World's End

by Upton Sinclair

  “You havent been hurt?”

  “I had one spill—turned over in mud; but fortunately it was soft.”

  Lanny led him to the room, and Robbie was glad to see him, of course; he set up the drinks, and Rick took one—they all drank in the air force, too much, he said, it was the only way they could keep going. Lanny drank soda, but said nothing about it. He sat, devouring that gallant figure with his eyes; so proud of his friend, thinking that he, Lanny, would never do anything as exciting and wonderful as that; his father wouldn’t let him, his father wanted him to stay at home and make munitions for other men to use. But at least he could hear about it, and live it vicariously. He asked a stream of questions, and Rick answered casually, not much about himself, but about the squadron and what they were doing.

  Of course Rick knew what was in his younger friend’s mind, the adoration, the hero-worship; and of course it pleased him. But he wouldn’t give a sign of it, he’d take it just as he took the job; nothing special, all in the day’s work.

  Rick could tell now what the censor wouldn’t let him put on paper. He was stationed with General Allenby’s Third Army, which lay in front of Vimy Ridge. He belonged to what was called the “corps wing,” the group of fliers who served a particular body of troops. Observation planes equipped with two-way radios, or with photographic apparatus, went out to observe enemy positions, and fighting planes went along to protect them. Rick flew a machine known as a “Sopwith one-and-a-half strutter.” It was a single-seater, such planes being lighter and faster, and the competition of the German Fokkers had forced it. Both sides now had what were called “interrupter gears”; that is, the action of the machine gun was synchronized with the propeller, so that the stream of bullets went through the whirling blades without hitting. So you didn’t have to aim your gun, but just your plane; your job was to get on the other fellow’s tail, and see him straight through your sights, and then cut loose. You would see two fighting planes maneuvering for position, darting this way and that, diving, rolling over, executing every sort of twist and turn. That sight was seen over Paris pretty nearly every day, and Lanny hadn’t missed it.

  His friend told many things about this strange new job of fighting in the air. In the sector where he flew, it was hard to distinguish the trenches, for the entire ground was a chaos of shell-craters. He flew at a speed of ninety miles an hour, and at a height of twelve hundred and fifty feet. When you came down suddenly from that height, you had headache, earache, even toothache, but it all passed away in three or four hours. The most curious thing was that you could hear the whine of the bullet before it reached you, and if you ducked quickly you might dodge it. Somehow that gave Lanny the biggest thrill of anything he had heard about the war; a mile and a half a minute, a quarter of a mile above the earth, and playing tag with bullets!

  II

  England and France were getting ready for the big spring “push”; everybody knew where it was to be, but it was a matter of good form not to’ name places. “Be silent,” read the signs all over Paris; “enemy ears are listening.” Rick said the air push was on all the time; the two sides were struggling incessantly for mastery. The English had held it pretty much through 1916; now it was a local matter, varying from place to place and from week to week. The Fokkers were fast, and their men fought like demons. The problem of the English was to train fliers quickly enough; they were used up faster than they could be sent across.

  Rick stopped after he had said that; for it wasn’t good form to reveal anything discouraging. But now and then he would mention a name. “Aubrey Valliance—you remember that fellow with the straw-colored hair you raced with, swimming? He was downed last week, poor chap. We don’t know what happened—he just didn’t come back.” Lanny got the picture of those bright-cheeked English schoolboys, eighteen or nineteen, some younger, having told a fib about their ages. They would volunteer, and have a few tests of eyesight and sense of balance, and then be rushed to a training camp, listen to a few lectures, go up a few times with an instructor to be taught the rudiments, then go up alone and practice this and that, maybe a week, maybe less, thirty hours of flying, or even as few as twenty—and then off to France.

