It was only ten o’clock when he returned home, but Charles was exhausted. He was so exhausted that he could be glad that Jimmy had already gone to bed. Usually Jimmy waited up for him, to ask him eagerly about everything. But now the house was quiet, with only a single lamp burning in the “parlor.” Charles almost fell into his chair. He had won. But his fears were stronger than ever, and more violent. After a while he dragged himself out of his chair, went upstairs to his bedroom, and sat down at his desk.
He wrote to Colonel Grayson, taking a long time in order that anything he said would be obscure and meaningless to anyone interested except the Colonel: “Our mutual friend paid me a very interesting visit. But I am afraid that I disappointed him in some ways. I am not an inspiring conversationalist. I do hope he won’t complain to you about my hospitality. He gave me a large order, which I had to refuse, for our business is not equipped to handle it. However, he promised me another order, for the same tools which I supplied him a few years ago.
“It was very good to see you, when you were passing through Andersburg. I only regret that you could not stay longer. Please give my regards to all our friends.”
He wrote it on plain stationery. He marked the envelope “personal only.” Then he stamped the letter, went out to a mail-box, and deposited it. It was then that he wondered if he had made a mistake in writing the Colonel, no matter how innocuous. But by this time he was so completely exhausted and confused that he could not think. He returned to his dark house, and again fell into a chair. He desperately wanted his bed; he could not get up, however, for some time. It was the champagne, he thought.
Then he said to himself: It’s too big a burden for me to carry alone. I wish I had someone to talk to about it, someone I could trust; Mary.
But it was not Mary who rose up before him, comfortingly. It was Phyllis, Phyllis with her bright bronze hair, her twinkling blue eyes. Charles was startled, taken aback. Why should he think of Phyllis, now? I have always thought of Mary, and my need of her. Phyllis! His tired heart was pounding uncomfortably. He was a man of reason. He tried to reason with himself. Of course, it was because Phyllis had helped him so subtly yesterday. But Phyllis’ face did not fade. It became thoughtful, clearer, more urgent. Suddenly, Charles wanted her near him; he wanted to tell her what so frightened him these days. He wanted to tell her about Colonel Grayson, and Leon Bouchard, and Elson Waite.
He had always taken Phyllis for granted, as he took Isabel for granted, and his brothers, and his son, and Geraldine. She was part of his life, his family. But it was strange that of all of them he could only think of Phyllis. He remembered her as he had seen her yesterday, with her white throat and her pearls, her blue suit, her flower-heavy straw hat, her thin gentle hands. There was firmness and surety in Phyllis, for all her delicate and feminine appearance. He wanted Phyllis.
His heart was pounding even faster. His need for Phyllis became almost passionate. He wanted Phyllis in this house, sitting opposite him, telling him that he had acted very wisely and astutely, that she was proud of him. He could see the seriousness in her eyes, the graceful movement of her hands. Now there was a hunger in him, divorced from any animal desire. Phyllis would understand. He could trust her.
He put his hand to his head. It was throbbing. I don’t know what’s the matter with me, he said to himself. Why should I think of Phyllis? I never think of her, except casually, after I have seen her. It—it was a long time ago.
I need a wife. An intelligent and understanding wife. I am lonely. Even with Jimmy, I am lonely. I ought to have married again. A woman like Phyllis.
He stood up, in his distress. I was never nervous before, he thought. Then he remembered Wilhelm, in his wretchedness. He did not know why the thought of Wilhelm should so shake him. Again, he rubbed his forehead. It’s too much for me. I need a rest. Didn’t I suggest to Jimmy that we go fishing this week-end? I must talk about it tomorrow.
All his thoughts blurred, became a chaos in his mind. He dragged himself heavily upstairs, undressed with fumbling hands. He fell into bed. He had believed he would immediately fall asleep. But he could not sleep. His bed was very big. It had never seemed too big before. Now it was empty. He put out his hand in an instinctive gesture, as if seeking comfort.
It was then that he heard the telephone ringing stridently downstairs, and, mingling with it the booming tone of the big grandfather clock, striking eleven. Charles sat up in bed. His first impulse was not to answer the call. But the telephone rang insistently. Mrs. Meyers might hear it, upstairs, or Jimmy. Charles stumbled out of bed, found his slippers, went downstairs. He did not wait to light a match, and turn on the gaslight. He found the telephone in the hall. It was Jochen who was calling him.
“What the devil!” exclaimed Jochen. “You promised to call me tonight, about the Connington’s decision. But perhaps you didn’t think it important enough, I suppose.”
Charles said: “Joe, I’m sorry. I forgot. And then, I just came in. Yes, I saw Mr. Waite. He’s agreed to the Burnsley land. I have his informal agreement, which his company will confirm within a few days.” Charles leaned against the wall, dizzy. That infernal champagne. He had to make a real physical effort to speak again: “And I gave him a price, and it was twice what they had offered for the river property.”
