“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. W
ho 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.”
CHAPTER XXII
The Clarion carried a full account of Mr. Haas’ sermon. Mr. Grimsley, the editor, had also written an editorial in his own most pungent and bitter style, and he used all the telling adjectives he could think of during the writing. The editorial was headed: “The Secret Brotherhood.”
“It was always from this band that have come the murderers of all the saints and the heroes and the martyrs,” the editorial said. “They are born and born again, in every century, and too often, for the peace of the world, they get together, find each other, know each other. They are the Devil’s legions, and they have their passwords, their banners and their hidden signals. They are men of all nations.
“There is one way the civilized man can know them, and that is by their hatred: The man who hates other men, the man who is malignant, the man who lies—mark him down. He is one of the secret brotherhood.”
Jochen Wittmann made no comment upon this to Charles, on Tuesday. He merely looked sullen and haughty, and kept out of Charles’ way.
At four o’clock Monday afternoon, Mr. Parker informed Charles that a gentleman wished to speak to him on the telephone. He had refused to give his name, but he sounded very urgent. Charles impatiently agreed to answer the call. “Who is it?” he demanded.
A young man’s voice, subdued and hesitant, came to him: “Father Hagerty, Mr. Wittmann. Is it possible to speak to you without—”
“Yes, of course.” Charles nodded to Mr. Parker, who went out of the room and shut the door silently behind him. “Yes, Father Hagerty?” said Charles, in a lower tone.
“I want to thank you, Mr. Wittmann. I tried to reach Mr. Haas but was informed he was not in the city.”
“No. He left for Philadelphia.”
The priest’s voice was clearer, now. “Mr. Wittmann, I have not mentioned it to anyone, nor indeed, did you actually tell me, yourself. But it is known, apparently, that you had asked Mr. Haas to deliver that sermon.”
His teeth clenched, Charles looked at the heap of anonymous letters on his desk. He said: “No one knew, actually. But these people have a way of finding things out. They are much subtler than we are. I think there is something in the Bible about the children of darkness being wiser in their generation than the children of light. Isn’t there?”
“Yes.” The priest paused; now his voice took on a note of distress. “I still wonder if it was wise. Minorities, everywhere, have found that it only increases enmity and hatred for them when they are defended so openly—no matter how nobly, either. You see, I’ve had my windows broken again, the windows of my front room.” He tried to laugh.
“That’s nothing.” Charles tried to sound cheery. “You received my check for the church window, didn’t you? No, no, don’t thank me. Just have your parlor windows repaired and send me the bill. By the way, the window at the Clarion was broken this afternoon, too. Mr. Grimsley called me half an hour ago. He thinks it very amusing. He is going to make quite a story of it. And Mr. Haas’ housekeeper has reported to me, as the President of the Board, that two of Mr. Haas’ windows were broken this morning. We’re smoking them out, Father Hagerty. This will arouse the decent people in the city.”
The priest said: “Perhaps. I don’t know, Mr. Wittmann. I don’t know what my bishop will say when I write him my report, as I shall have to do.”
Charles laughed. “Your most reverend bishop, Father Hagerty, does not control me, nor does he control Mr. Haas, or Mr. Grimsley. Give the bishop my most respectful regards and tell him that we three are going to stop this thing, if it is at all possible to stop it.”
Now Father Hagerty laughed. His voice became younger, and livelier. “I shall tell him that, you can be sure! But he is certain to wonder what it is all about?
??this window-breaking, and all this animosity, in Andersburg.” He added: “After all, people are not generally so ugly, Mr. Wittmann.”
“How old is your bishop, Father Hagerty?”
The priest was surprised. “I think he is about sixty, Mr. Wittmann.”
Charles smiled. “Then he won’t ‘wonder.’ A man of sixty knows that quite a large portion of the human race is detestable. Only young men like you are under the delusion that people are intrinsically ‘good.’”
“But they are, sir. The others are only misguided.”
“I think your bishop might not agree with you.”
Then it was evident that the young man was embarrassed. “I ought not to be taking up your time like this, Mr. Wittmann, but as I said, it is being rumored about that you had a great deal to do with the sermon and that editorial, even though your name was never mentioned. Some of my parishioners have called to ask me if you were about to enter the Church. These are simple and harmless people. But a few who are not simple and harmless—and they know you—are telling me strongly that what you have done, and your motives, are open to question. They tell me that you are ‘using’ the Church for your own gain, whatever that might be. I am informing you of this now so that if you hear malevolent rumors spread by any Catholics you will be not too indignant. After all, human beings are—”
“So damned human,” interrupted Charles. “No, I won’t be indignant. I know people.”
A few minutes later Charles went into Jochen’s office. Jochen looked up at him with sultry surprise. “Well?” he said.
But Charles stood and studied him with long penetration. Jochen glared at him. However, there was nothing furtive in that glare. No, thought Charles, it wasn’t Joe.
“Joe,” said Charles, “when I saw Mrs. Holt on Sunday she asked me if you and Isabel would care to have dinner at her home a week from Wednesday.” God help me, he added to himself, if old Minnie refuses!