Balance Wheel

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Trust the President,” was the editorial comment of all the newspapers. Yesterday, they had screamed for war. Today, they pleaded: “Trust the President.”

  Charles ate his lunch, and for the first time in days there was no clenching terror in him, no fear or despair. Perhaps, in his thoughts, and in the things he had said to others, he had done the American people a great injustice. Was it possible, as his father had often said, that a people was often far more intelligent than its Government?

  Now, thought Charles, if the damned Germans will only stop openly and defiantly being “glad” that the Lusitania was sunk! If that damned Embassy in Washington will only shut its mouth! If that idiot of a Kaiser will stop striking his chest and shouting: “Deutschland über Alles!” And if Americans will just stop sailing on British vessels! Just a few things to do, and the plotters would be impotent, and the plan against the freedom of man, all over the world, would lie and mold away in secret drawers.

  Jochen, in his office, sometimes would not lift a pen or a finger for as long as half an hour at a time. He would just look vacantly before him, running his tongue over his dry lips, lighting a cigar only to let it die out, unsmoked, in its tray, wiping his forehead, and thinking, thinking.

  CHAPTER LVIII

  Before the date of his return from Harvard, Jim had asked his father if he would “mind” if he, Jim, paid a visit of a few days to the home of fellow freshmen in upper New York State. Walter Haas, Jim wrote, was also going to visit these friends. “Of course,” Jim ended the letter, “if you’d rather I didn’t, Dad, I’ll come home immediately.” There was a long-suffering and patient note to the letter which irked Charles.

  But, I suppose, thought Charles, this is part of the separation which began last September, part of the separation that will continue as long as I live. So Charles, irked again at the tone of the letter, wrote back: “Enjoy yourself, son. But be back in time for my wedding, on August tenth. If you feel that is too early, I’ll understand.”

  “It’s only five or six days, after all, Charles,” said Phyllis, soothingly, when Charles complained to her, out of his disappointment.

  The extra few days passed, and on the night before the day Jim was to arrive home Charles gave a dinner for Mr. and Mrs. George Hadden, Friederich and his wife, Helen, and Phyllis. It was a hot June evening, and there were long and soundless flashes of heat lightning in the summer sky which outlined the distant mountains and blazed for an instant or two on the tops of the thick trees of the streets. After dinner, they sat in the parlor, and Charles was amused at the furtive and considering glances Phyllis kept giving the room. He knew that she was already deciding what pieces of furniture might be retained and what discarded. The next week she was going to Philadelphia and New York with Mrs. Holt for her trousseau, and what she vaguely called “other affairs.” The house which Wilhelm had built had already been sold, and the furniture, except for the best paintings, and a few cherished chairs and tables and mirrors and carpets, also was to be sold.

  Mrs. Meyers had cooked a very good dinner; Phyllis had arrived at Charles’ house earlier in the afternoon, and had supervised both dinner and table. Charles was very happy with his guests, and he looked at little Edith Hadden and his new sister-in-law, Helen, and at Phyllis, with affection. But inevitably, George Hadden and he and Friederich unobtrusively moved to one end of the room, leaving the women together. Helen gave them a smiling but irritated glance, and was grateful that, if she were being deserted, she at least had two women to talk to who were not “comfy” fools who could chatter about nothing but clothes and children and servants. She, herself, was three months pregnant; however, she did not discuss this with her brother’s wife, or Phyllis.

  “Well,” said Charles, “it seems the war scare is passing. Everybody’s settling down, reasonably, following the President’s lead. I hope though”—and Charles laughed—“that he won’t run out of paper for his notes.”

