This was one time that Kurt didn’t try to prove that Germany was superior to England. “It’s bad in our army,” he said. Lanny decided to tell how he had unwittingly got into conversation with a Social-Democratic editor in a railway station, and the man had repeated evil rumors about high-up persons. “Such an editor would believe the worst about our ruling classes,” said Kurt.
They talked also about something that had happened the other day in Sarajevo, capital of the province of Bosnia; the Austrian archduke, heir to the throne of the Empire, had been on an official tour with his wife, and the two of them had been murdered while riding in their motorcar. Rick and Lanny had heard their elders discussing it, but hadn’t paid much attention; Kurt now explained that Bosnia was a province of Austria inhabited mostly by Slavs, an inferior and disorderly people. “They are always agitating against the Austrian authorities,” he said, “and the Serbians across the border encourage them. The murder was committed by students, and naturally the Austrians will have to take strong measures to punish the conspirators.”
The other two were interested in the story, but as something far off that didn’t mean much to them. It was politics; and they were all agreed that politics was an activity which artists were in duty bound to look upon with contempt. All three were dedicated to the service of the ideal. “Im Ganzen, Guten, Wahren resolut zu leben”—so Goethe had taught, and Kurt repeated it to the other two. The diplomats in the Balkans would continue to squabble, but men of superior mind would pass over such headlines in the newspapers, and give their attention to the reviews of Ravel’s Daphnis and Chloe, then being superbly danced by the Russian ballet.
III
Another event of the moment was the Royal Regatta at Henley-on-Thames. Amateur oarsmen from many parts of the world assembled, and the river was put upon the map for three days. There were two American crews among them, so Lanny had a chance to feel patriotic. The finals were rowed on Saturday, and Lanny’s mother came with a motoring party from London, and met the family who were hosts to her boy. Of course these free and “mod’n” people didn’t concern themselves about her divorce, and she was lovely in her simple white frock, of what the French call mousseline de communion, and a jardiniere hat with pink hedge roses held in place by a white chiffon veil several yards in length. At her throat was a diamond bow brooch that also looked simple—unless you knew that it was set in platinum.
Harry Murchison drove the party, and had servants following in another car, to set up tables and spread an elaborate “breakfast” on the lawn of The Reaches. It was a festivity without a single flaw—unless you counted the fact that wasps persisted in getting stuck in the jam. Afterwards they motored to Henley, and the Pomeroy-Nielsons invited them to a private enclosure of one of the rowing clubs, from which they had a view of the finish. The course had been marked off with piles driven, and booms, and there were no launches and no high wind to trouble the oarsmen, as you had on the big rivers of America: just a nice friendly sort of tea-party place, so that oarsmen rowing down the course could hear the conversation of spectators on both banks. On one side was a towpath, on which the crowd ran or bicycled; on the other side, behind the booms, were punts and rowboats crowded together like sampans on a Chinese river.
It was a gay scene; the men wore blazers with the colors of their rowing clubs, while the ladies in their bright gowns lolled upon silken cushions. Of course you wouldn’t expect an English crowd to roar and cheer like an American one. “Well rowed, Harvard!” would be the proper expression of enthusiasm. It happened that the final in the eight-oar event for the Grand Challenge Cup was rowed by two American crews, one composed of Harvard undergraduates, and the other of Harvard graduates; so there were many crimson flags and nasal New England accents. Oddly enough, the race was rowed on the Fourth of July, so the Americans had to be careful not to give offense to their well-mannered hosts.
Only one thing marred a perfect day for Lanny Budd: that was the attention which Harry Murchison was so obviously paying to his mother. It was Harry who helped her out of the motorcar, and Harry who helped her in again, and it happened to be Harry who caught her when one of her fancy high-heeled slippers caused her ankle to turn. He was a good-looking and agreeable fellow, and the Pomeroy-Nielsons could have no reason to criticize his interest in an unattached woman—but that would be because they didn’t know about Marcel Detaze. But Lanny thought of Marcel down there at the Cap, painting diligently; he must be lonely, and wondering when his Beauty would get through with the social whirl and return to the life of art and love.
