Dragon Harvest

by Upton Sinclair

  That was the problem; and while consuming first mutton broth with barley and then honest roast beef which is the Englishman’s food, Lanny listened to a discussion of whether or not the British government could disinterest themselves in these matters and what would be the effect upon the safety of the Empire if they did. Ceddy and Gerald were not supposed to have any voice in the deciding of policy, but in practice the Cabinet leaned heavily upon the permanent officials, for it was the tradition that British foreign policy was always continuous, and these were the men who were always on hand, who had all the records and the answers to all the questions.

  Lanny knew that both these men had been firm in their determination for “appeasement”; but now they had got a violent jolt, and were in the painful state of having to change their minds. That afternoon, in the House of Commons, Lanny had heard Lady Astor expressing her horror at what Hitler had done, and had heard a Labour member jeering at her: “What, Cliveden? Why don’t you have another lunch?”—referring, of course, to that famous occasion when Lindbergh had come back from his tour of Europe and told her ladyship’s guests that the Russian air force was worthless, and the German was superior to anything which Britain, France, Russia, and Czechoslovakia combined could put up against it. If the mistress of Cliveden had changed her mind, the pillars of the British Empire must be crumbling!

  Lanny couldn’t say: “I was shocked at the position which the Prime Minister took this afternoon. It is practically turning Hitler loose.” Instead he remarked, tactfully: “I wonder if anyone has called the Prime Alinister’s attention to the significance of Hungary’s move today?”

  “How do you mean, Lanny?” inquired the dignified and austere Gerald Albany, a clergyman’s son and Wordsworth scholar.

  “Hungary is certainly not invading any part of Czechoslovakia without Hitler’s permission, and if the reports are true that Count Teleki is taking over the government, that settles the matter, for he is to all practical purposes a Nazi. I noticed in the last few days that some of the Berlin papers suddenly stopped referring to the district as the Carpatho-Ukraine and took to calling it by its right name, Carpathian Ruthenia. That is enormously significant—in fact it seems to me the most important development of years, from your point of view.”

  Lanny stopped. Was he speaking in shorthand to two top experts, or was he being a little bit malicious and forcing those experts to ask for the answer to a problem which they should long ago have worked out for themselves?

  “You mean,” said Gerald, “that Hitler is giving up his scheme for an independent Ukraine at the expense of Russia?”

  “Much more than that. If you look at the map you see that eastern Czechoslovakia is a long finger pointing straight into Russia and only a few miles short of that goal. Carpathian Ruthenia is the tip of that finger, and it affords Hitler a means of getting into Russia without crossing Poland. If he gives it up to Hungary, it means that he isn’t going into Russia, and wants to assure Russia of the fact. Stalin is afraid to death of Hitler, but he’s not in the least bit afraid of Teleki, and what the deal means is that Hitler is working behind the scenes for some arrangement with Stalin, just as he intimated to me he might do. Get the drop on Britain and France, was his idea.”

  “My God!” said the blond and pink-cheeked Ceddy, looking at his Foreign Office colleague with consternation in his bright blue eyes.

  XIII

  Ordinarily these two important men might have tried to cover up their confusion and give the impression that all this had been considered in their last office conference; but times were too serious right now, and neither felt like acting a part. What they wanted was for this American to repeat to them every word that Adi Schicklgruber had spoken on the subject of Bolshevism, the Soviet Union, the Russo-French alliance, and the attitude of Britain to both countries. Could it possibly be that the cynical wretch would be capable of turning his back on the principles he had been proclaiming over a period of—well, as far back as any Englishman had ever heard his name? The rotter, the cad—he was capable of anything! Lanny Budd, who had known Ceddy since boyhood, thought he had never seen him in such a state of mental upset. The whole policy of Britain had been based on the program that Hitler was to do his expanding to the eastward; and now he was letting the Hungarians close a gate across the highway.

  “The Prime Minister must have his attention called to this,” declared his lordship, and the clergyman’s son assented quickly. That was as far as they would go in the presence of an outsider, even an old friend. They thanked Lanny, of course, but they wouldn’t tell him any more.

  However, there was nothing to keep Lanny from observing that the Prime Minister traveled to his native city of Birmingham and delivered a scheduled address on Friday, there completely reversing the stand he had taken before Parliament on Wednesday. Then he had said, in substance, that what had happened was none of Britain’s concern; but now, addressing the Birmingham Conservative Association, and with all Britain listening over the radio, he recited once more the story of his negotiations with Hitler, and how the Führer had signed a solemn agreement that future problems between the two nations should be settled by consultation. “Instead of that,” said Chamberlain, “he has taken the law into his own hands.” Referring to the policy of appeasement he declared: “I am convinced that after Munich the great majority of the British people shared my hope and ardently desired that that policy should be carried further, but today I share their disappointment, their indignation, that those hopes have been so wantonly shattered.”

