The Strong City

  This was now Irmgard’s cue to ask soothingly about the dreams. But instead, with unusual briskness, she said: “Dreams. They are nonsense. There is only today. You look very well, Madam. Quite young and fresh.”

  At this startling remark, Mrs. Schmidt opened her eyes and stared in astonishment. Then a bitter smile touched her parched lips. “Young and fresh!” she murmured. Shadows made her sunken eyes dim, as though with memory. “They said I was a pretty girl,” she whispered.

  “Like Miss Ernestine,” suggested Irmgard.

  Mrs. Schmidt gave her a glance of fugitive pleasure. “Do you think Ernestine pretty? She believes she is very plain, and I can’t interest her in fashion at all. If she would only take an interest! You would not believe it, Irmgard, but there have been so many young men, and she would not look at them! I have told her a woman must not be too particular, or she will end by being an old maid.”

  She regarded Irmgard suspiciously. “And Ernestine is really quite young yet.” She paused, searching Irmgard’s face for an expression of mockery. But Irmgard was regarding her with simple affirmation.

  “Yes, very young,” said the girl, almost sadly.

  Sudden animation sent a dull flush over Mrs. Schmidt’s features.

  “Perhaps we can persuade Ernestine to go shopping with us today! It is really very nice outside. Do you think we can persuade her?”

  “I am sure of it,” said Irmgard.

  Mrs. Schmidt patted her braided hair. She sat up without the aid of pillows. “Irmgard, before you go for my breakfast, will you give me those copies of Harper’s? I should like to look at the winter fashions again. And will you ask Ernestine to come into my room, if she is ready?”

  Irmgard smiled. “Most certainly.” She gazed at Mrs. Schmidt with compassion and affection. The poor thin sick lady, with the deep graven lines of suffering on her face, and the parched lips! But now her eyes, really fine dark eyes, were sparkling, and if there was something feverish in her unusual animation, it gave some color to her ashen skin.

  The girl left the room with her quick but silent tread, and Mrs. Schmidt watched her go. What a lovely thing, so majestic and serene! she thought, wistfully. Whatever would I do without her, now! She understands me so perfectly, and Ernestine seems to be happier since she came. But what if she marries, as she most probably will? How can we bear to part with her?

  A consoling thought then occurred to her. Irmgard must marry some responsible and industrious person, sober and reliable. Perhaps, then, he could be employed by the Schmidts as a coachman or a butler, and she, Mrs. Schmidt, would not then lose her! Her face brightened at the thought, and she feverishly began to plan. Gillespie, the English butler! It is true he was a widower, and forty, but he was childless and responsible, and almost a gentleman. When questioned by Mrs. Schmidt as to his opinion of Irmgard, he had said reservedly, but with visible admiration, that she was “a very capable young person, who knows her place.” Matilda, unfortunately, had been virulent in her opinion, but then, Matilda was probably jealous of so much beauty and reserve.

  Mrs. Schmidt, then, with unusual excitement, began to plan Irmgard’s wedding. A plain gray silk, not too elaborately looped, and draped. That would be unbefitting her station. But a silk of excellent quality, which could be purchased only in New York. She could then wear it on holidays, and at church. A gray velvet bonnet, decorous, with perhaps a bunch of violets on its narrow brim, and two violet ribbons to tie under that firm white chin. A gray wool jacket, and a mole stole. She, Mrs. Schmidt, had just the thing, locked away in her wardrobe, in camphor balls. It had been very expensive, and she had had it for years, but had hardly worn it. The bridal couple, of course, must have a brief honeymoon. She would see to that. Her present to Irmgard would be two hundred dollars. Of course, they would not spend it all. They would put most of it in the bank, as a nest egg. Naturally, too, there would be a trousseau, of good plain quality, a black broadcloth for winter, and perhaps a demure foulard for the spring. Petticoats and chemises of fine strong nainsook, with tatting edges. Mrs. Schmidt’s excitement rose. Irmgard must be married by Mr. Wettlaufer in the First Lutheran Church, of course. That was in keeping. Mrs. Schmidt was an Episcopalian, herself, but her sense of propriety and fitness would not allow her to consider a wedding in her own elaborate church. Besides, almost all Germans were Lutherans, she thought vaguely. Except when they were Roman Catholics, which was pretty dreadful, she meditated. What had Hans once said? “A German Catholic is an insult to Luther.”