She was going back to France right after this race—but not going home yet. She had been invited to spend a fortnight with Mrs. Emily Chattersworth, an American friend who lived on the Riviera in winter and in a château near Paris in summer. From a bit of conversation Lanny now gathered that Harry Murchison was motoring her there, and would be in Paris and take her to a fête champêtre. Lanny couldn’t get away from the disturbing thought: was this too-agreeable heir of a plate-glass factory in Pennsylvania trying to win the love of his mother? And if so, where did Marcel come in? Had Beauty begun to tire of her painter? A whole new set of problems for a youngster who was supposed to have learned all the facts of life!
IV
Among the girls who came to The Reaches was the daughter of an army officer by the name of Rosemary Codwilliger, which you pronounced Culliver. She had hazel eyes and smooth thick hair the color of straw, and very regular, rather grave features—she might have served as model for a girlish Minerva, goddess of wisdom. She was a year older than Lanny, and took a maternal attitude toward him, which he liked, being a mother’s boy. Rosemary was fascinated by “Dalcroze,” and would watch Lanny and Rick and imitate what they did, and was very good at it. She had been to the Riviera and knew the places Lanny knew, so they had plenty to talk about.
When the young couples strolled apart, it would be Rosemary and Lanny. They were sitting near the river, watching the last tints of the fading day; a single very bright star, and no sound on the river, but up at the house Kurt Meissner playing the slow movement of Mozart’s D minor piano concerto. A lovely melody, tender and touching, floated down to them; it died to a whisper, rose again, and then again, in different forms, an infinite variety. It whispered of love and beauty, it captivated the soul and led it into a heaven of ecstasy, pure yet passionate.
It was one of those rare moments in which new possibilities of the spirit seem to be unveiled; and when at last the music died away, neither of them moved for a while. Lanny felt the girl’s hand touching his; he returned the pressure gently, and again they were still. A faint breeze stirred tiny ripples on the surface of the water, and caused the evening star’s reflection to shiver and tremble. In the soul of Lanny something of the same kind began to happen, the strangest, indescribable sense of delight pervading his being. He leaned closer to the girl, who seemed to feel the same way.
The music had begun again. Kurt was playing something that Lanny didn’t know. It sounded like Beethoven; slow and mournful, a lament for mankind and the suffering men inflict upon one another. But the magic of art turns sorrow into beauty, pain into ecstasy; the young people were flooded with an emotion which caused their two hands to tighten and tremble, and tears to start down their cheeks. When the music died again, Lanny whispered: “Oh, that was so sweet!” Not a brilliant observation, but the tones of his voice were eloquent.
Rosemary’s reply startled him. “You may kiss me, Lanny.”
He hadn’t known that he wanted to kiss her; probably he wouldn’t have dared to think of it. But he realized at once that it would be pleasant to kiss her—very gently, respectfully, of course. So he planned; but when he touched his lips to hers, her arms folded about him, and they clung together in a long embrace. Those strange thrills became more intense, they suffused the boy’s whole being. He seemed to know what all the music of the world was about, what it was trying to express. He wanted nothing but to stay there, perfectly still, and have
Kurt go on playing sweet, sad melodies.
Somebody came along, interrupting them, so they got up and went into the house. Lanny’s cheeks were flushed, but Rosemary was as cool and serene as the girlish Minerva, goddess of wisdom. Whenever she looked at Lanny she smiled, a gentle smile, at once a reassurance and a pledge of happiness to come.
So after that, whenever circumstances permitted, those two wandered off by themselves. As soon as they were alone, their hands would come together; and when they found a sheltered spot, or darkness to protect them, their arms would be about each other and their lips would meet. They never went any further; Lanny would have been shocked by the idea, and the girl did not invite it. They were at a stage where happiness came easily, and in satisfactory abundance.
It was long before Lanny admitted to himself that these thrills had anything to do with that puzzling thing called “sex” that people were always talking about. No, this was something rare and exalted, a secret bliss which they alone had discovered, and concerning which they would breathe no whisper to anyone else. At least that is what Lanny said, and Rosemary smiled her wise, motherly smile, and said: “You dear!”
