Between Two Worlds (The Lanny Budd Novels)

by Upton Sinclair

  Such was the substance of Matteotti’s speech. He was not content with vague charges; every time he made an assertion he went into details as to places, dates, and sums of money. Evidently he had been delving deeply, and he had a mass of papers before him, indicating that he was in position to go on for hours. The alleged criminals sat before him, and their reaction was the most appalling demonstration of mass fury that Lanny had ever heard. The Fascist deputies, about two-thirds of the Chamber, would leap to their feet, shake their clenched fists, and literally shriek with rage. Murder was in their aspect and murder in their cries; the frail orator blanched before this blast, but he did not yield, and as soon as he could be heard he went on with his implacable arraignment. What was spoken in this Chamber would become a matter of record, and sooner or later could be got to the people.

  This continued for two hours—until it seemed that the Fascist regime was crumbling there before everyone’s eyes. Mussolini’s followers shouted insults and imprecations, and one of their orators rushed to the opposition side and bellowed into their faces: “Masnada!”—that is, band of scoundrels. Somehow—Lanny’s eye wasn’t quick enough to follow the events—a fight started, and in a twinkling it was a free-for-all, in which everybody jumped on anybody of whom he disapproved. That was the last that Lanny saw of the Italian Parlamento, for his friend whispered: “I have to get this story off!” and he went, his assistente following.

  IV

  Lanny mailed his letters of introduction and awaited replies. There were one or two which he might have presented informally, thus saving time, but the truth was, he had something else on his mind: he wanted to shake hands with Matteotti. He was on fire with admiration for a deed of splendid courage, and he wanted to say so. One doesn’t meet a hero face to face every day of one’s life.

  “Sure, you can meet him,” said Corsatti. “Just walk into his office. He’s the party drudge, and everybody brings him their troubles and quarrels. He’ll be there—if the militi haven’t raided him in the meantime.” So Lanny went to the Socialist headquarters, which weren’t so different from those of the Nazis which he had visited in Munich.

  Lanny had to learn the important lesson that heroes rarely look heroic, especially behind the scenes. The new Prime Minister of Italy had practiced thrusting out his jaw and swelling up his chest, and had created for himself the costume of an Admiral of the Queen’s Navee, but this friend of the working classes had had no time or thought for histrionics. He sat at his desk with papers piled around him, looking like the overworked city editor of a newspaper close to the “deadline.” People came and went, the telephone rang, and in a few minutes there was to be a conference of party leaders to determine whether they were to withdraw from the Chamber. But meanwhile the secretary could find time for a young American who had just come from Jean Longuet, and brought a copy of Longuet’s recent article. Matteotti glanced at it, and asked if he could have a copy made, so that it could be reprinted in the party paper.

  Lanny poured out what was in his heart. Behind his fervor of admiration was a feeling of guilt, because he too ought to have been a man of iron determination, instead of wobbling this way and that and changing his mind whenever he heard new arguments. This lion-hearted Italian had every excuse that Lanny had, for he was the son of a well-to-do landowner, he was a lawyer and a man of culture; doubtless he too loved music and art, and might have enjoyed time off for play. Heroes sound grand in the history books, but it’s damned uncomfortable being one, and Lanny would be one in his fancy, but when it came to reality he just couldn’t stand it.

  Giacomo Matteotti of course didn’t know all that. He saw a handsome, ardent youth, with the signs of money on him, and the flush of enthusiasm on his cheeks, the light of admiration in his eyes. Every now and then it happens that some generous soul among the privileged classes becomes touched in his conscience, and you have a convert, and a pair of purse-strings will be loosened to help a party which is always in debt, always facing some emergency. So the secretary took time off to explain the Italian situation to this scion of Budd Gunmakers.

