Between Two Worlds (The Lanny Budd Novels)

by Upton Sinclair

  They went into a little albergo, and the two “Savages” who had promised to be “polite” seated themselves at a separate table from the damigella. She wouldn’t eat anything, just a cup of what was called coffee; Lanny ate a little, because he didn’t want to feel weak; not too much, because he didn’t want to feel sleepy. He told the militi to have what they pleased, including a bottle of wine, and he raised no question when the conto was presented. Lanny got a fresh load of gasoline, and as soon as they were in the country the two peasants fell asleep; they snored the whole night through, and Marie had nothing to worry about but the possibility that Lanny might doze at the steering-wheel.

  He was determined to drive straight through. Soldiers had done such feats in wartime, and he would do one now; he felt safer in the car with these men than he would in any hotel room with a bed in it. He bade his amie to sleep, and she did so for a while, her head resting on his shoulder. But most of the time she watched the road, winding through the unending mountains of Italy, and if she saw the slightest sign of wandering of the car, she would whisper to Lanny to be sure he was awake.

  XIII

  They came out to the Riviera di Levante, and there was the familiar blue sea; also there was breakfast, with another bottle of wine for the militi. Still Lanny drove, haggard and in need of a shave, but silent and determined; the two Italians respected him now, a man of capacity as well as of millions. They had made a great mistake; if they had been puliti from the beginning he might have made them a fabulous present.

  Here was familiar scenery; tunnels through the hills and glimpses of bright blue bays with little boats having red sails; cypress-covered promontories, gardens gay with flowers. But Lanny saw nothing of all that; he kept his eye on the right-hand edge of a winding highway—fortunately the inside track, not the one close to the cliffs! Pretty soon it was Rapallo, and he thought of the Russians, two of whom had been shot to death in the interim. Then it was the crowded streets of Genoa, and the dark medieval building where the conference had been held, and the hotel which he had last seen while the body of the dying Barbara Pugliese lay in the car. After that it was not two militi, but one sindicahsta who was being carried in great haste toward the French border.

  Perhaps Lanny was growing a bit delirious, having sat for twenty-four hours at the steering-wheel of a car, with only two intermissions for food. His shoulders and arms ached, and a spot just above the first spinal process, where the motions of the car caused his head to sway, felt as if one of the Italians had put his Fascist daggerpoint there and was pressing. But it was all right; they would soon be in France, and he wouldn’t have to sit up any longer. He found himself repeating the Mower’s Song of Andrew Lang: “Hush and be silent, for all things pass!”

  At San Remo the party stopped for lunch, in the same little trattoria where Lanny and Rick had watched an obscure Italian editor, known as the Blessed Little Pouter Pigeon, devouring his pasta, and had seen his eyeballs nearly pop out with rage at the insults of a one-time Red crony. It amused Lanny to put his amie in that same seat, and then tell her about it—using, of course, the name of “Mr. Smith.” What a sensation he could have caused if he had told the two guards! But he would speak no unnecessary word until he was out of the Fascist domain.

  He drove to the border, and when the two men stepped out of the car, he thanked them for having been puliti, but offered them no tip, and turned his attention to the formalities of the French customs. The pair stood on their side of the line, watching mournfully; after the luggage and the passports had been inspected and the car was about to start on its way into France, the spokesman of the pair remarked, humbly: “We are poor men, Signor.”

  Lanny smiled his most amiable smile. “Your Signor Mussolini is going to remedy all that. Very soon you will be richer than we!”

  21

  The Course of True Love

  I

  What had happened to Giacomo Matteotti? Lanny got all the newspapers he could find, and read their accounts of the affair. The Italian government had given out a statement to the effect that a passport to Austria had been issued to the Socialist deputy, and that he was probably on his way secretly to Vienna. Also the papers of that morning had a story about the son of a well-known American manufacturer of munitions who had been expelled from Rome for activities considered inimical to the government, and was believed to be motoring toward France, together with a woman companion, a Madame de Bruyne.

  Of course that made it necessary for Lanny to phone at once to Beauty, to let her know that he was all right; also to send a cablegram to his father. The story had one unpleasant aspect, which he didn’t realize until Marie called his attention to it—she had to be taken to a different hotel from the one at which he was planning to stop. He had involved her in a “scandal.” Their love affair, which so far had been discreet and in all ways charming, was now a subject of publicity and gossip; therefore it had become something painful, dangerous, and morally wrong. If Marie had been a Red, or even a Pink, as Lanny appeared to have become, she might have been willing to brazen it out, to say that she was his lover and had been for the past four years—so what? But Marie was a conventional French lady; her friends would be shocked, her husband’s family would be inexpressibly shocked, and therefore Marie herself was shocked.

  In short, it was a sort of volcanic eruption in their love-life. When Lanny tried to argue with her about the matter, she exclaimed: “There will be newspaper reporters looking for you. And what will you say?”

  “I’ll tell them about Matteotti, of course.”

  “But—are they to find me in the same hotel?”