  He was very much at ease, now. The country, in general, was showing great restraint and caution and common sense. Many newspapers, in their cartoons and editorials, published inflammatory jibes, sneers, and insults against the Kaiser and Germany and “Kultur.” The anti-British attacks had become much milder, however, even in the few papers openly defending Germany. The “neutral” press had almost entirely ceased to mention anything derogatory about Great Britain. Mr. Grimsley knew this, if Charles did not, but Mr. Grimsley did not tell his friend. Old Charlie had enough to worry him as it was. And too, if the press in general was very overheated, the people displayed admirable calm. There might be “Aid for Britain” bazaars and “benefits” and such, but this was only a sign of the immense good nature of Americans. Besides, next year there was to be another Presidential election, and the people turned from the news of the European war to news about prospective candidates. It was firmly believed, in some quarters, that Mr. Wilson’s “New Freedom” program was the opening of an enlightened age, and it was just as firmly believed, in other quarters, that it was the beginning of “anarchy.” Besides, there was the baseball season to consider.

  George and Friederich made no comment after Charles’ remark. They only gave each other a sober glance, which Charles did not see.

  “This thing can’t go on,” Charles continued. “There’re rumors every day of the end of the war. No one’s winning.”

  Friederich frowned. “The Russians were, Karl, until just recently. Have you forgotten the fall of Przemysl, in March, after a four months’ siege? The Russians captured nearly 100,000 men, and it was thought, at that time, that this would put Austria out of the war. It did not. Then Russia took 50,000 more Austrian prisoners, the latter part of the same month, in the Carpathian passes, and Germany had to go to Austria’s aid, with two million men.”

  “Well, you see, it’s just as I said: nobody’s winning. They just shuffle the armies about,” said Charles. “Of course, the German offensive against Russia started a couple of months ago, but—”

  Friederich looked at George challengingly. Charles, lately, had been in a very optimistic mood. It did not do, Friederich thought, to let anyone be optimistic these days. It was too dangerous. So Friederich said: “Yes. And the Germans won every battle against the Russians, thereafter, and by May 11th their lines were at Przemysl, again. And the Russians have been retreating ever since.”

  Charles moved uncomfortably in his chair. “Oh, the Russians will rally again. When Russia gets Mackensen in her mouth she’ll close her jaws on him. As she closed her jaws on Napoleon.”

  George Hadden saw that Friederich was not going to permit his brother to be complacent. Perhaps Friederich was right. George looked at Charles and said, gently: “I wonder if you’ve given any thought as to why Russia, who was carrying everything before her only a few months ago, should be now retreating, Charlie? Retreating, as if at a signal, with victory before her?”

  “Mackensen,” said Charles, “and his two million men—”

  “But the Russians were advancing steadily. It isn’t easy to stop a huge army in its tracks, suddenly. And not as easily as this. Why, Charlie?”

  All Charles’ pleasure in the evening was gone. Something ominous had moved close to him, in this warm bright room. He could hear the women “gossiping,” and the sound of the night wind in the trees, and the flutter of the curtains, and the distant note of a gramophone, and the softened slaps of screen doors as people came in and out of their houses. He could hear the friendly voices of his neighbors, the creak of hammocks and rockers on the porches. It was comfortable, and it was home, and here were his friends and relatives. Yet, something was standing over him again, faceless and evil.

  “What do you mean by ‘why,’ George?” he demanded.

  George answered seriously: “There are ways to get reports, Charlie. We know, now, that something is happening in Russia. What it is we don’t know as yet. But a signal was given for the Russian armies to retreat. And we do know that the Russian regiments are miserably armed, those wh
ich have been moved up. We know that ammunition in Russia is being sent off to sidings in Russian towns, and left standing there. No effort is being made to supply the men. Mackensen is approaching Lemberg, and Russia has half a million dead. Why was this permitted?”

  Charles decided he did not like George tonight. His nerves had quieted down lately; he was sleeping better. Now here was the sinister thing again, the universal and almost soundless booming of secret drums under the shrill trumpets of war.

  “There might be some,” said George, when Charles did not speak but only eyed him bitterly, “who don’t want Russia to overcome Germany, or even Germany to overcome Russia.” He turned to Friederich, and said: “Friederich, I think you can tell us a little.”

  Friederich flushed miserably. Charles looked at him: “Well?” he demanded.

  “Karl,” said the other man. “You’ve forgotten. We talked about this, all during the past year or so. When I was a—I mean, when I had slightly different ideas, I heard a great deal. All Europe was to be socialized. That was the plan. Then America, and then the rest of the world. ‘The death of freedom for all men, everywhere.’ You said it yourself, Karl. Those were your words.”

