But it was not for some time that Charles could speak to his brother Friederich. Nor could he arrange a meeting between Friederich and George Hadden.
At first, there were objective occurrences which prevented this. George Hadden’s young wife and little boy took ill, the later part of October, when Friederich returned to Andersburg. Then Charles was shocked to learn, one morning, that the child had died of a particularly bad form of what was called “la grippe.” The mother barely survived. The doctors spoke worriedly of “approaching epidemic forms” of the disease. Many apprentices in the Wittmann shops were incapacitated, as was Tom Murphy, the first foreman, and some of the best skilled workers. Wilhelm, himself, was struck down at Christmas by it, much to his anger. The day before Christmas Friederich pointedly absented himself from his family and went to spend the holidays in consultation with some mysterious friend in Chicago. Charles had heard of this “friend,” but he had listened vaguely. Alerted, now, he tried to discover the identity of the man but Friederich eluded him.
On December 30th, when Jimmy was planning exuberantly for the New Year’s festivities, he was suddenly stricken by the illness, and on January 4th, 1914, he developed pneumonia. Charles was terribly frightened. For five days he did not go to his office at all but sat with his son, who was attended by nurses. He never forgot those days by Jimmy’s bed, for the new year promised to launch itself by way of a particularly evil winter. Jimmy’s gasps for breath, his delirious groans mingled with the roar of the blizzard against the window-panes, and so dark was it outside that for several days the light was never turned off in the house on Bowbridge Avenue.
Phyllis, when she could leave Wilhelm during his irritable convalescence, came often to Charles’ home, there to sit in silence with him either in Jimmy’s room or in the dull, heavy dimness of the parlor. Charles could speak very little, but to have Phyllis there was comfort and solace. She brought him coffee; she spoke with gentleness and surety. There was nothing “cheerful” about her: she tacitly accepted Jimmy’s danger, with wisdom but also with unspoken certainty that he would not die.
She was with Charles one early and bitter evening when the crisis came and Dr. Metzger, tired and with drooping shoulders, suddenly announced: “Well, there. It’s mostly over now, Charlie. The boy’s almost out of danger, thank God.” Charles said dully: “Then he was in danger.” The doctor nodded. “There were a few times when I thought nothing could be done. But Jimmy’s a strong whelp, and he’ll be all right. Just care.”
The doctor patted the boy’s wet cheek. Jimmy had fallen asleep after the crisis; his breathing was nearly natural; the swollen flush had receded. Dr. Metzger pulled the blankets over him and told the nurse not to disturb him for a change of nightshirts until he woke up.
Then he turned to Charles: “Go on downstairs, Charlie, and mix yourself a good drink.” He smiled at Phyllis. “Take him down, Phyllis, and perhaps you’d better take one, too. You both look as if you need it.” He followed them downstairs to the parlor, and was easily persuaded by Phyllis to have a whiskey and soda.
“Never saw anything like this thing,” he said, standing near the fire, a glass in his hand and his rumpled graying hair falling over his forehead. “It’s like a plague or something. More deaths than I like to think about, and every doctor rushed to death. Better watch out for yourselves, Phyllis and Charlie.” He spoke to them as a doctor speaks to a man and his wife who have just come through terror together. It seemed perfectly natural to him that Phyllis should seem so exhausted in her relief, and so weary. She and Charles sat side by side, as if in mutual comforting, and in relaxation.
Then all at once it occurred to Dr. Metzger that Charles had been all alone but for Phyllis during this ordeal. He knew that Wilhelm was just recovering from his own illness, though he was not Wilhelm’s physician. But he had not seen Jochen or Isabel. Young Geraldine had been here only once, and then but for a few moments, standing crying and anguished in the parlor. The doctor frowned. He looked at Charles, sitting there so gray of face, bent over, both hands about his untouched glass.
“My wife reads the society pages,” he said, tentatively. “She read where the Brinkwells have bought a house on Mountain Circle, not far from where you live, Phyllis.”
Phyllis nodded with dazed indifference. “Do drink that, Charles,” she urged. Charles gave her a smile, and obeyed.
“The Wilcox house,” added the doctor. “Must be getting a big salary from the Connington, or his wife must be rich. After all, that’s a mighty fine, expensive house, and only five years old, and I heard they imported the walnut for the rooms, and the marble. My wife knows all about those things.”
But Phyllis was refilling Charles’ glass in spite of his feeble protests.
