“All right,” said Edward, in a dead voice. “Go on, Hans. I’ll talk with you tomorrow. I can’t frighten Margaret today—tonight. That is one thing I can’t do.” And he smiled at Margaret reassuringly and lifted his hand.
A vein of fiery brillance darted through the murky skies, then exploded in a broad sheet of light. There was a long crash of thunder. The trees seemed to stand on tiptoe and throw their green arms desperately and fearfully to the heavens. The grass blanched in a white wind, and flowers blew from the tables.
The golden candles went out and a darkness fell on the face of the earth.
CHAPTER XI
Austria-Hungary was at war with Serbia. That was July twenty-eighth. On August first, the Kaiser declared that Germany was at war with Russia. On August third France was at war with Germany, and Germany was at war with Belgium, Great Britain with Germany on August fourth, Austria-Hungary with Russia, and Serbia with Germany, on August sixth. France went to war with Austria-Hungary, and Great Britain with Austria-Hungary, on August twelfth.
“The guns sounding in Europe are the guns aimed at the heart of all mankind,” William wrote to Edward. “But this is only the beginning. I’m not a religious chap, but this is Armageddon.… The nations aren’t fighting each other, though they think they are. They’re fighting the bloody fight for Socialism; nobody’s told them that yet.”
On a hot day in middle August Margaret called on Father Jahle. She had never met the priest before, and when she saw his face, so exalted, so suffering, and so kind, she felt she had not made a mistake in coming to him for help.
She looked about the little dank parlor. Milk bottles and cheap glass vases and bowls overflowed with zinnias, yellow daisies, late roses, and summer lilies. They possessed a colored light of their own in every corner, on every table, and masked, by their effulgence, the dull shabbiness and mildewed walls, on which they seemed to cast a living radiance. Their scent flowed over odors of decay and poverty. Margaret sat on a small horsehair chair, beautiful in her white linen suit and big blue hat, but her eyes were full of pain and set in dark circles. She had taken off her gloves, and unconsciously twisted them in her hands as she spoke.
“Father Jahle, I’m afraid you’ll think me presumptuous or silly in coming to talk with you,” she said in a low voice.
The priest smiled at her with tender encouragement. How many times he had heard those exact words in this room! “Presumptuous, silly,” the anguished souls called themselves as they cried out for succor in their despair. “Why should I, Mrs. Enger?” he asked gently. “What else is a priest for, except to help if he can?”
“Yes,” she said, faintly. “That’s what I’ve come for. Help.” She paused, and her eyes implored him. “Ed talks about you so much; you see each other so often, he’s so devoted—”
The priest said, with some sadness, “It’s true that I’ve known Eddie since he was a child, and that he has done so much for me, so much! I think I know Eddie almost more than anyone else does, except, of course, his wife.” (The pretty, loving young girl, the poor child!) He went on, looking at her earnestly, “But I don’t see Eddie very often, not in these past years. In fact, I haven’t seen him this time for several months, or many weeks, at least. I was just going to write him a letter. You see, the last time I saw him he insisted on me going to a doctor; he thought it was something very serious. But it wasn’t, thank God. I just have asthma; I’ve had it all my life. Perhaps you can reassure Eddie for me.”
“Oh, no,” said Margaret, dropping her head. “I don’t want him to know that I’ve been here.”
The priest waited, and Margaret, her face hidden, felt his large humanity, his compassion, and his profound innocence that was also wisdom. It was never good to urge confession or confidence, thought the priest. The seeking soul had its own tempo.
“It’s about Ed,” Margaret murmured at last.
“Yes. Of course,” said the priest.
Margaret lifted her eyes, and the pure blueness of them was magnified with tears.
“Since the war broke out, in Europe, he—he hasn’t been well,” she said, her voice breaking. “I mean, there’s a kind of dustiness, a dusty shadow, over his face. He told me, even before we were married, that there was a war coming, against the world, by men who had arranged it a long time ago. He seemed to be one of the few who knew—” She paused. “He seems ill. He doesn’t talk about it much any longer, even to me, but I know he is busy about something.
