House of All Nations

by Christina Stead

  ‘You’ve got something?’

  ‘A letter to the—a letter. Say, we’ll write a letter that will get him. The Continent watching you with bated breath—flatter him—a letter from the Continent. “My very dear sir,” No, “Honored sir.”’

  ‘He’s the right honorable, by the way,’ Alphendéry said, with a little parade of learning. No one knew the designations of foreign statesmen but he.

  ‘Is he smart?’ Léon thrust at him. ‘A Scot, eh? They don’t flatter. Would he suspect flattery? No, not used to it. Or perhaps. They call the English slimy. Coax. No, a virile letter.’

  ‘About what?’ Alphendéry asked sharply. He foresaw another job, with the usual profit to himself. But, wearily or not, he was obliged to do it, for he very much needed to get away from the humdrum escapades of life in the bank.

  ‘Why bank on Ramsay? You’re not sure he’ll get in. Suppose Winston Churchill has the nous to step forward?’

  ‘Him? No. He misses fire. Do you think?—’ he suddenly began to doubt himself. ‘Must be Labour Party,’ he said. He recovered himself. ‘Let’s just get the scheme down first. Listen, Michel, if I get an honor there, will you work with me in England? Listen, I got a plan, get myself in good. Five-Year Plan for English finance. Listen, we write a letter: the pound dissolved, despite market flurries, shares in devalued pounds going up, they know it won’t help England. We write a letter say to the Prime Minister, bring to the fore the serious situation. A merchant wishing to serve and showing the intense interest he has taken in English affairs—a sort of matriculation, eh? Good scheme. No American constitution, no language test. Give them a Five-Year Plan for finance. Listen, unemployment isn’t going down. They’re going to get it in the neck unless they do something. Lloyd George says the bankers are all wrong, maybe I’m all right. You see? Will you write the letter, Alphendéry? We go to the Prime Minister, we explain. You’re my private secretary. I get my honor. Worthy merchant. Later on—anything. Maybe I stand for M.P. You go along with me. It’s a career for you too, my boy …’

  ‘As your secretary?’

  ‘No, no, no, no—not my secretary. A partnership. Spiritual partnership, eh? You write the letters. Will you write the letter, Michel?’

  ‘I’ll try. Will you tell me what it’s about?’

  ‘I told you. Listen, my boy. This is the plan—what is wrong with it? That is what we must ask ourselves: what are the alternatives? Lots of panaceas have been suggested and this is mine, the one I think best and now propose because I have uprooted my inferiority complex—’

  ‘Oh, you have?’

  ‘I mean I read in The Times and the May report and Lloyd George and Snowden, and I’m good as they are, my boy. Maybe better. At any rate you write, you write—why don’t you take some notes, now?’ he coaxed. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Jesus, leave me alone, Léon! I’m absolutely all in.’

  ‘Rest, rest; sleep, and after we’ll do the letter. Rest—you need it.’

  ‘All right.’ Crestfallen, he went off into the grandiose bathroom, done in marble with a black marble bath in the center of the room, the room big enough for a salon. He kept peeping at Alphendéry to see if he was sleeping. After a quarter of an hour, he tiptoed back and peeped at Alphendéry, standing beside him. Michel, hearing him breathing irregularly in his dubiety, opened his eyes and smiled rather palely.

  ‘Forgive me, Henri. I’ve had such a week.’

  ‘I’m not bothering you, my boy.’ He looked so wistful that Alphendéry, always wax, got up slowly. ‘I’ll do your notes for you, Léon. Then I’ll do no more this week end.’

  Léon rubbed his hands, beamed, flushed with joy. ‘That’s right, my boy, just notes—then finished, eh? We go out, have a good time, make whoopee. I’ll buy you wine, a good dinner, eh?’

  ‘Go on,’ Alphendéry said, without gratitude.

  ‘Well, at this time when it looks as if even the devaluation of the pound won’t help England, I read their plans and speech, no cabals, no vigilant committee—won’t help: that’s not the English way.’

  He considered, then said briskly and loudly, ‘The Plan. Twenty-five per cent capital reconstruction lien—whether any exceptions or whether to be composed on a scale basis to be considered. Twenty per cent reduction on all salaries by law—and wages, with exceptions to be considered.’ He began to ripple with genial laughter. ‘That’ll appeal to them at any rate. Everyone got to draw their belts in a hole, two holes. Ten per cent reduction on all postwar rentals, ten per cent reduction on all power, gas, electricity, that is, public utilities, ten per cent reduction on all road and rail rates, freight and passenger. Twenty per cent reduction on all rail, canal, and road freights where goods carried for export …’

  ‘That would suit you,’ said Alphendéry.

