“Good,” said Charles. “Of course, you’ll be that.” He drank his beer, with worry. “You still haven’t told me what you mean by ‘public opinion.’ I know the British are doing a good job on us with their propaganda. But we’re determined to be neutral. What do the boys at your school think of the war, eh?”
“The men at the college,” said Jim, with dignity, “are divided. Some of them are all for going into it, and ending it. On the side of the Allies, of course. Some of them are just as much against it—against all war. They’re the bookish fellows. Hate everything but the old ivy and the libraries and the laboratories. And some of them want to fight England. But most of them, I’d say, are all for keeping out of it.”
“Sensible,” commented Charles. “I remember what Burke said: ‘War never leaves, where it found a nation.’ The best America can do for the world is to stay at peace, and keep her reason. Jim, I’ve come to what you might think is a foolish conclusion of my own: This war isn’t being fought for what is being given as the ostensible reason. It’s being fought, by everybody, to destroy the new ideal of the freedom of man. You’ll see, after this war, that this ideal will be scrapped, and old absolutisms will come up like—well, like poisonous mushrooms. America will be able to hold the balance, afterwards; she’ll be able to stop all attempts to enslave men again.”
Jim looked at his father with deep and shadowy uneasiness, and Charles, with greater alarm, saw it. “In the meantime,” said Jim, “men are dying. I wish to God,” continued the young man desperately, “that I was a full-fledged doctor. I’d go over there and help take care of the wounded, at least. Any wounded.”
Relief came immensely to Charles. “That’s fine,” he said. “Fine.” He reflected, comfortably, that Jim was not a “full-fledged doctor.” “I’m thinking of the wounded and dying, too,” said Charles, pouring more beer, and this time out of Jim’s bottle. “But what can we do? Nothing. Except keep our heads and remain sensible and at peace. Later, we can do something.”
He waited for Jim to ask him about the shops, and all that had happened. But Jim stared at the fire, brooding, and he had thoughts his father could not know. Then Jim said, suddenly, still staring at the fire: “When are you and Aunt Phyllis going to get married?”
“Next August.”
“Not until then?” Jim was annoyed. “Almost a year.”
“Well, we have to wait a year from the time your uncle died, to announce the engagement,” said Charles, lamely. “And then we have to wait a few months after the announcement.”
“It’s all nonsense,” said Jim, impatiently.
He thinks I’m an old fogey, thought Charles. I know I never thought that about my own father. Or, did I? He could not remember.
“There’re some things you can do and some things you can’t,” said Charles. Yes, he was talking like an “old fogey,” and Jim was smiling at him.
“Good old Dad. Always conventional,” said Jim. “Nothing new must ever intrude.” His black eyes studied Charles indulgently.
“All this talk about the ‘new’!” exclaimed Charles, with acerbity. “As if anything new was better than something old, just because it was new! Look at ragtime, for instance. That’s new. Is it better than Beethoven, or Bach, or Brahms, or Wagner, or Verdi?”
Something was running under the surface of their conversation which Charles could not grasp; something had shifted between him and his son these last eight or ten weeks. We’re talking to cover something up, thought Charles. What is it? What has happened to my boy? He’s changed.
Dad’s changed, thought Jim. He’s all nerves. I don’t understand him. He’s never shouted at me like this before. What’s wrong with him?
“The world changes,” said Jim, somewhat irrelevantly. He was really anxious about his father, now. He never used to flush up so easily, thought the young man. He never used to be so on edge. He looks sick.
“We must all sing and whistle and scream the same silly imbecilities, because they’re new,” said Charles. “We must all ride in automobiles—because they’re new. We must all think the same thoughts—because they’re new. We mustn’t have any distinctiveness, any difference, because something ‘new’ has become the pattern of our existence. We’re getting to be faceless. The ‘new’ collectivism! By God, that’s something I’d fight with my last breath!” And Charles stood up, his face a heavy crimson.
“Dad,” began Jim, standing up also. He looked down at his father. He did not know why Charles turned away from him, after one glance upwards.