They both kept the secret; and when the time came for Lanny to go back to town, the girl told him it would be just “au revoir.” “My mother is talking about the Riviera for next winter,” she said. “We’ll write to each other, and surely not forget how happy we’ve been.”
Lanny answered: “I’ll think of it every time I listen to music or play it. And that will be often!”
V
One other adventure before the boy left that green and pleasant land. Kurt had gone up to London to meet his uncle’s friends. Rick had to do some studying; owing to his preoccupation with the arts, he had failed in his mathematics and had to stand an examination in the fall. Lanny read for a while, and then went for a walk.
It was delightful country, with a great variety of prospects; the land owners had a right to bar you from their property, but they generally didn’t, and there were lanes and footpaths, with stiles over the fences, and little dells with streams running through them. Summer was at its height; the sun, not having long to stay, did its best by shining for long hours, and the green things made the most of their opportunity, crowding to the light. A very different world from Provence; greener trees, and landscapes more intimate and friendly, warmer to the heart if not to the thermometer.
Lanny rambled, turning wherever he saw anything that interested him, and not caring where he went; he knew the names of villages near The Reaches, and anybody could tell him the way. When it was time to go back, he trusted to luck. He found himself on the edge of a patch of woodland, with a fence as you entered, and a stile to enable you to step over it; he sat there to rest, and saw a figure moving on another path, which crossed his at the farther edge of the patch of woods. It was a girl, and Lanny couldn’t see clearly, but it appeared that she was carrying something over her shoulder; then, as he watched, she suddenly disappeared and he didn’t see her again. He was puzzled, because there seemed to be no drop in the ground. Could it be that the girl had fallen?
His curiosity was aroused, and he climbed over the stile and went toward the place. Sure enough, there was the girl lying flat on the ground, and a sack of turnips, some of them having spilled out when she fell. Lanny ran toward her, and saw that she was about of his own age, barefooted, wearing a torn and dirty old skirt and blouse; her hair hadn’t been combed, and she was far from prepossessing. It looked as if she had fainted; anyhow, there she lay, and Lanny noticed that her skin was bloodless and that she was emaciated to a painful degree. He might have decided that she was drunk, but instead he guessed that she hadn’t had enough to eat.
He had heard somewhere that when people fainted you dashed cold water in their faces and slapped their hands. He tried the latter, but perhaps didn’t put enough energy into it. He looked and saw buildings some distance beyond the wood, and ran toward them and found a row of cottages close together, of the sort which look picturesque in old etchings. They might have been as old as Queen Anne, or as Elizabeth; they had low thatched roofs, small windows, and doorways not quite regular, and so low that even Lanny had to bend his head to enter. He saw a woman in front of them and ran to her, calling that there was a girl lying out there on the ground. The woman was tousle-headed and red-faced, and she said, dully: “It’ll be that Higgs gel, over thurr,” and pointed to one of the cottages.
Lanny ran to the place and knocked on the door. It was opened after a while by a woman with straggly hair and only three teeth visible. The English poor, whenever they had a toothache, simply pulled the tooth out; no doubt many a woman who looked like this one had been hanged or burned for a witch. “Aye, it’ll be Madge,” she said, with no great excitement. She got him some water in a pail, and he went running with it.
By dint of throwing handfuls in the girl’s face he got her eyes open by the time the woman arrived. They lifted her to her feet and the woman helped her to the cottage, while Lanny lugged the turnips. Stooping under the doorway, they laid the girl on the bed, which consisted of a mattress stuffed with straw on a board frame. The girl’s skin was transparent and looked like wax; she closed her eyes, and Lanny couldn’t be sure whether she had fainted again or not.
“Hadn’t you better give her something to eat?” he asked; and the reply was: “There’s nowt in the house.” This bewildered him. “But what do you do?” he demanded, and the woman said, dully: “The man’ll bring summat when he comes, belike.”