“What!” shouted Jochen, disbelieving. “Hello? Hello? You there, Charlie?” For Charles had not answered.
“I told you,” said Charles.
“I can’t believe it! Repeat it, Charlie?”
Oh, God, thought Charles. Again he struggled with his dizziness and exhaustion. “You heard me, Joe. Twice as much—as for the river property. It—it was a real piece of business. It seems—they want to locate here.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Jochen, in an awed voice. “Charlie, if that’s true, then you’re a real business man. Twice as much!”
He was elated. “Good old Charlie, the sharper! I wouldn’t have believed it.”
The street lamplight filtered into the hall through a pattern of dark leaves. “I had to work,” said Charles. “I’m tired, Joe. I’ll give you all the details tomorrow.”
“I’ll bet you had to work!” said Jochen, fervently. “Good old Charlie. I wouldn’t have believed it. Charlie, what about Bouchard? Anything there?”
“Yes.” A suffocating sensation tightened Charles’ throat. “He’ll send us an order, soon. For that sawing machine of ours.”
“Charlie, you’re a genius!”
Charles closed his eyes. But he saw chaos behind his lids. He opened them again. “Do you mind if I go to bed, Joe?” he asked.
“But, damn it! All that business, and you want to go to bed! I know, I know. You’re ‘tired.’ But I should think you’d be excited, not ‘tired.’ What’s the matter with you?”
Charles said: “I haven’t been feeling well lately.”
Jochen tried to sound concerned. “I’ve suspected that. Your liver, again?”
“Yes.”
“You need a vacation.”
Charles was silent.
“Well, if you’re ‘tired,’ I’m not,” Jochen went on. “Isabel’s been waiting to hear, too. I’ll tell her. Congratulations, Charlie.”
“Thanks.” Charles hung up the receiver, abruptly. He still leaned against the wall. He fumbled for the chair he knew was nearby. He sat down, rested his elbows on his knees, covered his face with his hands. Light flared between his fingers, and he looked up. Jimmy was standing near him; he had lit the wall light.
“Dad,” he said, his face blotched and rosy from sleep. “I heard the telephone ringing. Dad,” he added, quickly, “what’s the matter? You look sick.”
Charles tried to smile. “Well, candidly, I am. I had some champagne. You know what wines do to me.”
Jimmy stood there, tall and coltish in his nightshirt. He frowned, disturbed. “Dad, it wasn’t the champagne, was it? I know you, Dad. What’s wrong? Why won’t you tell me?”
He came nearer to his father, and Charles saw him so clearly, so young, so vivid, so alive. And so threatened. Threatened! I’m losing my mind, thought Charles. But his sickness increased, and he caught the edge of the table on which the telephone stood. “Jimmy,” he said, “there’s nothing wrong. Why don’t you go back to bed? I was in bed, myself, asleep.”
But Jimmy was not deceived. He took his father’s wrist in his strong fingers. “What’s this? What’s this?” asked Charles, again trying to smile indulgently. “Trying to practice your medicine on me, when you don’t know a thing about it?”
But Jimmy was looking at the minute hand on the clock. His face was intent, sternly worried. He dropped his father’s wrist, slowly. He looked long at Charles. “Dad, you’ve got a terrible pulse-rate. Go to see Dr. Metzger tomorrow. Please.”
“I told you, it’s only the champagne.”
Jimmy said: “You haven’t been yourself for days, Dad. It’s not the champagne. Why don’t you tell me? You usually tell me everything,”
Charles bent his head. What could he say? Could he cry out to Jimmy: There’s something going on! I don’t know what it is! How can I know? But I have a feeling there’s something brewing. And, Jimmy, it might cost you your life, and you’re all I have. My son, my son.
He could only say: “I’ve been having some business worries, Jimmy. And I’m not as young as I used to be.”
Jimmy stood there, and Charles could feel him, youthful and living. He could feel the strength of him, the innocence. What was happening to him, Charles? Where was the safe world he had known, the world so realistic, so steadfast? Was the terror only in him? Was he, as Jimmy said, “sick”?
“I’ll go to old Metzger tomorrow, if that’ll be any satisfaction to you, Jim.”
“It will. Dad, your color’s bad, too. And it isn’t your liver. You’re not yellow. You’re—you’re white.”
“I’ll get a sunburn over the week-end, with you, son. We’re to go fishing together, remember?”
