Phyllis called a short time later, just as Charles was preparing for his Sunday afternoon nap. She said, softly: “Oh, Charles. Good. Good. So many people have called me, very approvingly, and just very slightly interested in the ‘rumor’ that Mrs. Holt was at our church today, and is going to send Mr. Haas a check, and a letter to the Clarion!”
The sound of her voice struck him to the heart with a sensation of warmth and tenderness. They laughed a little together, with a mixture of kindness and tolerant malice.
Then Phyllis said: “I’ll give you the information about Picasso, now. Do you know anything at all about Picasso?”
“Nothing, except that I remember seeing one or two small canvases which Wilhelm has. A lot of cubes, and color, I think. Confusing. Well, tell me.”
“He’s still alive. He was born in 1881, in Malaga, Spain. He is interested in painting images, rather than ‘appearances,’ in contrast with the Impressionist school.”
“My God, Phyllis, what does that mean?” Charles was alarmed.
“You just need to remember ‘images’ as opposed to ‘appearances,’ Charles.” Phyllis laughed.
“What’s the difference?”
“That, my dear Charles, would require quite a lecture. You might mention ‘music’ with regard to Picasso’s work. Wilhelm is always saying that Picasso produces visible music.” She went on, almost pleadingly: “Wilhelm’s telegram sounded so excited.”
“But, Phyllis. All those images and appearances, and music!”
“Just quote back what he’s already said to you about Picasso. Tonight, then, after eight?”
What I do for the damned company! thought Charles, getting into bed. Smoothing down idiots like Joe, threatening idealists like Fred with loss of revenue, learning infernal terms like “images” and “appearances” and “music,” for the benefit of Willie.
Then he remembered that he ought to call Mr. Haas. He tramped downstairs again in his worn brown bathrobe and slippers. But Mr. Haas’ telephone was constantly busy. Charles called and called for at least fifteen minutes before he was able to get a clear line. Mr. Haas sounded exhausted, almost feverish.
“Charles, you have no idea! The calls that I have been getting for two hours. Everyone has been so kind, so approving, so laudatory. I’d never have believed it. And Mrs. Holt called me. She said she was also writing me, and writing the Clarion, and that she was sending me a check to express her approval.”
Charles, though pleased, was also intensely ashamed. It was a terrible commentary upon mankind that when a man does his duty it always creates a furor, and that if a minister performs his function as a minister, in its widest sense, all sorts of chicanery and cheapness have to be resorted to to save him from the wrath of his own flock.
He congratulated Mr. Haas, and recommended that the minister rest. Tomorrow, he reminded Mr. Haas, the Haas family was to go to Philadelphia for a long-delayed holiday. Mr. Haas sighed. “And I’m glad that Mr. Zimmermann is taking over the services tonight,” he said. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the strength for it. By the way, Charles, Mr. George Hadden is here with me. He came personally, to give me his congratulation, though, of course, he isn’t a member of our congregation.”
“Hadden, of the sheet metal works?” Charles was interested.
“Yes. He is a Quaker, you know.”
Charles remembered George Hadden, who was also one of his minor customers, a young man who had only recently inherited his father’s business. He was a tall and slender and dignified man of about thirty, quiet and reserved, seldom seen about at any social events. “I didn’t know he was a Quaker,” said Charles. Something was stirring vaguely in his mind.
“He is, indeed. And everyone knows what splendid people the Friends are, Charles. I am very happy.”
It was strange that Charles, though content, was unable to rest when he was in his bed in his darkened bedroom. The room was hot, for all the heavy pattern of leaves on the drawn blind. From time to time there was a dull rumble of distant thunder in the air, even if the sun was still bright outside. This was the only sound, however, except for the shrill of the cicadas in the trees. Charles tried to keep his eyes shut, and tried to relax, but he found himself staring at the dark and enormous shapes of his mahogany furniture. They seemed to lurk in the room, ominously, no longer friendly as usual.
Now his contentment was gone. The oppressiveness of the atmosphere began to smother him. His disquiet returned, though without form. It’s the thunder, just over the mountain, he thought. The cicadas shrilled louder. The leaf-patterns hardly stirred on the blinds. Then Charles heard the voices of his son and Geraldine Wittmann in the breathless air.
Charles began to speculate upon the children. Their voices soothed him. What did they talk about, these eager and earnest young people? Charles got up, in his nightshirt, left his room, tiptoed into the back bedroom, which was Jimmy’s. The room blazed with light, and the window was open. Jimmy and Geraldine were below, under the trees. Jimmy was stretched in the hammock, and Geraldine sat in the grass beside him.