That didn’t satisfy this good Samaritan. He wanted to know if there wasn’t some place where he could purchase food, and the woman told him where to find a shop. It proved to be a miserable place, with flyspecked peppermints and gumdrops in the window. He bought a loaf of bread, a tin of beans, and a rusty one of salmon, his guess at a balanced diet. When he got back to the cottage he found that there was no tin-opener, and he had to break into the tins with a knife and a block of wood. When he put the food before the girl, she wolfed it like a famished animal, leaving only part of the bread.
Lanny looked about him. He had read a poem called “The Cottar’s Saturday Night.” He hadn’t been quite sure what a “cottar” was, but now he was in the home of one. It didn’t bear much resemblance to the poem. A dark-colored clay had been stuffed into chinks of the walls, and the floor was of planks, very old and worn. The fireplace was black with the smoke of ages. There was another bed like the one the girl was lying on, and a table apparently knocked together by amateur hands, and three stools, each with three peg legs. There was also a row of shelves with a few pans and dishes, and some ancient clothing hanging on the walls, and a water bucket on the floor. That was about all.
One place on the floor was wet, and the woman saw Lanny’s eyes resting upon it. “It’s the roof,” said she. “The blurry landlord won’t have it fixed.” Lanny asked who was the landlord, and the reply was: “Sir Alfred.” It gave the boy a start. “Sir Alfred Pomeroy-Nielson?” The woman answered: “Aye, he’s the stingy one, he’ll do nowt for ye, not if the house was to blow down.”
VI
So Lanny had something to think about on his short walk to The Reaches. He wasn’t sure if he ought to mention the matter to his hosts, but he decided that they’d be apt to hear about it, and would think it unnatural that he had kept silence. Lanny went to Rick and told him; good old Rick, who never got embarrassed about anything. Rick said: “It’s that good-for-nothing old laborer, Higgs. He’s a sot that spends every penny he can get his hands on for drink. What can you do for such a family? The pater’s been talking of getting rid of him for a long time, and he should have done it.” Rick added that he’d tell his father; but he didn’t invite Lanny to the conference. Lanny had an uncomfortable feeling, as if he had opened a closed door and a family skeleton had tumbled out.
The Pomeroy-Nielsons thanked him for his good deed, and Rick took the trouble to explain matters further. The land on which those cottages stood belonged to the fam
ily, but the tenants worked for other people. “Most of them are behind with their rent,” said Rick, “because the pater’s reluctant to press them as other landlords do. The old tenements are nothing but a nuisance, and he has often thought of razing them and plowing the land.” The son of the family added, with one of his dry smiles, that of course that wouldn’t go very far toward solving the housing question; but you couldn’t expect a man to be an authority on both art and economics.
Lady Pomeroy-Nielson was a stoutish, motherly person who looked after the boys and made them change their shoes when they got wet. She was kind, and told Lanny that she would take the poor child a basket of food. “But I fear it won’t do much good,” she added, “unless I stay and see it eaten. That Higgs is a rough fellow, and he’ll take anything he can get his hands on and sell it for a drink.”
Rick discussed with his guest the problem of poverty in England’s green and pleasant land. He declared that when human beings got below a certain level, it was very difficult to help them; drink and drugs took the place of food and they finished themselves off. Lanny said his father had explained that to him, but he had thought it applied only to city slums; it had never occurred to him that there might be slums in the country. Rick said there could be little difference between country and city; if there was an over-supply of labor in one it shifted immediately to the other. In the hop-picking season, hundreds of thousands of people from London’s East End spread out over the country looking for work, and if they found conditions a bit better on the land, some of them would stay.
It was an insoluble problem—as Rick, and Rick’s father, and Lanny’s father agreed; but all the same Lanny couldn’t forget the feel of the pitiful thin body that he had lifted, the waxen skin, and the frantic look in the girl’s eyes when food was held out to her. Nor could he drive from his mind the impolite thought that, if he were an English landed gentleman, he would have his lovely green lawn a trifle less perfectly manicured, and spend the money on keeping the roofs of his cottages in repair.
World's End (The Lanny Budd Novels) Page 18
