Now he could be entertained by the idea. He played with a pencil and examined it from every angle, looked at every facet. Once, when he had been young—and he could not remember just when—he had been afraid he was dying and had been appalled by the thought. There was no fear in him now, no aversion. There was, suddenly, no longer any appetite in him for living. It was gone, and he did not know why or how.
He began to wonder about those who had killed themselves. Illness, hopelessness, tiredness, loss? They probably were factors in some cases. But perhaps there were more like himself—men and women who, without warning, simply wanted to die. It was an interesting thought. Could it be that the wish to die was as potent as the wish to live? And as irresistible, sometimes? And as mysterious?
It’s a good thing I don’t have a gun at hand! thought Edward, and then he laughed. The impulse for death blew away on his laughter, and life rushed in on him. Shaking his head and laughing again, he began to rise from his desk. It was then that an awful trembling seized him, an intense sickness of the spirit, a passionate recoil, as if he had just confronted a most terrible danger. Sweat broke out on his body; his hands were nerveless. Tremors ran over him. His affrighted body, aware of the escaped destruction, clamored in all its cells. Quiet, he said sternly in himself. Quiet, quiet. A knife seemed to flash through his heart, and then it was gone.
The carved clock on the wall struck a melodious eleven. He started. Somehow he had lost an hour and had not been aware of it. I must have been insane for an hour, he thought. Well, I’ll never have such an idea again. Damn fool.
Edward ate his breakfast alone in his lofty dining room, for Heinrich and Maria did not rise so early. Since Heinrich, or, rather, Edward, had engaged an excellent manager for Enger’s, Heinrich preferred to arrive at his own shop about ten in the morning. There was a silent malaise about him lately, a slackening of energy, though he was only past his midforties. When he complained that he was an old man, in a very piteous voice, no one contradicted him, for Heinrich was indeed old. He felt abandoned, lost, and ill, and would look about him, when spoken to, with a seeking expression, like a blind child. Maria would sit with him in their rooms and read to him, in sonorous German, all the sentimental poems and stories which he remembered from his youth and which would fill his eyes with tears. He clung to Maria now and whenever possible avoided coming downstairs. He was the only one who shrank from this house, though occasionally he was aroused to a feeble pride in it.
No one wondered at the spiritual dependence he had developed for Maria. No one noticed her new gentleness with him, her new patience. When with her family she spoke with her old cold authority, and was respected by her children and acquaintances and all who came to the mansion. She was Heinrich’s substitute for a mother, and no longer the honored Maria Von Brunner, who had lived in a Schloss, a noble Fräulein whom one approached with deference and awe. He would reach dumbly for her hand in the night, as they lay side by side in the great carved bed which Edward had imported from Italy. Often he would timidly raise his head and rest it on her shoulder or bosom, and she would stroke his thin and graying hair tenderly and maternally. She had no need to ask questions. She understood, and he knew that she understood. He did not marvel at all this, in his simplicity. He had sought comfort and had found it, and it was enough for him.
On this particular morning, after Edward’s inexplicable urge to death, Maria came downstairs alone for breakfast. Edward glanced up in surprise, then rose. “Early, aren’t you, Ma?” he asked. He liked to be alone. The hunger for solitude was growing in him, like a lonely but heavily rooted tree.
Maria sat down, as formidable and massive as ever, and as dominant. There was some gray in her hair, but it blended so perfectly with the lengths of silver-gilt that it was perceptible only as a silver shine in certain lights. She was dressed as formally as if she were about to leave the house, in a brown satin dress which enhanced the size of her great body. She spoke in German to Edward, gazing at him with an odd penetration, as she shook out the big square of white linen beside her plate.
“It may appear strange to you, my son, but a mother has her intuitions. I felt, this morning, that all was not well with you.”
“Nonsense,” said Edward. Embarrassed, he looked at the windows. They were mullioned rectangles of gray mist and shallow green, as the damp morning slanted through the new trees. “I was just thinking about those two adjoining acres. I’d like to get them.”