“There never was anybody like Dad,” Jimmy was saying, with pride. He was eating a peach, and his words were a little muffled.
“My father’s really a darling, too,” said Geraldine, slowly.
Charles, peering cautiously from behind the curtain, saw Jimmy give her a tolerant glance. “Oh, yes, naturally.”
The two were silent for a few moments. Geraldine did not look particularly happy. Her young, dark face was somewhat grave. Her hands were locked together on her thin knees; her white lawn dress was somewhat rumpled, and her black hair streamed down her back.
“I don’t think people differ very much,” she said, thought-fully. “They just have different opinions. At the bottom, they are the same.”
Jimmy was annoyed. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “How do people get different opinions? By being different, that’s why.”
“But difference comes from wants. Your father wants something, Jimmy, and mine wants something else. They both want, however.”
“You think if people all wanted the same thing, at the same time, they’d be the same people?”
“Of course, Jimmy.”
He fished a peach from some recess behind him, and Geraldine accepted it. They munched together. Jimmy rocked slowly in his hammock. Peach juice ran down the girl’s chin. She sighed, “It’s so hot,” he said. “It feels as if something is threatening, doesn’t it?”
Jimmy nodded. Now he was frowning. “Something in the air,” he said.
Charles withdrew. He went back to his sweltering bedroom, but not to his bed. He sat in a plush chair and lit a cigar, but did not roll up the blind. Threatening. It was not only the August heat. The smoke curled sluggishly in the gloom. Charles sat very still, listening to the thunder which never retreated, never came nearer. Perhaps it’ll stay that way, thought Charles.
Mrs. Meyers did not remain for Sunday supper, though she always laid it out on the dining-room table: slices of roast pork, beef, ham, sausage, and potato salad and rolls wrapped in a white cloth, and a covered cake. Jimmy made coffee for himself and Geraldine. Waiting at the table, Charles could hear their young laughter in the kitchen. Jimmy brought in a glass of very cold beer for his father. He gave Charles a quick and unobtrusive look.
“Couldn’t sleep very well today, eh, Dad?”
“I slept very well,” said Charles. He stretched out his hand to Geraldine, who sat beside him, and he stroked her long hair affectionately. “You are a sweet child,” he said.
“She’s terrible,” said Jimmy, comfortably. He glanced at his cousin with superior fondness. “She never combs her hair.”
He and Geraldine cleared the table, while Charles went into the parlor. He could hear the voices of his neighbors, low and decorous, from adjoining verandahs. He was not in the mood for exchanging any comments with them. A little later, his son and Geraldine entered.
“Do you mind if we close the windows and play the gramophone?” asked Jimmy. “So our neighbors won’t be horrified by hearing music on Sunday?”
Charles smiled his assent. The presence of the young people comforted him. Jimmy was fond of classical music; Charles thought it would be a small price to pay for being with his son and niece. But Jimmy put on some very lively and noisy records, and the sound seemed to jump wildly all over the room. Jimmy held out his arms to Geraldine, and the two began to skip convulsively up and down over the carpet, giving a small leap from time to time. Charles watched, much amazed. He thought the dancing very irregular; the boy and girl were clutched together, Jimmy’s face in Geraldine’s floating hair. He also thought it very ugly and very funny and touchingly innocent. They were so grave and so absorbed of face, while their young legs performed the most amazing and rapid feats.
“What on earth,” Charles murmured, when they stopped in the midst of one convulsion to change the record.
“It’s the bunny hug,” Jimmy informed him. “I’m teaching it to Gerry. She’s doing very well,” he added, patronizingly. “Of course, it looks awful to you, Dad. You’re of the old waltz school.”
“You make me sound doddering,” said Charles. He stood up. “I think I can do as well as you, Jimmy.” And he held out his hand to Geraldine. The boy and girl flashed an amused smile at each other. The music, if it could be called that, screamed out shrilly and with a maddening rhythm. “I’ve heard ragtime before,” said Charles. “Come on, Gerry.”
Geraldine tried to dance slowly, with deference for her uncle’s great age, but Charles, as if possessed, pulled and pushed her madly up and down the room. Jimmy watched, aghast. Once he called out, feebly: “Your blood pressure, Dad—” But Charles leapt about and Geraldine, breathless, could hardly keep up with him.