  “Replacements,” they were called; half a dozen would arrive in a truck at night and be introduced to their fellows; you hardly had time to remember their names. They would look on the bulletin board and see themselves scheduled to fly at dawn. They would have a drink, and a handshake, or maybe a salute. They would say: “Very good, sir,” and step into their seats; the propellers would begin to roar, and away they would go, one after another. Maybe eight would go out, and only six would come back; you would wait, and listen, trying not to show your concern; after a certain period there was no use thinking about them any more, for the plane had only so much petrol, and no way to get any more. If the chap was down in enemy territory, you wouldn’t know whether he was alive or dead; unless he had put up an extra-good fight, in which case an enemy flier might bring a bundle containing his boots and cap and pocketbook, and drop them onto the camp.

  “Don’t you ever get afraid, Rick?” asked Lanny. That was after Robbie had gone out to keep his engagements, and the two were alone.

  Rick hesitated. “I guess I do; but it’s no good thinking about. You’ve a job to do, and that’s that.”

  Lanny recalled Mrs. Emily Chattersworth’s mother, that very old lady who had told about the American Civil War. One of her stories had to do with a young Confederate officer whose knees were shaking before a battle, and someone accused him of being scared. “Of course I’m scared,” he said; “if you were half as scared as I am you’d have run away long ago.”

  Rick said that was about it. He said that now and then there was some youngster whose nerves came near to breaking, and you had to figure out how to buck him up and get him started. The hardest job was that of the ground officer who had to send chaps out, knowing they weren’t fit; but there was no choice, they had to keep up with the Germans. Apparently things weren’t any better with them, because the score was about even. You’d soon know if they had the edge.

  III

  The pair went for a walk on the boulevards. Paris in wartime; every sort of uniform you could imagine, and Rick pointing them out to his friend: English Tommies out for a lark; Australians and New Zealanders, tall fellows with looped-up hats; Highlanders in kilts—the Germans called them “ladies from hell”; Italians in green; French zouaves with baggy knee-pants; African colonials, who fought fiercely, but looked bewildered in a great city. The poilus had a new uniform of gray-blue; the picturesque képi rouge and the baggy red pants had offered too good a target.

  The two had lunch together; war bread, and very small portions of sugar, but anything else you could pay for. It was a special occasion, and Lanny wanted to spend all he had. He liked to be seen with this handsome young officer; his pacifist impulses weakened when put to such a test. He talked about Kurt, wishing he might be with them, instead of being on the other side of no man’s land—or perhaps up in the air, fighting Rick! “I know he’s in the army, but I’ve no idea where,” said Lanny.

  “We wouldn’t get along so well,” said the Englishman. “I always had the idea that German culture was a lot of wind and bluff.” Rick went on like that at some length, saying that the reputation of Goethe was due to the fact of the Germans’ wanting so badly to have a world poet; Goethe wasn’t really so much. Lanny listened, thinking his own thoughts. If Kurt were here, would he say that Shakespeare was a barbarian, or something like that? It was going to take a long time to wipe the bitterness of this war out of the hearts of men. If America came in, what would happen to Lanny’s own heart?

  There is a saying: “Speak of angels and they flap their wings.” The two friends came back from their stroll, and there was a letter for Lanny with a Swiss stamp on it, forwarded from Juan. “Kurt!” he exclaimed, and opened it quickly. His eyes ran over it. “He’s been wounded!” Then he read aloud:

  “Dear Lanny: It ha
s been a long time since I have written. I have been very busy, and circumstances do not permit me to unbosom myself. Please believe that our friendship is not going to be ended, even by the news which I now read from abroad. I am now in hospital. It is not serious and I hope soon to be well again. It may not be possible for me to write for some time, so this is just to say Hello, and hope that you will not let anything interrupt your musical studies and the reading of the world’s great poets. Ever your friend, Kurt.”

  The envelope showed that it had been opened by the censor. It was always a gamble whether any particular sentence might cause a letter to be destroyed. You had to read between the lines. The “news from abroad” of course meant America’s coming into the war—which seemed certain, President Wilson having summoned a special session of Congress to meet in a few days. Kurt was telling Lanny that he hoped he wouldn’t take part in fighting Germany.

  “We mustn’t let ourselves hate him, Rick,” said the American.

