Between Two Worlds (The Lanny Budd Novels)

by Upton Sinclair

  “Yes, dear; but this is different, this is his religion.”

  “What does it matter what name you give it, if it is crazy? The Catholic won’t eat beefsteak on Friday, the Hindu won’t eat it any day, the Jew won’t eat it from the same plate with butter; and each one says: ‘That is my religion; that is what God told me.’ But I say it’s a notion that got stuck in the addled brain of some poor savage sitting in a cave gnawing the bone of an aurochs, or maybe the bone of an enemy he had just killed in battle.”

  They smiled together, and she said: “Don’t let it worry you, dear. It will never make any difference in our love.”

  “Tell your husband that your lover is a faun; that he has no morals.”

  “What I have told him,” she answered, gravely, “is that you have the best morals of any man I have ever known. I have told him that you believe in love, and that you grant me all my rights in love, and think about my happiness equally with your own.” He took her in his arms again and kissed her many times, to prove to her that this was true, and that love is lovely and not mortal sin.

  III

  So began for these two a long period of untarnished happiness. A warm glow diffused itself through all the activities of their lives; love became music, it became poetry and art, dancing and swimming, walking and driving, eating and sleeping, and, above all, that “conversation” which Lanny, as a denizen of France, had learned to esteem so highly. Everything they did was touched with the hues of romance, doubly delightful because they could find more pleasure in each other’s pleasure than in their own.

  Seeing her son thus walking in the clouds, Beauty had to give up. After all, Marie was a lady, and she wasn’t exploiting Lanny or getting his money for jewels and furs and expensive entertainments. He brought her to Bienvenu, and Beauty looked her over and couldn’t deny that she was beautiful, with the golden light of the honeymoon upon her. The two women declared a truce; if they couldn’t be mother and daughter, or sisters, they could at least be co-operators in the difficult task of keeping men satisfied at home. The cat’s claws would be retracted, the serpent’s fangs laid flat, the wasp’s sting drawn out of sight; they would make no hurtful allusions to each other’s weaknesses or defects, but would help each other by giving hints as to the whims and eccentricities of the dangerous male creature. More could not be expected of women in a highly competitive world.

  They did not make the mistake of letting each other see the signs of their infatuation, for these are rarely pleasing to any but the infatuated ones. Lanny would take Marie to his studio; there was a library there, providing decorous excuse for long absences; also there were Marcel’s paintings, and a story about each which Lanny knew and which Marie was interested to hear. She was impressed by these works, and that was one way to win the friendship of Beauty; for to praise them was not merely to endorse her taste in art and in husbands, it was also to promote the worldly aspects of her widowhood. Beauty was certain, and all her friends agreed, that some day she would make a lot of money out of that inheritance.

  Another factor in the situation was Baby Marceline. As a boy Lanny had always observed that he could win the heart of any peasant woman by showing interest in her children, and Marie didn’t need to have this ancient technique pointed out to her. Marceline was an easy child to love; affectionate and eager, she came at once to Marie as to an old friend. Also Marie appreciated Kurt, who was dignified and reserved in his attitude toward her; so all was well in the household. There was no end of joking among Beauty’s fashionable friends when they came to realize the odd situation. But love outweighs gossip, and those two “cradle-snatchers,” as they were called, told themselves that not one of the witty world-lings but would have snatched their happiness if she could.

  IV

  The elections in the United States were held in November, and resulted in a landslide for Robbie’s candidate. This was such an important event that he wrote a special letter to his son, a sort of war-dance over the body of the stricken idealist in the White House. Never had there been a more complete repudiation of a personality and a set of ideas; the invalid Woodrow Wilson was still President, but no one paid the least attention to him—except that the Senate took delight in rejecting everything that he had done, and every request coming from the “nursery junta,” as someone called it. On March 4 next the businessmen of the United States would take charge and show how a modern and up-to-date nation should be run. “Watch our smoke!” said Robbie Budd.

  The man of business didn’t ask what his son thought about these matters; he told him, and took it for granted that the son would agree—and for the most part Lanny did, for he didn’t keep very well informed as to affairs in the land where his fathers had died. Robbie sent him the Literary Digest, a dull weekly which gave various points of view of what was going on, but as a rule Lanny found it more agreeable to play a new musical work with Kurt. Most of his ideas about world events came from the English weeklies in which Rick had contributions and which he never failed to send.

  Rick wasn’t coming to the Riviera that winter, for a number of reasons. For one, Lanny didn’t feel free to invite him, on account of the hard times; for another, Nina had her second baby, according to plan, and she needed the care which she received in the home of Rick’s family; for a third, Rick’s health was growing better. Perhaps it was because he was happier; his work was succeeding, and his courage was triumphing over his pain. He still raged over his discovery as to the little intelligence with which the world was governed, but now he was able to get more pleasure out of the raging. Again Lanny observed the peculiar duality of the artistic temperament, which is bowed down with grief, horror, or other tragic emotion, then finds a phrase to express it, and slaps its knee, exclaiming: “By God, a masterstroke!”

