“It’s not a matter of age, always,” said Phyllis. “My aunt never wore bifocals, even at seventy.”
The guests came in, in a body, five couples. Charles knew them only slightly. They were the elegantes of Andersburg, the dilettantes, like Wilhelm. But they were all reassuringly wealthy, retired coal “barons” or other business men. Their average age was fifty, or even a little more. Then Charles was intrigued. He had never wondered before why most of Wilhelm’s friends were so much older than himself. Now, he saw. Wilhelm was afraid of growing old. In contrast with these other men he was young, quick, and vivid. Poor old Willie, thought Charles, almost fondly. In fourteen months he’ll be looking forty in the face, too. It’s going to be a wrench for him.
In some obscure fashion the sudden perception of this weakness of Wilhelm’s increased Charles’ affection for his brother, and as his affection became stronger his own pain unaccountably abated in some measure.
The room was aflutter with blue, rose, white, and yellow dresses, rustling like a soft wind among the solid black of the men. If the other male guests were surprised to see Charles there they did not show it. They greeted him with restrained courtesy, commented on the weather. Then they were helpless. They could talk to Charles about nothing. They were retired. They were trying their best to forget their former businesses. They were patrons of the arts. What could they say to this man who so very solidly recalled the days of bitter struggle, strategy, and competition? They thought of the offices they had abandoned, of hours of sudden gross exhilaration or victory. They thought of all this, and they eyed Charles resentfully. They sipped at their small glasses of sherry, and saw he drank none. A whiskey man, they thought. Possibly even beer. Nostalgia gnawed at them. They held their sherry glasses to the newly lit light of the chandelier, and squinted like connoisseurs.
Their ladies, in their late forties or early fifties, did not feel in the least resentful of Charles. They liked him. One or two chided him for sending regrets to some of their dinner parties. A short stout matron, who was not intensely interested in Monet, or in any artist, in fact, said to him, roundly: “Why aren’t you ever seen about, Charles? Do you try to avoid us?”
“No, Mrs. Holt. No, indeed. But it seems I’m always so busy these days.”
Busy. The men brooded on this. Of course, he would be “busy,” they thought with some vindictiveness. Everyone knew that he was really “the whole thing” at the Wittmann Machine Tool Company. Not a thought in his head but profits and competitors and machines and business. Probably took account books home with him at nights. Noisy office; noisy factory behind him. All that coming and going, and letter-writing and reading and activity. The guests were more resentful than ever.
Mr. Bartholemew, a large booming man, was saying, near Charles: “I’ve a very fine paper here, if I must admit it myself, Wilhelm. Monet, when you think of him—” He was again surprised to find Charles here. “Oh,” he said. “Charles, do you know anything about Monet? I mean, do you really know anything about him, or are you going to be intolerably bored?”
Phyllis could not help saying, mischievously: “Oh, Charles is simply fascinated with Monet. All about the different studies of the Cathedral at Rouen.” Then seeing Charles’ dismay, she added: “But, then, Henry, you are going into all that, yourself, aren’t you?”
“Yes, my dear Phyllis, certainly.” But Mr. Bartholemew was staring disbelievingly at Charles.
Dinner was fortunately then announced. Charles was so enormously relieved to find himself not seated next to Phyllis that he even attacked the jellied soup. But after a spoonful or two he abandoned it. Then came the lobster a la Newburg. Lobster was one dish of which he held a very low opinion. Wilhelm was telling someone how the lobsters had been shipped to him in ice, and how his chef had insisted upon too much sherry. He had almost discharged the ignoramus. The guests nodded. The two or three who were resentful of Charles became resentful of the lobster, too. A spareribs man. One could tell that, easily. His complexion was too red.
Deserting the lobster, Charles tried the sauce. He deserted this, too, very quickly. There was really nothing he could eat but bread, and there had been only a single roll on his plate, and there was not a damned piece of butter in sight. In the interests of the company he had certainly let himself in for an infernal evening. The exquisite, fragile dining-room was becoming too hot; the cool evening did not penetrate here. Charles drank a glass of water, dejectedly. But he was very polite to the ladies on each side of him. He was glad that Mrs. Holt sat at his right. The lady at his left did not talk about Monet, either.