  She must have a talk with Gillespie. A little delicate hinting, perhaps—

  Irmgard opened the bedroom door and came in with the breakfast tray. Two spots of color burned on her smooth cheeks, for she had had another encounter with Matilda. But her manner was still tranquil. She moved across the floor like a princess, in her old-fashoned black dress and white ruffled apron. She placed the tray on Mrs. Schmidt’s knees, smiling. “There, a lovely egg, and very nice toast,” she said, in her low, charmingly accented voice. “And such good coffee!”

  Mrs. Schmidt watched her fondly as she prepared the egg and poured the coffee from its small silver pot. “My dear,” she said, “have you thought of marrying?”

  For an instant Irmgard’s hands halted. But it was only an instant. She put sugar into the thin china cup, brimming now with clear dark liquid. “No, Madam,” she said, quietly. “I have not thought of it.”

  “But a young woman like you, Irmgard! So beautiful, too. Ah, I am afraid that is too good to be true, and I am afraid I shall be losing you one of these days.”

  She studied that serene and perfect profile, that long white neck and beautiful breast.

  Irmgard smiled again. “I shall remain with you, Madam, until you tell me to go,” she said. “But you must eat the egg; it is cooling.”

  Mrs. Schmidt felt a thrill of happiness and satisfaction. She lifted a dark emaciated finger archly. “Then, we must get you a husband I can approve of. I shall not let you marry someone unworthy, Irmgard. Then, he must not take you from us. Someone, perhaps, who would be willing to work here, too—”

  The girl was amused. She looked at Mrs. Schmidt and laughed a little. Then she said: “But your breakfast, Madam: it is spoiling.”

  Mrs. Schmidt pretended to stubbornness. “I shall eat nothing, Irmgard, until you promise not to leave me.”

  “I promise,” answered Irmgard, lightly. “But I shall not keep the promise unless you agree to go for a drive today.”

  “Ah, you are so sweet, my dear.”

  The sick woman ate with unusual appetite. In the meantime, Irmgard busied herself about the great, dank, luxurious room. She opened a window surreptitiously. The clear cold air, so fresh and pure, invaded the chamber, driving from it all the fetid odors of the night. The draperies stirred in the slight wind. Sunshine lay on the broad mahogany sills. Morning stillness lay outside, broken only by the sound of a leisurely passing victoria. Irmgard saw the wheels twinkling in the sun, saw the light shimmer on the backs of two sleek gray horses. Two coachmen sat stiff and erect in the rear, in uniform. The driver was a fat old man, and in the carriage sat a fat old woman in sables, very straight and uncompromising.

  “Do you like America, Irmgard?” asked Mrs. Schmidt from the bed. She was drinking her coffee thirstily.

  Irmgard turned and inclined her head. “Everyone is kind to me,” she said. If there was indifferent reserve in her voice, Mrs. Schmidt did not detect it.

  “It must be strange to you, coming from Germany.”

  “But people are the same everywhere,” said Irmgard.

  “And you do not find America strange?”

  Irmgard was silent. Strange! The curious immobility that lay over her senses prevented her, almost constantly, from feeling the impact of strangeness. Perhaps, she thought, there was a deadness in her, which precluded a response to unfamiliarity. Days, to her, were always the same, without color or vitality.

  “I live as I can,” she said.

  Mrs
. Schmidt found the remark very odd. But her tired mind always refused speculation. It exhausted her. She finished her coffee.

  Ernestine came in, first peering archly around the door, and then tripping into the room with her shy gaiety.

  “Good morning, Mama! Good morning, Irmgard! Such a nice day, after all that rain.” She kissed her mother’s thin cheek. “How well we are, this morning. Perhaps we can have a drive today?”

  As if she too felt release from the long days of miserable weather, she had dressed herself in crisp red silk looped with black velvet ribbon. She looked very pretty, her dark chignon breaking into little curls on her neck, and the dark fringed bangs giving sparkle to her innocent eyes. Her tiny immature figure was compact and neat, her small hands ringed, and there was a faint aura of rose perfume floating about her. Mrs. Schmidt regarded her with wistful love.

  “Irmgard suggested a drive, too, my pet. And do you know, I almost feel inclined for it! I thought we might do some shopping,” she added, uncertainly.

  Ernestine gurgled. “Shopping! Excellent!” She clapped her little hands like a child. “I am in the mood for shopping. I hear that Mlle. LeClair has some lovely new bonnets, which they say just came from Paris. Probably from New York, instead, but perhaps quite nice.”

