World's End

by Upton Sinclair

  This attitude didn’t make for contentment either in his work or in his home. As it happened, Robbie’s wife was growing more martial-minded every day; she was believing the atrocity stories, putting her money into liberty bonds, helping to organize the women of Newcastle for community singing, for rolling bandages, nursing, whatever doings were called for by patriotic societies and government officials. It happened that President Wilson was the son of a Presbyterian minister, and that Esther’s mother was the daughter of one. Esther read the President’s golden words and believed every one of them; when Robbie would remark that the British ruling classes were the shrewdest propagandists in the world, a sudden chill would fall at the breakfast table.

  21

  The Thoughts of Youth

  I

  Lanny didn’t meet his grandfather again for quite a while. He saw him in church, but made no attempt to catch his eye; just dropped his dollar bill into the plate and knew that his good deed had been credited for that day. The old gentleman was absorbed in the task which the Lord had assigned him, and he stayed in his big mansion, with an old-maid niece to run it, and rarely went anywhere except to his office. But he managed to keep track of the members of his big family, and if they were doing anything of which he disapproved, he let them know it. “Silence means consent,” remarked Robbie, with a smile.

  He added: “I showed him Mr. Harper’s report on your progress.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He grunted and said you were a clever lad, but a chatterbox. Of course that’s not to be taken too seriously. It’s not according to his nature to give praise,”

  Lanny met others of his uncles and aunts; sometimes in church, sometimes when they came to the house and stayed to meals. Robbie would tell him about these people—always when the two were alone, because Robbie’s view of his relatives was often touched with mischief. They were a cranky lot; an old family which had had money for generations and could indulge their whims however extravagant. Some were satisfied to stay in harness, and make more money, even though they had no need of it; but others took up special duties, such as endowing missionaries and having the Bible translated into Torgut or Bashkir or some other unlikely language; or exploring the river Orinoco and bringing home black orchids; or traveling to Southern Arabia and making friends with a sheik, and purchasing blooded horses to drive about town and to breed from.

  Great-Uncle Theophrastus Budd came calling on his way home from a convention of reformers. He was the eldest of the brothers of Grandfather Budd, and was known as a philanthropist; his cause was euthanasia, which meant the painless ending of the lives of the aged. He was getting pretty aged himself, and Robbie said that his heirs were waiting for him to practice what he preached. Great-Aunt Sophronia, an old maid, lived in an ancient house with many cats, and when Lanny went to call at her request, he found her in the attic with a dustcloth over her hair, sorting out family treasures in an old trunk. She had found moths in it, and was hunting them with a fly-spat, and invited Lanny to help her, which he did, and found it a pleasant diversion. This old lady had a sense of humor, and told her new grandnephew that some years ago she had lost interest in life, and had found to her surprise that this had made her quite happy.

  These odd people had a way of quarreling bitterly and never making up. Uncle Andrew Budd and his wife had lived in the same house for thirty years and never spoken. Cousin Timothy and Cousin Rufus couldn’t agree upon the division of their family farm, so they had cut it in halves and lived as neighbors, but did not visit. Aunt Agatha, Robbie’s eldest sister, went off and took up residence in a hotel, and forbade the clerk at the desk ever to announce any person by the name of Budd. That was New England, Robbie said; a sort of ingrown place, self-centered, opinionated, proud.

  II

  One whom Lanny met only in the most formal manner was his Uncle Lawford. The meeting took place in church, where members of the family would exchange greetings in the aisles, or as they walked to their cars. When an occasion arose, Esther said: “Law-ford, this is Lanning, Robbie’s son.” And Uncle Lawford shook hands and inquired: “How do you do?”—politely, as became two children of the Lord meeting in His holy place. That was all.

