“Mr. Pye, our good old accountant, has requested retirement on account of ill health. He has some painful gnawing in his vitals and his eyesight is not good. Annag has assured me she is able to keep the accounts as well as he.”
“You would do well to give a little reception for him — a gold watch or a watch fob in the shape of a pinecone? What is the company policy?”
“I don’t think we have one. My father was never a sentimental man and I expect anyone who retired got a gold piece and a handshake. But I think you are right. We can arrange something pleasant for Mr. Pye, just a little collation in the boardroom. I’ll tell Annag to take care of it.”
To outsiders such changes seemed the mark of Dieter Breitsprecher; he was a man of some mystery but since his entry into the affairs of Duke Logging outsiders believed him to be the source of all the company’s deals. Lavinia’s character and qualities were ascribed to him; his own reputation as an astute and fast-striking businessman grew.
To escape from his own feelings and thoughts during this convalescence Dieter began to write letters to those men who seemed concerned with the disappearance of the North American forests, a concern that appeared more and more linked to a vague recognizance of national identity though he was not sure of this. Few now saw the forest as a great oppressive enemy; some even honored individual trees, especially those that were massive or stood as landmarks. A Unitarian minister in western Massachusetts gave a series of sermons on trees, sermons later published as a slender volume—Trees of Life. Dieter had a copy. Most stirring was the sermon on the cedars of Lebanon, al Arz ar Rab, great dark trees of God that had sheltered angels, trees felled by King Solomon’s hundred thousand axmen. The sermon ended with a plea: “the cedars are now imperiled by ravenous goats that eat the young shoots. Queen Victoria herself has sent money to build a wall to protect the trees from capric destruction.” The congregation contributed a generous sum for the salvation of the cedars of Lebanon while continuing to quarter their own herds on public forestlands.
Dieter shied away from transcendental disputation but he was interested in the American shift from hatred of the forest to something approaching veneration, a feeling he had known since his German childhood. After the deaths of his parents his grandmother had taken him to see the Heede Riesenlinde.
“A Lindwurm—dragon tree,” she said in a low intense voice, her heavily beringed hand drawing him close to it. As they stood under the great carbuncled tree, its splayed trunk thick with emerald moss, she said, “This noble and ancient tree is a justice tree and much more.” She told him the story of Siegfried, adapted for her own purposes, Siegfried the Bark-Skinned, who had acquired his horny covering after felling Fafnir, the dragon who lived in the lime tree. After swabbing himself with dragon’s blood, Siegfried was armored, safe from harm except for a little place on his back where a lime leaf had stuck.
“This tree? The dragon lived in this lime tree?” asked Dieter, his eyes clenching the dark hollow in the roots, half-afraid the great serpent would appear.
“Yes, but it was a very long time ago. The dragon is dead, thanks be to Siegfried. And now you must think of yourself as Siegfried. The sadness you feel over the death of your mama and papa is a kind of dragon—Sie müssen zurück schlagen—you must quell this sorrow-dragon. You must harden yourself, overcome grief and form a protection of will against superfluous love. Then nothing can hurt you.”
But Lavinia had found his lime leaf and pulled it away.
• • •
He wrote many letters to the Vermonter. Marsh was the best kind of farmer, for he noticed everything that happened in his world, the fall of tree branches, the depth of leaf mold in the woods and how rain was slowed by and caught in tree roots, tempered by the absorbent sponge of moss and decaying leaves. He saw what happened to soil when the trees were gone, how the birds disappeared when the pond was drained. When he traveled he compared landscapes and formed opinions. Dieter still hoped to visit him and see what the farmer had seen. As their correspondence went on he realized that George Perkins Marsh was considerably more than an observant Green Mountain farmer — linguist, congressman, diplomat, a traveler to foreign parts — one of the geniuses the young country seemed to throw out like seed grain.
• • •
The new wing would be added to Lavinia’s house while they were on their honeymoon journey to New Zealand. When they returned all would be finished.
“A great deal of money,” said Lavinia to herself. Still, one had to keep up appearances and Dieter must have his library and greenhouse. She put aside her black clothing and took up new fashions, form-hugging dresses with perky little bustles. And Goosey, that homely grey-haired matron who had been saving her stipend for years, had suddenly appeared in dresses of rich colors, unsparing of ruffles. Her hair was artfully plaited and wrapped into a crown.
At breakfast Goosey poured melted butter and maple syrup on her griddle cake. “Lavinia, I have meant to tell you for many a day but—”
“What is it, Goosey?” Lavinia preferred silence in the morning but this was not in Goosey’s nature. She glanced at her distant cousin, saw her pink face and knotted brows. Goosey gave off a faint scent of orris root.
“I have accepted to marry Mr. Axel Cowes.”
“But how do you come to know him?” Lavinia was greatly surprised. Goosey flared red and hunched her shoulders. It all came out. The day she had walked into the forest to cut a few pine twigs for Dieter she had encountered Mr. Cowes strolling with his dogs. They had chatted, they began to walk together, and over successive months they became daily walking companions, close friends and finally, betrothed. “He needs someone,” said Goosey. Ah, thought Lavinia, so does everyone.
“I wish you every happiness, dear Goosey,” she said, immediately planning to cut Goosey’s bequest from her will.
• • •
Lavinia went early to the office and returned late. There was very much to do, two or three businessmen callers every day and the correspondence such a daily flood Annag Duncan and Miss Heinrich could not handle all of it. Though Annag looked like a prosperous and successful businesswoman, Miss Heinrich had changed little; she remained timid, hiding in the paper supply room when strangers came to the office.
“For heaven’s sake,” said Annag, “they won’t bite you. It’s just businessmen.”
“I don’t like that Mr. Wirehouse. He looks at me.”
“He looks at everyone. You may look back at him, for a cat may look at a king.” Lawyer Flense had presented her with an amusing book—Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. And this remark sent Miss Heinrich into tears. “I am not a cat!”
• • •
On one of Chicago’s blowy old days Annag, trim in navy blue with a modest hem frill, came into Lavinia’s office, her lips moving, rehearsing what she wanted to say.