“The Renaissance was ‘new,’ in its time,” said Charles. “But it was a healthy and vigorous newness, and not the newness of inferior and mean-spirited and trivial men. It emphasized an old concept: the importance of the individual over the unimportance of the mass. The Church had always declared that man, himself, was everything, and that anything that debased that individuality was dangerous. Now we have this modern newness, which wants to destroy the individual and make him just part of the mass, a herd-man, a slave. And I think this war is the culmination, or the beginning, of the idea that man, as a thinking individual, ought to be destroyed.”
He added bitterly: “You’ve just got to listen to Wilson! His ‘New Freedom,’ by God! Freedom was given to humanity by God. But governments, if they can help it, never give freedom. They just hand out slavery with slogans.”
“Dad,” said Jim, urgently, “you’re right. I agree with you. But you don’t have to get all worked up like this—” His only thought was to calm his father. “You won’t be able to digest your dinner,” said the boy. “You’ll have indigestion again, as you always do when you get mad. And then out will come that box of bicarbonate of soda, and you’ll have gas.”
“Much you care,” said Charles, and he sat down heavily. Then he said to himself with consternation: I’m quarreling with my son! He’s just come home, and I’m quarreling with him, as if he were a stranger! What’s wrong with us? There’s something under the surface—
“I do care,” said Jim, earnestly. “Please, Dad. I know how you’ve worked; I know how you’ve worried. You’ve written me all about it. I ought to be ashamed,” he added, with self-disgust. “I oughtn’t to have let you get mad like this. It’s all my fault.”
Charles looked up at him for a long time. His dark flush retreated, and all at once he was pale and very tired, but smiling. “No,” he said. “I know what it is. I just resent it that you’re growing up. I’ve just begun to realize you’re a man. I don’t like it, much. I’m a fool.”
The harsh November wind poured down the chimney, and the fire crackled and blew. The November wind battered at the windows; the November rain ran mournfully in the eaves. I’ve never been so lonely, thought Charles. Not even when I was alone.
“I can’t help growing up,” said Jim. “But you’ve got your own life, Dad. You’re not so old.” He spoke with sympathy, and without conviction, and Charles suddenly laughed.
Mrs. Meyers had prepared a very good dinner, and father and son sat down to it with anticipation. They talked of Jim’s studies. They talked of many things. They did not speak of the war. Jim’s still too young to understand what’s really happening, thought Charles. Besides, it doesn’t matter. The war’ll never touch him, thank God.
Charles said, later: “The Connington’s on strike. Brinkwell’s going out of his mind.” They did not mention Jochen.
CHAPTER LIII
In December, 1914, the United States was so perilously close to war with Britain that only the strenuous exertions of Ambassador Page prevented it. Britain controlled the seas, and Germany was helpless. Britain had declared that American vessels carrying contraband either openly to Germany, or to neutral countries, could be, and were, rightfully seized by her. Food, gasoline, copper, rubber, and many other articles were labelled “contraband” by Britain, and British warships halted American vessels, without apology, for search, or took them to British ports for further search.
The American people, arouse
d, read with incredulity and anger of British ships actually hoisting the American flag on the high seas, in order to protect themselves from German torpedoes, and then proceeding serenely, under the aegis of that flag, with the seized “contraband” or goods bought from America by the British Government. American companies impartially willing to sell to either Britain or Germany were blacklisted by Britain to such effect that American trade with other neutral countries almost ceased. Secretary of State Lansing indignantly exclaimed that Britain’s acts were illegal and indefensible, and President Wilson helplessly mourned: “We can do two things: protest or declare war.” Notes passed constantly from Washington, notes distinguished for their pleading overtones. But Ambassador Page stood “valiantly” for the “righteousness” of England’s “cause.” Without subterfuge, without hypocrisy, without valid excuse, he openly announced his hopes for England’s victory over Germany. Troubled and aghast, both at this violation of the principles of neutrality and the urbane candor of the diplomat, the American people, through the press, began to demand his recall. But he was not recalled.