  Rick’s eyes were still upon the theater. He would go up to London, attend a play, and then go home to write an article about it and offer it to the various weeklies. It was a difficult field to break into, but Rick had advantages in that his father was one of those amateurs who haunt the green-rooms and know everybody, and so was a mine of the sort of information a journalist requires; Sir Alfred could introduce his son to important persons, and everybody would be kind to Rick because of his having been a flier for king and country. Rick claimed no credit, but wrote to Lanny: “There are hundreds of fellows with as much talent as I have who are now peddling matches in Regent Street.” Such remarks gave the letters of the baronet’s son a decidedly pinkish tinge. All Lanny’s friends appeared to be moving toward the “left.” Was the whole world doing that? If so, it was going to be a lonesome place for the son of a munitions salesman!

  There came a letter from Hansi and Freddi Robin, telling about their studies. The older brother said: “One of my teachers gave me an article from a Socialist paper telling about the progress of the labor movement in Italy, and it mentions Barbara Pugliese as one of the leaders. My teacher also gave me a book about co-operatives, and it is a wonderful movement that I am happy to know about. I shall never cease to be grateful to you for having put me in touch with it.”

  So, the Red plague had spread to Rotterdam! Lanny wondered: Was Mr. Robin going to be distressed and make a fuss like Robbie? And how was the devoted Hansi going to react when in some of those Red publications he came upon denunciations of war profiteers and speculators? Lanny would never forget what ferocious things they had said in the affiches announcing the meeting for which Kurt had put up the money and at which Jesse Blackless had delivered a fiery address.

  V

  Marie went home to her family for Christmas, and left Lanny in a sort of polar night. His mother sought to brighten it by a tree covered with tinsel and illuminated with a string of tiny colored electric lights. This was a present from Robbie Budd, who was a great fellow for discovering new gadgets and singing their praises. He said the lights would make a fireproof Christmas, which was important in Juan, whose fire-department fell short of Robbie’s standard of competence. The lights gave pleasure
to Baby Marceline, and to Leese and the maid, and to various children, relatives of the servants and of peasants and fisherfolk, their neighbors, who came in to receive candy and toys. They all noticed how deeply these scenes touched Kurt Meissner, and Lanny sympathized, because all his memories of Schloss Stubendorf had to do with Christmas, He knew that Kurt was still getting sad and painful letters from his family. It was the third Christmas since the Armistice—but how far the world was from the spirit of peace on earth, good will toward men!

  Marie returned to Cannes, and the intimacy was resumed. She reported that her children were well, and that her relations with her husband were becoming stabilized. With Lanny’s consent she had described the exemplary young man to whom her future was committed: a musician, a student, a person of experience and discretion far beyond his years. Denis had been relieved at the tidings, and had expressed the hope that he might have the pleasure of meeting this worthy one and assuring him of his esteem. Good form required that Lanny should express his appreciation of this considerate attitude.

  It was all a matter of custom. If Lanny and Marie had lived in the sweet land of liberty, she would have proceeded to Reno, Nevada, and sworn to some more or less false charges against her polite husband; then she would have married Lanny Budd, and their friends would have thought it a queer match but moral. Marie, however, was a Frenchwoman, and a mother, and if she had taken such a course she would have been considered cruel and irresponsible; she would have broken up a home and shamed two old and respectable families, her husband’s and her father’s. She would never have been forgiven by either family, and her children would have been handicapped in their opportunities of marriage according to the custom prevailing.

  The French way suited the French; it was discreet and kept the affairs of important persons a secret, save for those who had the right to know about them. Lanny had been a guest in more than one such household, both in France and in England. He knew, for example, that the greatest of living French writers had as his amie a highly respected lady, Mme. de Caillavet, and spent much of his time in the home of that lady and her husband, a wealthy banker. Lanny had met both Anatole France and his friend at Emily Chattersworth’s, and knew that everybody considered Mme. de Caillavet the force which had driven a lazy writer to his best work and had made his fame in the world of letters. Incidentally, they considered that the now aged gentleman wasn’t treating her very well. Lanny meant to treat the wife of Denis de Bruyne in a way which no one would criticize.

  VI

  The “crisis” had spread over the whole world, and statesmen were at their wit’s end. Those of the victorious nations had told their peoples that times would soon be all right, because the Germans were going to pay for everything; so now, when times were all wrong, the obvious explanation was that the Germans were refusing to pay. A cheap and easy way out; politically easy, emotionally easy, because everybody was used to blaming the Germans for troubles.

  In Paris there was another conference between the heads of the various governments, for whom life had now become a perpetual quarrel over reparations. Ever since Spa their experts had been meeting the German experts and discussing what Germany could pay; they had arrived at an agreement, but the Allied governments were not satisfied with the amounts and insisted upon more. The Germans said they couldn’t pay the increases; the Allies insisted they could but didn’t want to.

  The perpetual conference was transferred to London, where Rick had the inside “dope” and passed it on to his friend. Rick sent newspapers and magazine articles which Lanny read with care. He had lived with these problems for the six most exciting months of his life; he had worried over them and argued about them. Now there was a melancholy satisfaction in finding that he had been right, and that the world was going to the devil exactly as he had foretold.