The music crashed to a violent stop. Charles, laughing, stood and mopped his wet and scarlet face. Geraldine was quite disheveled, her white dress twisted on her slight body, her black silk stockings wrinkled. Her hair had partially fallen over her face, and she put up her hands to tuck it back under her blue ribbon.
Jimmy began to wind up the gramophone. But he was very anxious. “Uncle Charlie’s wonderful,” said Geraldine, catching her breath. “He did it better than you, Jimmy.”
Charles’ heart was pounding, but he felt exhilarated. “I ought to get about and do more of this,” he said, trying not to gasp. “You aren’t the only young man in the family, Jim.”
They were now both looking at him with apprehension. But he laughed, and sat down. He gathered that Jimmy was not only anxious about him, but that he had thought his father’s dancing a trifle unseemly. Conservative, remarked Charles to himself, amused. Why do older people always think the young are empty-headed and irresponsible?
“Do you want some more nice, cold beer, or lemonade?” asked Jimmy, tentatively. “Cool you off?”
“I want some nice Scotch,” said Charles. “Bring me my bottle, Jim, and a glass of water, too.”
Together, the two went out, trying to hide their disapproval of this extraordinary conduct. They came back into the room with Charles’ bottle of Scotch and a glass of water. They were more disapproving than ever, and suspicious. Charles loved them. He filled his glass once; then, when it was half empty, he poured more whiskey into it. They still stood there, reproachful, and remote, and watched him.
Geraldine was about to leave when Wilhelm’s carriage drove up, and Wilhelm and Phyllis came up the stairs of the verandah. Jimmy ran to open the door for them. He liked his uncle, and had much affection for Phyllis.
Wilhelm, elegant in his black, his air of reserve hardly hiding his excitement, came in carrying a small canvas wrapped in paper. Charles was struck again by the resemblance between Geraldine and Wilhelm. In order to relieve the girl of her shyness in Wilhelm’s presence, he said: “Wilhelm, have you ever noticed how much Gerry looks like you? Extraordinary.”
“No, I never did,” Wilhelm tried for impatience. But he looked with interest at Geraldine, who was flushing. Phyllis said, kindly: “But the darling really does, Wilhelm.” She put her arm about the girl. “Look at those eyes, the shape of her face, her nose, her mouth. You might be her father.”
“I might. But I’m not,” said Wilhelm, smiling a little. He was flattered. He thought that Geraldine was quite pretty. Graciously, he said: “Geraldine’s the beauty of her family.”
Geraldine blushed very brightly. “Oh, thank you, Uncle Willie, but I’m not really. May and Ethel are so pretty, just like Mama.”
“I think they are very coarse-looking girls,” said Wilhelm, with calm brutality. “And very ordinary. I’d never be able to pick them out of a dozen other girls; they all look alike. Now you, my dear, have an air.”
Geraldine, quite overcome, took her departure. Jimmy went with her, to see her home. Wilhelm was relieved. Phyllis sat down near Charles, but Wilhelm stood in the center of the room, the flat package in his arms. Then he was dissatisfied. “A little light, please,” he said.
Charles got up and lit the glass chandelier. He opened the windows; the cool evening air came in. Wilhelm was now unwrapping the canvas. Then, after a slightly dramatic pause, he showed the canvas to Charles. “For your birthday, Charles,” he said. “I know it isn’t until next month, but I wanted you to enjoy it sooner.”
Charles was very touched, but he was also dismayed. The canvas appeared to him to be only a mass of browns and grays, with faint flecks and colors here and there, and only a vague geometrical outline or two. He wondered if he were holding the thing rightside up or not. Now where, in the name of God, would he hang it? But worst of all, what should he say? He could feel Wilhelm, smiling slightly and proudly, waiting for his comment. Then he heard himself muttering: “Ah, yes. More image than appearance. Music—”
Wilhelm, gratified and amazed, said: “Exactly! You’ve caught the spirit, the very essence of the meaning, and at once. Astounding. You see, Phyllis, sometimes the amateur mind is quicker to grasp essential significance and value in art than the trained one.” He lit one of his eternal cigarettes, snapping shut his gold case with a sharp sound. “Charles, frankly, I should never have expected it of you.”
I should never have expected it of myself, thought Charles, ruefully. He looked up. Wilhelm was sitting near him, smiling. Charles caught Phyllis’ eye. Together, then, they regarded Wilhelm with a sudden and very tender affection, in which there was no feeling of disloyalty or betrayal.