“But that isn’t just why I came. It’s—I’m afraid for him. He’s my husband. I love him. He’s tearing himself to pieces inside; you’d almost think the war meant something to him, personally, that it had a personal meaning for him. That’s what I can’t understand! When terrible things occur, it’s only right that a man should fight them, if he cares anything about other men at all.” She stopped and gazed at the priest despairingly. “But I don’t think that he—”
Father Jahle nodded sorrowfully. “Yes, I know. What you wish to say, and don’t wish to say as a loyal wife, is that Eddie dislikes people intensely and cares nothing about them. Mrs. Enger, it’s been my experience that when men begin to dislike people violently, and to give an impression that the fate of other men is not only not their concern, but that they derive pleasure from seeing calamity visited on others, it’s because they once loved their fellow men and cherished them and worried about them. And then they were terribly hurt. It isn’t possible for men like Eddie to become indifferent to their fellows, for they’ve been involved with the world too long. The dislike and the derision and the malice is the reverse side of the coin of their original love and hope and dedication.”
“Yes, yes!” said Margaret. “His family has disappointed him so much! They’re so detestable.”
But that’s not what I meant, or it’s only part of it, thought the priest. Yet how much, really, do I know of such a protean man as Eddie?
He was disturbed by the anger and indignation on Margaret’s face.
“I think,” faltered Margaret, “that in some way the war is tied up in his mind, though he doesn’t realize it, with his family. It’s just a guess on my part, a sort of intuition. I think it’s beginning to kill him, day by day. On the few times that he’s mentioned the war, and Socialism and the men behind Socialism, he never fails to speak of his brothers and sister right afterwards, as if it was a continuing theme in his thoughts, without his conscious knowledge. I know that sounds stupid, but—”
The priest was disturbed and greatly startled. He pondered over what Margaret had said, one thin finger pressed against his lips. He coughed, over and over, apparently having some difficulty with his breath. He thought, while trying to overcome his paroxysms, The child hasn’t spoken stupidly. There’s truth in what she’s said, but I never saw it before. I am the stupid one.
He said, “Only Our Lord understands the torturous and devious ways of the human soul and mind.” His voice was weak from his spasm. “Eddie is by nature a man of deep feeling and emotion. I don’t know his family well. At one time,” he said musingly, “I called him Simon.” He looked at Margaret questioningly, wondering if she was as little versed in religion as Edward. But Margaret nodded.
“He still is,” she said with some bitterness and vehemence.
Father Jahle sighed and shook his head. This girl wanted to help her husband; she could not help him if she believed what she had said. Her love and fierce loyalty would blind her. As gently as possible, the priest went on. “Mrs. Enger, I don’t call Eddie Simon any longer.”
She was puzzled. “I don’t understand,” she said.
He wondered if he could reach her, for Edward’s sake. He sat on the edge of his chair, his clasped hands between his thin black knees. He did not want to hurt her. He said, “Words are very inadequate; I find that out all the time. It’s a clumsy way to try to convey what you mean. At one time, Mrs. Enger, I believed Eddie was terribly exploited by his family, that he, the strong one, was being oppressed by the weak, an
d that he couldn’t escape. I don’t think that now. Oh, from what I’ve heard over the years, his brothers and sister are weak. And Eddie is very strong.”
He regarded her hopefully. But she was frowning a little. “You mean, they’re weak because they and their parents think they’re geniuses? But they do have gifts?”
“Yes,” said the priest. “They have. But I think that’s beside the point. I’ve said that Eddie is strong; he is. And he’s been exploited. Why? Because he believes in his family’s genius? Perhaps that’s part of it. But there’s an enormous resentment in him, even a kind of hatred for them.”