  Yes, it was a tragic crisis which the organized workers faced; they were completely unarmed, except for moral and intellectual weapons, and were confronted by enemies who had given themselves such names as “the Savages,” “the Damned,” and “the Desperadoes.” With all their control of the government, they had been able to get a circulation of only 400,000 for their newspapers, while the opposition had ten times that. How long would men of violence permit that state of affairs to continue? How long would criminals allow the public exposure of their crimes? What might happen was terrible to contemplate; one woke in the small hours of the morning facing it, and could find no way of escape during the day.

  Lanny mentioned his experience with Barbara Pugliese. “Poor soul!” exclaimed the Socialist. “I knew her well; we had many a conflict in party gatherings. One cannot help sympathizing with people who are driven to desperation by their sufferings, but it is a tragic blunder to brandish an empty gun. Now we face the consequences of the unwise tactics of these extremists; I have the agonizing task of urging our people to keep their hands down, to take their beatings, to die without resistance, if and whenever it pleases our foes to kill them. Such has been the destiny of the wage-slaves throughout the centuries, and the roll of our martyrs is far from complete.”

  Someone came to remind the secretary of the important conference. He shook hands with his visitor and said: “A little later, when this emergency has passed, will you do me the honor to come to my home and meet my devoted wife and children?” Lanny said that nothing would give him more pleasure.

  “You understand,” continued the other, “in the next few days I have to complete my unfinished speech. If they prevent my doing so, we must try to find some other way to get the facts to the outside world.” He put into the visitor’s hands a book which he had published, A Year of Fascist Domination, in which he had listed more than two thousand murders and other crimes of violence which Mussolini’s partisans had committed. “We shall be glad of any help which you can give us in making these things known,” said Matteotti, and Lanny promised to do what he could.

  “Remember this, whatever happens,” continued the other; “they cannot kill our cause. The workers will learn what we have tried to teach them, and there will be a new generation with more wisdom and courage than ours.”

  “Surely not more courage!” exclaimed Lanny, and added: “God help you!” He hadn’t been able to make up his mind on the subject of God, but he had to say some word to this sorely tried soul.

  V

  The visitor went about his business of looking for sixteenth-century art. He studied the psychology of members of old Roman families, who had had these things in their palaces until they had grown tired of the sight of them; they didn’t believe in the symbolism of the religious ones, and as for the worldly ones, they preferred flesh-and-blood beauties to painted; they preferred modern costumes, and thought how pleasant it would be to have a new motor-car and to pay their gambling debts. The lira was down to four cents, and the very word “dollar” had the power of magic. The only question was, how many could you get? Be wary, don’t show too much interest, and try to figure out this good-looking, easygoing young aesthete. Was he a millionaire, or just bluffing, like the Americans in their well-known card game? Why wouldn’t he come out and say what he was willing to pay, instead of insisting that you set a price—something which tore your soul in half, because no matter how much you got, you would think you should have asked twice as much.

  Jerry Pendleton had told about a walking-trip which he and a friend had taken through Italy before the war. They had picked up half a dozen words of the language, among them Quanta costa?—how much? They would go into a country inn and eat, and when they were through they would spread out small coins on the table and say their phrase. The innkeeper would set aside what he thought he should have, and they would divide this into three parts and give him one of them
. This was the normal difference between the price to an American and the price to a native, and the proprietor would grin and accept what was offered. Lanny had told this story to Zoltan, who said they would try it in their trading. Lanny would get a price on a painting, Zoltan would come and look at it, and, if it was genuine, he would bring one-third the amount in cash—always in lire, because they looked and sounded so much more!

  Lanny put his mind on these affairs, because he had come to Rome for them, and he couldn’t keep evading and deceiving Marie. But he had only half his mind on the work, while with the other half he read the newspapers and kept in touch with his friend Corsatti. In Mussolini’s paper, the Popolo d’Italia, which Mussolini couldn’t get the people of Italy to read in spite of being their Prime Minister, Lanny observed pretty broad hints of violence against the opposition. Said the head of the state: “Matteotti made a speech of an outrageously provocative nature which should deserve some more concrete reply than the epithet of masnada which Signor Giunta flung at him.” Corsatti said that this was Mussolini’s way. He would call for violence, he would give secret instructions for violence, and then when violence resulted, he would be shocked, and would say that he couldn’t control the ardor of his followers.