  “I know,” said Charles. He put down his cigar. “But I’d hoped the plotters were done with, now. I’d hoped—”

  George leaned towards him, earnestly. “Charlie, let’s look at pre-war Europe. England, France and Germany, and Scandinavia: what has distinguished them from most of the other countries during the past one hundred years or so? The rise of a strong and vigorous middle class. What, in the main, does the middle class, anywhere, stand for? Moderation, progress, peace, and freedom. This religion of the middle class has become very strong in the major nations of Europe, even in Germany. Now, it has been decided that in one way or another the middle class must be destroyed. After it is destroyed, there’ll be no freedom, anywhere. Call it Socialism or Marxism, or whatever—it’ll still be slavery.” The young Quaker sighed.

  Phyllis, smiling at some remark little Mrs. Hadden had made, glanced at Charles. Where was the “good color” which he had had all evening? Phyllis heard him say: “We won’t get in! If we do, it’s the end of us.” She stood up, alarmed, and went to him and put her hand on his shoulder. He did not look at her. “I insist that you men have stayed away from us too long,” she said. “Now, we’re coming up here with you, or you’re coming back with us.” She made her voice light and gay.

  They heard the screen door open, then slap shut. Charles did not move. Then he heard Phyllis exclaim, joyfully: “Jim!”

  At the sound of that name, Charles was electrified. He jumped to his feet. Jim was actually there, without warning, with his bags in his hands. Charles almost ran to him. “Son! I didn’t expect you until tomorrow! Why, you rascal, you’re home at last! Wanted to give me a surprise, I suppose!” He caught his son’s hand and shook it vigorously, and looked about for the others to share his delight.

  They crowded about Jim, shaking his hand. Phyllis and Helen kissed him. It was only the women who saw that the boy was pale and strained, and seemed very tired. All the time that his hand was being shaken, and Phyllis and Helen were kissing him, he looked at nobody but his father, and his young eyes were grave and afraid.

  “Leave the bags right there!” Charles said. “Sit, sit down. Have you had any dinner? There’s some cold lemonade in the ice-box, or some beer, perhaps. Sit down, son. Why do you stand there like that?”

  Jim glanced at the faces around him. “I’m glad you’re all here. It makes it easier,” he said. “Easier for me, and perhaps for Dad.” Again he fixed his eyes on Charles. “Dad, I’ve got to tell you. Now. When I was upstate in New York, visiting some friends—with Walter—we met a brother of one of the fellows. He’s with an ambulance unit, for the Canadian Red Cross. Dad, Walter and I are going. In a few days. Dad? You see, we had to do it. All those people being killed. The Red Cross needs drivers, for its ambulances. We’ve got to help. I don’t care about England or Germany, or anybody, Just the men who’ve got to get to hospitals. Dad? Why don’t you say something?”

  But nobody said anything. No one looked at Charles. Jim took a step towards his father, and held out his hand pleadingly. “Dad, it won’t be long. Three or four months, or so. Or even six months. I won’t be missing much, at school. Why, I’ll probably be back in September, in time! Everybody says the war’s nearly over, now. Dad, why do you look at me like that?”

  It was long after midnight, and the heat lightning had given way to real lightning, and there was a dull muttering in the hot air. Charles had said very little. He had said nothing much at all, except: “No.” His friends and relatives sat around him and Jim, and Charles stared at them all, slowly, terribly, doggedly. He stared at his son. And each time he said: “No.”

  He could not say anything else. He looked to George Hadden and Friederich for help. He was like a dying man. At last, after all these hours, George said: “What’s done can’t be undone, Charlie. After all, the boy won’t be in much danger, if any. No one fires on the Red Cross. It’s against international law. And there’s the matter of Jim’s conscience to consider. He is a human being, and he has his rights as such, and it’s an errand of mercy.”

  Charles regarded him with hatred. He said: “Go away, Hadden. I don’t want to talk to you any longer. I’ve asked your help, and you’ve turned against me.”

