

  Charles laughed. Mrs. Holt ran on: “So, we’ll pick you up. Did you get a jacket? Good. What’s that? You’ll drive up in your own automobile? Nonsense. I saw that red horror on the street the other day; your boy, Jimmy, was driving it. Not fitting for you, Charlie. Go on, tell me I’m interfering. Well. Charlie? Do a lot of listening. An awful lot of listening. And don’t lose your temper. You never do? Well, sometimes you look mad even if you don’t say anything. And, Charlie, I want to see your house. Braydon and I will stop in for a few m
oments before we all go to the Brinkwells. I’ve heard your house is just a horror, a real nineteenth century horror. It must be charming.”

  Charles said to Jimmy: “I love Mrs. Holt. She’s a very subtle woman. How do you like my new dinner jacket, son?”

  Jimmy, studying at a well-lighted table in the parlor, surveyed the jacket critically, while Charles solemnly rotated. “Quite a gentleman,” said the boy. “And no paunch. Dad, what happened to your paunch? You don’t eat very much, lately. Mrs. Meyers was complaining tonight, in the kitchen, that you didn’t even touch your shoo-fly pie, which used to be your especial favorite.”

  “I was getting fat,” said Charles, hastily. “You’ve got to admit a dinner jacket looks better on me now than it used to. Sleekness is the thing, so I’ve heard.”

  But Jimmy was more anxious than ever. “Dad, do you know that you and Uncle Fred look very much alike? I never saw it until you began to lose weight. You don’t want to look like him, do you?”

  “Jimmy.” Charles sat down, carefully pulling up his trousers. He looked at his new, glittering shoes. “Perhaps I’ve been wrong about your uncle. In many ways I’m sure of it. It doesn’t pay to be too positive about anybody. That’s conceit, and stupid.”

  He was thinking of the call he had had from Friederich two hours ago. The other man’s voice had been wary and rough, but it had had, again, that odd note of pleading, of asking not to be deceived again. Friederich had said: “George Hadden and his sister, Miss Helen Hadden, are coming for dinner tomorrow night. I—I’d like you to come, too.” Friederich had paused, and then had said irritably: “I’ve made Mrs. Schuele clean up. She’s been neglecting things, and I’ve been too busy to see.”

  Charles had thought very carefully about the invitation. He knew Friederich’s chronic suspicion about everyone was still very active. So he had thanked Friederich for the invitation, but had suggested that he come after dinner. “I think it would be best if you and the Haddens had a time to yourselves before I came. I’ll come around about eight.”