  Mrs. Schmidt was delighted. She could not remember Ernes tine being so exuberant as this, so sparkling and happy, so young.

  She, herself, had not been out of bed for days. But her illness was in her mind, not in her tortured body. Irmgard had long suspected this. She had also long suspected that in invalidism Mrs. Schmidt had found retreat from an intolerable world, and in that retreat, a slow, self-willed suicide. Now that she was suddenly happy, the almost strangled will-to-live sent her sluggish blood more quickly through her veins. She felt practically well, and eager again. And how long had it been since she had been eager!

  “I feel so well,” she said suddenly, and as though the words astounded and frightened her, her frail voice trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. Her expression became one of blank astonishment, as if she had heard another speak in her voice, and not herself.

  “Of course!” cried Ernestine, clapping her hands again, and actually capering a little dance step on the thick rug. “I knew that Irmgard would do you so much good! She has been good for everyone. Even Baldur. Perhaps we can persuade him to drive with us, also, though it will not be so interesting, to a gentleman, to accompany ladies when they are shopping.”

  Her little dance had brought her to Irmgard. Impulsively, she rose on tiptoe and kissed Irmgard swiftly on the cheek. Irmgard started. Color ran over her face, and a great softness came into her eyes with her smile.

  “It is you, who are so good to me,” she said, falteringly.

  “We love you so, Irmgard,” exclaimed Ernestine, with a childlike lack of reserve, and with simple affection. “The house has been so different since you came.”

  “Indeed!” cried Mrs. Schmidt, pushing herself up from her pillows. “I have quite an appetite now. Ernestine, love, do come and look at Harper’s. The most extraordinary styles this year. The bustle, it appears, is definitely passé. There is hardly a suggestion—And the boots! Really quite foolish.”

  Irmgard picked up the devastated breakfast tray and carried it out of the room, leaving the ladies to their absorbed and excited contemplation of the fashion magazines.

  She liked this house now no better than she had liked it the first day. She still could not traverse the long lofty corridors, so gloomy and chill, without the original repulsion and depression. The sombre rooms, dim with sinister shadows, the whole air of sinister conspiracy and chronic fear which pervaded every corner, the atmosphere at once cold and repellent and dank, sometimes made her plan desperately for escape. There were very few visitors to this house. Mrs. Schmidt’s invalidism, Ernestine’s shyness, Baldur’s infirmity, and the crudeness and boorishness of Mr. Schmidt, were no assets to hospitality. Though Irmgard had been in this house for nearly two months, there had been no parties, no dinners, no gaieties. The inhabitants of the great mansion lived in isolation and semi-darkness, almost ostracism. Irmgard had seen the ballroom and the billiard room. In the former, the chandeliers were shrouded in muslin, as were the tiny gilt chairs. The windows were shuttered, and dust lay gritty on the polished floor. The billiard room tables were shrouded in covers. The vaulted library, the tremendous parlors, the desolate dining room, lay in dim silence, day after day. Ernestine had told Irmgard that the last ball had been held in this house nearly two years ago, the last dinner six months previous. Irmgard had discovered that the two women, and the son, hated this house, not actively, but passively, as prisoners hate a prison.

  “If we could only have a small, bright, pretty house, in the suburbs, or the country!” Ernestine had sighed. “With big gardens, and clean air. But Papa loves this house. He built it. So, we say nothing. Even in the summer we remain here, though the weather at all times is very bad for Mama.”

  So Irmgard knew that there were no escapes to the seashore, to the mountains, to the fields. There was no normal life for these sad people, who lived in wretchedness and silence and deep loneliness. They were cut off from the warm world of men and laughter and eagerness as though they lived in a vast tomb, enduring a sort of semi-life without hope or gladness.

  Even the servants in their quarters were overcome by the general gloom and dreariness. Mrs. Flaherty, the cook, declared that only the unusually high wages kept her in this house. She was very frank in confessing that on her days off, and sometimes at night, she “took to the bottle.”

  “Shure, if I did not,” she would say, “it’s crazy as a loon I’d be.” Gillespie, the butler, shared her loathing opinion of the house, but high wages was also the reason for his remaining. He was a very good friend of Mrs. Flaherty, who was a widow, and spent his hours off duty in her rooms, probably taking to the bottle also. The three chambermaids, dull Slovak girls, with little imagination, huddled together in their common bedroom, hardly talking above a whisper. But sometimes they would laugh or sing or dance, secure in the knowledge that they would not be heard under the roof. The two coachmen, and the three stable-boys, had their rooms above the stables. The lights in the mansion were usually off by ten o’clock, but Irmgard, from her window, could see the happy lights burning above the stables far into the night.