The rest of the evening promised to be even more appalling. He had no pleasant cushions of thought and reflection on which to drowse while the talk went on about him or before him. He could not think of his son without that swell of unfamiliar panic; he could not think of the shops without thinking of that damnable aeroplane steering-control assembly and the Bouchards and Colonel Grayson and the things which Mr. Grimsley had shown him in the newspapers, which he—infernal fool!—had hardly noticed before. He could not occupy himself with a cigar and look at Phyllis and feel a warm pleasure and contentment. He could not look at Wilhelm and watch his mercurial movements, his grimaces, his quick gestures, and be amused at the watching. He had only two subjects to fall back upon: Friederich and Jochen, and when he thought of these two brothers, it was with a kind of malaise.
The balance wheel. That is what so many had called him, he remembered. Oh, it was easy enough to be a “balance wheel” in one’s own orbit. But when one was flung outside that orbit into the terrible confusion of vague but inimical disaster, where one had no control over anything, then one was no longer a balance wheel, not even among his own hopeless thoughts. “A man of resolution,” his grandfather had once told him, “is a man whom nothing can hurt.” But his grandfather had had somewhere to go, to get away from sinister men. There was no place in the world where one could go now. The circle was closed by the wolves.
What then? Courage? He felt that inwardly he was in a crouch, turning his head from side to side in utter darkness, his fists impotently clenched.
The party moved, laughing and gay, into the music room, with Charles somberly bringing up the rear. The air in this room was cooler. But all at once Charles was seized by claustrophobia. He couldn’t breathe. The sleek pale walls appeared to crowd in upon him. A small gilt chair was being pushed towards him; he sat down. Phyllis was beside him, and she was smiling at him, though she only smiled with her lips. He felt her concern. He said: “A very nice dinner.” He did not know how pale his face was under the glittering chandelier.
Phyllis said, very gently: “There is an old saying, that when evils cannot be cured they must be endured.”
Her voice was almost a whisper. Her hand brushed his arm briefly. And then before he could answer her, she had turned to her neighbor, Mr. Holt, and was saying in a bright tone: “So much cooler, don’t you think?”
Endured. But sometimes there was an end to endurance, a place where a man had no fortitude left, because fighting did no good.
He became aware that Mr. Bartholemew had been speaking for some time. Apparently he, Charles, was behaving properly. He was staring at Mr. Bartholemew with something which must pass for concentration. Mr. Bartholemew’s attitude was pompous; his mouth moved, but Charles could not hear a single thing he was saying. People were nodding approvingly about Charles; he nodded, too. Then he remembered what Phyllis had said. Yes, he thought, his lips pressed together, I suppose I can endure. I suppose I could go on living, no matter what happened. I suppose they’d call that courage.
He was very tired. His tiredness was a strong ache all over his body.
He had not liked school, and so had not continued at college. But he remembered something Ovid had written: “Neither can the wave which has passed be called back; nor can the hour which has gone by return.” He had not thought of Ovid for years, if he had ever consciously thought of him. Why, then, did that majestic
and dolorous phrase return to him now?
Had “the hour” gone by? He knew, all at once, that it had gone, and that he could do nothing about it, could never have done anything about it, but that if millions of men like himself had known in time they could have prevented the birth of that hour, could have stood in the path of the wave and built a wall of stones against it. But it was too late, now.
People were clapping softly about him. He clapped, too. He saw their faces, politely enthusiastic. But Wilhelm was scowling. Wilhelm was preparing to give a short rebuttal to Mr. Bartholemew’s talk on Monet. Oh, God, thought Charles, watching his brother take Mr. Bartholemew’s place.
Wilhelm was talking in his swift, irritable voice, and with elegant gestures. Phyllis leaned towards Charles. He bent towards her. “Eh? I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Oh, Charles,” she was whispering. “I don’t know what it is, but you are so strong, Charles.”