To most Americans, all the issues were now so confused, so entangled, so incapable of being understood, that they gave up in despair. They jeered at the futility of the notes sent to both Britain and Germany by President Wilson; they denounced Ambassador Page and ridiculed the Kaiser. But they were firm in their resolution to remain out of the war.
It was odd that the Connington Steel Company, and similar companies, were not blacklisted by Britain. This was possible because these companies, having discovered that they could no longer ship war materials to Germany, now, with fine impartiality, were quite willing to ship them to Britain, using British ships or British lines carrying American citizens, who were eagerly curious to be near the center of the universal storm. Beneath the happy, romping feet of naive Americans on British passenger vessels lay tons of war material. The Americans were very excited when the liners were externally darkened at night, and they shuddered deliciously in saloons and in their staterooms at the thought of the danger to which they were so childishly exposing themselves. It was exceedingly thrilling. Why, they might be torpedoed! The British captains listened to this infantile prattle, and smiled contemptuously to themselves. They carried hostages for the safe delivery of the steel, guns, ammunition, and explosives in their holds.
Business was very good for the Connington Steel Company’s mills, or, rather, it would have been good except for the strike.
The Connington Steel Company’s policy had always been determinedly against unions of any kind. They refused to change their policy. “Labor” was becoming “dangerous.” It was a “menace” to enterprise. Its leaders were enemies of American freedom.
“They’ll come back, crawling, when they see they’ll get nothing out of this but starvation,” said Roger Brinkwell to Jochen Wittmann.
He and Jochen and their office staff came through the ranks of the pickets, disdainfully, ignoring the ominous shouts and jeers of the hungry men. But Mr. Brinkwell was annoyed at the Clarion, which defended the strikers and called the Connington Steel Company “anachronistic.” Mr. Grimsley vitriolically attacked Mr. Brinkwell by name, and attacked his superiors in Pittsburgh. Mr. Grimsley was delighted when the parent mills in Pittsburgh shut down as their own workers went out on a sympathy strike. Had the Connington Steel Company in Andersburg been a small concern, the sentiment of the Andersburg citizens might not have been so aroused. But thousands of men, both natives of Andersburg and natives of nearby towns and villages, were suffering. This had a bad effect on the shopkeepers of the city, and an equally bad effect on related business. The Quakers had set up soup kitchens for the destitute workers and their families, and offered their services in mediation. The Connington Steel Company, through Mr. Brinkwell, rejected this offer with derision. “We’ll never negotiate with this disorderly rabble,” he was reported to have said.
The Clarion published the opinions of clergymen and other influential people in Andersburg. The Reverend Mr. Haas was quoted as saying that the Connington had brought misery to the people of Andersburg, that it harbored “medieval” ideas, that its tactics were inhuman and cruel, that it was “high-handed” and brutal in its refusal to negotiate with the leaders of the workers. Mr. Haas prayed for moderation, for understanding, for decency.
Father Hagerty was quoted: “The Popes have always pleaded the cause of labor, of social justice and consideration on the part of the powerful, and of the rights of the working man. One will notice the word ‘rights.’ Justice is not a concession, to be dispensed grandly by employers, and in their own way, and at their own time. Pope Pius, in 1891, said: ‘With criminal injustice they (employers) denied the innate right of forming associations to those who needed them most for self-protection against oppression by the more powerful.’ The Connington Steel Company would do well to read the papal document of His Holiness, Leo XIII: ‘The Condition of Labor.’—It is un-Christian to deny the right of labor to organize into unions, and to refuse to negotiate with those who desire to form a union.”
Prodded by Charles Wittmann, the Mayor, in misery, also urged the Connington Steel Company to “negotiate in a fair spirit of brotherhood and reason.” The Mayor remembered that he owed his office to Charles, but he was very unhappy because his wife sedulously courted Pauline Brinkwell, and the latter’s friends.
“Sanctimonious rats,” said Mr. Brinkwell, to Jochen. “That former minister of yours: He knows we’re now sending war material to England, and being a porky Dutchman he’s enraged, of course.”
