Lavinia clenched one hand. “Oh, I hope that did not happen.”
“It did not. That mill produced dozens of robins in its time.”
“Mills do not seem to last long. There is always some catastrophe.”
“You are quite right.” He hitched his chair a little closer. He enjoyed talking about catastrophes and had seen a good many in the Michigan forests. “Most are entirely preventable, but men are careless and I think millmen are the most careless, though the owners and the show foreman can do a good deal of damage. For instance”—he peered earnestly at her—“I do not wish to bore you with accounts of misfortune?”
Again, an opening to inquire about Armenius, but instead she said, “Dieter, you do not bore me, pray continue. But first let me refresh your glass. Now go on.”
“A Maine timberman told me of his reasons for coming out to Michigan. In Maine he had a big mill. He put his mill at the bottom of a steep hill covered with pine right to the water’s edge. His plan was to cut the pine, make a slide for the logs that would carry them down into the mill, then load the lumber on ships docked in front, a very smooth and continuous operation that fell out just as he predicted. But he didn’t understand what happens to a hill when you remove the trees.”
Lavinia had no idea what he meant.
“What does happen to a hill with the trees removed?”
“Spring came and all began to thaw. He told me he was standing on a nearby spit of land in a position where he could admire his mill cutting as fast as the saws could run when he saw that entire treeless hill gather itself together like a cat and rush down in a landslide of mud. It buried the mill and mill hands, sank the ship waiting to be loaded. It made terrible big waves in the harbor. Never found anything that was in its path. A monstrous wet pile of mud and stumps.”
“I had no idea such a thing could occur,” said Lavinia. “I admire your knowledge of these dark mischances. I must send a bulletin to our sawyers not to place a mill at the bottom of a slope.”
“Yes, or better still leave the trees in place. Tree roots hold down the soil. The branches shade the soil and protect it from heavy rain washouts.”
“Miss Lavinia,” said Libby in the doorway, “Cook says dinner is ready.”
“Thank you, Libby. Dieter, shall we go in?”
Somehow they could not let go of catastrophes as a subject and over the roast lamb and fried potatoes went from landslides and fires to shipwrecks, crazy cooks, suicidal loggers, woods accidents, even a daring payroll holdup. Was this the time to ask about Armenius? Or the other, more important question? No.
“I have heard, Dieter, that you have bought up a good deal of cutover lands. Is that true?”
“It is. Such land can be had for almost nothing, and it gives me pleasure to replant and make it good and valuable forest again.”
“But surely it will take many years before it can be cut, before it has value.”
“Of course. But in Europe people consider the past and the future with greater seriousness. We have been managing forests for centuries and it is an ingrained habit to consider the future. Americans have no sense of years beyond three — last year, this year and next year. I suppose I keep to my old ways. I like to know that there will be a forest when I am gone.”
“Very commendable, I am sure,” she said. “Where do you find the young trees you plant?”
“We grow them. Breitsprechers started a pine seedling nursery some years ago. We employ Indians in spring and summer to plant for us. White woodsmen who cut trees scorn such work. But the Indians have a deeper understanding of nature and time, and we employ them when we can.”
Lavinia thought that it was likely Indians were more glad of having paid work than of making forests for the future.
“Your care for forests is well known. And I have also heard that your logging camps have numerous small bunkhouses for four men instead of one great long building that can house a hundred?”
“Yes, it seems to me that more privacy will rest the men more thoroughly. These fellows labor greatly and appreciate small comforts.”
She bit her tongue to keep from saying that many of Breitsprecher’s woodsmen came to the crowded bunkhouses of Duke Logging because rough living challenged their male hardiness. They despised ease and comfort. That was certainly the wrong thing to say.
Lavinia fidgeted. She would have to make the Board’s offer soon. And if he agreed she could ask openly about Armenius. They had reviewed catastrophes and she had missed her chance to find that out. By the time the dessert came — cream-filled éclairs dipped in chocolate with a huddle of sugared strawberries at one end — they were more comfortable with each other, and she was almost enjoying his company.
“Would you care for a stroll in the park before coffee and a liqueur?” asked Lavinia. She would ask him then.
“What park might that be?”
“It is a small forest park I have made with two neighbors,” she said. “It is very pleasant on a summer evening and as it is still light we can enjoy the last rays.”
They stepped into the woods, passing under a magnificent silver maple, its long-stemmed leaves showing their silvery undersides. Dieter was amazed. “Why, Lavinia, you have preserved this beautiful little forest. I commend you.” He quoted from Uhland: “ ‘The sweetest joys on earth are found/ In forests green and deep,’ ” and thought that she was not entirely lost to the lust for money.
The park was ten acres of mixed hardwoods with another twenty of old virgin white pine at its east end, a remnant of the extensive shoreline trees cut by Duke Logging decades earlier. A pathway cleared of undergrowth wound through the trees, and as they crossed a log bridge he could see a rill coursing downslope into a pool lit by the sun, the evening insect hatch caught in the last rays. They walked to the pines in time to see the final orange slab fade into deep shadow.
Behind them sounded the day’s final robin cries. The wind stirred the pine tops but they only heard the rich ringing calls cheeriup cheerilee, cheeriup cheerilee.
“They are telling us to be happy and cheerful,” said Lavinia, caught in the perfumed memory of lying on Posey’s silk pillow and listening to her hoarse low voice read of good Robin Red-breast.
“I wonder if you know how badly the robins are hurt when we cut down their trees,” murmured Dieter. “We take their trees away and they are forced to build nests over whirling saws.”
“Oh dear heaven,” said Lavinia. “I never thought of it that way. Why do not they fly away to other trees?”
“They can, and do, but nests cannot be moved and then, when the young are just ready to fledge, come the choppers and fell the tree, dashing the infants to the ground.” He stopped when he saw he was causing her real pain. “Dear Lavinia,” he said. “You are very tenderhearted toward robins.” He had discovered something.
“I know,” she said nasally, trying not to bawl. “I love them so. Do you know that if someone dies in the woods the robins come and gather leaves, cover them over…” And the tears ran. What could he do? Gingerly Dieter put his hands on Lavinia’s shoulders; she pressed her face against his shirt and they stood in amber afterglow with robins shouting all around them, adjuring them to cheer up, cheer up, for God’s sake, cheer up.
She did not want his warmth even as she craved it, the smell of his shirt, her own weakness, and she pulled back. He looked at her, said nothing and they walked on, with considerable space between, to the house, to brandy and coffee in paper-thin porcelain cups, the liquid black until a spoon of cream made its miniature whirlpool.
Dieter Breitsprecher found her a great puzzle. She was like the perennial locked room containing unknown objects found in every great castle. He set down his brandy glass and opened his mouth to say something about the forest park, but she interrupted and said in a rush, “Dieter Breitsprecher, there is something I wish to ask you. The Board and I would like to offer you a partnership with Duke Logging, we value your knowledge, we wish you to join us on terms we both agree on, the Board, the Board and I, we have discussed this and we want you, I, I–Libby,” she called without waiting for his response, “show Mr. Breitsprecher out.” She stood swaying and then gabbled, “Let us talk here tomorrow, Dieter, after the exhibit. You can give me your answer then, your feelings— I have enjoyed the evening so much. And we can discuss the inventors, discuss everything for the Board and I value your opinion.” And she rushed out of the room; there was no other word for it, she rushed away from him.