Annie Proulx - Barkskins

“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.

He stood flabbergasted. And although he had enough presence of mind to call after her that he, too, had enjoyed the evening, it had been more like spying through the keyhole into that locked room. “Unlikely I will sleep tonight,” he said to himself. “Verdammt noch mal!”

• • •

By morning she had recovered her aplomb. Although she regretted her weak sniveling, Lavinia had finally said what she had to say. Now she would wait for his response. She was prepared for a refusal.

• • •

At the exhibit she noticed that Dieter Breitsprecher came in an hour after the doors opened. Annag Duncan moved through the murmuring crowd with a tray of cups, Miss Heinrich following her with the coffeepot.

David Neale took notes for his newspaper, or perhaps, thought Lavinia, he was one of Tappan’s anonymous spies who reported on the characters of businessmen. Noah Ludlum and Glafford Jones seemed to be concentrating on a heavyset fellow with a jug of some thick tarry substance. Theodore Jinks and Axel Cowes had asked Mr. Drimmel to convert the cloakroom into a temporary office with chairs and table, and they sat there importantly, calling in the inventors one by one and quizzing them. She saw Dieter Breitsprecher approach Flense and Pye. They greeted each other and went outside, still talking. Flense looked at Lavinia and raised his eyebrows. What that meant she did not know. Should she follow them? Wait? Instead she went over to a lank-haired man in a rumpled linen suit who stood near the door with two other men.

“I am Lavinia Duke,” she said. “Do you have an exhibit?” As soon as he said his name she remembered his letter. Weed, the architect, was a good talker, and he began to explain Prairie Homes. He beckoned her outside and pointed. “This is a quarter-size prebuilt model house, our Prairie Home Number One. It is small apurpose so that yesterday you could see the boxes. Today you see the model house. Did you see the boxes yesterday?”