Jochen, still fat these days, but flabby and pale, looked at his friend quickly, and with secret hatred. Porky Dutchman! Jochen lit a cigar with big and clumsy fingers, and let the smoke hide his face. Mr. Brinkwell was sitting on the edge of Jochen’s desk, and he was reading the various quotations aloud, and laughing contemptuously. Jochen asked: “How would Mr. Haas know we’re sending steel, and things, to England?”
Roger Brinkwell laughed again. “Old Charlie must have told him. Old Charlie knows a lot of things, Joe.” He added: “Old Charlie always thought of himself as a Dutchman, didn’t he? He was never really American, was he?”
Jochen had extended his manner of living from the mildly luxurious to the very luxurious. He had recently bought some land in a very exclusive suburb, and was about to build a very sumptuous house—at Isabel’s insistence. His daughters were accepted “everywhere.” Geraldine was to marry Kenneth Brinkwell next summer. Jochen did not save any money these days. It went for enormous expenses, commensurate with his new mode of living. He belonged to very expensive clubs, sponsored by Roger Brinkwell. Isabel had her own automobile and her own private chauffeur, and there were seven servants now instead of the former three. For Isabel must have her personal maid, and there was a maid for the girls. Jochen smoked savagely. He said: “I don’t remember that Charlie ever particularly cared about Germany, or even spoke of it.” Roger’s mouth still smiled. Jochen added: “But Charlie never let anyone know what he really thought.”
Roger nodded, appeased. “Cunning devil.” He opened his gold cigarette case and thoughtfully withdrew a gold-tipped cigarette. “Yes, cunning. One of these days we’ll settle with him, when we’ve knocked hell out of our strikers. And I’ll have a word or two to say to the Bouchards, about their subsidiary, Sessions, shipping steel again to your brother. In fact, I’ve already written to the Bouchards. It’s unethical, to say the least.”
Jochen was not a man to appreciate irony, or to recognize it. But now he said to himself: Unethical, eh? He blew another cloud of smoke, and there was a feeling of tension in his temples. He had come to hate his employer. He did not remember when this hatred began, or what caused it. He, being a simple man, merely accepted the hatred and the resentment, without seeking for reasons. There was a festering in him, and a dull, constant ache, and a discontent. His salary was almost three times what it had been as vice-president of the Wittmann Machine Tool Company. But he could not save a p
enny. Isabel! May and Ethel, those silly girls! And Geraldine—Jochen thought of Geraldine’s last visit home, at Thanksgiving. He thought of her thin young face, of her listlessness.
Jochen remarked dully: “I never heard that the Bouchards didn’t like a profit. I always was under the impression that they’d sell to anybody. They’re in a nasty position, themselves, with the Government, with that suit brought against them, accusing them of being a monopoly and acting in restraint of trade.”
Roger laughed. “The suit’ll come to nothing. The Bouchards have too many Senators in the palms of their hands. And they own two Supreme Court judges.” He studied Jochen. “What’s the matter, Joe? You look pretty wretched, these days.”
“The strike,” muttered Jochen.
Roger smoked thoughtfully, nodding. “Well, don’t worry. It’ll be settled any day now. They’re getting pretty hungry, in spite of the Quakers, and the public subscriptions. They’ll come back soon, and they’ll take what we choose to give them.”
Jochen’s big Pierce-Arrow automobile called for him, with its uniformed chauffeur. It plunged implacably towards the picketing men, who jumped out of the way. A rock smashed against the rear window, was followed by other rocks, and shouts and curses. Jochen stolidly looked through the window at his right and he saw the faces of the strikers. He saw the pale and sunken cheeks, the starved eyes, the bitter anger, the despair that twisted the mouths of the men. He had never felt any friendliness towards the men who had worked under him at his brother’s shops, or at these mills. He had felt only contempt and aloofness, such as one feels for animals. But now he had a sudden, and inexplicable, desire to have the car halted, and to empty his pockets for these poor wretches, to hold out the yellow and the green bills, and the silver, and to say—Say what? My God, thought Jochen, I must be losing my mind! “Drive faster!” he cried to the chauffeur.
Balance Wheel Page 56