  The other answered: “The fighting men don’t hate one another—not very often. What we hate is the damnable Kultur which has produced all these atrocities; also the rulers who impose it upon a credulous people.”

  Lanny could accept that; but would Kurt accept it? That was going to be a problem!

  IV

  Robbie was in the midst of conferences with the representatives of a half a dozen armaments concerns; but he found an hour to go with the pair to the exposition at the Petit Palais. It was a matter of amour propre with the French that not even a world war should stop the development of genius in their country; art lovers would come to see what was new in taste and culture even though bombs might be raining upon them from the sky. The younger painters of France were most of them putting camouflage on guns and ships; but they had found time for sketches of war scenes. The older ones had gone on with their work, like Archimedes making scientific discoveries during the siege of Syracuse.

  Battle pictures, of course, had always been found in every salon. Painters loved to portray thrilling conflicts: horses trampling men, sabers flashing, carbines spitting flame. Now there was a new kind of war, hard to know how to deal with. So much of it was fought at long distances, and with great machines—and how were you to make them dramatic? How were you to keep a picture of an airplane or a machine gun from looking like a photograph in L’lllustration? A general on horseback was an established figure of la gloire; but what could you do with a man in a tank or a submarine?

  The answer of Marcel Detaze had been to go off in solitude and paint the figure of a woman in sorrow. Whether men were mutilated by sabers or by shrapnel made little difference to the wives and sweethearts of France; so said this young painter, and apparently the art lovers agreed with him. “Sister of Mercy” had been hung in an excellent position, and there were always people standing in front of it, and their faces showed that Marcel had conveyed something to their souls. Lanny listened to their comments, and little thrills crept up and down his spine. Even Robbie was moved; yes, the fellow had talent, you didn’t have to be a “highbrow” to be sure of it.

  Too bad that Beauty couldn’t be on hand to share the sensation. She would have taken her friends, and stood and listened to what the crowds were saying; presently somebody would have glanced at her, and then at the picture, and then back at her again, in excitement and a little awe, and the blood would have started climbing to Beauty’s cheeks, and even to her forehead; it would have been one of life’s great moments. Call it vanity, but she was like that; “professional beauties” were amateur actresses, performing upon a larger stage with the help of newspapers and illustrated magazines. “I’ll send her a ticket and tell her to come,” said Robbie, who found her foibles diverting.

  A further idea occurred to him, and he said to his son: “Do you remember what Beauty once told you about a painting that made my father angry?” Yes, that was one of the things Lanny wasn’t going to forget—not in this incarnation! He said so, and Robbie inquired: “Would you be interested to see it?”

  The youth was staggered. Somehow the idea seemed rather horrible. And with Rick along too! But he told himself that this was an old-fashioned attitude, unworthy of a connoisseur of art. Surely Rick would feel that way about it. So Lanny replied: “I would, of course.”

  “I’ve been told where it was. If it’s been sold, maybe you can find out where it’s gone.” Robbie gave the name of one of the fashionable dealers on the Rue de la Paix, and told him to ask for the “Lady with a Blue Veil,” by Oscar Deroulé. “You don’t have to say that you know anything about it,” added the father.

  The two fellows set out. Lanny had to make some explanation, for of course Rick would recognize the portrait. Lanny couldn’t say that he was an illegitimate son, and that this painting was to blame for it—no, that would be too much for even the coldest-blooded connoisseur! He said: “My mother posed for several painters when she was young, and I guess my father thinks I’m old enough to know about it now.”

  “Well, you surely can’t blame the painters,” was Rick’s consoling reply.

  V

  The decorous and black-clad picture dealer found nothing out of the way in the fact that two young gentlemen wanted to see the “Lady with a Blue Veil” by Oscar Deroulé. It was his business to show pictures; a clerk went down some stairs and brought it up, and set it on a stand for them to look at, and then went to attend to another customer. So they had it to themselves, and no need to repress their feelings. “Oh, my God!” exclaimed Rick; and Lanny’s heart hit him several blows underneath his throat.