  There just wasn’t enough intelligence on the poor tormented planet; not enough statesmanship, not enough ordinary decency. The people weren’t able to control the forces which modern industrialism had created; they didn’t even have the means of getting the facts. There were a few honest papers, but they reached only a small public; the big press was in the hands of the big interests, and told the people whatever suited the purposes of the masters of steel and munitions and oil.

  For example, that question of Turkey and Greece, one of the problems about which the statesmen were wrangling in London at the outset of the year 1921. Robbie Budd knew about it—he had to, for his own business was at stake, and in his sudden way he stepped onto a steamer and arrived in London, wiring Lanny to join him if he cared to. Lanny didn’t go, because he was so happy with Marie, and there was nothing he could do in the oil business. Robbie wrote him a few sentences typed on his little portable machine—the sort of thing one wouldn’t trust to a stenographer. “Z is here, keeping out of sight as usual, but pulling all the strings.” Lanny knew who “Z” was, and he knew who “LG” was. “LG is in pawn to him, and he is directing policy. You would be amused to hear Z telling me about his sentimental interest in his homeland, when I know about the concessions he has been promised; he has already formed the companies. Don’t say anything about this, of course.”

  Lanny felt embarrassed, because he had told Rick some time back about the relationship between the munitions king of Europe and the British Prime Minister, and right now Rick was on the trail of a story about the intrigues over Greece and her seizure of Turkish territory. Lanny told his father what Rick was doing, so that he could stop him if he thought it necessary; but Robbie answered that Rick couldn’t get the real facts, and if he did they were so startling that nobody would dare to publish them.

  And that was the way it worked out. Rick got what he thought was a story, and his magazine editors said their printers would refuse to put it on the presses. The libel laws were strict in England, and it was no defense to prove that what you said was true. “Yet they say they have free speech!” wrote Robbie. “They put on a show in Hyde Park every Sunday—anybody can get up on a stand and say anything he pleases—curse the King and the royal family in the presence of a few hundred poor devils and one or two American visitors—and that serves to convince the world that it’s a free country!” Robbie Budd wasn’t ever going to like the British ruling class—not even while he was shipping out Arabian oil under the protection of one of their warships!

  VII

  Easter holidays are important in France. The boys would be home from school, and it was their mother’s duty to be with them. Would not Lanny take this occasion to make their acquaintance? Lanny perceived that, just as he himself wanted to share all his experiences and ideas with Marie, so she desired to have him love her darling boys, and at least to understand the gratitude and sympathy which she felt for her husband. A year had passed since she and Lanny had declared their love, and it might now be considered as established.

  Lanny said all right, fine; they would motor up and back again. The best makes of French cars were famous over the world, and Robbie’s generosity enabled Lanny to have one. Any time the whim seized him, he could command the great scenes of history to roll past him while he sat in comfort and security. He could stop in whatever inn he judged suitable, and servants would hasten to provide for his wants; he could stand by with clean hands and watch mechanics with greasy hands attend to the wants of his car.

  Enjoying these privileges, he would never find it difficult to persuade some woman to travel with him and entertain him with gay conversation. Lanny had quoted to his father the verse of the poet Clough: “How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!” What was the defect in Lanny’s mind or temperament which caused him to be always a little uneasy about his pleasures, a little hesitant and apologetic? It puzzled his mother and father and some of his friends. Was it because he had read too many books, and got his mind full of images of skeletons at ancient feasts, of handwritings on the walls of palaces? Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all!

  But Lanny had no troubles of conscience concerning Marie de Bru
yne, and motoring with her would be a repetition of their happy first week. They followed the varied Riviera coast, past Toulon, where the French fleet kept guard over the Mediterranean, and the great harbor of Marseille, where Lanny had traveled since childhood to meet his father or friends who came by the southern route. Past the wide delta of the great river Rhône the pair came to Arles, and Lanny told the strange story of the half-crazed painter who had cut off his ear and sent it to a prostitute. Farther north was Avignon, seat of the popes in their days of exile; the travelers stopped to inspect the great palace which these potentates had been thirty years a-building. Then came the industrial city of Lyon, and then Chalon-sur-Saône, where their guidebook told them they might see the tomb of Abelard, but they didn’t; it sufficed to talk about that old story of unhappy love, and thank whatever gods might be that they had been born in a day when love was free for the taking.

  They crossed a ridge, and following the Burgundy canal and the valley of the river Yonne they came to Paris. Delightful for Lanny to drive about those splendid boulevards in the warm sunshine of early spring and tell his sweetheart about his adventures in the stirring war days. Some of them were still under seal—he couldn’t say that Kurt had been a German agent, and that he and his mother had lived in terror of their friend’s being caught and shot; but Lanny could tell how the police had seized him for the offense of possessing some of his Red uncle’s incendiary literature. Lanny had never read Cicero, and didn’t know that elder statesman’s remark that we find pleasure in recalling past troubles; but sitting at a table in a sidewalk café, partaking of a delicious luncheon, he knew that he enjoyed telling the sweetest woman in the world how it felt to hear the clang of a cell-door upon you, and to wonder when it was opened if you were going to be led out and shot!