“Oh, we understand that. I can see that your feelings are badly hurt.”
“Yes, as I said, the Russians don’t like me just now. I don’t like them. They stole a shipment of arms intended for Japan, and never offered to pay for them. Our newest type of rifle, too. Well, after Japan gets tired of the old samurai, or is convinced he is really harmful, there is a man called Saigo in Satsuma. Nothing like controversy to aid civilization. You see, I am interested in civilizing Japan, also. Peace is no civilizer. I have hopes for Saigo. There is also Russia, Japan’s only significant white neighbor. The Russians are barbarians: Skeda reports they have rebuffed all their attempts to approach them. We could be of considerable help, but you can’t teach stupidity anything, not even an awareness of danger.” He smiled. “There is Japan, beginning to learn that self-defense is the first law of conquest, and here is Russia, thinking that her whale-bulk is a protection. I prefer the white race, but an armaments-maker must be tolerant.”
“I see,” said Mr. Regan thoughtfully, studying him with his pinpoints of eyes.
“However,” went on Ernest calmly, “I have not lost all hopes for Russia. Within a short time she is bound to declare war against Turkey. The Serbs hate Turkey; the Slavs of Herzegovina are due for an insurrection against Turkey, too. Austria is playing a little fast-and-loose game with the Turks: at times she looks indulgently at them even while they violate her territory and the frontiers of Croatia; then she becomes stern and refuses to allow them to land arms on their own territory at Klek. A little conciliatory game known in vulgar circles as now-you-see-’em-and-now-you-don’t. Austria’s not up to it; she ought to study John Bull, who is a master at that kind of business. Only England seems to know when it is safe to look and when it isn’t. Well, anyway, the Balkans furnish armament makers with a sort of first-class laboratory and experimental depot. There’re always opportunities there to try out improvements in cannon and guns and powder. Skeda informs me they’ve shipped a tremendous cargo of powder to Turkey, and a huge shipment of cannon to Austria. Mussulmans and Christians: a nice pot of stew that’ll keep the fires burning in the Balkans for many years. And between the two of them it’s hard to know which is the worst rascal. I believe I prefer the Turks: they don’t smear honey on their crimes. So long as the Hungarians can keep on hating the Servians and loving the Turks, and so long as we have Klapkas and Count Andressies and Abdul-Kerins in the Balkans, the cause of aggressive peace is not lost.”
“It seems to me,” said Mr. Regan, “that you are playing a little game yourself, a little stinker known as playing both ends against the middle.”
“Pardon me, for the middle,” replied Ernest.
“I’m no villain. I’m a business man. The world needs armaments and I supply them. The very best, too, mind you. And like all business men I must stimulate a market; that’s my legitimate right. I’m infringing no law. Men will fight; it’s a law of nature. And I supply them with the means to fight. But blast it, I don’t need an advocate, not even myself. The trouble with this world is that it’s too damn full of sentimentalists and fools, who live with their guts instead of their brains. I’m no worse than a bloody usurer like you.”
Regan shouted with laughter. “A usurer? That’s good, very, very good. But here we sit like a pair of ninnies, congratulating each other like stage villains on our villainies. You’re a bold devil, Barbour. I like you immensely.”
“That’s capital, but I detest being called a villain. I wouldn’t mind so much if I really were one. As I said before, I’m a business man.” He looked exceedingly annoyed. “I detest sentimentality. I could name you a handful of real villains, including yourself, who could give me worthwhile lessons in everything, not excluding mayhem.”
“Come now, let’s not pout like a pair of girls. Here, have some more brandy. As I suspected, you don’t really like brandy, do you? So don’t force yourself to take it; it’s seventy-five years old and meant for a man with a palate. Villains? A villain, my dear Barbour, is a man who fails. So I owe you an apology. The last time you were here you asked me if I were going to grant that loan to France. My answer now is that I’m not. Too precarious; she’s still too weak from the war. Too bad, too; I like the French.”
“I don’t.”
“Why, half your family is French.”
“Nevertheless, I don’t like them. Perhaps it’s the Englishman in me. Oh, you called me a provincial once. Perhaps I am. But I don’t like the French.”