  The Socialist secretary spoke again in the Chamber, and came into direct conflict with the Prime Minister. Day after day this went on. Said the Socialist Gennari: “We are just out of prison, and we are ready to go back there for the sake of what we believe.” Said Mussolini, amid shouts and uproar: “You would have got a charge of lead in your backs. We do not lack courage, as we will show you. There is still time and we shall show you sooner than you think.”

  Such debates provided exciting copy for foreign newspapermen, and Lanny would drop in at the little trattoria where they gathered; Corsatti introduced him to “the bunch,” and they would tell him the latest rumors and gossip. They were making wagers on the subject of the life-span of Giacomo Matteotti, and this seemed rather cold-blooded—but newspapermen have to live, and they are no good if they let themselves take sides on the issues which they have to report. The few Socialist papers in the United States couldn’t afford the luxury of correspondents in Rome.

  VI

  For the afternoon of the tenth of June Lanny had an important engagement with the head of one of the leading princely houses of the Italian kingdom. He had already inspected several of this nobleman’s valuable paintings, and now there was an intimation that prices might be discussed. If a deal was made it would be the biggest stroke of Lanny’s art career, now in the second year. He was just finishing lunch with his amie when he was called to the telephone, and heard a voice, trembling, broken with anguished sobbing. It was the young wife of Giacomo Matteotti, and she was trying to say, in uncertain English, that her husband had been kidnaped from the Via Antonio Scialoja a few minutes ago and carried off by men in an automobile, and wouldn’t Mr. Budd do what he could to save him? The horrified Lanny asked what he could do, and the distracted wife said to tell the newspapermen, to tell the outside world, there was nothing else that could restrain the cruel enemy but the opinion of Europe and America. “It is Dumini!” she cried, and repeated the name. “Dumini who was staying at the Hotel Dragoni—Giacomo knew that he had orders to do away with him. Oh, for the love of God!—” the voice broke off, the woman couldn’t control her sobs.

  Lanny hung up and rushed back into the dining-room to tell the dreadful news. “But, my dear Lanny!” cried Marie. “What have you to do with it?”

  “I met him, and I must try to help him.”

  “But how, Lanny—for the love of God?” The same appeal as the wife had made. God would have to choose between them!

  “I can’t stop now!” Lanny exclaimed. “I must see the newspapermen, and find out what can be done.”

  “But your engagement!”

  “I can’t keep it. Phone the Prince for me and make my excuses—tell him I’m sick—anything.”

  “Lanny—I will go with you.”

  “No, please—stay here, and I’ll phone you.” He didn’t wait for her consent, but darted out of the room. He didn’t wait to get his car out of the garage, but hopped into a taxi and drove to the trattoria where he knew that Corsatti and the others would be, unless they had already got the news.

  There were three of them, peacefully sipping their vino rosso and discussing the young American playboy who dabbled in art and politics, and did he really mean either? When he burst in among them they forgot both their wine and their ideas. “Jesus Christ, I’ve lost my bet!” exclaimed one, who had been betting on Matteotti’s life-span.

  They asked him a score of questions, most of which he couldn’t answer; but one thing they got: Dumini! Oh, yes, they knew about him; one of the most notorious of Mussolini’s associates. In the days before the March on Rome he had boxed the ears of a girl who wore a red carnation, the Socialist symbol, and when her mother and brother protested he had shot them both dead. “And it was he who kidnaped Mazzolani!” exclaimed Corsatti. “Carried him off in a car and forced him to drink castor oil.”

