Until late the next day, when the telegram arrived. Short and sweet it was: “Lanny Budd, Hotel Crillon, Paris: Peace love beauty.” Highly poetical—but the important point was that the message was marked from San Sebastián!
VII
How was that oddly assorted couple going to make out? Lanny tried in his spare moments to imagine it. He had learned that you never could tell about other people’s guesses in love; you just had to let them guess. Kurt would find that he had taken into his life a woman who hadn’t much real interest in his ideas—only in him. Whatever he believed would be the truth and whatever he did would be important. Beauty would be loyal to her man; would take up his cause and fight for—not it, but him.
She talked a great deal and would certainly bore him while motoring over Spain. But she had sense enough to let a man alone if he asked it. If Lanny said he wanted to read, all right, he could go off in a corner of the garden and stay half a day. If Marcel had wanted to paint, or Robbie to play poker, that too was all right. If Kurt could only realize that the war was over, and get his musical instruments together and go on with his work, Beauty would be content to hear him tootling and tinkling all day. She had learned her formula from Emily: Kurt was a composer, and in order to write for any instrument you had to know its range, what fingerings were easy, what were impossible, and so on.
The day that Kurt produced his Opus I, he would become for Beauty the greatest composer in the world; she would take up that composition and fight for it as she had fought for Marcel’s art, and for the selling of munitions. She would inquire around and find out who was the topmost conductor of the hour, and somehow she would manage to be in his neighborhood and have him invited to tea. Maybe he would know what was up or maybe he wouldn’t, but, anyway, he would hear Kurt’s Opus I, and soon it would be performed by a great symphony orchestra, and Beauty would see to it that all the critics were there, and that they met the crème de la crème of Paris or London society. Kurt would be dressed for the occasion, and presented to everybody—or would he? Maybe he’d be eccentric, like Marcel, despising smart society, wanting to hide himself! If so, Beauty would fall on her knees and tell him that she was a crude and cheap person, that he might have it his way—any way in the world, so long as he didn’t go to war again! (Lanny, living over those days of anguish with his stepfather at Juan-les-Pins!)
Now it was Kurt who was going to be stepfather. What an odd thing! Of course Kurt had always taken the attitude of an elder and Lanny had thought of him as a mentor. As they grew older, fifteen months’ difference in their ages would matter less; but probably Kurt would always know what he wanted to do, whereas Lanny might never be sure. Lanny had imaginary whimsical conversations with his friend, in which they adjusted themselves to the trick which fate had played upon them. Anyhow, they wouldn’t be jealous of each other; and they would have lots of music in the house! Lanny began to reflect that he ought to concentrate upon that great art and try to make something of himself with Kurt’s help.
VIII
The German delegation was bombarding the conference with notes, protesting against the terms of the “monstrous document,” as the treaty was called by the President of the German Republic. They said that it was impossible of fulfillment; that in failing to fix the amount of the indemnity the Allies made it impossible for Germany to obtain credit anywhere; that in taking all her colonies and her ships, and requiring her yards to make new ships for the Allies, they were making it impossible for her to have any trade and so condemning millions of people to starvation. The better to continue this bombardment, the Germans brought in a special train with linotype machines and printing presses, and set about preparing a volume of their own, a “counter-proposal.” Clemenceau replied with cold rejection of most of the German notes, and the experts and secretaries and translators worked at preparing ammunition to repel this new kind of bombardment.
It became Lanny’s duty to take the files referring to Upper Silesia, and help the staff to digest them all over again, and prepare answers to the strenuous arguments of the German delegation, that this province was overwhelmingly German, and that giving it to the Poles was merely a move of power politics, to deprive Germany of coal and manufacturing power. A lot of extra work fell upon Lanny’s shoulders, because Alston was giving so much time to discussing whether it was his duty to resign his position as a public protest against what he felt was a breach of faith with Germany.
There were signs of wavering among those responsible for the drastic terms of the treaty, and Lanny had the exciting idea that by some stroke of superdiplomacy he might be able to save the castle and district of Stubendorf for Kurt and his family. At any rate, Lanny would make special mention of it in the data he got together; he would underscore the name if it occurred; he would make notes on the margin of reports. When he had a chance to talk with his chief he told how he had visited that beautiful country—and assuredly every man, woman, and child that he had seen was German.
Professor Alston shook his head sadly. Lanny wasn’t telling him anything new; it was just such blunders which were tormenting the conscience of the Americans, and of some Britons, too. But what could they do? It might be possible to persuade the Big Four to grant a plebiscite for the bulk of Upper Silesia, but Stubendorf lay too far to the east, and was surely going to the Poles. Paderewski, President of the new Polish Republic, had come to Paris, to fight for every foot of territory he could get, and the French were backing him. As Robbie had so carefully explained, this new republic was a French creation, to be armed with weapons manufactured by Zaharoff.
