Balance Wheel

by Taylor Caldwell

PART FIVE

  But ’twas a famous victory.

  —THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

  CHAPTER XLVI

  On July 28th, Austria-Hungary, with a flourish of heroic trumpets, declared war on Serbia. On August 1st, the Kaiser solemnly pronounced that Germany was at war with Russia; on August 3rd France was at war with Germany; Germany with Belgium, Great Britain with Germany, on August 4th; Austria-Hungary with Russia, and Serbia with Germany, on August 6th; France with Austria-Hungary and Great Britain with Austria-Hungary, on August 12th.

  Armageddon had begun.

  “By the Grace of God—” said Emperor Nicholas of Russia.

  “A fateful hour,” said Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany. “Remember that the German people are the chosen of God—”

  “Great fleets in battle, London hears mine sinks British cruiser, 131 lives lost,” reported the New York World of August 7th.

  Terror, agony, death and hate leapt from a million guns in Europe. Armies marched, invaded, murdered, were murdered. Europe spurted into flame.

  New York newspapers roared with headlines. The American people were only mildly interested. Something was always going on in Europe. But there were so many more important things to consider at home. After all, the baseball season was in full glory, Colonel Roosevelt’s reported illness was causing much concern, Billy Sunday was raving in his huge wooden tabernacles, the “Perils of Pauline” were being excitedly followed in the moving picture houses every Saturday, and Mrs. Niver, unofficial censor of Hollywood, had sternly pronounced that “one yard of film is enough for a kiss.” A debate was raging pro and con the feminine corset, various States were voting for Prohibition, and it was rumored that the new Reo runabout was a serious threat to the Ford. The New York newspapers frenziedly reported the progress of the war, but in the hinterland crops were discussed, there was not enough rain or too much rain, the tariff was being cursed or applauded, and there was much indignation over the slit in the long tight skirts of the women. A particularly horrible murder in Chicago—“a crime of passion”—occupied the thoughts and the secret gloatings of millions of readers. Wheat was seventy-five cents a bushel, and there was a tremendous feeling, all over the country, that a new epoch of prosperity had suddenly manifested itself in America.

  On August 19th, the President urged that the American people be “impartial” towards the war. The people looked at each other vaguely. “Impartial” about what? Who cared?

  Andersburg was no more interested in the war than the rest of the country. If the war was mentioned, it was only spoken of to fill uncomfortable pauses in conversation when entertaining guests. The citizens of Andersburg were happy in the new prosperity brought to the city by the Connington Steel Company. Their interest and speculations centered on the reasons why Joe Wittmann had left his father’s company to be assistant to Mr. Brinkwell. Of course, everyone said, it was obvious and he was doing much better for himself at the Connington. “But money isn’t everything,” said those who had so much money, themselves, that the lack of money in the pockets of others was a matter of no importance.

  No one asked why the Connington Steel Company thundered day and night, or what were the products being produced in the great mills. It was enough that unemployment had disappeared, and that the shops were crowded with new faces, and that a building “boom” was on, and that, suddenly, everyone’s pockets were jingling. There was a very titillating rumor, too, that Joe Wittmann was now attending the very fashionable Episcopalian church patronized by the Brinkwells.

  No, no one thought or cared about the war very much, except Charles and Friederich Wittmann, the Reverend Mr. Haas of the First Lutheran Church, Oliver Prescott and the Haddens, Father Hagerty, and Ralph Grimsley, of the Clarion. They thought of little else, and with fear and despair.

  In middle August Charles went with Jim to a mountain “lodge” and fished and boated with his son, held long conversations with him about unimportant things, and grew paler and thinner. They did not speak of the war. Jim knew that he must not allow his father to speak of it. He quarrelled with Charles about his loss of appetite, or exulted over the fish they caught. He shared a room with his father, and heard him sighing and turning in the night. The boy pretended to sleep. He told himself the war had nothing to do with them. And he listened in the night to Charles’ sighing, or woke Charles when the latter groaned aloud in nightmare. Nothing to do with us, Jim thought over and over, and looked at his father’s dinner plate, and talked about baseball and his cousin Geraldine.

  When, during the night, Charles got up and stood beside his son’s bed, like a terrified ghost, Jimmy feigned sleep, and breathed long and regular breaths. But they never spoke of the war.