He looked at her slender face and he thought how beautiful it was, and a horrible despondency clutched him. He shook his head slightly. “No,” he said. “Not this time, Phyllis.”
Why was she so concerned about him? Why did she look so wretched? She was whispering again: “I know it’s another aphorism, but Cicero did say that a man of courage is also full of faith.”
He pondered on this. Then he said: “I have no faith. I see now that I never did. Except in myself. And it isn’t enough, Phyllis.”
“It never was,” she answered.
But in what could a man have faith? thought Charles, on the way home. God? God had retreated into opaque mists. He was no longer a super-business man, with an orderly mind, and everything under control. He was a Mystery. If He existed. Charles had never before questioned that; respectable people accepted God naturally, or appeared to do so. If God existed, did He care what happened to this little world of men, this dangerous world of men? Charles could not believe He did.
Faith, then, in one’s ability to survive? A barren faith. But that was all that was left. “An army of principles?” How many multitudes would have to die before that army became a reality?
CHAPTER XVII
The Whitmann Machine Tool Company was one of the few companies in Andersburg which permitted its workers the luxury of a Saturday afternoon holiday. This was the source of a great deal of bitterness between Jochen and Charles, and Charles had obtained this concession five years ago only after a prolonged struggle with his youngest brother.
However, Jochen, to express his fury at this “anarchistic” concession, usually remained to work alone in the offices after Charles had gone. Charles knew that Jochen did not enjoy this; the silence behind him in the shops must be intolerable. The silence of the offices was also something not easy to bear. However, Jochen always appeared to be most busy when Charles called in to say goodbye, as he did today.
Charles saw that his brother was signing mail. Joe, he reminded himself, would not only have to sign the mail (which could have waited in most cases until Monday) but he had to seal the envelopes himself, stamp them, and mail them. But Charles had a deep suspicion that the moment everyone was gone he, himself, stayed only an hour or so longer.
He stood in the doorway and watched Jochen. It was one o’clock. Half an hour ago the offices and the factory had emptied themselves with happy joy, for it was a most sultry day and there were pleasant little beaches and picnic plots along the river. Jochen pretended to be unaware of Charles’ presence, until Charles said, pleasantly: “Hot, isn’t it? Well, until Monday, then, Joe, unless you are going to church tomorrow.”
Jochen glanced up and frowned. “Oh, Charlie. Off so soon?”
It was the usual ritual. Charles looked at his watch. “Three minutes after one,” he said. “I thought it was half-past twelve. Everybody’s gone. What are you doing, Joe, that couldn’t wait until Monday?”
“I,” said Jochen, sarcastically, “am praying. I’m also being ‘honorable.’”
Charles laughed. Once he had quoted someone to the effect that to labor was to pray, and that there was honor in work.
“Pray tomorrow; it’s Sunday. And be honorable every day, besides Saturday afternoon.”
Jochen put down his pen. “I suppose that is just a remark, and means nothing?”
“Nothing at all.” Charles surveyed his brother thoughtfully, then smiled. “I’m going down to Baker’s Bend this afternoon, for a swim. You know how cool it is there. But I’ll probably call you here before I go. Say, about three or half-past”
Jochen’s expression changed. “Why?”
Charles waved an airy hand. “Just to see if that Bouchard order might come in. They work Saturday afternoons, too, you know.”
“You know damn well if the order had been sent it would have arrived this morning,” said Jochen, angrily. “There’s no mail delivery this afternoon. So don’t bother to call me. Bouchard wouldn’t send a telegram.”
Feeling pleased for a moment or two, Charles went away. He remembered that Geraldine had artlessly mentioned that her parents had been invited to a garden party this afternoon at three o’clock. Charles wondered if Jochen would remain in the office. He doubted it. Still, it was a happy possibility, in view of his own remark, and the heat of the day. Charles could think of nothing more pleasant than Jochen sitting here and waiting for his call, which would, of course, never come.
