Balance Wheel

by Taylor Caldwell

  Charles said: “Sometimes a man understands in his youth, sometimes he understands in his manhood, and sometimes he never understands. Your uncle came to understanding pretty late, but he came.”

  “Yes,” said Jim. He did not speak of the war again, but looked at his father anxiously. “I try not to think of the damned war,” said Charles. “At the present time the American people haven’t decided whether they ought to be fighting England or Germany, and that’s a good thing.”

  Charles, at least temporarily, was able to sleep without nightmares. The American people were angered against all the combatants, though they were moved at the plight of Belgium. All the churches held special peace services regularly, and prayed for the end of the war. Besides, everybody was now prophesying the end of the war by the spring. “It couldn’t go on.”

  Very few people, and very few newspapers, talked of Russia’s part in this war. The prophets had declared that if the Russian people once “got their hands on guns” the rule of the Czars would be over, and a modern and civilized government would be established. The prophets, up to date, had been wrong. If the Russians were doing very much it was not recorded prominently. No one knew very much about Russia.

  Just as Charles was falling asleep one night he remembered what his father had said to him, nearly two decades ago: “One of these days the Russian bear will walk, then God help the rest of the world!” His father, thought Charles, just falling into unconsciousness, was as bad a prophet as the rest of them.

  Charles slept. The April trees, newly leafed, moved their gentle shadows on the window shades. The April moon poured down a cataract of silver on the cities of America, on new wheatfields, on quiet roads, on farm-houses and villages, on mountains and prairies. There was no sound of marching armies here, no alarms, no red skies, no flight of refugees, no weeping over the murdered dead, no drums, no trumpets. If there was an evil stirring in the night, few Americans knew it.

  CHAPTER LV

  Friederich’s marriage to Helen Hadden had aroused considerable derision in Andersburg, among Charles’ enemies. “Well, he tamed that fanatic,” they said. “He’s lucky. One brother is killed, he robs and drives out another brother, and he gets the last brother to eating out of his hand. Now he’s all there is of the Wittmann Machine Tool Company.”

  Charles had learned, after Wilhelm’s death, that a man’s integrity, his decency, his tolerance towards his fellowmen, his friendship for his neighbors, a more or less exemplary life, his earnest affection for his city, his refraining from engaging in any sort of nasty chicanery, his devotion to his family and to his church—in short, his exercising of his duties as a good citizen and a good man—did not necessarily exempt him from hatred, envy, and enmity. Rather, he had discovered to his dismay, that sometimes these virtues were the very things that aroused animosity, not only among rascals but in “good” men, themselves. Some of them were members of his own church, and he had talked with Mr. Haas about this.

  “Well,” said the Reverend Mr. Haas, ruefully, “I’ve been sermonizing about this off and on for at least twenty-five years, now, Charlie, but it seems that you’ve never heard a single word I’ve said. That looks bad for all my other sermons, too. Sometimes,” said the minister, “I wonder if anyone ever listens to anything his pastor says, at any time. You come to church on Sundays, all of you, and you sing the hymns, and you give your responses, and you pray—or do you?—and you all sit. there like bags of meal while I deliver the sermon I’ve sweated over for days. And what happens, then? You, and others, too, come to me later all amazed, and ask me questions I’ve answered a dozen times.” He shook his head. “Sometimes—” he repeated, and he was not in the least amused.

  “Charles,” he went on, when Charles looked properly embarrassed, “I often think that people just don’t deserve to have churches at all. They don’t deserve to have priests and ministers. We give up our lives to you, and the best we can hope is that you won’t beat your wives or murder your neighbors. Perhaps that’s an advance, for which we can be thankful. Very few of you do beat your wives, and only occasionally do you murder a neighbor. But nothing we can be too proud of, after two thousand years.

  “You see, Charles, men don’t like their neighbors to succeed, brothers don’t rejoice too much when their brothers rise a little higher, sisters resent another sister who is prettier than themselves or who has made a more profitable marriage, and even fathers have been embittered when sons did better with their business than they did, themselves. If I were a homespun philosopher I’d say: That’s the way people are,’ and I’d let it go, thinking I’d said a wise thing. And maybe the homespun philosopher is right. That’s the way people are, and that’s why ministers and priests pray and hope their parishioners will learn a little charity one of these days, by the grace of God. And not ‘be the way they are.’”