“Like all Britons, you don’t like any one but yourself. But you don’t like the French because you don’t know how to live. The French do. They have a thousand means of satisfaction and zest in living; you haven’t. You have only one way. Making money.”
“Power,” said Ernest quietly. He leaned forward and put his clenched fist on Regan’s desk. The other man leaned back in his chair, smiling indulgently and with a touch of understanding derision. “I’ve always wanted power,” said Ernest. “When I was a lad in school in England, the other lads hated me. I never knew why. I was a quiet little beggar, never ran from a fight, always behaved myself. I was not twisted or crippled or defective, and I had no halt in my tongue. I never lied nor cheated; never bothered to. But the lads hated me. Why? I never knew. I don’t know now. And then, we came to America, and I avoided the lads. I did not go to school. But still, every one hated me, from strangers to my own brother. And I never knew why. I soon saw that if I hadn’t the protection of laws those who hated me would soon finish me off. I won’t say I didn’t care; I did care. Nobody likes to go around feeling like a leper. So in self-protection I hated back. And I’ve done a good job of it. I’ve got the thing that’s a boot in the face—power.”
Regan was no longer smiling. “Just the other day I heard a Jew say that very same thing.”
“Then the Jews and I have much in common. The reply to hatred is power. Not kindness nor surrender nor placation. Power. It’s the only thing dogs understand.”
Regan was silent. The pinpoints became sharper, more incisive. And curious. He did not like Ernest Barbour. Now, understanding him, he liked him even less. He lit a cigar, and spent quite a little time in the operation. Then, without looking at the younger man across the desk, he said: “No, you have really nothing in common with the Jews.” He puffed carefully at the cigar. “The trouble with Americans is that they hate ruthlessness, even while they admire and envy it. Even when they are ruthless themselves, they are careful to explain it as something else.”
The large planes of Ernest’s face moved in the convulsion that was his smile. After a moment he stood up.
“Wait a minute, Barbour! Don’t be so damned abrupt. Are you going to see Bellowes? I understand he has sent for you. I want to go with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Sent for me? That’s imperial, isn’t it? No, I don’t mind if you come with me. But I assure you I can handle Bellowes, oily or not oily.”
Regan chuckled. “I’d never call Bellowes oily. There’s a man who’s your match, Ernie Barbour. And he also serves as an example of what I have been telling you about American ruthlessness. He hasn’t had time to justify himself yet. But when he has sufficient money—or power—and when he has settled his private grudge against the world, and exhausted himself, then he’ll set to work to disclaim his ruthlessness. Just at this time he’s the most vicious dog that ever smeared his poison saliva over another dog’s meat so it can’t be eaten, except by himself. But mark my words: before he dies he’ll be one of America’s saints. So, he’s called you in for conference. Friend or enemy? Would you mind telling me which?”
“It all depends on the price he offers me.”
“Damn you, you’re not even cynical! I hate cynics, anyway: apologists. Well, I’d like to go with you.” He rang for his secretary. “Look here, didn’t I read something lately about your boy, Godfrey, being a musician, and having something or other played at the Academy?”
“Yes.” Ernest’s voice and face were smooth. “Tonight: at the Acad
emy. I believe it is his first symphony. That’s really why I’m in New York at this time.”
Liar, thought Regan without contempt. “How remarkable this is, my dear Barbour! You must, of course, have my box. Mrs. Regan and I were to dine with friends, but this is much more important, and we must go to hear this symphony. Mrs. Regan is quite a patroness of the Academy. And will you dine with us at home tonight?”
“I am not alone. Mrs. Barbour and my daughter and my niece are with me.”
“Splendid! We’ll be honored, I assure you. Charming lady, Mrs. Barbour. All the Sessions were charming. May we expect your son, also?”
“No. He is too busy getting ready. After all, it is an occasion for him.”
“Yes.” Regan became thoughtful again. He had put on his smooth silken hat and his thick fur-lined coat. He picked up his cane and gloves. They left the offices together. “Why the devil don’t you move to New York, Barbour?”
Ernest smiled. “You gave me the answer yourself. I’m a provincial.”