  George sighed. “I know how you feel, Charlie. We’ll go home.” He stood up, and his little wife, who had been crying, as Phyllis and Helen had been crying, too, came up to him. The two Haddens left the house, silently.

  Charles turned to Friederich, with fierceness. “I’ve told him. He knows! Tell him yourself, Fred.”

  Friederich was utterly wretched. “If you have told him, Karl, I can tell him no more. Let us think of this for a moment. George is correct in saying one cannot interfere with a man’s conscience. And help is needed. But I do think”—and Friederich tried to frown with ferocity at his nephew—“that the father should have been consulted, first, before the decision was made, and the journey taken to Canada, and all commitments agreed to—that the father should have known, it should have been discussed. It is the American way, now, to disregard the father, though it is not so in Europe. The father is nothing, in America.”

  “Uncle Fred, I didn’t disregard Dad,” said poor Jim, almost weeping. “When we talked to this friend’s brother, Walter and I saw what we had to do. There was no time to talk to anyone. So, we went to Toronto.”

  Friederich shook his head sorrowfully. “The father only gives life. He is not to be respected.”

  Helen said softly: “I don’t think Jim felt like that. He acted very hastily, and though I understand, I think he ought to have talked it over with his father.”

  “Dad,” said Jim, with simplicity, “would have talked me out of it. And all the time, back at school, I’d have been thinking of how much I was needed, and I’d have hated myself. The Red Cross isn’t an army. It’s a mercy organization. I’ll be saving lives, not taking them.”

  “No,” said Charles, and he beat his knee with his fist.

  “Jim,” murmured Phyllis, helplessly. All her pain was for Charles. She did not touch him; she only sat as close to him as possible.

  “Aunt Phyllis, you’ve got to help me and Dad,” said Jim, desperately. “He has a life of his own, too. I’ve just begun to realize. You’ll be getting married to each other; you can do such a lot for Dad.”

  “No,” said Phyllis, shaking her head with sadness. “That’s the worst of it. You can’t do anything for anybody you love.”

  Jim stood up. He looked down at his father. “I’ve only got a few days home, Dad. Don’t make it too hard on me. I’ve got to go; everything’s arranged. Let’s have these few days together. Look, Dad, we’ll go fishing; we’ll go everywhere together—”

  “No!” cried Charles, and now his shock and dread made his face swell and grow darkly congested. “No, no, in the name of God!” />
  CHAPTER LIX

  Jim told himself that he was a coward, but he was afraid to be alone with his father. He went upstairs while Phyllis, Helen, and Friederich were still with Charles, and he undressed hurriedly, turned off the light, and went to bed. A long time later, Jim heard his relatives leaving. He pulled the sheet over his head, childishly. But his father did not come into the room. Jim turned over and listened; he heard Charles moving about in his own room. Finally there was a monotonous beat through the walls; Charles was walking up and down, back and forth. To the young man, it was the most mournful sound he could hear: the exhausted pacing of his father, growing slower and heavier, but never stopping. Once Jim, worn out, fell into a doze, woke with a start to see the gray line of the morning under his shade. Charles was still walking, feebly. Jim sat up. He said to himself that he couldn’t stand it any longer. His father would die of this. He began to get out of bed, then he heard the creak of the springs in Charles’ room, the sudden weighty drop of Charles’ body on the mattress. Jim did not doze again, this Sunday morning.

  He got up, finally, red-eyed and aching, dressed and crept downstairs. He could smell the coffee and the bacon, the toast and the pancakes. He went into the kitchen and Mrs. Meyers was there, crying. She looked at the young man reproachfully. “Now, don’t start on me,” said Jim, with haste. “I see you know all about it. Dad’s sleeping—I guess. I’m going to church, so I’ll just eat here in the kitchen.”

  “I should think you would go to church,” said Mrs. Meyers. “You’ll be the death of your poor father. But that’s the way with children, break your heart after they take all you’ve got.” Nevertheless, when she saw how little Jim could eat, and how heart-broken he was, she was remorseful.