  They returned to the city, Jim brown and full of vitality and spirits. There were several letters from Phyllis, from San Francisco, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Chicago. Affectionate letters. Mrs. Holt and she were returning home on September 1st. Phyllis did not mention the war, either. She was homesick for Andersburg. Such careful letters, sprightly and casual. Charles read them, and knew what Phyllis was thinking. He put them aside, wearily. He could not think of Phyllis now.

  Where was the Germany of Goethe and Schiller and Lessing, of Beethoven and Brahms and Bach, of slumbrous old German cities, of the Grimm Brothers, of poetry and song and philosophy and romantic legend? Had Kant ever lived there? What was this Germany of the “mailed fist,” and “the chosen people,” and “the Lord’s Anointed,” and the rape of Belgium? What was this Germany of the mad voice, of the goose-step, of the Uhlans, of the murderers, of the assassins of Liege?

  But the madness was not Germany’s alone, nor the guilt. Did the men of Europe, in the red nights, ever cry out to their God: “Mea culpa”? Charles was sure they did not.

  On August 29th, as he sat in his hot office, he had a visitor.

  Mr. Henry J. Dayton. And in small type at the left: The Amalgamated Steel Company, Pittsburgh, Pa. Charles sat and looked at the smooth white card. Then he rang his bell for Mr. Parker. “Send Mr. Friederich in,” he said. “Then, in five minutes I’ll see Mr. Dayton.”

  He had told Friederich about Colonel Grayson alias Mr. Lord. He had told him of the colonel’s last visit. Friederich had listened, with that new and silent intensity of his, which was now without excitement or hysteria. Friederich had said: “We’ll wait. We can do nothing but wait. And then we’ll see, Karl.”

  Friederich entered the office and Charles gave him Mr. Dayton’s card. “It’s come, Fred. We’ve got to decide.”

  He half expected, in spite of everything, that Frederich would become vehement. But Friederich sat down, staring at the card in his hand, and only the muscles along his lean jaw tightened. He said, as he had said weeks ago: “We’ll see, Karl. Let him talk.”

  Mr. Parker ushered Mr. Dayton into the office, and the two brothers did not get up. They only looked at the quiet slender man with the white mustache and the bright quick eyes. If Charles and Friederich disconcerted him with their silent hostility he did not show it. He looked from one to the other and said: “Mr. Charles Wittmann?”

  “I’m Charles Wittmann,” said Charles. “And this is my brother Friederich.”

  Mr. Dayton hesitated. He sat down, uninvited. There was a certain repelling stolidity about Charles Wittmann, he saw, and even about the thinner brother. But his business was grave and very important. He said: “Mr. Lord has suggested I see you, Mr. Wittmann.”

  Charles Wittmann, he saw, was afraid, and the colonel had told him why. A stubborn hard-headed man: but he was afraid. Mr. Dayton glanced quickly at Friederich. An excitable man, he decided, for all his silence. Excitable men were less stubborn than frightened men, but, also, they were harder to convince. Mr. Dayton knew all about the Wittmanns.

  He said: “I’ll come to the point, Mr. Wittmann. I think you know why I’m here. A mutual friend has already told you.” He looked at Charles, because he knew Charles was frightened. “We’d like to have you lease us some of your patents. Especiall
y your aeroplane steering control assembly. And as soon as possible.”

  It was Friederich who said: “For whom?”

  Mr. Dayton opened his brief case and took out a paper. He named some of the Wittmann patents, as well as the aeroplane steering control assembly.

  “For whom?” repeated Friederich.

  “Not for Germany,” said Mr. Dayton.

  “For England, or France, or Russia,” said Friederich.

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” Mr. Dayton protested. He tried to smile. The brothers regarded him doggedly.

  “Germany,” said Friederich, “has ships. This is a neutral country. Why not for Germany, then?”

  Mr. Dayton stroked his mustache.

  “If we refuse arms for Germany, then we are no longer neutral,” Friederich said. “We have become active participants in a war which does not concern us.”

  “It does concern us, Mr. Wittmann,” said Mr. Dayton. “Or it will, eventually.”