  He took off his glasses, polished them, sighed. “We’ve learned to fly, in the air, but how many of us fly with the spirit? Modern man has advanced in science; in so far as his soul is concerned it is still grappling with the saber-toothed tiger.”

  Charles tried to be a Christian when he felt the sneers and suspected innuendoes and jibes following the announcement, by Mr. and Mrs. Braydon Holt, of his engagement to Phyllis, on April 30, 1915. It was hard to meet congratulatory smiles blandly, and know them not to be congratulatory at all; it was hard to pretend not to see a quirked eyebrow or a tilted mouth-corner. He knew that many of the alleged wishers for his happiness also wished that his business would fail, or were remembering the cruel scandals they had broadcast about Phyllis, and hoping they were true. Sometimes Charles wanted to say to them, bitterly: “Why do you resent a man being happy? You are happy, aren’t you?” After he had thought this a number of times, he, one day, felt a sudden surge of compassion, and said to the hand-shakers, silently: “If you aren’t happy, I damn well wish you were!” He meant it, much to his surprise, and thereafter he was no longer disgusted. At least, not too often.

  When the announcement appeared in the Clarion, Isabel called her husband and said with a light scream of malicious delight: “What do you think, Jochen! Those Holts, who’ve been snubbing us so constantly, have just announced that your brother Charles and Phyllis are going to be married on August tenth! Isn’t that delicious? What a scandal! Everybody will be remembering the stories about them.”

  Jochen said: “I didn’t quite hear you, Isabel.” But he had heard. He only wanted time to think. “The stories about them.” But he, Jochen, had invented the stories, had disseminated them. They were lies.

  “—And I really do hope they’ll come to realize how much people will despise them now,” Isabel was saying. “Absolutely disgraceful. No shame. But then, what would you expect of Charles and Phyllis, anyway?”

  Jochen looked about his office. It was the thirtieth of April, and he had done nothing, yet. He had been afraid. Afraid of his wife, afraid of “talk,” afraid of Brinkwell. Afraid of everything, when there was no reason for fear except in himself. He said: “Isabel, don’t say that. You know what my personal feelings are about Charlie, but all the rest—the stories and such—were lies.”

  “What!” cried Isabel, incredulously. “You told them to me, yourself, Jochen!”

  Again, Jochen looked about his office, and hated it. “I told you lies,” said Jochen. “I wanted what Charlie had, that’s all. It’s about time you knew it, Isabel. It’s about time you knew a lot of things. I’ll tell you about it. Tonight.”

  All the way home, this lilac-colored April evening, he thought of Isabel and himself. He thought of their youth together, and the affection they had had for each other, and the trust. The youth was gone. He was no longer sure even of the affection and trust. He rarely saw Isabel these days. She was always so tired and hurried and irritable, so worn out and harassed. She had been spending weeks on the preparations for the marriage of her daughter and Kenneth Brinkwell. May and Ethel, always close to her, were now so exigent, so indifferent and selfis
h and greedy, that Jochen often caught a confused expression of bewilderment and hurt on his wife’s strained face. I’ve let it go on too long, thought Jochen. It’s all my fault. If Isabel hates me, after I tell her everything, she’ll have a right to. I’ve done something to my wife and my family; I’ve done something to myself. Maybe it’s too late for anything now. But I’ve got to risk it.

  Isabel would be waiting for him in tearfulness when he came home. She would demand to know, instantly, what he had meant by his curious words over the telephone. Later, she would look at him with aversion and shock and rage. She would become hysterical. It is something I’ll have to endure, Jochen thought. I’ve brought it on myself, he added. I’ve got to fight it out, no matter what happens.

  He was told that Isabel was up in her room, when he entered the house. Very quietly, and with a very pale face, he went upstairs, and knocked at her door. (I never used to have to knock, he thought.) She said: “Come in, Jochen.” She would be on her bed, crying. But Isabel was sitting by a window, and she was white, and she said: “Jochen, come sit near me. You look so tired. I’ll have the tea sent up, and then we can talk.”