Lanny had been too busy to return to the mansion on the Avenue Hoche; but every now and then he would come upon another strand of the web of that busy old spider. Right in the midst of the bright dream of saving Kurt’s home came news that gave everybody at the Crillon a poke in the solar plexus: a Greek expedition had landed at Smyrna and taken the city, with British and French warships supporting them, and—here was the part which the Americans could hardly believe—the battleship Arizona and five United States destroyers lending aid! The French took the harbor forts, the British and Italians held the suburbs, while the Greeks invaded the center of the city and slaughtered the Turkish inhabitants.
Turkey was going to be dismembered, of course. The British and French were going to quarrel over the oil. The Italians were going to hold some of the islands. The Greeks were going to get Smyrna, as a reward for sending troops to Odessa to help fight the Bolsheviks. But what was America getting out of it, and why were American warships assisting against Turks, upon whom we had never declared war?
These developments had been foreseen by Robbie Budd, and Lanny now passed his information on to Alston and others of the staff. Zaharoff was a Greek, and hatred of Turkey was, next to money-making, the great passion of his life. Zaharoff controlled Lloyd George through the colossal armaments machine which had saved Britain. Zaharoff controlled Clemenceau through Schneider-Creusot—to say nothing of Clemenceau’s brother and son. The Grand Officer of the Legion of Honor had practically an official status at the Peace Conference, and was now getting himself a port for the future conquest of Turkey and the taking of its oil. America was to accept a mandate for Constantinople, which meant sending an army and a navy to keep the Bolsheviks shut up in the Black Sea; also a mandate for Armenia, which meant blocking them off from the Mosul oil fields. Lloyd George had a map showing all this—young Fessenden had revealed the fact to Lanny without quite realizing its importance.
One fact Lanny failed to grasp—what he was doing to himself by talk such as this in the Crillon. His mother was fondly imagining that he might have a diplomatic career, something so distinguished and elegant. He himself was finding it thrilling to be behind the wings and at least on speaking terms with the great actors. But he forgot about the whispering gallery, the busy note-takers and filers of cards. Zaharoff had tried to hire him as a spy. Did he imagine that Zaharoff had failed to hire others? Did he imagine that one could sit in
with the Alston malcontents and discuss the project of resigning, and not have all that noted down in one or many black-books?
35
I Can No Other
I
Lanny Budd was in a state of mental confusion. He had absorbed, as it were through the skin, the point of view of his chief and the latter’s friends, the little group who called themselves “liberals.” According to these authorities, the President of the United States had muffed a chance to save the world and that world was “on the skids”; there was nothing anybody could do, except sit and watch the nations prepare for the next war. George D. Herron went back to his home in Geneva, sick in body and mind, and wrote his young friend a letter of blackest depression couched in the sublimest language. Uncle Jesse, on whom Lanny paid a call, had the same expectations—only he didn’t worry, because he said it was the nature of capitalism on its way to collapse. “Capitalism is war,” said the painter, “and what it calls peace is merely time to get ready. To try to change it is like reforming a Bengal tiger.”
A very young secretary listened to these ideas, bandied back and forth among the staff. He tried to sort them out and decide which he believed; it was hard, because each man was so persuasive while he talked. And meanwhile Lanny was young, and it was May in Paris, a beautiful time and place. Rains swept clean the streets and the air, and the sun came out with dazzling splendor. The acacia trees in the Bois, loaded with masses of small yellow blossoms, were bowed in the rain and then raised up to the sun. Children in bright colored dresses played on the grass, and bonnes with long ribbons dangling from the backs of their caps chatted together and flirted impartially with doughboys, Tommies, Anzacs, and chocolate soldiers from Africa. The beautiful monuments and buildings of Paris proclaimed victory, the traffic hummed and honked, and life was exciting, even though it might be on the way to death.
Lanny, walking on the boulevards, thought about his mother and Kurt, safe in Spain, and having a magical time. A letter had come from his friend, full of needless apologies, signed by that oddly unsuitable name of “Sam” which he had chosen without a moment’s thought. Beauty had written also; no more about the past and its perils, but personal and happy news. A rugged and inspiring coast—the Bay of Biscay, O! Fascinating old towns, picturesque inns, sunshine and white clouds floating; peace and safety, heavenly anonymity, and, above all, love.
Lanny understood each of these words in its secret inner meaning. Voices told him that he was missing something in his life. Other people were finding it, but he was alone; no mother, no father, no girl—only a group of middle-aged and elderly gentlemen looking at the world through dark glasses, no two of them able to agree as to what they wanted to do—and powerless to do it anyhow!
II
“Society” was reviving. The fashionable folk were coming out of their five years’ hibernation, hungry for pleasure as the bears for food. The Grand Prix was to be run at Longchamps, and President Wilson would attend, the first holiday that harassed man had allowed himself in a couple of months. Lanny resolved to attend, and to do it in style—with the help of the complaisant little army officer who had charge of the nice big open Cadillacs with army chauffeurs who took people on “official business” to the races or anywhere else in or near Paris.