CHAPTER LXXXIV
Jay Regan found Ernest’s cold and impassive habit of stilted speech rather amusing; he also amused his friends by repeating his ponderous witticisms. But the greatest amusement he and his friends derived from Ernest Barbour was the latter’s complete and unapologetic implacability, his brutal lack of reticence concerning the aims and progress of his traffic in armaments. It was as if he said to them: “This is what I shall do—this is my plan. You might call some men indiscreet if they told as much as I do, but you can’t call me indiscreet. You see, I am afraid of nobody.” So, while they laughed at him, they did not do it to his face, nor among those who might repeat their laughter to him. There was hatred inextricably mixed with their derision, and though most of them had fortunes exceeding his, there was also envy.
The American robber barons, heavy with loot, were already becoming ashamed of their own fierce lustiness, their crude robustness, and looking with embarrassment at their black finger-rims, were already sheepishly admiring the cool and listless elegance of a white-handed Europe. They were already beginning to reject from their society members who found nothing to be ashamed of in their titanic lack of refinement. The better established of these were tentatively speaking of their London “town houses,” and patronizing their fellow Americans. In uncertain voices, gradually growing stronger, they joined their European friends in denouncing American ruthlessness and greed and exigency, and refused to know the “new-rich” who were vulgarly shouldering them. A slow but steady pro-Britishism was beginning to grow among these satiated robber barons, and they were beginning to speak deprecatingly of all things American, even to the extent of joining in the thin and derisive laughter of their European friends.
These were the people who found Ernest Barbour disconcerting. An Englishman, he was yet more exigent and greedy than they. He made no pretences of elegance; he was distinctly not a gentleman, nor did he affect any refinements. Worse than all else, he had no patriotic loyalties, either to England or America. He was the real cosmopolitan, the real man-without-a-country, the real outlaw. Had he been at all wistful about England, or had he been vigorously, loudly, vocally loyal to America, they would have forgiven him. His complete unawareness that certain sentimentalities were expected of him won their endless enmity. There was something about him that frightened them. They suspected a superior strength, beyond shamed intimidation, beyond opinion. He was sufficient unto himself: he showed no signs of needing anybody or desiring anybody. This made them envy him, though he was still not as rich as most of them.
When they spoke to him of England, he smiled contemptuously and said: “There is nothing there for any one. America is the best of all countries.” And yet, when they became lyrical about their own country when among themselves, he remained silent. They could not understand him. Finally they told each other that they accepted him only because of his wife, “that charming May Sessions.”
If Ernest were curious as to why Jay Regan was accompanying him to the Apex Oil Company and the office of James Bellowes, owner, organizer and exploiter, he did not advertise it. It was his theory that apparent indifference was the unbearable reply to an antagonist, and that under its influence the most astute of men will betray himself. He knew that Jay Regan wanted him to express curiosity, and that that curiosity would strengthen Regan’s reticence. Because he refused to express curiosity, he irritated Regan, who soon enlightened him obliquely.
“Did you know that Vanderbilt is one of the new stockholders in the Middle Oil Company?” he asked.
Without showing much interest, Ernest replied: “Are you also one?”
Regan chuckled. “Did I say I was? But I want to tell you, it’ll eat up all the little men. Even the big ones. Why, even Charles Brett and Company have sold out to the Middle. What have you to say to that?”
“Only this, that I can’t be threatened. I still own one-third of the stock in Jack Bellowes’ Crusade Oil Company.” He paused. “It would ruin Jack Bellowes if I threw my stock on the market. I’ve backed him, too. Yes, it would quite ruin him. Besides, I don’t like his big brother, James. I never like sharks, when they go to Sunday school and pray earnestly. It’s always been my theory that competition is necessary to industry.”
“How much will it cost James Bellowes to change your theory?” Regan grinned.
Ernest smiled. “More than he expects,” he replied. His reply jolted Jay Regan, who would have preferred a little cynicism. “And I like Charles Pitts, who’s President of the National Transportation Company. You know, he’s pipe line ally of the Pennsylvania.”
“Um. Well, you’ve got your match in James Bellowes. Some day, Rockefeller will have to notice him. He’s got practically all the refineries sold or leased to the Middle Oil Company, except yours. And brother Jack’s. Don’t fool yourself that you’ll be able to hold out, with your loyal-heroics to the National and to Jack.”