Maria’s protruding and glassy eyes fixed themselves intently on him with new searching. “There is an old saying: ‘How much land does a man need?’”
Edward laughed. His broad face had a slight ashen overcast. He had eaten very little this morning. It was that confounded stomach trouble again, he thought. The sharp but fleeting spasms of pain irritated him. He swallowed another soda mint, and Maria watched him gravely. “I need those two acres,” he said. “I don’t want a farm, but those two acres are on the highway and there’s no real zoning law in Waterford, and it’s possible that someone will build a blacksmith shop or a meat market on the land. Another road borders it, and that will end any threat to my property.”
Maria nodded. “That is understandable, your apprehension,” she said. “But I was not speaking literally. I was speaking in a symbol.”
Edward frowned. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Enlighten me.”
“It does not matter. Allusions are for scholars and not always in good taste. You must forgive me.”
Old Pierre brought in fresh coffee. He glanced at Maria and bent his head to listen to her order. When he had gone, Edward said, “‘How much land does a man need?’ Meaning what?”
But Maria shook her head and ate her dish of fine imported figs, a specialty of C. C. Chauncey’s. It was baffling, but Edward thought of his impulse last night. Then he suddenly understood. How much land does a man need? Only enough to make him a grave, and a grave, finally, was all he had. He pushed back his chair abruptly.
“Yes?” said Maria. “The acres again?” Her gaze was inscrutable.
“That’s right, Ma.” Edward’s hands were on the table, and they had closed into fists. Maria saw them and put down her coffee cup. She saw that he had flushed. He was speaking rapidly, as if to drive away a terrible thought. “I’ve been hounding the bank to get in touch with the person who owns that land, without any result at all. She lives in Albany; her name is Baumer. That’s all they can tell me, they say. Probably some old hag who’s waiting for me to raise my price.”
He added, before his mother could answer, “How’s Pa? Going to the shop this morning?”
“I do not know, Edward. He did not sleep well.”
What is she waiting for? Edward asked himself, exasperated. Why does she look like that? And what a hell of a thing to say to a man who has built this house for her and her family! His anger had always been a slow thing; he had noticed, lately, that it was quicker to flare, and when it did so his “stomach” flashed its brief but searing pain. He stood up.
“You will do me a favor, please,” said Maria.
“What?” he asked impatiently.
“You will see a doctor. At once.”
He stared at her, astounded. He could not remember any solicitude on her part for him before.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m heavily insured. There’s plenty of money. Even if I dropped dead, Chauncey’s would go on.”
“You speak bitterly,” said Maria, replying to his English in German. “Did you think I meant what you imply?”
“What else can I think?” His heart was beating too fast; he could hear it in his ears, could feel the throb of its pulse in his temples and throat. It was ridiculous to be so infuriated. “Never mind, Ma. We understand each other—”
“Do you?” asked Maria. “Did you ever, Edward?”
“Did you, Ma?”
Maria broke a piece of toast. Her voice was calm and low when she said, “I believe so. I am but human but I am not a fool. You will do me
the favor?”
“No,” said Edward. The room was suddenly stifling and too small for him, though it was over twenty-five feet long and twenty feet wide. The ponderous sideboard, mahogany and laden with silver, seemed to approach him; the high glass-and-wood cabinets loomed over him; the chairs lumbered about him. His feet had the sensation of sinking into the rich carpet as if into a bog. He had to make a real physical effort to move, and to leave, and he said nothing else to his mother.
By the time his limousine had taken him to the shop he had forgotten his mother, his anger, his depression. His mind was busy again, as it was always busy, planning, thinking, weighing. There was to be a board meeting this afternoon.
There was, among all the messages waiting for him, one that was interesting. The bank manager had called. Edward’s secretary made a call to the bank, and the manager said respectfully, “Mr. Enger? The lady, Miss Baumer, who owns those two acres, will be in my office at ten o’clock. I think she is willing to sell that land now—”
“For how much?”