His thoughts turned to that agreeable lass at the Hotel Majestic. She could get time off, and so could young Fessenden and the female member of the staff who was his special friend. The English are a sporting people, and the severe chaperon who looked after the welfare of the young ladies of their delegation would regard watching horses race under the eyes of President Wilson as a form of social duty. It is amazing how young women on very small salaries can manage to look as gay and new as the richest ones; they don’t tell you how they do it, and Lanny had no means of guessing, but he saw that the toilettes of the professional beauties which were featured in the newspapers could hardly be distinguished from those of girls who worked all day typing letters and keeping files. It was democracy.
To look at that racetrack and its throngs of people, you would have had a hard time realizing that Paris had been in deadly peril less than a year ago; that long-range cannon had been peppering her streets and houses with shells, and that hundreds of thousands of her sons had given their lives to save her. The women who wore mourning did not attend the races; only those fortunate ones whose men had made profits out of the war. Now they wore hats full of flowers, and the most striking ensembles that dressmakers had been able to invent at short notice; they flaunted striped parasols and waved handkerchiefs which represented a month’s wages for one of the working girls who made them. The beautiful sleek horses strained and struggled for their entertainment and roars of cheering swept over the stands and around the track.
In short, life had begun again for the leisure classes. The mood was to spend it while you had it, and Lanny’s father had it. So the youth drank in sunshine and warm spring air and felt his soul expanding. He strolled among the smiling, chattering throngs, bowed to distinguished persons whom he knew, and told his friends who they were. The grand monde at its very grandest was here: important persons not merely of Paris and London and Washington, but of Greece and Egypt, Persia and India, China and Japan, Australia and New Zealand—and back to Paris by way of San Francisco and New York.
Penelope Selden was slender and quick-moving, with hair that glinted without dye and cheeks that were bright without rouge. Certainly she was happy without any effort that afternoon; they all made jokes, and bubbled with laughter at the poorest of them, and no shadow of the world’s trouble crossed their souls. They bet no more money than they could afford to lose, and oddly enough they won, and enjoyed the delight of getting something for nothing.
Fessenden had an engagement for the evening, so they were driven back to town. Then, because all the restaurants of Paris would be packed to the doors on the evening of the Grand Prix, Lanny and Penelope took a taxi to the suburbs and found a little inn, having outdoor tables in a garden, an obliging moon to provide the right amount of light, and a host who was not obtrusive. The cooking was good, the wine tolerable, and afterwards they strolled in the garden and sat on a bench. Someone in the inn was playing a concertina—not the highest type of music, but it sufficed.
Lanny reflected upon the dutiful life he had been living these past five months or so; and also that in places such as this were rooms which could be hired with no questions asked. He had already made up his mind that he would take the good the gods provided him. He permitted the conversation to become personal, and when he put his arm on the top of the bench behind the girl, and then about her shoulders, she did not withdraw. But when he began to whisper his feelings, she exclaimed, in a voice of pain: “Oh, Lanny, why did you wait so long?”
“Is it too late?” he asked.
“I’ve gone and got myself engaged!”
“Oh, damn!” thought Lanny—to himself. Aloud he replied: “Oh, dear! I’m sorry!” Then, after a pause: “Who is it?”
“Somebody in England.”
She didn’t tell him more. Did that mean that she wasn’t altogether pleased with her choice? They sat for a while, watching the tree shadows in the moonlight, which had become suddenly melancholy; the concertina was playing adagio lamentoso.
“What was the matter, Lanny? Did you think I was a gold digger, or something horrid?”
“No, dear,” said he, truthfully. “I was afraid I mightn’t be fair to you.”
“Couldn’t you have left that to me?”
“Perhaps I should have. It’s hard to be sure what’s right.”
“I wouldn’t have made any claims on you—honestly not. I’ve learned to take care of myself, and I mean to.” They were silent once more; then she put her hand on his and said: “I’m truly sad about it.”
“Me too,” he replied; and again they watched the wavering shadows of the trees.
III
They talked about the relationship of the sexes, so much in the thoughts of young peo
ple in these days. They had thrown overboard the fixed principles of their forefathers, and were groping to find a code which had to do with their own happiness, the thing they really believed in. If you were going to have babies, that was another matter; but so long as you couldn’t afford to have babies, and didn’t mean to—what then?
Lanny told about his two adventures; and Penelope said: “Oh, those were horrid girls! I would never have treated you like that, Lanny.”
“There’s something to be said for both of them. The English girl belongs to a class and she owes a duty to her family. Don’t your parents feel that way?”
“A stockbroker isn’t so much in England—unless he’s a big one, and my father isn’t. He has other people to take care of besides me; that’s why I went out on my own. So long as I earn my way, I think I’ve a right to run my own life. At any rate, I’m doing it.”
“Have you ever had an affair?” he made bold to inquire.
She answered that she had loved a youth in the business school she had attended. His parents were well-to-do, and wouldn’t let him marry. “I guess we didn’t really care enough for each other to make a fight for it,” she said. “Anyhow, we didn’t. It messes things all up when one has more money than the other. That’s why I was afraid to let you know that I liked you so much, Lanny. A girl can generally start things up if she wants to.”
World's End Page 70