  He stood and looked at her and he could not speak. She smiled at him, sadly, after a long moment, and said: “Poor Jochen. My poor dear. See, I have a chair right beside me. And now I’ll ring for the tea, and they’ll bring up your favorite little cakes, too.” She gestured for him to sit down.

  He sat down beside her. He put his hands on his knees, and looked at her again. Then he said, like a child: “You still love me, don’t you, Isabel?”

  She bent sideways and kissed his cheek. “I never stopped, darling. But I thought you had.”

  She was so handsome, so composed, sitting there, and for the first time in many months he saw a shining in her pretty hazel eyes. She gave him her hand and he held it tightly. “I knew, when you said that to me this morning, that something awful had been happening to you, Jochen. You see, I’ve seen it, for a long time, and I wondered what it was. But here’s the tea, and you must have it, first.”

  They drank their tea, and Jochen ate his “favorite little cakes,” though they stuck in his throat. Isabel spoke of everything that was unimportant, in a very soft voice, and she never once uttered a belittling remark or a word of gossip about anyone. This, in itself, would have made Jochen wonder, for, at one time, he had overheard some woman say a little scornfully: “Isabel’s the town-cryer, isn’t she?”

  From time to time, as they sat in the long spring twilight together, Isabel would lovingly and sympathetically touch Jochen’s hand; it was a light touch, but very comforting.

  She’s trying to tell me ahead of time that nothing matters but us, he thought. How much does she know? Isabel turned on a lamp near her, and the golden light shone on the ripples of her rich hair. When she looked at her husband her eyes became large and intent, and full of pitying knowledge.

  The maid took away the tea-tray, and Isabel held Jochen’s hand firmly in both of hers and said: “Now, tell me. Tell me everything, and I won’t even ask a question.”

  Jochen was afraid again. How would it be possible for Isabel to rearrange her carefully arranged life? She lived for social triumphs. What her neighbors and friends thought of her house, and especially her clothes, was a matter of the gravest import to her.

  “Please,” said Isabel, in a pleading voice. Jochen looked at her searchingly. He had never seen this expression on Isabel’s face before, so tender, so tired, so understanding.

  “You’ll hate me, and I won’t blame you,” he said. “It’ll be terribly hard on you,” he added. She smiled. “Not so hard on me as watching you becoming more and more wretched every day,” she said. “Nothing means as much to me as you, Jochen. Men are so silly; they always think their wives want more than they really do. But they always give their wives what they don’t actually want.”

  So Jochen, still hardly believing, began to talk. It took a long time. It was harder than he expected. Isabel still held his hand warmly. Her smile did not change, or the sadness in her eyes. Once or twice he wanted to hold back something, then Isabel would press his hand, and he would blurt it out. The twilight became night; they heard the voices of May and Ethel in the hall outside. There was a sound of quickening dinner preparations below.

  Then Jochen said, exhausted: “Well, there it is, all of it, Bella. Nothing left out. You see where we are, now. I’ve brought it all down on us. Hate me, if you want to. It’s what I deserve, for failing you and the girls.”

  Isabel pulled the bell-rope, and when the maid came in, she said: “Mr. Wittmann and I won’t be down to dinner tonight, Mabel. We’ll have two trays up here, please.” She said to Jochen: “Don’t say anything for a few minutes, darling. I just want to think. I suspected a lot of this, but there are a few other things I hadn’t known. I’ve got to consider them; after all, they affect other people besides ourselves.”

  She bent her head, and her face became stern and reflective with her thoughts. Jochen waited. There was a quick tap on the door, and May looked in at them petulantly, all auburn hair, rosy cheeks, and predatory hazel eyes. “What do you mean, saying you aren’t coming down to dinner, Mama?” she demanded, without a glance at her father.

  Isabel lifted her head. “I meant it, May. Your father and I have things to discuss, very important things. By the way, I see you haven’t noticed he’s here.”

  She had never spoken so sharply and harshly to her daughter before, and Jochen felt such relief that he lay back in his chair. May was startled. “Oh, hello, Papa,” she muttered. “Run along, dear,” said Isabel. “And don’t disturb us, either you or Ethel. Children are important, but not when their parents have something more important on their minds. Run along; close the door after you.”