  “Mr. Wilson,” said Charles, “has urged the American people to be strictly neutral. I consider,” said Charles, “that any company, such as yours, which manufactures war material is violating Mr. Wilson’s express wishes. I prefer to follow Mr. Wilson’s command. Therefore—”

  Mr. Dayton interrupted. He knew that when men like Charles Wittmann were allowed to refuse anything they would stick obstinately by that refusal. So he said: “The President’s wishes will be respected. We have no intention of violating them. In fact, I can say. that they will be obeyed.” Again, he looked from one brother to the other. “By helping—say, one certain country—we can protect our neutrality absolutely. We can protect ourselves.”

  Friederich snorted. Now his eyes were afire. “We can put ourselves in the position of cowards who arm one man against another, then protest that the quarrel does not concern us. That is hypocrisy, sir. Shall we just be frank and say that America simply wants to sell arms to one nation for profits—to the highest bidder?”

  Mr. Dayton reflected. How much should these obstinate men know?

  He said: “There is really no morality in war, Mr. Wittmann. War and morality are a contradiction in terms. But let me put it this way: there are companies in America which are selling war material to Germany, either directly, or through subsidiaries in every country in Europe. Yes, even the French steel companies are arming Germany, right at this minute; coal is being shipped from French mines to Germany, direct through the ranks of the armies. British patents are being freely used in Germany, and German patents in England. Between munitions makers there is no quarrel. There never was. I have just recently heard that Russia has received some very excellent patents from Germany, and within a week after war was declared between the two countries. French bankers and Austrian bankers are giving credits to each other, and Swedish ships, carrying excellent Swedish ore, are passing without hindrance into German ports, while British men-of-war stand at a discreet distance. Yes. I repeat: war knows no morality.”

  “And you ask us to enter into a similar infamous agreement?” cried Friederich.

  Mr. Dayton sighed. He took a pipe from his pocket and slowly filled it. Trouble darkened his face.

  “Infamous,” he repeated, as if to himself. “Yes.”

  Charles said only one word: “No.”

  He had been permitted to say the word. Mr. Dayton put the pipe in his mouth and carefully lit it. He said, after a few puffs: “I think the Amalgamated Steel Company was the only large concern in America which did not help arm any faction in Mexico. I think that answers your question, Mr. Wittmann.” He looked at Friederich.

  “So?” said Charles.

  Mr. Dayton glanced at the door. There was no help for it. He said: “The Amalgamated Steel Company will not help any combatant in Europe. We’ve been told we are quixotic, quite unlike, for instance, the Connington Steel Company, which is sending material to Germany.”

  Charles turned in his chair, and his eyes met Friederich’s. Friederich’s sallow face became a darker hue. He wilted.

  “We believe in preparedness, Mr. Wittmann,” said Mr. Dayton, looking at Charles.

  “For what?” exclaimed Friederich. But Charles got up, slowly and heavily, and walked to the window. He stood there, his hands in his pockets, and stared out.

  “Preparedness,” Charles heard Mr. Dayton say, “is quite often the surest guarantee against attack. We’re down to raw fundamentals, now. We must be prepared.” He hesitated. “There’s madness loose in the world.”

  Charles said, still looking sightlessly through the window: “Mr. Wilson hasn’t said that.”

  Mr. Dayton dropped his voice: “Mr. Wilson is very frightened. What he says in public is not what he says in private.”

  Charles turned from the window. “You are trying to tell us that these patents of ours will not be used to help any combatant, but will be held in reserve for America.” There were deep furrows in his face.

  Mr. Dayton looked at him. Then, very slightly, he nodded.

  Charles sat down. He looked at Mr. Dayton directly. “You believe we’ll need these patents. You believe we’ll get into this hellish thing.”

  “I didn’t say so, Mr. Wittmann. But I do say: I hope not.”

  “And I say,” continued Charles, “that we must have a solemn guarantee that none of our patents will be used to arm any combatant.”

  Mr. Dayton’s lower teeth nibbled at his mustache. “Even if events force Mr. Wilson to agree to the arming of any—combatant?”

  “Yes!” cried Friederich.

  But Charles said: “It isn’t possible that Mr. Wilson will be forced into anything but absolute neutrality.”

  “If we ever are betrayed into arming England and her allies, then we’ll be in the war,” said Friederich. “The Kaiser will be forced to regard us as an enemy in fact.”

  “If events become so dangerous that our own safety is threatened—yes,” replied Mr. Dayton. “But by that time the Kaiser will have committed an overt act against us.”