“Yes, his wife must be pretty rich. Seems I heard that somewhere,” said the doctor.
“Who?” asked Phyllis, bewildered. She had been watching Charles closely, with deep concern, and had hardly listened to Dr. Metzger.
“The Brinkwells. The new superintendent of that new steel mill they’re building on the Burnsley land. They think the mills will be rolling by mid-summer, the fast way they’re building. Biggest thing in Andersburg; almost as big as the one they have in Pittsburgh.”
Now Charles came up out of his black exhaustion, the whiskey warming his coldness and lethargy. Dr. Metzger might ramble, sometimes, but there was usually a sharp meaning or implication in his ramblings. And he was looking at the smoldering fire, over which hung Wilhelm’s Picasso weirdly shimmering and absurdly out of place in the wintry dusk of this old room.
“You’ve met the Brinkwells?” asked Charles, slowly.
“I?” Dr. Metzger laughed heartily. “I’m only an old plughorse. Not fashionable enough for the Brinkwells. They have Landor, who lives near your brother Joe. Landor’s a friend of mine in a way; sends me all the patients he suspects can’t pay his big fees. Well, anyway, sometimes Landor and I talk.”
“Don’t you think you ought to lie down before dinner, Charles?” asked Phyllis, anxiously. And then she was silent, for Charles was looking up at the doctor with intent scrutiny.
“Anybody I know at Brinkwell’s parties?” asked Charles.
The two men were regarding each other as if Phyllis were not in the room.
“Yes,” said Dr. Metzger. “Quite a few. Joe and Isabel were there New Year’s Eve. But you know that. You were invited, too.”
“No,” said Charles, “I wasn’t.”
Now Phyllis sat with her hands held tightly together on her knee, and only listened.
“Quite a party, I hear,” said the doctor, very carefully. He put down his empty glass on the mantelpiece and studied it. “And now my wife tells me that they are giving another one next week; their son’s birthday. She read me the list of guests. Joe and Isabel were on that list. All the young folk have been invited to that birthday party. Your brother’s girl, Geraldine, Charlie. About seventeen now, isn’t she?”
He dropped his arm from the mantelpiece, and sighed. “Well, I’ve got to get along. Dozen calls or more before dinner. Hope this thing doesn’t get out of hand. You can let everybody know, now, Phyllis, that it’s safe to visit Jimmy.”
“Yes,” said Phyllis. She was a little white in the gloom. She said: “Isabel has called every day, and she and Jochen sent flowers for Jimmy, and Geraldine calls at least twice a day. I didn’t bother you, Charles, to tell you. I think I’ll tell the poor child, now, that Jimmy has passed the crisis.”
She stood up, sick at heart. Involuntarily, and simply, she put her hand on Charles’ shoulder. He looked up at her, in silence, and then she tried to smile. They forgot Dr. Metzger. Charles reached up and put his hand over Phyllis’ and they remained like that for a long moment or two.
The doctor went into the hall, alone, frowning with concern. He pulled his old damp coat on. His horse and buggy stood in the snowy evening outside, and the lights were beginning to flare on. Then Phyllis came into the hall, and the doctor could see that there were tears in her eyes. She reached for the telephone, but before taking off the receiver she said: “Thank you, thank you, Gustave.”
She called Jochen’s house, asked for Geraldine, and watched the doctor leave the house. As the door opened and shut a furious swirl of wind and snow rushed into the hall. Phyllis shivered. It was Isabel who answered, in her “refined” voice. “Phyllis? I’m so glad to hear from you. I’ve been calling you very often, but you are never at home. How is Wilhelm?” Phyllis said: “Wilhelm is almost better, Isabel. As soon as the weather clears a little he will be allowed out.” She went on, very quietly: “You know I’ve been here a lot, Isabel. Mrs. Meyers has told you, and you have asked for Jimmy, and I spoke to you once, myself.”
“Are you at Charles’?” asked Isabel, with gracious surprise. “But, of course. I’m so very sorry; we are so busy these days that I keep forgetting. How is dear Jimmy?”
“Jimmy,” said Phyllis, “has passed the crisis. I wanted to tell Geraldine. Is she there?”
“So glad,” murmured Isabel. “It must have been quite a trial for poor Charles. Jochen hardly sees him, for he just rushes in for an hour or two, when he can spare the time, and rushes home. Geraldine? She is being fitted for her gown for young Kenneth Brinkwell’s party next week. I’ll give her your message, Phyllis.”