He went to see Dr. Metzger, for he had promised Jimmy to do so, and he wished to be reassured about his health. Dr. Metzger examined him minutely, then slapped him on the bare shoulder. He sat down, and studied Charles with deep thoughtfulness.
“All right, Charlie, what’s wrong?” he asked.
“I thought you’d tell me that. Nerves; liver; heart; lungs. All the things that can go wrong with a man.”
“There’s nothing wrong—that way. I mean, you have something on your mind, and it’s raising hell with you. You know what I mean.”
Charles dressed. “You know how business is, Gustave. And getting worse. All over the country. That ought to worry anybody.”
“But not you,” said Dr. Metzger, shrewdly. “You’re doing pretty well. All right, Charlie. I’m not a father-confessor. You don’t have to tell me what’s bothering you. But something is. Beyond that, you are fine.”
“Good. Jimmy wanted to know. You’ve heard Jimmy is going to study medicine?”
“Yes. Wonderful boy, your Jimmy. Called me up this morning to give me a full list of your symptoms.” The doctor smiled, then became serious. “Look here, Charlie, you’re still a young man, hardly forty. But something’s bearing down on you, and it isn’t your business, and it isn’t your boy. I don’t know what it is. You’re rock, Charlie. But even rock can crumble. I’m not saying you are about to do that, but whatever it is that is bothering you, come to grips with it.”
Then he stared, surprised at his own words. “I never thought I’d ever have to tell you that, Charlie!”
He walked with Charles to the door. “Just remember this: Things are never quite as bad as we imagine they are, or will be.” He was again surprised. He had never thought Charles Wittmann particularly gifted with imagination. But, there was that blood pressure, and men without imagination rarely had high blood pressure. The doctor said: “Find someone you can talk to, Charlie. You’ve got a very close mouth, I know. But sometimes closed mouths hold back explosions; they can’t hold them back forever. Even if you can’t do anything about what’s bothering you, talk to someone—anybody you can trust—about it. It’s a wonderful help.”
There’s no one I can trust, thought Charles, thinking of his brothers. Wilhelm, who would be bored and incredulous? Friederich, the fanatic, who would scream his incoherences? Jochen, who would laugh at him? A wife, thought Charles. A man ought to have a wife, a good wife, with tenderness and understanding. Phyllis.
There it came again, that name, and the face it conjured up before him, and the outraged and involuntary sense of loss and desolation. It all came on him when he least expected it, like
an enemy striking from behind a quiet bush. He began to examine his own thoughts desperately, as he was driven towards home. Phyllis, Colonel Grayson, the Bouchards, the feeling of being cornered and imprisoned: What had happened to him that he could not shake off what must be shaken off if he were to retain his health and courage?
The automobile was driven past a large empty lot where a number of young boys were playing baseball. Charles remembered that Jimmy was away with his cousin. There was no one at home, for Mrs. Meyers had been given the afternoon off. He wanted nothing to eat. He turned his head and watched the boys as long as he could see them. They were Jimmy’s age, or a little younger; he could hear their shouts, the click of a ball against a bat. He caught glimpses of their faces, eager, laughing, excited, combative. Good. While they were young, let them sweat off their passion for conflict, like this; when they were older, let them think of ways to supply all men with work and goods and peace. This was an “adventure” for mature minds. And there was science, and the mysterious province of the human spirit to explore, and the nature of man—and the nature of God. Let the people into the cloisters; let them think with the scholars, the biologists, the theologians, the philosophers. Don’t wall up the mighty places with stone, thought Charles. Let the people in. They might have something to contribute which “superior” men might never think of.
Christ had taken simple men from the sea and the hills and the land, and with them had evolved an Idea whose grandeur and magnificence and nobility had never been imagined by all the doctors and the lawyers and the philosophers, in all their quiet places and their colonnades. Nor from the men He had chosen had come the idea that it was necessary to kill in order to preserve “traditional markets.” He had not taught murder, nor had He spoken of blood and iron, and the “honor” of peoples, and the making of weapons. He had left all this to the pale and evil men of the world. He had let the people in, and He had let in liberty and the dignity of man, and love, and the majesty of the human soul.