  He was a peculiar-looking man, heavily built, with broad square shoulders and rather short bandy legs. He was close to fifty, and his gray hair was thin on top; he had a square bulging forehead, and on his face a look that Robbie said was “sour,” but to Lanny it seemed as if someone had just said something to hurt Uncle Law-ford’s feelings. Robbie said that was perhaps the case; Lawford couldn’t stand the least opposition in anything, and Robbie’s way of making jokes annoyed him beyond endurance.

  These two might have let each other alone, but business affairs wouldn’t permit that. Every policy that Robbie advocated was opposed by the older brother. The father had the final say, and if he came to Robbie’s view, Lawford would withdraw into himself. He was “vice-president in charge of production,” and was vigilant and competent, but he took the job as a dog does a bone—going off into a corner by himself, and growling at any other dog that comes near.

  Lanny said: “If I had anything to do with Budd’s, I’d be bound to run into him, wouldn’t I?”

  “I’m afraid so; but I’d back you, and I think we’d win.”

  “Suppose Grandfather Budd should die—how would that work out?”

  “It’ll be up to the stockholders; there’ll be a hunt for proxies.”

  “Do members of the family own most of the stock?”

  “Not outright, the plant’s grown too big. But we have enough to keep control, especially with our friends in the town.”

  Lanny went off and thought about all that. To follow his father’s occupation would mean to take up these ancient grudges and make himself the object of these festering hates. Did he want to do it? Or did he want to hurt his father by refusing to do it?

  III

  Important to the youth was his meeting with his Great-Great-Uncle Eli Budd, youngest and only surviving uncle of Grandfather Samuel. He lived in a town of the interior called Norton, and was eighty-three, and still hale. He sent word that he wanted to meet his new kinsman, and since he was the head of the family, his wish was a command. Lanny was to motor there on Saturday morning, and come back on Sunday evening; and Esther told him not merely how to behave, but where on the trip he would see a famous old “overhang” house, and an old mill which Esther’s grandfather had built, and a churchyard with the headstone of the progenitor of all the Budds. “The churchyards are among the most interesting places in New England,” said Lanny’s stepmother.

  The main street of the village of Norton was broad, and deeply shaded with great elms; its residences were white, and none had fences or hedges, but stood in a continuous well-kept lawn, with elms and oaks and maples averting the summer’s glare. They were dignified old houses with well-proportioned Colonial doorways, and no unseemly noises ever disturbed their peace inside or out. In one of them the old gentleman lived with his second wife, some thirty years younger than himself, and one unmarried daughter—there were many such in New England, because so many of the young men went away. The family lived frugally, upon a small income, because this retired preacher valued independence more than anything else in the world. “The Budds will all tell you how to live if you will let them,” he said to Lanny, with a dry smile.

  He was a man of more than six feet, his frame slender and unbowed. His hair was snow-white and long, his face smooth-shaven, with a large Roman nose and deeply graven lines about the mouth. His neck was long and the cords stood out on it, and the skin was like withered brown parchment. But his eyes were still keen, and his step though slow was steady. He had learned how to live, and to limit his desires and keep his spirit serene.

  Lanny felt as soon as he entered the house that here was a place ruled by love. Great-Great-Aunt Bethesda was a Quaker, gentle, quiet, like a little gray dove. She said: “Has thee had a pleasant trip?”—and this was something
new to Lanny, and awakened his curiosity. He knew that the old gentleman was a Unitarian, and that this had been a scandal in its time, and still was to Grandfather Samuel, and perhaps to Stepmother Esther. One glance about was enough to tell him that Eli was a scholar, for the walls were lined with books that had been read and lived with.

  Sitting in this patriarch’s study, Lanny was invited to talk about himself, and didn’t mind doing it. He was able to guess what would interest his relatives: the natural beauty of the place where he had lived, and the cultivated persons he had met, especially the old ones, such as M. Anatole France, and M. Priedieu, and M. Rochambeau. Eli Budd questioned him about his reading; and when Lanny named names, he didn’t say: “All French writers.” He had read them himself, and made comments on them, and was able to discover from Lanny’s remarks that he had understood what was in them.