  There was Mabel Blackless, as she was in those days, just ripened into womanhood, a creature of such loveliness as made men catch their breath. The painter who had done her was a lover of the flesh, and had set himself to exploiting its lusciousness; the creams and whites and pinks, the velvety texture, the soft curves, the delicately changing shadows. Beauty was seated upon a silk-covered couch, half supported by one arm. There was a light blue veil across her hips, and the shower of her hair fell over one shoulder, half hiding a breast; she was in bright sunlight, and the fine strands gleamed like gold—not such an easy thing for a painter to get.

  These were the modern days—they always are—and when a woman went swimming at Juan, she put on a fairly light bathing suit, and when it was wet it clung tightly, so really there wasn’t so much in the picture that Lanny didn’t know already. One thing he had never seen was her breasts, with nipples of delicate pink; he couldn’t help thinking: “So that is where I was nourished!” He thought: “God, what a strange thing life is!” He confronted once more that most bewildering of ideas: “I was her accident! If it hadn’t happened, where would I have been?”

  He looked at the date in the corner of the painting; it was 1899, and he knew it was just before Robbie had come along and started him upon his strange journey into the present. Now, by the magic of art, the son could stand and look at the past; but no magic would enable him to look into the future, and know what he was going to do with his own power to create life. Were there baby souls waiting in the unknown, for him to decide whether or not they were to be?

  His friend saw how deeply stirred he was; the blood had a way of mounting into Lanny’s cheeks, just as you saw recorded in the portrait of his mother. Rick tried to ease him down by discussing the work from the technical point of view. Finally he allowed himself to remark: “If I owned that painting I don’t think I’d ever marry. I’d expect too much!”

  Lanny’s reply was: “I think I’m the one who ought to own it.” He recalled his father’s wish to buy him something; and now he knew what it was going to be. When the dealer rejoined them he inquired: “What is the price of this painting?”

  The man looked at him, and then pretended to look on the back of the painting. The artist was not a well-known one, and the price was thirty-two hundred francs, or six hundred and forty dollars. “I will take it,” Lanny said. “I will pay you two hundred francs down, and if you send the painting to the Hotel Crill
on this evening, I will have the rest.” The dealer knew then that he should have asked a higher price, but it was too late.

  When Lanny told his father what he had done, the latter was much amused. “Do you want to take it to America?”

  Lanny laughed in turn. “I thought Beauty and I ought to have it. I’ll send it to her, and she can stick it away with Marcel’s work.”

  “It’s a queer sort of a present,” said Robbie, “but if it’s what you want, O.K. There are half a dozen paintings of Beauty somewhere in the world, and you might hunt them up.” Then the shrewd businessman added: “Buy options for two years, and you’ll get some bargains that’ll surprise you. The franc has been pegged, but it won’t hold after the war!”

  VI

  The tongues of the two young men were loosened and they talked about love. Lanny told of his happiness with Rosemary, now almost a year past. He didn’t have a right to say how far they had gone—but he found that Rosemary had told Rick’s sister, and she in turn had told Rick. These young people had few secrets; their “emancipation” took the form of voluminous talk, and it was a mark of enlightenment to employ the plainest words.

  When Lanny said he hadn’t been able to be interested in any other girl, Rick told him it was hard luck that he had aimed too high. “I mean,” he added, hastily, “from the English point of view. Her family puts on a lot of side. Of course, it’s all bally rot; perhaps we’ll sack the lot of them before this war is over.”

  Lanny told what his father had said to Zaharoff, that it might end as it had in Russia; to which Rick replied in his free and easy way that he’d take his chances with a new deal. He informed his friend that the Codwilliger family was planning for Rosemary to marry the oldest grandson of the very old Earl of Sandhaven; the grandson was the future heir, since his father had been killed in the same siege of Gallipoli where Rosemary’s father had been wounded. Lanny could see how useless it was for him to hope—that is, of course, from the English point of view. He gathered the impression that he had been greatly honored by having had the future mother of an earl for a temporary sweetheart.