  ‘Surely, my boy, I look at it from the point of view of the small capitalist. What suits me, suits them. And it looks fair for all. Not worker but Englishman, not capitalist but Englishman. See? Write, “And these to be enforced for five years.” Also a flat income tax or less. Twenty-five per cent reduction in death duties. Idea is, attract back money now held abroad, Switzerland, U.S.A., Oslo. See? What do you think of it? Have you got it, eh? These to be enforced for five years. English Five-Year Plan! Also flat income tax less the liens. It will appeal to all those with capital! Attractive! The people submit anyhow. They all pay their income tax in England—rush to do it, my boy, I’ve seen them. My duty to my country. The people are—no marrow in England! Drained country; people left are just bad Courlanders. Reduce rent and you can reduce wages. What is the Labour Party? Did they make the rich pay? No guts. Reduce wages, entice capital to England. I wouldn’t mind putting mine—well, what do you think, Alphendéry?’

  ‘They’ll never even consider it. It’s too good a gift to the rich. The English can’t be fooled like that. They want a socialist or chauvinist or patriotic appeal to go to the country on.’

  Léon frowned. ‘Yes, my boy,’ he urged, ‘but they don’t advertise it! They have it in hand ready to spring. You see! You and I go to wait on the Prime Minister and we say, “Here is a present.” Friend of England. England has always welcomed foreigners. No prejudice. She has a right to their capital. She’s honest. Doesn’t steal money entrusted to her. Safe as the Bank of England, eh? Free country: make capital free. Give it the freedom of the City. Eh? Say to him, “Give yourself five years. In five years you’ll have a war, maybe. Anyhow, a war boom with the armaments race.” Give capital a chance to recuperate. And it will look almost socialistic for the people. The title: Five-Year Plan. Steal Stalin’s thunder. Dress it up. You see? We go and say, “The cancer in England is high cost of production and confiscatory taxation!”’ He proudly rolled his eye. ‘If he makes something, he has to give the government so much, a large proportion. If he loses—see? Besides, it permanently prevents enterprising foreign capitalists from coming there. You see, backward country. A Poland! It’s a Poland. But you got to attract capitalists. And Majorca, Channel Islands, Blue Coast!’ he finished triumphantly.

  ‘Eh?’ cried Alphendéry, staring.

  ‘It drives rentiers from England who gladly would live there, their native heath and London, land of freedom, Karl Marx—’

  ‘Whoa,’ cried Alphendéry, ‘throw a spanner in the works: I can’t keep up with you.’

  Patiently, humanely, Léon explained, ‘It drives rentiers from London who gladly would live there because of its—word! Word ! Hum! niceties!—’

  ‘Amenities,’ supplied Alphendéry.

  ‘Amenities,’ shouted Léon glaring. ‘Amenities, political, social, literary—’ His voice faded; he came back on a gentle argumentative tone, ‘You see, we say, flatter them a bit—and it’s true. We say, “Window dressing for capitalists, enterprise.” Take me, I want to go into business in England. I employ labor, give food to the country. I already got money in
England. Shows my good faith.’

  ‘In what?’ asked Alphendéry. Léon seemed confused, but owned up, ‘In beet-sugar production: they offered—a bounty—bounty to anyone who went into beet-sugar production. I make money. That’s enterprise.’ Alphendéry went into a long but amiable laugh. Léon eyed him askance, smiled shyly, came back brisk, ‘The Plan. One. Write, Alphen. “By reconstruction levy we mean that the government has prior claim of twenty-five per cent on your capital equity. It doesn’t mean that you have to sell twenty-five per cent of your holdings to give the government this twenty-five per cent. The government gives you a discount of five per cent to anybody who cares to liquidate this lien, so the question of forced sale either by merchants or rentiers would be compounded and there would be no disturbance in business either—it would be a question of bookkeeping and enormously assist the position of the state abroad as a solvent concern!” See! Hochem, eh? Well, how does it read?’

  ‘Good, so far,’ said Alphendéry. ‘It’s all right.’