  Irmgard’s constant duties kept her employed until bed time. However, she had already made friends of both Mrs. Flaherty and Gillespie, and sometimes she was able to escape for an hour, after Mrs. Schmidt was comfortably settled for the night, and at that time she would climb the narrow winding back stairway to Mrs. Flaherty’s rooms. There she had some small escape in the company of the little fat Irish cook and the dignified Englishman.

  From the smallest chambermaid to Gillespie, they all hated Matilda, who had a pleasant sitting room and bedroom and bath on the third floor. They whispered darkly together, and snickered, for they knew that “the master” was a frequent visitor to those rooms, and that the door was kept shut sometimes for hours after his entry. Had Matilda, however, been amiable and agreeable and kind, they would not have minded her unusual position in this household. But she was tyrannical and mean, arrogant and contemptuous, and so overbearing that Mrs. Flaherty often threatened to assault her with an iron saucepan. “A Prussian overseer,” said Gillespie, with lofty disdain. His learning and worldliness inspired great admiration in Mrs. Flaherty, who knew nothing of Prussians, but who privately thought all Germans something apart from common humanity. Nor was the apartness complimentary in her opinion.

  “Mark my words,” Gillespie would say darkly, “we’ll all have something to do with those chaps, yet.”

  This cheered Mrs. Flaherty, whose lively imagination waited impatiently for that day, when she would be able to batter Matilda with numerous iron saucepans to her heart’s content, without fear of “the law.” “Not that I’d kill the bitch,” she would say, magnanimously, “but I’d lay her up, good and pro
per.”

  They soon learned that Matilda hated the new arrival, Irmgard, and this alone would have been sufficient to inspire a friendship for the girl. But she won friendship in her own right, also. She made Mrs. Flaherty reverse her former opinion that Germans were a race, or a species, apart, and Gillespie soon adored her with dignity. “A lady, and no mistake,” he said, with a nod of his austere head. They loved her beauty and gentleness, her green eyes which could sparkle with quiet amusement, her considerate manners, and her great quiet patience.

  They knew many things. They knew that Matilda worked unceasingly for the girl’s dismissal. Once they had heard angry voices behind the housekeeper’s door, and one of the voices was that of the master. The voices spoke in German, but Gillespie, lurking in the hall, heard Irmgard’s name. They also knew that Miss Ernestine championed the girl, and opposed her father vigorously in her gentle way. They dared not express their hatred for Matilda openly, for fear of dismissal, but in a thousand small ways they let her know without uncertainty what they thought of her. She took her revenge on them more freely, because of her position. Irmgard, because she was so immured with Mrs. Schmidt, rarely crossed her path, but on the few occasions that she did so the housekeeper tormented her, abused her, and insulted her beyond endurance. “How the colleen can stand it, I don’t know,” Mrs. Flaherty would say. “But those quiet ones—One of these days the worm will turn.”

  Irmgard endured the abuse and the insults with silent dignity. She hardly seemed to listen. She went her way calmly, though sometimes her face would flush and the green eyes would flash with emerald fire. The other servants soon learned that Irmgard despised the housekeeper, and that it was contempt and self-respect which kept her silent and withdrawn in the face of reprimands and oppression. They admired her the more for this, but candidly did not understand.

  They did not know that she loathed this house. They did not know that she remained in it because of Mrs. Schmidt, Ernestine and Baldur. Kind-hearted though Mrs. Flaherty was, this would not have interfered with her leaving, had it not been for the unusually good wages. “The mistress,” she would say to Irmgard, “is a fool, and sickly, but she is a great lady, and no mistake. Miss Ernestine’s a fool, too, but as innocent as a lamb. And Mr. Baldur is good and kind, though it gives me the shudders to look at him, for all he’s got such a lovely face. As for the master, he’s a fair one! Gillespie calls him a boar without hoofs.” She giggled. “Though I’d not be surprised he had ’em. Better ask Matilda.” So Irmgard soon learned that the servants all despised their mistresses and masters, some with pity, some with indifference. Therefore, had Irmgard told them that her great compassion and affection for the two desolate women and the crippled man kept her in that house, they would have stared, dumfounded and incredulous.