  Between these two there took place that chemical process of the soul whereby two become one, not gradually, but all at once. They had lived three thousand miles apart, yet they had developed this affinity. The seventeen-year-old one told his difficulties and his problems, and the eighty-three-year-old one renewed his youth, and spoke words which seemed a sort of divination. Said he:

  “Do not let other people invade your personality. Remember that every human being is a unique phenomenon, and worth developing. You will meet many who have no resources of their own, and who will try to fasten themselves upon you. You will find others eager to tell you what to do and think and be. But it is better to go apart and learn to be yourself.”

  Great-Great-Uncle Eli was a “transcendentalist,” having known many of the old New England group. There is something in us all, he said, that is greater than ourselves, that works through us and can be used in the making of character. The central core of life is personality. To respect the personality of others is the beginning of virtue, and to enforce respect for it is the first duty of the individual toward all forms of government, all organizations and systems which men contrive to enslave and limit their fellows.

  IV

  Youth and age went out and strolled in the calm of twilight, and again in the freshness of the morning. They sat and ate the frugal meals which two gentle ladies prepared for them. But most of the time they just wanted to sit in the book-walled study and talk. Lanny had never heard anyone whose conversation satisfied him so completely, and old Eli saw his spirit reborn in this new Budd from across the sea.

  Lanny told about his mother, and about Marcel; about Rick and his family, and about Kurt; he even told about Rosemary, and the old clergyman was not shocked; he said that customs in sexual matters varied in different parts of the world, and what suited some did not suit others. “The blood of youth is hot,” he said, “and impatience sets traps for us, and prepares regrets that sometimes last all our lives. The important thing is not to wrong any woman—and that is no easy matter, for women are great demanders, and do not scruple to invade the personality.” Great-Great-Uncle Eli smiled, but Lanny knew he was serious.

  Free-thinker that this old man was, he was nevertheless a product of the Puritan conscience, and wanted men and women to become pure in heart. As Lanny listened, he began to recall a certain afternoon upon the heights by the church of Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Port. His friend Kurt Meissner had not merely voiced the same ethical ideas, but had justified them by the same metaphysical concepts. Lanny mentioned that to the ex-clergyman, who said there was nothing strange about it, because New England transcendentalism had stemmed directly from German philosophical idealism. Interesting to see a son of New England bringing home another load of it, a century later!

  Eli bade Lanny have the courage of his vision. Without it men would be dull clods, and life would become blind greed and empty pleasure-seeking. “God save the Budds if they were never anything but munitions makers and salesmen!” exclaimed Eli; and these words pierced to the center of Lanny’s being. When the time came for him to depart, this gentle yet hardy old man gave him a volume of Emerson’s essays inscribed by that great teacher’s fine and sensitive hand. Emerson had been merely a name to Lanny; but he promised to read the book, and did so.

  V

  Lanny drove up to Sand Hill, where St. Thomas’s Academy is situated, and took his examinations with success. The fact that the name of Budd was signed to all his papers was not supposed to have anything to do with his passing; nor the fact that one of the school’s largest brownstone buildings had been paid for out of the profits which Budd Gunmakers had derived from the American Civil War, and another from the profits of the Spanish-American War. St. Thomas’s was a part of the Budd tradition, and the family’s right to send its sons there was hereditary. Lanny asked his father about the matter of his not being quite properly a Budd, and Robbie said he had entered him as his son, and that was that; it wasn’t the custom to send over to France for marriage certificates.

  The beautiful old buildings stood in a park having lawns and shade trees like an English estate. They were of dull old red brick with Boston ivy on the walls, making a safe home for millions of spiders and bugs. In one of the dormitories Lanny shared a comfortable room and bath with a cousin whom he had met on the tennis courts, but with whom he had little else in common.