The manager approved of rich men’s caution. Only bankrupts never asked the price. “At what you offered. To tell you the truth, Mr. Enger, she hasn’t been in the country for nearly a year. She found my letter with your offer a few days ago, when she returned home to Albany. She wrote me, and I honestly think she didn’t even remember she had those two acres here!”
“She must be very wealthy,” said Edward, with wryness.
“Not extremely so, Mr. Enger. I should say—comfortable.” The banker coughed. “Her parents owned a farm near Albany, and when the city expanded they sold a large section of it to a manufacturer for a factory. Then the rest was divided up into lots for houses for workingmen. The land you want was bought by her parents at least twenty years ago, when they lived in Waterford. They’re dead now, I understand. About five years ago.”
Some old spinster who had finally inherited, thought Edward. “I’ll be in your office at ten,” he said. “I hope the old—lady really wants to sell.”
He was pleased. The small piece of land had been a real threat to his estate. At ten o’clock he called for his limousine and was driven to the bank. He did not deal here. It was neither impressive nor very prosperous. The manager greeted him effusively and led him into his dingy office. Edward was oppressed because of the meager size, and there was a constriction in his chest. He sat down, refused one of Mr. Erhlich’s eagerly proffered cigars. Mr. Erhlich noted Edward’s worn clothing, and he approved. Only bankrupts dressed to the hilt, he thought. A rich man could afford to be shabby. He studied Edward out of the corner of his eye; he had caught glimpses of Edward occasionally, but he had not remembered that he was so tall, so broad, and so harsh and obdurate of expression. It was said he was still in his twenties; he looked much older. But then all that responsibility, all that money! Mr. Erhlich wistfully wondered if Edward would ever do any business with his bank. He doubted it.
He did not know what to say to Edward. The young man sat there, his long right leg impatiently swinging over the other. He glanced at his watch. “Miss Baumer should be here,” he said apologetically. “But ladies, you know, aren’t very punctual.”
The door opened and a clerk said with obsequiousness, “Miss Baumer, Mr. Erhlich.” The banker rose and Edward rose, reluctantly as always, for he had no great reverence for women and only impatience or contempt. He especially disliked elderly women who, he had discovered long ago, objected to parting with cash and liked to haggle for the sheer sense of importance it gave them when browbeating clerks or asserting their faded personalities, or pretending to be very shrewd indeed.
The clerk stood aside and a young woman entered, a pretty girl not more than twenty-one or two. “Miss Baumer!” exclaimed Mr. Erhlich with delight. “And how was Europe?” He took her hand, which was covered with a white kid glove.
“Oh, I came back from Europe some weeks ago. I’ve been touring America since then.” She had a sweet voice, not thin, not particularly clear, but gently strong and firm. She let Mr. Ehrlich lead her to a chair, and then looked up at Edward, who was standing near the desk and staring at her with what she considered brutal forwardness. What an unpleasant-looking young man! she thought. And so this is David’s brother. Poor David. Now I’m beginning to understand a little.
Edward was thinking, I’ve seen her before! But where, where? Why, she’s as familiar to me as my own hands. I couldn’t have forgotten her!
He had seen she was tall but very slight, and that her figure, though not as buxom as fashion preferred, was perfect. The blue silk suit, with the long tight skirt reaching to her ankles, had not been bought “off the hook.” Even Edward could see that. The hat, broad velvet the color of her suit, was loaded with coral velvet roses, the exact hue of her smooth coral cheeks and full coral lips. The froth of white lace at her neckline was no whiter than her throat and temples and brow and chin and hands. Edward remembered it all but could not remember where and when. He thought this girl the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. There was no flaw in her, in his excited mind. That pointed face, that delicate chin with the clefting dimple, that fine nose, those wide cheekbones, that air of womanly strength, and those extraordinarily lovely blue eyes, so expressive, so radiant—how could he have forgotten them! She was regarding him gravely and steadily from under gilded lashes and gilded eyebrows. It was as if she were affronted that he did not know her. She moved her head a little, and a beam of sunlight struck her coiling and waving masses of light brown hair, and gilded the crests. He hardly heard Mr. Erhlich performing the introductions. He sat down and faced the girl, and she still gazed at him in that peculiar steadfast way in which there was much reserve and a slight coldness. She smiled mechanically at him, and her small white teeth flashed for an instant. A dimple appeared in her cheek, then faded.