Margaret nodded. “How can he be blamed? They’ve disappointed him; they don’t use their capacities to the limit, in spite of all his work and his money. I—I know one of the brothers very well.” She colored, and the priest wondered why, anxiously. “It’s David. A wonderful pianist. He could do better; his technique is perfect, but it hasn’t any true color or brilliance. It’s mechanical. Ed knows; Ed could have been a pianist himself. He has the spirit for it, the feeling, the intensity. I think he could have been a painter, too; he knows all about painting. He’s haunted all the bigger galleries in this country, and he can talk about art like an artist himself. He speaks and writes eloquently; he knows literature. And he’s built that theater for Sylvia, and she’s no more interested in it than I am. Don’t you see why Ed should feel as he does about them?”
Again the priest shook his head. “I can see. On the surface. But I don’t think that’s the real reason, somehow.”
“But he was deprived so they could have the chance!” cried Margaret.
The priest stood up slowly and leaned his arm on the little mantelpiece near him. He dropped his face into his hand. Yes, he thought. That is a part of it, but only a part. But why did he let himself be exploited? That’s the dark and hidden answer to it all. He’s strong; he could have gone his own way. Why didn’t he? Was it because, in a kind of revenge …? I don’t know! And Eddie probably knows the least of all.
He often had these moments of absolute bafflement and pain. Even a priest could see only the surface, much of the time. A man’s soul lay hidden, like a creature in a shell, far below the bright roof of the ocean, dwelling to itself, known only to God.
Margaret’s shoulders dropped with weariness. The priest did not understand at all. She said lifelessly, “I know I’m right in thinking that the war is somehow tied up in Ed’s mind with his family. I sense it. But I haven’t a way of bringing it to his consciousness! What could I say? He would look at me as if I were insane.” She laughed drearily. “Perhaps I am, after all. What could that awful war have in common with Ed’s feeling about his family?”
“I don’t know. But I think you’re right, Mrs. Enger.”
She looked at him in astonishment. “You think so? Then what can we do to help him?”
“God will have to reveal it to him. You see, Mrs. Enger, God, like the sea, has His own tides, and nothing can hurry them. A man has first to understand himself, and feel contrition, and confess, and then ask for forgiveness, before he is free.”
Margaret was outraged. “You’re speaking of Ed? What has he to feel contrite about? What has he to confess? He’s given his life to his family!”
“So he has,” said Father Jahle, mournfully. “Or has he? I don’t know. There’s something here neither of us can understand. Men aren’t mathematical equations; they can’t be measured by scientific instruments. No man has the identical aims, emotions, passions, loves, and desires, as another man has. Every man is unique, because he is an immortal soul. He shares in God’s infinite variety, which is never duplicated. He is beyond science; only his body is the field of the biologist. The new psychology you read about, here and there, can never be a science, for science is exactness. Its experiments can be repeated over and over, with always the same results. But man’s soul is beyond science, for no man’s spirit can be analyzed by other men, because they have not experienced exactly the same thing he’s experienced, nor thought the same thoughts, nor loved or hated or suffered as he has.”
He half turned from Margaret. “There were the two thieves on their crosses, on each side of Our Lord. One of them reviled Him; the other recognized Him and loved Him. Yet they were both thieves, both miserable wretches, both abandoned creatures, in the sight of the crowd, both criminals caught in the same crime. But modern psychology would declare them to be the same, objects which could be measured scientifically, reacting identically. Part of a mass man. Yet one repented, the other did not. Was the repentance a sudden grace from God? Or was it a bursting into light of what had been cramped and chained and oppressed and was now suddenly released?”
Margaret twisted her gloves in her hands and regarded him steadily. Then she began to shake her head over and over, as if denying something in herself.
“Please, my child,” said the priest. “Try to help Eddie. You can do that by helping his brothers and sister, perhaps to—to free themselves—”
Margaret exclaimed indignantly, “Ed constantly urges them to stand on their own feet! He’s not imprisoning them! They haven’t any courage!”
“And you can’t help them to have courage?” asked the priest. “A new sister, a gentle sister, a sister with pity?”