Then Charles made a decision. He said: “Wilhelm, I’ve got to be fair with you. I don’t know a thing about any of—this Honestly.”
Phyllis made a slight gesture of consternation, but Charles gave all his attention to his brother, who was taken aback. Wilhelm began to frown, and his eyes glittered at Charles.
“You see,” Charles went on, resolutely, “I just—looked—it all up. About this art business. I know nothing more about it than a—well, a baby.”
“Then,” said Wilhelm, mortified and angered, “where did you pick up all those learned phrases of yours?”
“I told you—I looked it up.”
Wilhelm’s thin cheeks tightened. “You’ve been making a fool of me, I see.”
“No. No. Believe me, I haven’t.” Charles hesitated. “Try to understand, please. I’ve not had your education, your taste. I know nothing very much about anything, except the business. I’ve had to devote all my time to it, and it’s my life.”
Wilhelm was silent. He crossed his long legs; he looked at the tip of his cigarette. Charles gripped the canvas, and leaned towards his brother. Phyllis folded and unfolded her handkerchief in her hands, wretchedly.
“Wilhelm, have I ever played the hypocrite with you?” asked Charles, earnestly.
Wilhelm’s face changed. “Of course,” he said, coldly. “Many a time.”
Charles was, himself, taken aback. Then he saw the slightest and thinnest of smiles on his brother’s mouth. Charles laughed weakly.
“But only for the sake of all of us, the company.”
“Ah, yes, the company, the sacred company.” Wilhelm watched a spiral of smoke rise as it left his lips. It was clear that his hurt was not superficial. “And what would any of us have done without the company? I suppose we must remember that, and remember that you deserve our gratitude.” He looked at Charles then, and it was an odd look, and whatever it expressed it was not displeasure or outrage. “I’m trying to be infuriated with you, Charles, but it seems I cannot.”
Charles said: “Thank you, Willie.” He tried to catch back the nickname before he said it, but it escaped him. Charles went on: “I am not being a hypocrite when I say that I’ve lately come to realize how little I know, how narrow my life has become, how restricted and circumscribed. Try to believe me when I tell you that I want to know other things, too. A narrow life leads to narrow thinking. I want to know something about the things you know. And I want you to believe that.”
“I believe it,” said Wilhelm, very quietly.
Charles laid the canvas on his knees, and spread his hands over it. Wilhelm saw that unconscious gesture. Now, he was touched.
“Charles, you’ve had a narrow life because it has been too busy a one. You’ve had to shut yourself away from everything else, so you could keep the company together. Not only because it was our father’s company, and not only because you are the president. There are three of us, besides you. Jochen, who is an expedient brute, who would destroy everything for a sudden quick gain, and has no honor; Friederich who is a maniac and an idler, and I—”
He paused, and regarded Charles again with that odd look. “And I, who would not have my art gallery, but for you, or my leisure, or my pleasures. We’re not worth your sacrifices, you know—Charles.”
Charles was embarrassed. “I’ve not been sacrificing very much. Don’t light up the altars for me, Wilhelm. I’ve been fulfilling myself in a way. But I see it is a narrow way. In many ways, I’m afraid I’m quite stupid. If I had broadened my life a little, I might not now—”
“Not—what?” asked Wilhelm. His voice was even gentle.
Charles sighed. “It’s hard for me to explain. And perhaps I couldn’t ever have done much, anyway. But at least I could have seen. It is terrible to be blind. It’s, well, it’s unpardonable to be blind.”
Wilhelm considered this with great concentration. He was a very subtle man. He began to frown again. “I see. I suppose what happened today in our church is part of what you mean. Phyllis told me.”
“And—?”
But Wilhelm did not reply immediately. His old expression of impatience and dissatisfaction returned. “I can forgive almost anything but bad taste,” he said at last. “A church is hardly the proper place to deliver a diatribe on intolerance.”
“Bad taste?” Charles was aroused. “I don’t understand. Where, but in a church, is the ‘proper place’ to attack evils?” Again, he leaned towards his brother. “Wilhelm, I’ve not only been thinking about art, and all the other things I never knew. I’ve been reading some of our father’s books. And last night I read something which Isocrates said: “The only sound basis for a nation’s prosperity is a religious regard for the rights of others.’”
Wilhelm quickly turned his head and studied him. But he was still impatient. “Perhaps, perhaps. I grant you that your premises are right. Nevertheless, I still think it was in bad taste. I might even be wrong, but there it is. And you were always so circumspect, Charles. I find it hard to believe that you have lent yourself to all this.”