Edward forgot Mr. Erhlich. He said bluntly, “I think we’ve met before, haven’t we, Miss Baumer?” He leaned toward the girl; in a moment he would know where and when, and this powerful urgency and longing in him would be satisfied.
She shook her head slightly. “No. I don’t think so. Unless you were at one of David’s concerts, in a little town in Illinois a month ago.”
“David? You know my brother David?” He did not know that his voice had risen. The girl sat back in her chair. What a rough voice he had, strained and thrusting out at a person. David had been reticent about his brother, but she had caught undertones in his conversation. How could David have such a brother, shabby, almost uncouth, coarse and primitive, David who was so elegant and so dignified? He was worse than she had suspected.
“Yes, Mr. Enger. I know David.” The coral in her cheeks deepened, and Edward’s powers of observation, always acute, became preternaturally sharp. His heart gave a deep thump as he looked fiercely—she thought—into her eyes. She dropped her eyelashes coldly, and the whole vital shine of her face was obscured. “I think he is a wonderful artist.”
No, no, said Edward in himself, and again there was that searing tear in his chest, and he felt suddenly ill and full of compressed fury. Not David; not this girl. Outrage constricted his throat; he was wild with a sense of deception and insult, like a husband who had been betrayed, whose rights had been transgressed to the insuperable point. He forgot Mr. Erhlich; his face had flushed heavily; the muscles of his face had hardened, and there was a swollen and discolored area about his mouth. Now Miss Baumer looked at him and almost shrank. She glanced at Mr. Erhlich, who was looking at Edward with openmouthed astonishment, as much disconcerted as the girl. Why, the man seemed as if he were about to have a stroke!
“It’s a small world,” said Mr. Erhlich, feebly, and attempted to chuckle.
“Too small,” said Edward. His eyes had become bits of steel under his thick black lashes.
Miss Baumer stared at him, affronted, and she paled. She finally turned her shoulder to him and said quietly, “Mr. Erhlich, I have an appointment almost immediately. Can we conclude this business at once?” Her slen
der shoulder, her sweetly rounded breast, visibly trembled. “Too small,” he had said, implying that she had had no right to know any member of his precious family! Her hands clenched over her purse.
“Why, certainly, certainly!” said Mr. Erhlich, relieved. There was something very singular in this atmosphere. Young Mr. Enger was still fixedly glowering at this nice, pretty young woman, as if he wanted to hit her or shout, or overturn things, and Miss Baumer appeared to be about to dissolve into tears. The necessary papers were all on Mr. Erhlich’s desk, but it perhaps would be best if he pretended they were not and left the room for a few moments. Then, probably, when he returned, the bursting tension in the air would be gone. He excused himself with haste, and went out.
“You—you can’t possibly—” Edward began in a pent and almost stifled voice.
“I can’t what, Mr. Enger?” asked the girl, still half turned from him.
“You can’t—I mean,” said Edward, and his congested throat made him cough. “Dave. My brother—”
She blushed angrily. “David is a friend of mine,” she said. She swung to him suddenly, and the blueness of her eyes flashed in a blaze of offense. “Have you any objections, Mr. Enger? What do you know about me, anyway?”
To her amazement his voice dropped, became very slow and quiet. “I’ve known you all my life. I’ve never forgotten you. I’ve—” He stopped.
Her blush brightened. She lifted her head proudly. “I don’t remember you. As far as I know, I’ve never seen you in my life. I lived in Waterford until I was about ten, with—with—my parents, and then we moved to Albany. That was a long time ago.”