  “And Forni!” put in the others. That was a crime of the recent electoral campaign, the victim being a candidate for Parliament. It was what Mussolini had meant when he admitted that free electoral meetings had been prevented.

  “What can we do?” asked Lanny, in anguish.

  “Not much,” replied Corsatti. “I’m afraid it’s all up with your friend.”

  “What we have to do is to get the story,” said one of the others. “If we let the outside world know, there will be repercussions, and that may do some good.”

  “But then it will be too late!”

  “Probably so. It doesn’t take long to club a man to death—especially if you shoot him first.”

  The correspondents had to hurry; it was all in a day’s work for them, no matter what their private feelings. Lanny rode with Corsatti to the government office, where he would get the official handout on the story; the government would be in complete ignorance, of course, and would deplore the crime. Corsatti told his friend that, on the chance that Matteotti was still alive, Lanny might do some good by communicating with persons outside who enjoyed means of publicity. “Longuet, for example,” he said. “Tell him what Matteotti said to you—the personal touches that will make a human interest story about a Socialist martyr.”

  VII

  Lanny followed this course, because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. After some delay he got Longuet on the long-distance phone, and poured out his grief and indignation. Then he went to the telegraph office and wrote a long dispatch to Rick; he was sure that Rick would attend to getting publicity for it. But the message was never sent, for as Lanny was about to hand it to the clerk, two men in the uniform of the Fascist Militia entered the office, looked at Lanny, asked his name, took the telegram away from him, and informed him that it would be necessary for him to accompany them to “headquarters.”

  It was the second time that this had happened to the son of Robbie Budd in his young life. During the Peace Conference in Paris it had been the flies; but French police agents were gentlemen and scholars compared to these self-styled Disperati, and Lanny had to think quickly. Was this a kidnaping, and was he to share the fate of Matteotti? If so, would it be better to make a fight for it here, in public? They were hard-looking guys, and had automatics in holsters at their waists; but at least he might attract attention, let people know what was happening.

  “Where do you propose to take me?” he demanded, in his best Italian, which wasn’t so good.

  “To headquarters,” was the reply.

  “I am an American citizen.” Technically it may not have been so, but they couldn’t prove it.

  “Tell that to the Generalissimo,” was the answer.

  “I demand the right to telephone to the American ambassador.”

  “You are to come without delay.”

  “I am a personal friend of the American ambassador.” That too was a
slight exaggeration, but he might get away with it. He was trying to get time to think.

  “We have nothing to do with any of that.”

  “And if I refuse to go?”

  “You won’t refuse very long.” The speaker moved his hand toward his holster, and Lanny decided that it would be useless to argue. He went to the street, with one of the men at either side, and he saw that they had an automobile, with a chauffeur in uniform. That reassured him slightly, and he got in and was driven quickly to the general headquarters of the National Militia. He had heard dreadful stories of things that went on in these places; his knees were weak and he had a hard time to keep his teeth from chattering. Inside him he didn’t feel the tiniest bit of heroism, but he knew that he ought to behave as if he did. He tried to keep his face set and his head erect, as he had seen heroes do on the stage and screen.

  They didn’t take him to a cell, but directly to the office of the Generalissimo, whose name was Italo Balbo. Lanny, who had learned a lot about Fascist affairs in twelve days, knew that he was one of Mussolini’s intimates, and had led the armed squadre in the March on Rome. He was the Ras of Ferrara—Ras was a word which they had taken from their Abyssinian foes, and meant a chieftain. Among the stories which Corsatti had told was of a letter this Balbo had written to the secretary of his home fascia, ordering that certain Socialists should be “bludgeoned, not to excess, but in style.” The journalist had explained that bastonatura in stile was a technical Fascist phrase—let no one say they had not enriched the Italian language—meaning not to hit the victim over the skull, which might kill him, but to beat the lower part of the face and break the jawbone, which would lay him up for months. There was a special kind of blackjack, known as the manganello, made for this purpose.