  Lanny had played with boys, but always a few at a time; he had never before been part of a horde. He discovered that a horde is something different, a being with a personality of its own. Being young and eager, he was curious about it, and every hour was a fresh adventure. He awoke to the ringing of an electric bell, went to breakfast to another ringing, and thereafter moved through the day as an electrically controlled robot. He acquired knowledge in weighed and measured portions; memorized facts and recited them, forgot many of them until the end of the month, relearned them for a “test,” forgot them again until the end of a term, relearned them once more for “exam”—and then forgot them forever and ever, amen.

  In addition to this part of his life, scheduled and ordained by the school authorities, the horde had its own life which it lived during off hours. This life centered upon three things: athletic prowess, class politics, and sex. If you could run, jump, or play football or baseball, your success was probable; if you could talk realistically about girls, that would help; if your family was notably rich and famous, and if you had Anglo-Saxon features, good clothes, and easy manners, all problems were solved. Entering the third year, Lanny was jumping into the midst of school polities, and had to be looked over and judged quickly. His cousin, belonging to a fashionable set, was ready to initiate him, and would be provoked if Lanny didn’t display proper respect for the fine points upon which his friends based their judgments. “Be careful, or they’ll set you down for a ‘queerie,’” said this mentor.

  VI

  Robbie had asked Lanny not to play football, saying that he was too lightly built for this rough game. It was another of those cases in which the father expected him to be wiser than himself. Robbie didn’t want Lanny to smoke or drink. He was willing for him to have a girl now and then, but wanted him to be “choosy” about it. He had wished Lanny to attend his grandfather’s Bible class and his stepmother’s church—even though Robbie himself wouldn’t do it, and paid a price for refusing. All this was hard to fathom.

  As it happened, Lanny could run, and liked to, and he was a good tennis player, so he would never be entirely a “queerie.” But he had many handicaps to success at St. Thomas’s. He had just come from abroad, and that made him an object of curiosity. He pronounced French correctly, which could only be taken as an affectation. He had read a great many books, and his masters discovered this fact and brought it out in class, hoping to waken a desire for culture in these “young barbarians all at play.” That was hard on Lanny.

  His first disillusionment came with the discovery that class sessions at St. Thomas’s were rather dull. They consisted mainly of the recitation of lessons studied the night before, and if you had studied well, you were bored listening to other fellows who had studied badly, and you were onl
y mildly entertained by their efforts to “get by” with a wisecrack. Rarely was there any intelligent discussion in class; rarely anything taught about which either masters or pupils were deeply concerned. They were preparing for college, and all instruction was aimed like a gun at a target; they learned names, dates, theorems, verb forms, rules, and exceptions—everything definite and specific, that could be measured and counted.

  Lanny found that he was expected to assemble now and then with his cousin’s “set.” These were called “bull sessions,” and there would be some talk about the prospects of beating Groton or St. Paul’s at football, and some about the wire-pulling of a rival set; but sooner or later the talk would turn to sex. Lanny was no Puritan—on the contrary, he was here to study the Puritans; and what troubled him was that the element of mutuality or idealism appeared to be lacking in their relations with girls. Shrewd and observant young men of the world, they knew how to deal with “gold diggers,” “salamanders,” and other deadly females of the species. Both boys and girls appeared to regard the love market as they would later in life the stock market—a place where you got something for nothing.

  One of the characteristics of the horde is that it does not allow you to be different; it persecutes those who do not conform to its ideas and obey its taboos. There was a sensitive younger lad named Benny Cartright, whose father was a well-known portrait painter; he found out that Lanny was interested in this subject, and would cling to him and ask yearning questions about the art world abroad. There was a son of Mrs. Bascome, well-known suffrage lecturer; this youth wore horn-rimmed spectacles and was opposed to war on principle. More than a year ago Robbie had told his son about the secret treaties of the Allies, in which they had distributed the spoils of war among themselves; now these treaties were published in the New York Evening Post, and this chap Bascome brought them to Lanny in the form of a pamphlet.