“Did I say anything about ‘loyal-heroics’? I have my price. It is up to James Bellowes to meet it. If he doesn’t, we’ll lead him a dance. And I’m not at all sure he’ll call the tune, either.”
Feeling a little foolish, but also obscurely outraged, Regan asked: “Did you ever hear of ethics?”
Ernest turned his bland pale face to him and stared at him with his colorless eyes. “No, did you?”
Goddam Englishman! thought Jay Regan. He smiled serenely. “You’re a sharp one, Barbour. You mentioned you had a price. Would you consider me impertinent if I asked approximately what it is?”
“Yes, I would. Besides, why should I tell you? You are also a stockholder in the Middle. All I can say is that I own a lot of wells around Titusville, that Bellowes needs the railroad of which I am a director, and from which he has received nearly five hundred rebates, and that I own stock in the Crusade Oil Company, and that I believe that competition can fill many pockets. No doubt, you’ll have a word or two with James Bellowes before he sees me, and you can tell him what I’ve told you.”
So Jay Regan, smiling and fuming, knew that he had betrayed himself, and cursed his own tongue. He glanced at Ernest with eye-points like fire, to see if the other man were smiling triumphantly to himself. But Ernest’s face was still smooth and pale and bland.
“In other words, you mean that you’ll sell out Jack Bellowes and his Crusade Oil Company, and Charles Pitts of the National Transportation Company—if your price is met?”
“Yes.”
“If you ask too much, the Middle will refuse. You know that?”
“Yes. But I wouldn’t like to see the Middle refuse. I believe in sweet accord between business men. I wouldn’t like to see the Government poke its hand in the stew; governments always make messes out of nice quiet little family stews. We’ve given five hundred rebates to the Apex Oil Company, or call it Middle Oil Company—both stink as bad under any name. Pretty thin ambush, I call it, too. By reason of those rebates Bellowes has been able to cut the throats of his competitors. I know one or two Senators who might
get quite overwrought if they knew all of the truth.”
“Do you think you can intimidate Bellowes?” demanded Regan incredulously.
“Do you think Bellowes can intimidate me?” The words were egotistic, but the voice and the face were not. Regan fumed. He poked his cane viciously into a low snowbank as they walked down narrow and crowded Wall Street.
“You’re nothing but a blackguard of a blackmailer!” he growled.
“I,” said Ernest tranquilly, “still own one-third of the Crusade Oil Company, and I still know a few politicians.”
The full impact of what he had been hearing fell upon Regan and he stopped short in the busy street and stared at Ernest. “You actually mean you are going to force Bellowes to buy you out? Why, my God! he’s called you in to try to make you sell out!”
“It’ll be quite a surprise to him, then, to see that I’m quite willing to sell, won’t it?” asked Ernest pleasantly.
Regan could not refrain from saying, stunned as he was: “You are actually demanding to sell! Is it possible you don’t realize what you hold in your hands at the present time?”
“Yes. But this time I’m not after money as much as I am after something else.”
“Oh, a trade, eh?”
“A trade.”
Jay Regan showed no delicacy whatsoever in frankly abandoning his companion in the offices of the Apex Oil Company and going into Bellowes’ office for an agitated conference before the oil man saw Ernest Barbour. Ernest sat down serenely, and waited. He folded his hands on the top of his gold-headed cane and smiled to himself. He liked the Apex Offices, and always enjoyed being in them.
He had not been here for some years. The offices had not changed except to acquire a rich, glowing patina that had flowed over old mahogany. It was as though Time were an expert old housewife armed with oiled rubbing cloth and careful brush. Even the shabbiness that comes with use was yet sumptuous and full of mellow dignity; it had a warm sheen. There was a portrait of James Bellowes, James Duggan Bellowes, to be exact, hanging on the wall over a deep fireplace. It was a dusky and sallow face, severe and bitter, with a wide thin cleft of a mouth that spoke of immovable obstinacy and more than a little brutality. Ernest thought that for so dour a man brutality was a sort of luxurious sensuality, a savage ecstasy of the mind. In the small and narrow eyes, intent and coldly fierce, was a mummy stare. The man had a large family, yet about that portrait hung so emaciated an air, such sterility, polar frigidity, that it was almost impossible to conceive him in the process of begetting.
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