“Lent myself to all this?” said Charles.
Wilhelm smiled. “Yes. Of course you did. You see, Charles, you never really ever deceived me. During your machinations I was usually taken in by you; I saw the whole pattern later. Very deft. But I could always depend on you to be circumspect, and so I can’t understand what happened today.”
He stood up, restlessly. “Bad taste,” he repeated. “One expects different things of modern churches. Certainly not hectic denunciations. Noise. Uproar. Dissension. Upsetting people.” He added, discontentedly, and as if personally affronted: “A gentleman tries to avoid controversies. They draw uncouth elements too close to one. The gross, the brutish, the barbarous. Who wishes to acknowledge the existence of such people?”
“They exist. And they are dangerous,” said Charles, with strong resolution. “I have found that out, Wilhelm. And they’re active; they’re being conditioned, being led, for a purpose.”
Wilhelm shrugged. “This is very wild talk, Charles, and I am surprised at you. I can only hope that Mr. Haas will return to his former discretion.”
“And I hope he will never return to it.” Charles stood up. He placed the canvas on his chair, and faced his brother. “Wilhelm, I pray you are right. But I know you are wrong.”
Wilhelm scrutinized him, his volatile eyes very penetrating. “Yes, I see you have been aroused out of your rut, haven’t you, Charles? But be cautious about it, if only for your own sake.”
“Have you ever thought much about Fred?” asked Charles, suddenly.
Distaste flattened Wilhelm’s lips. “Friederich? Frankly, no. I dislike thinking about him immensely. He is revolting.”
“You’ve never listened to him? You know nothing of his kind?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“His kind, I think, is behind what is about to happen to the world, unless enough people can be awakened.”
“Friederich? With his Socialism and frenetic ideas?” Wilhelm laughed.
“I mean his kind of mind. They’ve established contact again, his brand of people. They establish contact every so often, in the history of the world, and then there is a catastrophe.”
“Good heavens,” murmured Wilhelm. He tried for a light tone of amusement. “You really believe that, don’t you, Charlie?”
“Yes,” said Charles. “I’ve been reading history, lately.”
“Granting, as I do not, that ‘something’ is going to happen, what do you think it is?”
Charles hesitated. He looked at Phyllis. “War,” he said. And added: “I think.”
Now Wilhelm was astounded. “War! You must be out of your mind, Charles!” But Charles did not answer. “Good heavens, Charles, why should there be war? With whom?”
Charles knew that anything he said would only sound ridiculous. However, he said: “I can’t tell you everything. Most of what I know is a sort of feeling—But I can tell you this: If there is a war it might precipitate another opportunity for the little minds, a terrible opportunity.”
Wilhelm bit his lip. His eyes sparkled with exasperation. “I refuse to talk nonsense with you any longer, Charles. Shall we forget all this?” He picked up the canvas. He affected to become suddenly engrossed in it. He was very disturbed. He looked from the canvas to the wall, then back again, then once again at the wall.
“Now where, among all those monstrosities of stags at bay and garden paths and fountains and etchings of horrible old ruins, are you going to hang my Picasso?” he demanded.
Charles, at first inclined to rage at this peremptory dismissal of what was so frightful to him, now felt his rage die away in his pity for his brother who hated all unpleasantnesses as he hated disease and foulnesses of every kind.
“Over the fireplace,” Wilhelm decided at last. “Now, if you’ll be so kind as to get me a hammer, Charles.” ’
He fussed a great deal in hanging the canvas with Charles’ help. Then he stood back to give it his critical consideration. He shook his head. “Appalling, in these surroundings,” he murmured.
Charles silently agreed.
“Blasphemous,” said Wilhelm, mournfully. “I wonder what Picasso would think if he could see this work of his among so much sheer trash, so many horrors.” He turned to Charles briskly. “You’ll simply have to take down those alleged pictures, Charles, or I’ll shudder every time I come into this room.”
Now Charles saw more clearly than before that his brother was enormously troubled. Wilhelm, too, had much instinct. He wanted to be reassured.
Charles tried to smile.
“I promise you that I’ll take down these pictures myself, tomorrow,” he said.
Wilhelm’s relief was all out of proportion.
“Good!” he exclaimed. He was like a child in his pleasure. “And now, if you’ll sit down, Charles, I’ll tell you something about Picasso.” He smiled. “And a little, perhaps, about Monet, whom you claimed to admire so much.”