“Isabel. It’s perfectly all right for Geraldine to visit Jimmy. He’s out of danger, and I don’t think it will hurt Geraldine to see him, say in a few days, when his strength comes back. Will you tell her that?”
“Certainly.” Nothing could have been kinder than Isabel’s voice, or more solicitous. “But don’t you think a ‘few days’ might be too soon, Phyllis? I guard the girls so carefully, you know. And with this horrible disease going about a mother must be doubly cautious. Perhaps after Kenneth’s party—” She waited. Phyllis was silent. Isabel said: “Phyllis?”
“Yes,” said Phyllis, very quietly.
“Do give Wilhelm our love, too. When you go home tonight,” said Isabel.
“Yes,” said Phyllis. She hung up, and stood in the dark hall, and her heart was beating with fierce anger. She returned to Charles, sitting there so silent, bent over in his chair, his eyes fixed on the dying fire. He heard her come. “You told Gerry, Phyllis?”
“Yes.”
Charles sighed. “You know, Phyllis, it takes something like this to put everything else out of your mind. Well, thank God, anyway.” But Phyllis knew that there were many things returning to Charles’ mind, and very few of them gave him consolation and relief.
He went with her into the hall and helped her on with her black sealskin coat, and found her muff. A little light from the parlor drifted in here, and Charles could see Phyllis’ face, pale and tense. He took her hand, and said: “Phyllis, I’ll never forget how you’ve helped me. Never. There was no one but you.”
She tried for lightness: “But Mr. Haas came at least half a dozen times, even if you didn’t see him, and Father Hagerty was here twice, and called every day, and Mr. Grimsley haunted the telephone. And there were your other friends, too.”
Charles said: “Yes. Yes, of course. But all the time it was only you, here, Phyllis.”
She kept her smile, for she was afraid that she would burst into tears. She heard the crackling of her carriage wheels as they drew up on the dry snow outside. “Oh, Charles,” she said.
His fingers tightened about hers. “Phyllis,” he said. And then he opened the door for her, and she was gone before he could help her down the icy steps. Slowly and heavily, he went upstairs to his son’s room. It was filled with flowers, from Mr. Haas, from Wilhelm and Phyllis, and from Jochen and Isabel. There was a large vase of red roses from Mrs. Holt, also, and a still unopened message from her. But Charles stood beside his sleeping son and looked down at him, his arms hanging at his sides.
Only once did Charles see Friederich, and that was on a white and raging afternoon when the latter appeared briefly at the office. Charles caught a glimpse of his youngest brother, who appeared to have arisen from nowhere, and in rapid passage, now, almost out of the building. Charles ran after him, and caught him near the door. Friederich turned upon him, rather than to him, and Charles was momentarily taken aback by the look of frozen ferocity in Friederich’s eyes.
“I’ve tried to reach you,” said Charles, lamely. “I’ve left messages, these last two weeks or so, at your house. Perhaps Mrs. Schuele didn’t give them to you.”
Friederich grasped the big brass doorknob. He stared at Charles with inexplicable hatred. He said, in German: “She gave them to me.”
“Well,” said Charles, helplessly. He added, fumbling: “Jimmy has been very sick. He came downstairs, yesterday, for the first time.”
Friederich began to open the door.
“There was someone I wanted you to meet,” said Charles, lifting his hand almost pleadingly.
“Karl, there is no one you know whom I should care to meet.”
“It’s George Hadden, the Quaker. You know. He has that sheet metal works.”
Friederich actually paused, then. “George Hadden?” he asked, with brutal insult. “What would anyone like you know of George Hadden?”
Charles ignored this. “I know him. I’d like to know him better. He heard you in Philadelphia, quite a time ago. He—he admires you.” (What the devil was wrong with the fool, now? He had come from the direction of Jochen’s offices.) Charles went on: “It was in September when he said he’d like to meet you. But you were gone for six weeks, and then his baby died, and his wife was ill, and then Jimmy came down with ‘la grippe.’” Charles began to speak in German, rustily but carefully: “I have told you: he admires you. It is impossible just at this time to ask him to receive anyone. But may I tell him that you will see him later?”
“Are you trying to corrupt him, too, Karl?”
Charles kept his temper. Joe: had Fred been in to see Joe, and why? Was this expression of rage and hatred for him, Charles, or for Joe?