Jimmy flushed, moved uneasily. “Dad, I forgot. I promised to play tennis with Gerry, Saturday. And go boating with her, Sunday. I talked to her, today. But, I can tell her—”
“No.” Charles stood up. “I’m not sorry, Jimmy. I’ll rest, this weekend. I’ll just sit and read, out in the garden.” They stood there, face to face. Jimmy was much taller than his father. Charles laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He could feel the firm warmth of his son’s flesh through the nightshirt. Somehow, it comforted him, made the terror retreat. “Go to bed, Jimmy,” he said, more calmly.
“You work too hard, Dad. There isn’t anyone to help you, down there. My uncles are a pack of fools, all of them.”
Charles said, hastily: “Now, stop that, Jimmy. In a minute, you’re going to say you ought to go into the shops, after all. And I won’t have it. Look, it’s way after eleven, so let’s go to bed, shall we?”
“Let me heat you some milk, Dad. You always know that helps to put you to sleep, when you’re tired this way.”
Before Charles could protest, Jimmy had walked off, in his bare feet, towards the kitchen. Charles followed. The big old kitchen smelled of freshly scrubbed wood and soap. A tap dripped in the iron sink. The floor felt cool to Charles’ feet, even through his slippers. He sat down at the table, which was covered with white oilcloth. The window was open; the sweet night wind blew in, and Charles heard the rustle of the garden trees. A shaft of moonlight lay on the window-sill. Jimmy had turned the gas on in the stove, and had competently filled a small saucepan with milk. Charles could smell it, and it was a comforting odor, and the washed linoleum had a comforting smell, too. Charles sat there and looked at the pattern of it: big yellow and red squares. All at once, he could not stand that pattern. He leaned his head on his hand, shutting away everything but the oilcloth on the table.
Jimmy said: “If there was just someone to help you. Oh, Uncle Joe’s all right, I suppose. But he’s a—a murderer, isn’t he? He doesn’t care about the reputation of the shops. He’d do anything for money, manufacture inferior tools—anything. And Uncle Willie thinks the shops are ‘vulgar,’ even though he collects regularly, of course.” Jimmy’s voice was bitter. “There, I shouldn’t say that, I suppose. I kind of like Uncle Willie. But what about Uncle Fred, and his crazy ideas? He’s daffy, most of the time. He’s no help.”
Charles dropped his hand. “You think Fred has ‘crazy’ ideas? I didn’t think you knew very much about them, Jimmy.”
“Well, I do. They aren’t intelligent. Or perhaps it’s just that Uncle Fred isn’t very bright. Remember what he said to me last Fourth of July? ‘Nationalism! Dangerous nationalism! And nationalism always leads to war, because it’s stimulated by the war-makers.’”
Something began to hum sickeningly in Charles’ head. “Fred said that, did he? What did he mean, ‘war-makers’?”
Jimmy shrugged. He poured the hot milk into Charles’ special cup, a large German cup all gilt and flowers, which had belonged to Emil Wittmann. “How should I know? But you know how Uncle Fred always goes on.”
The hot white fluid in the cup nauseated Charles. But he put in his two teaspoons of sugar.
“Uncle Fred is just against everything, Dad. You know. He hates everything. He hates his own country. I don’t know why. He likes to make sour remarks, just so people will feel uncomfortable.”
Charles said: “But perhaps he sometimes speaks the truth, too, Jimmy. Remember, we talked about wars this morning. Jimmy, if there were a war—”
“I told you, Dad, I couldn’t stand killing anyone.” Jimmy was smiling. He sat down near his father. “But if there should ever be a war, I’d probably be a doctor by then. And I could help save soldiers. But it’s silly. There’d never be a war. What for? With whom?” Jimmy became thoughtful. “Who would dare attack America?”
“But if—if someone did?”
Jimmy’s young face turned grim. “Why, then, I suppose I’d fight. I’d even kill. It would hurt, but I’d kill. We’re a wonderful country, Dad, and we’re worth fighting for.”
Charles said: “Perhaps there are—men—who try to foment wars, for profit. Men without conscience, who conspire with men like themselves, even in foreign countries. For profit.”
Jimmy was incredulous. “Dad, that’s impossible.”
Charles was silent. Suddenly, he remembered old Ernest Barbour, who had built up an empire, which was now called Bouchard and Sons by his nephews. He remembered when old Ernest had died. Hadn’t some English nobleman, Lord Kilby, said in a newspaper interview: “If Ernest Barbour had contributed a serum or a treatment for the cure of cancer, diabetes, syphilis, or tuberculosis, which would have saved a million lives from premature death or torture, his name would have been known only to a few, and those he had benefited would have remained in ignorance even of his identity—But this man manufactured death and ruin, created an immense fortune on the bones of battlefields, suborned honor and the integrity of government, bought generals and politicians and journalists and kings, with a cynicism that is inhuman, frightful to contemplate.—Every war that is brewing, and will be brewed in the ominous future, was born in his brain, for the sole purpose of increasing his wealth and his power.—If the foolish world has a prayer to be said on the passing of this man, it will be: ‘Deliver us from this Evil.’”