  “He can be provoked into that ‘overt act,’” said Friederich, bitterly. “England can provoke him against America. She’s done such things before. Do you trust England, Mr. Dayton?”

  “No,” said Mr. Dayton, quietly. “I don’t. But we are now faced with the frightful facts of reality. We must be prepared. That is our only safety.”

  Friederich had become wildly excited. “Look at what England is doing now! She is permitting Americans to use her passenger liners to England! And she is carrying war materials in their holds. Americans are being utilized by her as hostages. She believes that the Kaiser will never dare to order those liners torpedoed, because that might provoke American intervention.” He shook a finger in Mr. Dayton’s face. “And I say that if Germany becomes desperate enough, and if Americans, in their stupidity, still embark on British passenger liners, those liners will be torpedoed!”

  “There is that danger, yes,” admitted Mr. Dayton. “The President has warned American tourists. But we must remember that the Hague Convention has upheld the freedom of the seas.”

  “Why doesn’t our Government refuse to permit Americans to embark on British liners?” asked Charles.

  Friederich turned to him furiously. “Because we have rascals here who wish us to be embroiled in this war—for their own profit!”

  Mr. Dayton shook his head. “No. We must uphold the freedom of the seas. It is a point of honor.”

  “More men have died for ‘honor’ than have been saved by it,” said Charles.

  Then no one spoke. Friederich’s face was crimson. His fingers beat rapidly on Charles’ desk. Charles sagged in his chair. Mr. Dayton looked at the pipe he held in his hand.

  Then Charles said: “Speaking of ‘honor’—We have your word of honor, your guarantee, that no patent of ours would ever be used either for England or for Germany?”

  Friederich exclaimed: “Karl! You are not actually considering—”

  Charles said to him: “Fred, if we are prepared, if we have time
to be prepared, then no one will attack us.”

  Mr. Dayton said to Charles: “You have our word of honor, our guarantee.”

  Friederich jumped to his feet. “There is no honor among thieves! Karl, I will not permit this!”

  “We’ve no other choice,” said Charles, sternly. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. But we can’t remain defenseless.” He said to Mr. Dayton: “I have another condition: those patents are not to be used until the President himself admits we are in danger, or if we are about to break off diplomatic relations with Germany.”

  Mr. Dayton stood up. Friederich retreated from him, in impotent rage and detestation. “You shall have that guarantee in writing, Mr. Wittmann.”

  He held out his hand. Friederich made a gesture of refusal. But Charles shook Mr. Dayton’s hand briefly.

  “Karl!” cried Friederich. “You’ve betrayed us!”

  “No,” said Charles, shaking his head over and over. “We were all betrayed, long ago.”

  CHAPTER XLVII

  The thunder and lightning and storm which tore at the heart of Europe echoed about the White House. Mr. Wilson petulantly, and with secret terror, ignored it. He became more and more absorbed in his program which he had called the “New Freedom.” He sponsored a bill reorganizing the banking structure of the country into the Federal Reserve system; he castigated the “Money Trust” in the rounded and eloquent periods of a naive pedant. In well-bred accents, he denounced “unfair” methods of competition in business and industry. He was preoccupied with the Sherman Anti-Trust law of 1890. He concentrated on lower tariffs, in a world no longer passionately interested in tariffs. He had begun all these things before the war; now, almost hysterical, he pressed Congress to enact all the new and radical panaceas for society of which he had dreamed.

  In the meantime, the civilization of Europe dropped, stone by stone, wall by wall, into the fiery seas of hell.

  It was not until the last of August, 1914, that the American people, concentrating on all the things which had the desperate attention of their President, became uneasy. Even the most insular began to feel the reverberations of the earthquakes which were rocking the world. Half of the newspapers screamed that it was none of the affair of America; the other half screamed that it was most certainly the affair of America. It was impossible, any longer, to ignore the fact that something had changed in the world, had shifted, that America, whether she wished it or not, was being tilted towards the abyss. The cities began to stir; the countryside murmured. No one knew what this unease was, this quickened movement, this sound of a million voices in the night. The people looked at the photographs of the devastations of Belgium and Alsace, the aeroplanes, the men-of-war, the marching troops of Germany and England and France and Austria-Hungary and Russia and Serbia. One by one, they read of new declarations of war daily.