“Pity them?” cried Margaret, jumping to her feet. “For exploiting Ed, for worrying him to death, for disappointing him? For frustrating him, for muttering ridicule of him behind his back? I’ve heard them when they thought I wasn’t there. Oh, they don’t dare to say anything to his face, except Sylvia, and then even she realizes she’s gone too far, and tries to appease him. Pity them! Grown people! Only Ralph’s younger than I am. How long should they be children?”
“Until God makes them adults,” said the priest, hopelessly.
Margaret went toward the door, then stopped and turned a mutinous face on Father Jahle. “And so you won’t help Ed?”
“What would you suggest, Mrs. Enger?”
“You could tell him not to get so emotional about that war. You could tell him to do what he can, objectively, even if it won’t help now. At least he’ll know he’s trying. But he can’t be objective, and that’s the awful part of it. Unless he’s helped.”
“And you can’t help him?”
“I’ve tried,” said Margaret, listless again. “But he gets too excited. Even violent. I’ve even asked him to talk it over with the family’s minister, Mr. Yaeger. But Ed doesn’t like religion—” She blushed awkwardly.
“I think,” said the priest, “that he believes that God’s estranged Himself from him. But Eddie has estranged himself from God. I don’t know when or how. I tried to get him to explain, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t. By nature he is deeply religious. Please believe that, Mrs. Enger. I knew him when he was a boy. And why would he do as much for me, as he’s done, and for Mr. Yaeger, too, if he were irreligious?
“The only hope Ed has for understanding himself is to come again into the presence of God. There, you can help. He won’t be on guard, as he is with me and his minister. Your love for him can lead him to God.” He paused, then continued urgently, “Mrs. Enger, you must help him. You must ask God to give you the wisdom and the strength and the fortitude. You must forget his family in relation to him, and think only of him, as an individual soul needing enlightenment, the enlightenment that only God can give him.”
“Forget his family?” Margaret was freshly outraged. “They’re the cause of his misery! Why should he need to be enlightened about his family? He knows too much about them as it is!”
The priest went to the door with her. He had hoped so much from Margaret. He had thought, for a moment or two, that he had reached her with subtle knowledge that could spring only from a loving soul. But Eddie was almost lost now, through love.
I had hoped so much from him, thought Margaret, with despair. But he’s like everyone else. He thinks the strong can take care of themselves; he never thinks for a minute that they are vulnerable, too. I can’t talk
it over with Mr. Yaeger, either. He doesn’t know much about Ed, and he’s afraid of him, and he’s under the family’s influence. I did think that priest would be more understanding, for he’s known Ed for so many years. But he understands the least of everybody!
When she was settled in the gleaming black Victoria, she looked back at Father Jahle. He was going into his church, and he walked slowly, his head bent, as if in prayer. Pray! she cried wildly in herself. It won’t do any good at all!
“Is it enceinte?” asked Violette, with twinkling sympathy.
Margaret was annoyed. She felt that her sanctuary under the trees, so far from the English mansion, had been violated.
“I think that’s my own business, Violette,” said Margaret, shortly. Then she relented, though Violette did not appear in the least crushed. In fact, the smart little French girl sat down on the bench beside her and regarded her humorously. “It is a mistake,” she said with frankness. “This, having a child at once—is it? A lady does not know her husband very well, so soon, and there—voilà!—is a stranger, a stranger who is uncouth, a nasty stranger. But Americans are children, yes. They must cover themselves with children or they are the lonesome. American ladies are dull, dull. It is the children.”
“Thank you,” said Margaret, but she smiled. She liked Violette; she preferred villainy to be charming and adroit and gay. The villainy of Edward’s family was repulsive, in its sullen and selfish insistence on gratifying itself, its lightlessness, its childish petulance and greed.
Violette spread out her hands expressively. “The Americans—they have no élan, non. They are busy, busy, busy. Like the ant, like the bee. They confuse motion with the intellect,” and she tapped her golden-tinted forehead significantly.