“Friederich,” said Charles, patiently, “I do not try to corrupt anyone. You know this, yourself. I am merely giving you his message. If you do not care to meet George Hadden that is your own affair.”
Friederich stood there sullenly by the door, his suspicious glare on Charles’ face, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He was all irresolution and wariness.
Charles said: “Come into my office a moment.”
“I have no time,” replied Friederich. Nevertheless, moving slowly and reluctantly, glancing about him as if in furious fear of enemies, he followed Charles back into his office. But he would not sit down.
“You might write Hadden and tell him of this message, or call him,” said Charles. The antennae of his mind were groping, carefully. He saw his brother, the thinner and erratic double of himself, grimy and unkempt. Charles shrugged: “I like Hadden, though I’ve seen him rarely. He doesn’t belong to my church, or any of my organizations. But he is a fine fellow.”
Friederich grunted. Then Charles saw that he was not only enraged, but extremely uneasy.
Friederich said, as if forced to speak, and the sound of his voice was shrill: “Jochen tells me he wishes to expand our works, but you will not.”
“Not yet,” said Charles. “I can see no necessity for it, yet Jochen spoke of it to me two months ago, and I refused, for very definite financial reasons. We received a large order from the Bouchards, yes. But things are not improving, Friederich. There is a sort of suspension of business in the air. A waiting, one might almost say.” He had to hesitate, occasionally, to find the correct German word.
Then he saw that Friederich’s expression had changed, become darker yet less furious. Friederich also came closer to him. “‘A waiting,’” he repeated.
“Yes,” said Charles, and looked at his brother intently.
“For what?”
Charles was silent. Then when Friederich repeated the question in a louder and more excited voice, Charles said: “I don’t know. Perhaps George Hadden knows.”
A tic showed itself on Friederich’s right cheek; it made the muscle move rapidly. Now Charles saw his loneliness, his insecurity, and his lostness.
“I think I know,” said Friederich, finally. “Yes, I think I know. But it is something I will never tell you, for it would make you happy. It would make you think of profits.”
Charles had to control his temper. He had to hold back the contemptuous words: “And you never think of profits?” Instead, he said: “George Hadden is in business. He has no aversion to profits. He is also a Quaker, and an honest man.” He waited. He said: “Friederich, perhaps there are things I know, too, which you think I do not know.” He stood up. “I have a son, Friederich.”
“A son,” began Friederich, sneeringly. Then he stopped. He wet his lips. “I—” he began, then was silent
“Let us help each other; there are things we all ought to tell each other,” said Charles.
Friederich turned away. Confusion and irresolution were in his every slow step which he took towards the door. Charles did not follow him. Friederich stood by the door, his head drooping, his sunken profile to his brother. He had drawn in his upper lip under the lower one.
“I cannot see George Hadden for at least four weeks more,” he mumbled. “I am leaving tomorrow for Detroit.” He was trying to gather himself together; he straightened up. He was trying, Charles saw, to renew his rage. “Jochen has just told me that you will not put your precision jig grinder into production, for some stupid reason or other, that you will listen to no argument.”
“I own the patent, Friederich. It is an important one, but as yet in the experimental stage. Yes, I know that the Bouchards would like us to manufacture it for them. They have been writing to me, and I believe they have written to Jochen. But it is not ready. It might never be ready for the Bouchards. They also wish us to lease or sell our patent for gun bores to them. Why, Friederich?”
Avarice, fear and anger suddenly blazed on Friederich’s face. Now he was utterly distracted. He pushed back his untidy hair with one smudged palm.
“You are such a liar, Karl!” he cried. “Always, you deliberately try to confuse me!”
So, thought Charles. He used his old weapon against his brother. He goaded him.
“I confuse you?” asked Charles, laughing slightly. “You are the most confused man I ever knew—Fred. You don’t know what you want, do you?” He spoke in English now. “Why don’t you try to settle for something—either a lot of money, or your ideals?”
Friederich took one step towards him, almost beside himself. “Why do you talk like this to me, as if you knew anything about ‘ideals’ or anything besides money and profits? I have hateful brothers. I am sick of all of you.”
“Including Joe? You’ve just been with him, haven’t you? Had a nice, cosy chat, I suppose.”