  Yes, and more than that! The Prime Minister went on to ask: “Is this the end of an old adventure, or the beginning of a new? Is this the last attack upon a small state or is it to be followed by others? Is this, in fact, a step in the direction of an attempt to dominate the world by force?” He went on to serve a solemn warning to the dictator: “I feel bound to repeat that while I am not prepared to engage this country by new and unspecified commitments operating under conditions which cannot now be foreseen, yet no greater mistake could be made than to suppose that because it believes war to be a senseless and cruel thing, this nation has so lost its fiber that it will not take part to the utmost of its power in resisting such a challenge if it ever were made.”

  Lanny Budd had been watching statesmen most of his life, and it seemed to him that in all those years he had never known one to reverse himself so completely and in so short a time!

  XIV

  Lanny talked over these problems with Rick and then sent off a report to Washington, in which he ventured the prophecy that, as soon as the storm of popular protest had blown over, Chamberlain would go back to his policy of wobbling. He would never be able to take a firm stand against Hitler, because of his deeply rooted fear that Nazi-Fascism, if defeated, might turn into Bolshevism. “That is the key to the understanding of all political events in Europe,” wrote the P.A. “In the long run, every statesman’s acts today are dominated by the dread of social revolution in his own country and those of his neighbors.”

  Lanny’s job was done for the nonce, and he was entitled to a holiday. He phoned to Irma, to ask if his coming would be agreeable, and she answered in her smooth, placid voice that it would be entirely so. This was a formality never omitted; they were scrupulously cordial to each other—both being satisfied with the new lives they had made since their parting four years ago, and anxious to make it possible for both to love their child and guard the child’s peace of mind.

  In a larger cottage on the estate lived Lanny’s former mother-in-law, whom he still called “Mother,” and her brother, called “Uncle Horace.” They were all cream and honey to him; Fanny Barnes forbore urging him to play bridge because she knew it bored him, and she would quickly interrupt when her brother got started on one of his long-winded stories of the good old days when he had made fortunes in Wall Street and how he could do it again if only he had the money. All this watchfulness because of the horrid idea that if Lanny were not made comfortable and happy h
e might propose to take the little one on some sort of tour, say to Juan-les-Pins or to Newcastle.

  Lanny had a three-hundred-year-old cottage which had been remodeled and supplied with all modern conveniences. He had to stoop slightly to come through the doorway, but once inside he had everything he wanted; a man-servant to wait upon him and prepare meals when he didn’t care to come to the castle; the free use of a telephone, and it didn’t matter if he chose to call Berlin or Juan or New York; a small piano and a radio set; his mail brought to him, and whatever newspapers he cared to order, including those from foreign capitals. The world had always done its utmost to spoil Lanny Budd, and his conscience gave him no rest about it; the more luxury he enjoyed, the more he hated the system of exploitation on which that luxury was based.

  He spent most of his time with little Frances, on whose account he had come. He rode horseback about the estate with her; he watched with her the flocks of sheep, and fed the deer, the peacocks and lyrebirds, the swans and tame Canada geese. He listened to her play new pieces on the piano and played for her while she danced. He read to her and told her stories about sights he had seen and people he had met—but trying his best to keep away from politics. He was a romantic figure to her, and his visits were great occasions in the life of a “poor little rich girl.” Her life was one of unbroken routine, but she was happy, and getting perfect training for a career as mistress of some great estate, as much like Wickthorpe as possible.

  Also, he did not fail to make the acquaintance of the Honorable James Ponsonby Cavendish Cedric Barnes, Viscount Masterson, who was now half a year old, and was scheduled—“sheduled,” the British pronounce it—to become the fifteenth Earl of Wickthorpe. The golden down on his head had become hair like his father’s and his deep brown eyes turned to watch you in exactly the way his mother’s did. He was a bond between Irma and Ceddy, just as Frances was a bond between Irma and Lanny. It was necessary that all five of these persons should be friends; so Lanny praised the noble infant’s looks and signs of intelligence, and even took the time to win the esteem of the tall and severe-looking lady who had been chosen to serve as head nurse to this mite of combined aristocracy and plutocracy. Lanny would never mention but neither would he forget that J. Paramount Barnes, utilities king of Chicago, had begun life as an office boy; and here his grandson had been born a viscount, and was going to be an earl!

  XV

  In the evenings Lanny would read, or, if there were visitors, he would dress and go over to the castle. A week-end at Wickthorpe was an education in British political affairs, and therefore in world affairs. Men and women of various shades of opinion came; mostly conservatives, but liberals and even eccentrics were not excluded, provided they knew how to behave. Irma had made over and refurnished the castle according to Long Island ideas; some might cavil at her taste, but they soon got used to the American temperature and appreciated all the other conveniences. It was like a great private hotel used for conferences by public men and women who wanted to exchange views and broaden their understanding of events.

  They treated an American art expert with great consideration; for how many men were there in England who could say that they had been guests at Berchtesgaden for a week or two at a time? Indeed, was there a single man in England who could say that he had been taken to the Führer’s den on the top of the Kehlstein, reached by a tunnel and an elevator shaft seven hundred feet high? Was there a foreigner anywhere to whom the one-time Gefreiter—sub-corporal—had revealed his belief that Mohammed was the greatest statesman who had ever lived, and his determination to enforce German Ordnung und Zucht by the methods which this shepherd-prophet had demonstrated thirteen centuries ago?