  Léon spread out his hand towards Alphendéry, leaned forward, and bent the hand back as he straightened, ‘Argument that this is confiscation: “Five shillings death duties is confiscation anyhow.”’ He seemed grieved. ‘Now labor side of question. “Under the present situation, since economy is not possible except by serious steps in retrogression—capital is faced with much more serious confiscation, due to rising social troubles and distress. As regards labor, even the U.S.A. and all European countries are reducing labor—they’ll have to—”’

  Alphendéry looked up. ‘Jules Bertillon says, and he’s never wrong, “It’s getting harder and harder to buy the people off.”’

  Léon cocked his head and considered this brightly. ‘Yes, h’m. But with what? Buy ’em off with formulas: that’s the answer. They’ll have to bring in new systems of reducing the wages of labor. Let’s speak plainly: not as capitalists, as practical men, a merchant’s point of view. You’re kindest to labor when you keep them in jobs. See! And labor is compelled to accept lower wages offered. Englishman so proud of sitting on Indian coolie’s neck, he will accept coolie wages and not look at them. We say to the Prime Minister: “The best means of reduction are offered by this scheme”—my scheme. The Léon scheme. All right, they call it the Five-Year Plan. To build new state, every Englishman will do his duty. Say, they’re better than them barefoot Russians, aren’t they? That’s the argument! Boy, it’s a good selling line, eh?’

  Léon rubbed his hands, beamed generously on Alphendéry’s bowed head. ‘You say to them, “Look here, boys, during the war, we took emergency measures: the circumstances do not now greatly differ. All pull together. Here we ask no one to die and leave his family, but to live and work for England. Work that England may live!”’ He took a few excited steps. ‘That’s a slogan that’ll get them. They’re patriots: no reasoning power, not like Frenchmen: “If I die of hunger, I’m not a Frenchman but a corpse.” No, sir. You can count on their patriotism. That’s what they teach ’em at Eton. Rules of the game. Then when you get in. That’s your selling line to them, to Lloyd George, to MacDonald, or whoever it is.’

  ‘Too smart,’ said Alphendéry. ‘They won’t like it.’

  ‘And,’ shouted Léon quickly, to show he was no fool, ‘utilitarian, let’s remain utilitarians!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Put it over,’ explained Léon, taking a long breath. He began to make a persuasive appeal to an imaginary public. ‘Let’s remain utilitarians; it has always provided a sound basis for our public weal as against the hysterical humanitarianism of the Continent …’ Say, how am I doing, Alphendéry? Say, how’s the Labour candidate? Here we ask no one to die for the country. John Stuart Mills. I’d do pretty good. With you,’ he remembered quickly. ‘And the beauty of it is,’ he confided largely, ‘is that it’s true. My heart is with the people, Michel. Say, “This is not a party question. Therefore this great scheme can be brought in by a National Government in which the Labour Party can take the lead. Few people realize what work the Labour Party is doing under difficult circumstances!” See the appeal. With the Five-Year Plan. See! Make statesmen out of the poor fooshers.’ His great noon-day laugh filled the room with yellow sound. ‘We’re going to see the world! What do you say now to being my political—h’m … my political secretary?’

  ‘You mean, political ghost,’ said Alphendéry.

  ‘Certainly, certainly, my boy—you’re the brains, I’m the trumpet. I’m the brass band and the flags flying. H’m. We’ll see the world together.’ He became absorbed again, ‘Motto: “Who will work that England may live?” Good, that.’ He began dictating as to a secretary, ‘“And delicate handling of the German crisis and salvation of our financial situation. The Bank of England has been our Rock of Gibraltar. Fortify the Mother Rock.” Eh? Eh? “And few people realize today the benefits of the Naval Conference. Which established our position today.”’ He frowned ferociously. ‘No Vigilante Committee. Not English. Out in the open.’ He bit his lip and took a step, frowning. The thought of the merchants of England putting their heads together and getting up a privateering scheme to ‘save the country’ without him irritated him. He rushed on, shaking a fist, ‘“Therefore”—letter to MacDonald, anyone, letter—“Therefore, a National Government including members of all other parties such as governed England in Napoleon’s time—”’

  ‘That reference will stink,’ Alphendéry remarked.

  ‘Eh, stink, eh? No good? Throw it out. Gladstone, Grand Old Man’s motto: Peace, Reconstruction, Reform. Today: “Coalition Government’s version: Peace, Reconstruction, Progress.”’ He breathed and sat down. ‘Boy,’ he said radiantly, ‘we’re made! I give them this! I drop it in their laps! I became an English citizen. Left France for England. Is that a compliment! I say, “Boys, you see I’m a patriot already, even before you take me in.” No mistakes! You bring me good luck. Mahzel. No lion’s share. I’m satisfied with little. I start in the cause of labor. Well, eh?’