  Again, she began to think. Then she turned to Jochen, and smiled. “So, it comes down to this, very simply: We have enough money to give us a permanent income of at least six thousand dollars a year, even if you do nothing at all, Sweet. We have this house all paid for. When we married, Jochen, we had only eighteen hundred dollars a year. That’s almost twenty years ago, and times have changed. However, six thousand dollars, at least, is quite a lot of money. Not to live as we live now, or expected to live, but still quite a lot.”

  She sounded brisk and practical, but then, Jochen thought with gratitude, she belongs to a very practical sex. Isabel continued to take stock: “As you say, you can’t stand being a hired man to a super hired man. I’ve known that a long time. You’ll never be able to be a hireling again, my pet. So, what is the best thing to do? Why, go to some other city and invest in a machine tool business, and be a partner, or something! Very simple.

  “You’ve admitted that Charles did not actually ‘throw you out.’ I had a feeling all along he didn’t. After all, we both wanted you to be president of the company, and we both had a share in trying to undermine Charles. I still think you ought to have been president. I’ve never liked him or Phyllis; we tried to injure them. I’m sorry about that. However, that’s modern competition, and people do that to each other every day, and I imagine that’s bad, if natural. But that’s something we can’t help. We’re made that way. Charles had to make you leave the company—after everything. You’d do that yourself. He won, instead of you. So, we won’t be silly enough to be maudlin about the whole thing. We can be a little sorry, but not enough to cripple us.”

  Jochen had a moment’s wish that women weren’t so ‘‘damned sensible.” He was in a mood for sackcloth and ashes. Women, he suspected, did not regard sackcloth and ashes as fashionable, or even intelligent. Isabel was going on: “I never told you I was worried about Geraldine. How little sense the child has! She let this business of the wedding go on, and drooped all over the place instead of just telling me. I can’t help but be hurt that she went to you instead of to me. Oh, yes, I know! She was ‘doing it for us’! As if real parents would ever want their children hurt. Such a sentimental little fool! Well,” said Isabel, with a sigh. �
��Not too much harm’s been done. We’ll simply talk it over with the Brinkwells and then issue an announcement in the papers that the wedding is indefinitely postponed. It might be a relief to Pauline,” and Isabel laughed, drily.

  She looked affectionately at Jochen, and laughed again. “All right, I’ll tell Pauline. You won’t have to discuss it with Roger!”

  Jochen said: “You don’t care at all, do you, Isabel?” He spoke marvelingly.

  “Of course, I care! Don’t be ridiculous, Jochen. But we have just one important problem. Your happiness, your success, what you want.”

  She stood up, and Jochen got to his feet. He always rose so weightily and slowly, these days. He could not understand how it was that he could get up so easily now, with a sense of lightness and buoyancy. He put his arms about his wife. “I’ve been such a fool,” he said.

  “Of course you have. That’s what comes of a man not knowing a single thing about women.” But she smiled, and her eyes were full of tears. She kissed him. “Well, it’s all over. And I hear our trays coming, and tonight, for once, you’re going to eat a decent meal and not look as if every forkful was poison.”

  CHAPTER LVI

  Roger Brinkwell let Jochen talk without making any comment of any kind. They sat in Mr. Brinkwell’s elaborate office, and the clerks had been told not to interrupt. The early May sunshine ran in waves of light over the polished windows, and the long deep roaring of the mills could hardly be heard here. Jochen had found it easier to talk to his superior than he had thought; in fact, as he continued, he lost all his first nervousness and embarrassment, and gained confidence. He had long ago learned that it was impossible to guess what Brinkwell was thinking, for he was almost always smiling.

  The sunlight lay on Brinkwell’s big head with its crisp black hair, and there was a certain boyishness about him, which was due to his small and active body, his quick and energetic ways, his manner of speaking which was like the brisk snapping of fingers. Only the eyes that watched Jochen thoughtfully had no youth in them. They were shrewd and considering, and, to Jochen’s surprise, they were not in the least unfriendly.