  There was nothing he could do to change the world’s code of propriety, so he took her to one hotel in Menton and himself to another. It was a measure of the upheaval in his own soul that, instead of grieving over the grief he had caused his amie, the first thing he did in his room was to write out again the long telegram to Rick; then he wrote one to Zoltan, and after filing these he phoned to Longuet in Paris, telling him to pay no attention to the stories about Matteotti having fled to Vienna, there was not the slightest doubt that he had been abducted.

  By that time the reporters had found the American deportee; they were supposed to be watching the border, but they hadn’t thought he could arrive so quickly. He stopped only long enough to wash his face and shave off a two days’ growth of beard before he invited them to his room. He talked to them about the dignity of soul of Giacomo Matteotti and the hideousness of the regime which Benito Mussolini had established in Italy. No, he was not a Socialist, he didn’t know enough to say what he was, but he knew human decency when he met it, and he had learned what it was for a modern state to be seized by gangsters and used by them to pervert the mind and moral sense of mankind.

  In short, it was a declaration of war against Italy; and this was a serious matter for Lanny, if not for Italy. It meant that he permanently removed from his list one of the great art repositories of Europe; also it meant that he branded himself with numbers of persons who might be or might have been his future customers. Many of these persons were like Marie de Bruyne: their eyesight wasn’t good when it came to distinguishing among the various shades of red and pink. They had heard two things about Mussolini—that he had put down the labor agitators and was causing the trains in Italy to run on time; over their apéritifs or their teacups they would say: “We shall have to be finding someone like that in France before long.”

  II

  Lanny took the long sleep which he had earned; and when he opened his eyes it was morning. His first thought was of Matteotti, and he rang for the newspapers; the boy who brought them to his room brought also a note from Marie. He tore it open and read:

  Chérie:

  My heart is wrung by the decision which I have to take. I know that you have your ideas, and that you must and will follow them, and it is impossible for me to put chains upon you. Men have to choose their own lives, and it has been made plain to me what your choice is going to
be. I am not blaming you in my heart; I am bowing my head to a blow of fate. It would be fatuous to hope that our love might continue under the circumstances. In any case it is impossible for me to travel with you now, so I am taking the night train for Paris. I am trusting to my husband’s kindness not to deny me access to his home.

  Be assured of my undying gratitude for the devotion you have shown me, and that my heart will always be with you. May God make it possible for you to find happiness in the course which you have chosen.

  Your devoted

  Marie.

  Lanny was shocked; but not so shocked that he could keep from turning to the newspapers to see what they reported from Rome. Matteotti was still missing, and the government still maintaining that he must have fled to Vienna; there was great excitement in Italy, rumors of uprisings against the regime and so on. The local papers reported the safe arrival of Lanny Budd in France, together with his companion Madame de Bruyne. They quoted the picturesque details regarding his expulsion and long drive, but they gave nothing of his denunciation of the government of a neighboring and friendly state. That sort of thing was left for Le Populaire and L’Humanité and the rest of the left-wing rabble; and of course anybody who was quoted by them was branded Red.

  It was a sad and chastened playboy who drove home to his mother. She was prepared to supply him with a warm soft bosom to weep on, but he didn’t make use of it; he was too busy getting the newspapers which came to Cannes on various trains from Paris and London and Rome, and writing long letters to Rick and Longuet and his Uncle Jesse. Lanny was haunted by the thought that Matteotti might still be alive, and that if there was enough clamor in the outside world the gangsters might be frightened into sparing his life. Hadn’t’ Lanny promised the Socialist deputy to do what he could to make the truth known? It was very nearly a death-bed promise, not to be forgotten. He had a mass of facts which he had picked up from the conversation of the newspapermen, and he considered himself morally bound to get these facts published wherever possible. Of course, the more he did this, the more deeply he smeared his name and that of his father.

  He had to write a long letter to Robbie, explaining and apologizing. He wrote to Zoltan, in the hope of excusing his bad conduct. He wrote a letter of apology to the noble gentleman in Rome with whom he had broken an engagement. To Zoltan he sent a list of the pictures he had found, with descriptions of them and his guess as to prices. Zoltan, a politically untainted person, could go to Rome at his convenience and take up the negotiations where Lanny had dropped them. To punish himself, Lanny said he wouldn’t take any of the commission on these Roman sales. So would start another series of “Alphonse and Gaston acts” between the partners.

  To his amie the young recreant wrote a love letter. He didn’t try to justify his conduct, nor did he say any more regarding Matteotti. During the latter part of their long drive he had told her about the case, and had hoped that she was being sympathetic; now he realized that she had kept her thoughts to herself, in order not to excite or worry him while he was under such heavy strain. Whether she would ever forgive him for his broken promises he couldn’t guess, but he wrote that he loved her, and pretty soon he would come and tell her so. “Meanwhile,” he said, “remember that scandals have a way of blowing over. There are so many fresh ones for people to talk about.”

  III

  The story of Giacomo Matteotti proved to be a long-drawn-out serial. The unfortunate deputy was never seen alive, and cries were heard in the Parlamento: “The government is an accomplice!” Mussolini had to drop his tale that his opponent had fled to Vienna, and stated in the Chamber that Matteotti had evidently been abducted, but that no one knew where he was. However, the car was traced by its license number, and the names of Dumini and four other criminals became known. Public clamor forced their arrest, and they were supposed to take their punishment like gentlemen, but they weren’t that; three confessed that they had committed the crime at the order of Mussolini. Shivers of terror ran through the regime, and the uproar in the Chamber was such that for a few days it seemed possible that Fascismo might fall.