Friederich’s rage overpowered him. “Yes, I talked with him about your obduracy, your cautious clinging to your patents.” He stopped. The tic was more pronounced on his face. “But that is not important. You are all fools, all of you. Jochen is a fool today. He wants to change our name, by court order, to Von Wittmann! Wittmann is not enough for that imbecile and his Gnädige Frau!”
“What?” exclaimed Charles, incredulously. “‘Von Wittmann!’ Why, the infernal damn fool!”
“Yes!” shouted Friederich. He pointed a lean finger at Charles. “And do not lie to me and tell me you are not willing!”
“I certainly am not.” Charles was genuinely outraged, and Friederich saw this. This threw him into worse confusion. He cried: “Well, then, if you are not ‘willing,’ do something about it!”
He caught the door-knob now, opened the door, closed it with a violent bang behind him.
Charles was so angry that his first thought was to go see Jochen. But he knew this was not the clever way. He touched his bell and asked Mr. Parsons to ask Mr. Wittmann to come in.
Jochen came in, jocular, ruddy-faced and all pleasantness. But Charles saw that he was also wary. He said, abruptly: “Have you been talking to Fred about our gun-bore patent and the precision jig grinder?”
Jochen sat down, with a tolerant smile. “Yes, I did. Any objection? After all, he is an officer of the company. Or do you and I keep all our business under our hats?” He laughed. “Not that it mightn’t be best, with the kind of brothers we have.”
“You know that Fred doesn’t know much about the business. You teased him with the idea of more money, didn’t you?”
“Why not?” asked Jochen, easily. “He likes it. I like it. You like it. Willie likes it. And we’re all Wittmanns together.” He smiled again. “Now, will you tell me what all this is about? I’m busy, you know. Though not as busy as I could be, thanks to you.”
“Don’t be so ingenuous. You know I’ve refused those patents to the Bouchards, that I’ve refused to expand just now. So why did you try to use Fred against me?”
Jochen became indignant. “Are we all your tame seals? Can’t we discuss these things without you standing over us with a whip? If I disagree with your policy I have a perfect right to consult my brother officers to see if we can’t do something to persuade you to change your mind. You’re acting like a damn fool, Charlie.”
“Have you talked to Willie, too?”
Jochen’s eyes slid away. “Yes. What if I did? But lately you’ve got him in the palm of your hand.” Jochen’s eyes came back to his brother, and they were vindictive and sly. Finally, he smiled. “But there was one thing with which he agreed. Perhaps we’ll tell you about it one of these days. After all, it might sound funny—”
He stood up. So, thought Charles. That’s all I wanted to know.
Charles shrugged. “I can always wait, contentedly, to hear about your schemes, Joe. They’ve sure to be amusing. I do like to laugh, sometimes. And I’ve needed a laugh, lately. Got a cigar?”
Jochen, not pleased, took out his silver cigar-case, opened it, extracted a cigar, and threw it on Charles’ desk. “Why don’t you buy your own cigars?” he asked. “But no, you’re too much of a miser. Anyway, I suppose I ought to be flattered that you like mine.” He watched Charles light it. He could not resist saying: “That’s even a better brand than mine. Roger Brinkwell gave it to me.”
Charles, squinting through the smoke, saw his brother preen with high satisfaction. He nodded, after a few concentrated puffs. “Very good,” he conceded. “A little strong. But excellent. You’re wonderful friends with the Brinkwells, you and Isabel, aren’t you? I hear about it all the time.” Charles allowed himself to show that he was impressed. Jochen leaned against the desk. “We’re on first-name basis,” he said. “But then, we always were.”
Again, Charles nodded, comfortably. “I don’t suppose Brinkwell likes me. I haven’t been invited.”
Jochen chuckled. “You’re not the society type, Charlie. The grubby business man. Polly likes a little savoir-faire in her guests. Nothing against you personally, of course.”
“As you say, I’m not ‘society,’ Joe.” He puffed steadily. “What’s the matter with Gerry? She’s been to see Jimmy only twice in the past two weeks. Is she sick?”
Jochen colored. He began to move towards the door. “No,” he said, airily. “But there’s her school, and her dancing classes. Isabel keeps the girls busy with such things. Geraldine’s only seventeen. But young Brinkwell, Kenneth, comes to see her quite often. Saturday nights, sometimes.” He opened the door, spoke quickly and loudly: “Jimmy going to be able to go back to school, soon?”
Charles sat and smoked for a long time after his brother had gone.