But Ernest Barbour was dead. His nephews owned and controlled what he had built. They were a great company, which manufactured many things, which invented many things, besides armaments. War was dead. It would never happen again. Bouchards or no Bouchards. The conspirators had been silenced. An enlightened world would never again go to war, would never again be the victim of a Barbour or a Bouchard, a Robsons-Strong, a Kronk, a Bedor’s, a Sazarofi—
The whispers became a shout in Charles’ mind. The shout was all in this room, full of madness and plots and greed. It was full of the smoke of newly active armaments companies, all over the world. It was full of the subdued talk of many men together, in quiet rooms, Germans, Americans, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Roumanians, Russians, Serbs—
Charles cried: “Jimmy, it isn’t impossible!”
He couldn’t drink his milk. He stood up, leaned against the table. His head began to spin. “Jimmy, there ought to be a way to stop it, before it gets started. Governments should stop it, in spite of politicians and liars and thieves—”
Jimmy was staring at him, aghast. “What are you talking about, Dad? I don’t understand.”
Charles put the back of his hand against his forehead. “They’ll make it so plausible, when they’re ready. There’ll be nothing else for us to do but fight. There’ll be no way out.” He stammered: “We’d have to fight, after they’d arranged it. Or die. But what would that matter to them? They’re all in it, together. They’re an empire, all of them, everywhere, and they hate the rest of us.”
Oh, God, what am I saying? thought Charles, distracted. He was so tired. He heard Colonel Grayson’s voice: “There are times when it is expedient to make war—When the people want it.” Charles said, incoherently: “People shouldn’t want war. America should never want war. That’s what I mean, Jimmy. America should halt wars before they begin. America should understand—”
“What?” asked Jimmy, when Charles stopped speaking.
“—that wars are plotted, deliberately. Behind closed doors. By men who will ostensibly become enemies, when a war occurs. By men who know that the people love war, and cater to that love.”
He was actually panting. “Jimmy,” he said. “No group of men, anywhere, can make a war, no matter how they try, and no matter how they want a profit out of a war. Only peoples, at the end, make wars.”
Jimmy considered his father’s words with alarmed seriousness. “Well, Americans would never want any war. They’d just laugh at anyone who would suggest it.”
“Unless, Jimmy, they’d be deceived into believing that war was necessary.”
Jimmy was puzzled. “But Dad, there’ve been good wars, too, you know. For freedom.”
Charles did not know why he was so desperate. He shook his head. “Look, Jimmy. Good causes don’t need wars. They might take a little extra time, they might demand more understanding, but they don’t need mass-murder. We can stop the causes of war. We can stop the arming of potentially dangerous nations, who, in their turn, are being deceived and incited. Deliberately. By evil men.”
Jimmy drew an invisible pattern on the table oilcloth with his forefinger. “Dad, what about the Civil War? Don’t you think that was necessary?”
“No, Jimmy. Slavery was becoming untenable in the South. The South knew that. It was only a matter of time until it would have been abolished everywhere. One by one, the Southern States would have abolished it. But the North kept harassing the South. Someone, some men, were harassing the Southern States. Then it became all confused. The South was indignant; it seemed to them that they must withdraw from the Union, in order to preserve their dignity and self-respect. And that war was eventually not fought to free the slaves but to preserve the Union. Even Lincoln admitted that.”
The clock boomed twelve. They could hear its notes, shaking the house ever so slightly, a faint vibration.
Jimmy looked at his father in an intense silence. Finally, he said, with uncertainty: “Dad, you don’t think there’s going to be a war, do you? With anyone?”
The boy was greatly disturbed.
“No! No!” Charles exclaimed. “Jimmy, I’m sorry. I—I’m all confused, these days. I have the strangest thoughts. I don’t know what to think, Jimmy. I suppose I’m just tired.” He added: “Wars aren’t simple, Jimmy. It—it gets all complicated.”
He went out of the kitchen, abruptly, with lame and heavy legs. Jimmy turned off the lights. They stood at the foot of the stairs. Again, Charles put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Forget what I said, won’t you, Jimmy? I don’t know anything. Not a thing. Not a thing,” he repeated, with loud emphasis.
They climbed the stairs together, arm in arm. They parted upstairs. Charles said: “Go to sleep, Jimmy. I’m afraid I’m not myself, these days.”
Then he was alone in his bed, his empty bed, and he was ill with a terrible illness. He was only a little man. He could do nothing. He lay there, hour after hour, looking at the darkness. Finally, he saw the gray light of morning at the windows. He said to himself: Only a little man. I can’t do much, but what I can do I’ll do, so help me God. My son, my son.