  The five ruffians had taken their victim to a dense wood a few miles from Rome. They said that they might have spared his life if he had pleaded for it, but he had been “fresh.” What he had said was: “You cannot kill my cause. My children will be proud of their father. The proletariat will bless my cause.” So they had beaten him to death, mutilated his corpse, and left it unburied. His dying words had been: “Long live Socialism!”

  Such were the stories which came out of Rome during the next couple of weeks. Later on the murderers escaped, except Dumini, who was sentenced to seven years’ imprisonment. He served about two years and then they let him out. He was heard to remark: “If they gave me seven years they ought to have given the President thirty.” So they arrested him again. He denied that by “the President” he had meant Mussolini, but the judges wouldn’t believe him, and sentenced his bold tongue to fourteen months and twenty days additional.

  All that took time; and Lanny had to manage somehow to go on living, and realize that he couldn’t overthrow Fascism, but could only make life uncomfortable for himself and those who loved him. Ambassador Child, alias “Cradle,” having resigned his post and returned to the United States, was using his prestige to tell the people of his country that Mussolini was about the greatest man of modern times. He wrote article after article in praise of the “empire builder’s” achievements, and these were featured in a weekly magazine having two or three million circulation. What could the feeble voice of one obscure playboy accomplish in the face of such publicity? Lanny was spitting to windward.

  “Take it easy, son!” wrote Robbie, patiently. “The world is a tough old nut, and uncounted millions of men have broken their teeth upon it.” The father went on to point out that despotisms had existed upon the continent of Europe farther back than any archaeologist had been able to trace; and doubtless there had never yet been a tyrant who hadn’t been able to provide moral sanctions satisfactory to himself. “They have built fortresses with thick walls,” wrote the salesman of munitions; “and doubtless there have always been idealists butting their heads against those walls—but history hasn’t found time to make up the roll of their names.”

  IV

  Beauty had been very considerate of Marie de Bruyne during the past four years; they had made a tacit treaty of alliance; but all the same, there was treason in the mother’s heart, and right now seemed to be her opportunity. Very subtly she began to hint to her darling that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing that Marie had returned to her husband’s home: that was where a woman of forty really belonged. Lanny had arrived at an age where he ought to begin to think seriously about his duties to society; it was time for him to look around and find some suitable girl whom he could marry. To save him as much trouble as possible, Beauty herself took up the search.

  The Coast of Pleasure had not hitherto been a summer resort, but the “discovery” was being made, and there were a number of young females of property now sojourning in the neighborhood. Beauty put on her gladdest rags and went to parties, and asked such questions as mothers ask, for reasons which all mothers understand. In a few days she had the necessary information, and she gave a tennis party, inviting several darlings of fortune, who all came; for Lanny belonged to the sex which is not harmed by scandals, but on the contrary acquires a certain piquancy, a flavor of romance. Watching her son with hawk’s eyes, Beauty saw that his attention seemed to be caught by one young thing of a delicious debutante age; one who enjoyed excellent financial prospects—not a great fortune, but a reasonable one—plus exceptional good looks and a lively disposition. With some encouragement from both mothers, Lanny invited her to go sailing the next day, and when Beauty saw them off across the Golfe Juan, she looked upon it as a major diplomatic triumph.

  The young people knew what was being done to them, and took it gaily, playing with the idea of love in harmless delicate ways; making jokes,
teasing each other, feeling each other out. It is one of the delights of being young; one of the ways of making a pleasure out of a duty. This girl wanted to fall in love, yet she didn’t want to fall too much in love; she wanted to keep her pride, and the independence which her fortune gave her. But at the same time she wanted a thrilling and passionate lover; in short, she wanted a great deal for her money. She was conscious of the money, yet she knew that she mustn’t be, because that would be vulgar. She wanted to be loved for herself alone; but it had been pointed out to her that this might be difficult to arrange in France. She had the idea that a youth who was able to make large sums of money by anything so easy as selling pictures wouldn’t stoop to fortune-hunting; on the other hand she was frightened by the idea that maybe this would make him too independent, and too desirable to other women. She made little coquettish approaches, and then shrank away; she brought the conversation to a basis of intimacy, then with a quick turn changed it into a joke, and they were laughing at each other.

  She was good company, and Lanny wouldn’t have minded making love to her if circumstances had been different. What she did was to awaken in him vivid feelings which politics had driven from his mind for a while. He found himself thinking about Marie and wondering what she was doing. It was Marie he wanted in his arms, not any fluttering young thing who didn’t understand him and perhaps might never trouble to. The upshot of the afternoon’s sail was that he sent a telegram, saying: “Je viens,” and packed a couple of bags, and kissed Beauty on each of her still-dimpled cheeks, and also in the soft warm neck which he told her was accumulating embonpoint once more. This outcome was a disappointment to the mother, but there was nothing she could do about it except beg him to drive carefully.