  Now, as never before, Englishmen and women felt pressed by the need to understand this strange disturber of the status quo, this half-genius, half-madman who had burst up from the depths of Central European misery and despair. They discussed him in the pubs and on the street corners. “This ’ere ’Itler,” or “that ole ’Itler,” you would hear a charwoman say to a dustman; and in the drawing-rooms it was the same in more elegant language. The ordinary amenities in Wickthorpe Castle were suspended, and instead of a general interchange of opinions they wanted one man to do the talking. They plied him with a stream of questions. What is this Führer really like? What does he eat? What does he wear? Does he shout at you as he does over the radio? Is it true that his German is bad? And above all: What does he want, and will he really be satisfied when he’s got it? How can anybody be sure he’ll be satisfied? How can anybody take his word for anything?

  Lanny had to be on the alert to meet such a barrage. Adi wanted him to say that he craved the friendship of England; so Lanny said it, again and again. “But on what terms?” the guests would ask. “His terms, or ours?” Lanny had to say: “I am afraid it will be on his.” So then: “What are his terms? He changes them every day. If we concede anything, he takes it as a sign of weakness and proceeds to grab something else without asking. When is he going to stop?” The son of Budd-Erling had to say, more than once: “I am an art expert, not a politician or a psychologist. I can tell you what he told me, but I can’t tell you what is going on in the back of his mind.” Lanny had to use great care, for there were German agents all over England, and many of them in the highest circles.

  XVI

  Lanny had given four mail addresses to his friend Monck: the Adlon, Bienvenu, Newcastle, and his bank in London. Now he received a letter at this last address, reading: “I am sailing on the steamer Atlantic. The Defregger is in good condition. Your lady friend is a charming person. She is at the Excelsior Hotel. Braun.”

  That set a swarm of bees to buzzing in Lanny’s head. This pair had got away with their risky undertaking! He wondered just what had happened? How had the woman stood it, and what was she making of it now? Had she guessed anything about the supercharger? What was she going to do with the car? And was she going back to Berlin? So many questions he would have liked to ask out of idle curiosity!

  He found himself thinking of Laurel Creston in a new way. Hitherto she had been a clever writer and good company—especially as a listener to lectures on art. But now she had been put to a real test, and had stood it; now she was a comrade, even something of a heroine! Lanny thought: “She went through with it, just as if she were a man.” He knew that he could never mention the subject to her, not even by the faintest hint. But would she mention it to him? Would she yield to the temptation to tell somebody about the extraordinary thing that had befallen her? Lanny found himself saying: “If she wants to learn to drive a car, I might teach her.” And then: “If she wants to sell it, I could give her advice.” And again: “London isn’t the same as Berlin, so far as gossip is concerned. Nobody would pay any attention if I met her here.”

  A set of temptations almost impossible to resist. Here she was, within a couple of miles of him; here was a telephone and a book with the number of her hotel in it; all he had to do was to pick up the receiver. After all, he assured himself, Laurel Creston hadn’t written anything against the Nazis—not yet. And he had been somewhat rude to her, and ought to make up for it—just by a casual courtesy, say a walk in the park. It would be a sort of joke, a sort of cat and mouse play; there was a secret between them, and both knew what it was, but she didn’t know that he knew. He would be in the position of a playwright who knows how the play is going to end, but the audience doesn’t know, and he has the pleasure of watching its reactions.

  The hotel, whose name Lanny had never heard before, was in the Kensington district: He called it, and apparently the guest had to be summoned from upstairs; he had quite a wait before he heard her voice. “Your friend from Berlin,” he said—no use using names! “What made you run away so suddenly?”

  She answered: “I thought you had run first.” She would never be at a loss for words.

  He made a date, to treat her to a lunch in the old English style, at Simpson’s on the Strand; he told her how to get there. He was in something of
a glow as he listened to her voice, and when he met her he discovered that she was in the same state; she would be that way for a long while, for this had been the most exciting experience of a well-bred and well-brought-up young lady’s life—very certainly the first time she had come into conflict with the laws of any country, the first time it had occurred to her to think of the police as anything but servants and protectors. And just because Lanny had been in Berlin, he would bring it back to life in her mind; she would be thinking how excited he would be if she were to tell him what she had done!

  They sat at a small table in a hundred-year-old restaurant, now become modern and elegant; but a servitor still came with a small metal cart on rubber tires, or tyres in England. When he lifted the cover your eyes beheld a huge roast of beef sizzling in a pan; your nostrils were assailed by delicious odors, and if you said the word he would cut you off an elegant slice. Or you could wait for another cart with a leg of mutton almost as big. Lanny’s guest was appalled by the prospect, and Lanny suggested fried smelts, better adapted to a lady’s mouth. He said: “Byron expressed the opinion that a woman should never be seen eating.” Then he inquired: “You know Byron’s poetry?” In his mind was the thought, what a sensation if he should begin to recite:

  Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!

  Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art: …

  XVII

  She told him, in the most casual of tones, that she had come to London on business, and was planning to return to Berlin in a few days. “I find Germany very interesting,” she remarked. “I want to try to understand it thoroughly.”