  He thirstily asked for flattery. Alphendéry, tired, emerged from his battle with the flood. ‘Why don’t you devote your energies to French politics?’

  He swung his great head. ‘No, no, no, NO! They’re too smart. This hokum don’t go. One day they won’t be so smart, when they get an empire too, but I can’t wait for that day. When a war comes, maybe England wins, maybe she’s defeated. There’s war! All right! I’m in. I’m doing a national duty supplying food. She wins. I helped the victory. She’s defeated. They want food anyhow. England can’t live six weeks without food. My relations on the Continent, America. What can be done without borrowing from America. See! Unofficial ambassador: Arcos in one man! he, he! A big straddle. I’m hedged for any eventuality. In France; no! They’ll maybe go socialist. Out with the international crook, big capitalist. See! In England! To be level-headed. Responsibilities of keeping the Northwest frontier.’

  Alphendéry seemed depressed, ‘I’ll see what I can dope out, Henri. You can see the letter on Tuesday. I’ll post it.’

  Henri was disappointed. ‘Tuesday?’

  ‘Yes, Henri. I’m too tired. I came here for a rest.’

  ‘All right, my boy. Fine, swell. Tuesday. And then you’ll come to England with me.’ But Alphendéry was not finished with the memorandum. Henri Léon took him out to dinner only to bounce up and down, answer telephone calls, send the waiters scuttling for telegraph boys, command writing blocks of the headwaiter, shout inspirations to Alphendéry in a Napoleonic style, and in every way behave like a lion in a fit, till Alphendéry’s complexion was chalk-blue, and he threw down the block in a temper. Léon flushed, suddenly cooled off, and became extremely sweet. The waiters, like a band of dyspeptic gorillas, stood in a half-circle in the shadows of the nearly empty restaurant and looked at their tormentor.

  ‘How can you behave like that, Léon?’ asked Alphendéry when he had his coffee before him. His voice was acid-sweet and evidently Léon’s ro
ughhouse still rankled in his mind.

  ‘What’s that? Behave like?—’

  ‘Léon, you know you only hustle these poor fellows and create a rumpus, because they know you’re so much richer than they are. You dribble humility when you yourself are with somebody you can’t buy out. Aren’t you ashamed to be so grossly economic?’

  Léon dropped his eyes and flushed; he grumbled gently, ‘No, Michel, no; you’ve got me wrong—I wouldn’t do that. I didn’t think. I was a poor boy. Michel, does it look like that? I didn’t know. Pardon me, my boy.’ His immense murmur went on for a few minutes, and then Michel forgave him and the air was perfumed with the flowers of innocence for a while. But in a quarter of an hour Léon had become distrait and was blowing to himself, drumming on the table, looking at Alphendéry with cross eyes, silently humming and hawing. Presently he got up abruptly from the café table where they were sitting and said briskly, ‘Come on, let’s walk, my boy—good for you.’

  After five minutes’ walk, Léon as suddenly declared for bed. Alphendéry had been in his room one minute when he heard Léon’s door softly open and, opening his, he observed Léon, in war paint, fresh and perfumed for the fray, rush out into the night and the streets, hot for women.

  He sat down in his room and knotted his handkerchief. ‘Which is better, the quicksands or the—quicksands or the—quicksands, the quicksands or the volcano: the volcano? Jules is the quicksands, Léon the volcano. Can I stand—why don’t I strike out for myself—Jean said, Jean said, “It’s time you cut the painter and—”cut the painter and—“cast off and—joined us. Too much wedded to luxury.” And what luxury? The luxury of being hounded to death by madmen. Mad egotists. His political secretary. Ghost! My life’s a ghost’s life. My tombstone. Here lies Heinrich Heine, poet and freeman. Here lies Michel Alphendéry, twenty-five per cent capital levy. R.I.P. Or, Michel Alphendéry: he sold short. R.I.P. Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. No. Professional lion tamer. No. “Political, literary, social”—h’m, social amenities. Running electors in Léon’s car to the polls—to the polls—fat chance, chance. No.’ He took out of his pockets the notes Léon had shouted to him in the restaurant. ‘“We are in a vicious circle: how can we cut the Gordian knot? Despite the fact that the—”’ He murmured, ‘“A vicious circle,” I should say, I should say—ha. No more. I must have peace before I die …’