World's End (The Lanny Budd Novels)

by Upton Sinclair

  Another educational influence was Mrs. Emily’s mother, who was history. She had been a “Baltimore belle,” and told how beautiful she used to be and how the beaux had swarmed about her. Now she was in her mid-seventies, and had lovely golden curls which looked quite natural; Lanny was surprised when his mother told him how once the sprightly old lady had rocked with laughter and thrown her curls into her plate of soup. She was painted all pink and white over her many wrinkles, and was automatically driven to exercise charm upon anything that came along in trousers.

  Lanny fell under her spell, and she told him how her daughter Emily had been born amid the sounds of battle; the Fifth New York regiment, marching through Baltimore on its way to defend Washington at the outbreak of the American Civil War, had fired upon the citizens. “That fixes her age at fifty-three, so she doesn’t like to have it told on her, and you must keep it a secret; but Emily herself won’t be able to keep it much longer unless she consents to dye her hair. Dear me, how I do rattle on!” said Mrs. Sally Lee Sibley; and she added: “What a hideous and ruinous thing that war was, and how lucky we are who don’t have to see such things!”

  Lanny was moved to tell how yesterday he had heard Prince Skobelkov remark that Russia ought to bring war on right now, because his country was ready and could never be more so. The old lady looked at the boy in horror and whispered: “Oh, no, no! Don’t let anybody say such a thing! Oh, what wicked people!” Mrs. Sally Lee Sibley lived in Europe because it was her fate, but privately she hated it.

  III

  Of course a half-grown boy was not invited to a salon or to formal dinner parties; but there were house guests, and callers in great numbers, and Lanny met them, and listened to conversations about the state of Europe, in which persons who were on the inside of affairs talked freely, being among those who had a right to know. There was a Russian military mission in Paris, and the famous general, Prince Skobelkov, was a member of it; he found time to motor out and have tea, even in the midst of a world-shaking crisis. Also the French Senator Bidou-Lascelles, who said, in American poker language: “Germany is trying to use Austria to bluff Russia, and this will go on indefinitely unless we call the bluff.” The Prince assented, and added: “Our official information is that Austria is unprepared, and will prove a weak ally.”

  Lanny listened, and thought that he didn’t like these two old men. The Russian was large, red-faced, and tightly laced up, and spoke French explosively. The senator was baldheaded and paunchy, with a white imperial that waggled somewhat absurdly; he was an ardent Catholic, and fought for his Church party in the Senate, but to Lanny he didn’t seem religious, but rather a little gnome plotting dreadful things. Lanny recollected the beautiful Austrian country through which he had passed, the mountain cottages with steep roofs to shed the snow, and the inns with fancy gilded signs. He thought of Kurt Meissner, and his brothers who were in the German army. Kurt was to come to Paris in a few days, to meet his “rubber” uncle and return home with him. Lanny had thought of having him invited to Les Forêts, but decided that it wouldn’t do, with people voicing opinions like these.

  Mrs. Emily had thrown her estate open for a charity bazaar, and booths had been set up, decorated with bunting and huge quantities of flowers. Everybody donated things to be sold, and the crowds came and bought them. It appeared that there were vast numbers of persons who had money enough to wear fashionable clothes, but couldn’t get into the right society. Here they would have a chance, not merely to look at the gratin, as the inner circle was called, but even to speak to them.

  It was a scheme devised to turn the weaknesses of human nature to a useful purpose. There were “cabbage patches” in Paris, too, and the poor who lived in them sometimes fell ill, and had to be cared for in hospitals, and this was the established way to raise the money. The most aloof of the great ladies of society offered themselves as bait, duchesses and countesses of the old nobility putting themselves on exhibition, and you might have the honor of addressing them. But you weren’t to expect to have it cheaply, for the prices were graded according to those laws of precedence which ruled at dinner parties. A cousin of the Russian Tsar was in charge of the booth where Mrs. Emily’s orchids were sold, and for the commonest of them you would have to part with a hundred-franc note, or twenty American dollars. Along with it you would get a charming smile from a regal person, and if you paid double the price asked, she might even hold out a hand to be kissed.

  This was like a debut party for Lanny; he was to act as a sort of page, and run errands for the ladies, and he had on long trousers for the first time—a neat white linen suit made especially for the occasion. He felt extremely self-conscious, but knew he mustn’t show it; he strolled about the soft green lawns and was introduced to many persons, and made himself helpful in every way he could think of. The grounds presented a gay picture; so many ladies with striped parasols and hats full of flowers and feathers and even whole birds.

  Beauty was selling little bouquets, as she had done in London; she was notable in pale yellow taffeta embroidered with large green berries; the corsage prolonged into a polonaise, and the skirt of soft white muslin, cut narrow. With a throat low and sleeves short, Beauty made the most of her numerous charms and was in a state of exaltation, as always when there were many people about and she knew they were admiring her; she had a smile for everybody, and a happy greeting, especially for gentlemen whom she discovered without a boutonnière. She would extend one seductively, saying: “Pour les pauvres.” When they asked the price she would say: “All you have,” and when they handed her a ten-franc note, she would thank them soulfully, and they would have to forget about the change, because she didn’t have any.

  Harry Murchison was there, following her everywhere with his eyes. He was a fair mark for the ladies, for he was known as a rich American, and handsome; they lured him to the booths, and he would buy whatever they offered, and then take it to another booth to be sold again by ladies equally charming. They made a game out of the whole thing—it could be nothing but that, of course, because there were persons here who could have built hospitals for all the poor of Paris if they had wanted to. But what they wanted was to dress up and display themselves. They sat at little tables and had Mrs. Emily’s uniformed servants bring them tea and little cakes; they sipped and nibbled while they chatted, and paid double prices for what they got, and if there were any tips, these also went pour les pauvres.

  IV

  A day or two later there was a more exclusive tea party; Mrs. Emily’s friends were invited to meet a famous writer. He was no stranger to Lanny Budd, because he had a villa at Antibes, and came there often, and went around wearing little round skullcaps of silk or velvet, always of a bright color and always different—he must have had a hundred of them. He was an old gentleman, tall and thin, with a large head and a long face, like a horse’s. His name was Thibault, but he went by his pen name of Anatole France. Everybody talked about his books, but Lanny had got the impression that they were not for the young.

  Now he came in a blue velvet coat and a large brown felt hat. He descended slowly from a motorcar, and was escorted to the shade of a great chestnut tree; once he was seated in a lawn chair, all the ladies and gentlemen brought their chairs where they could sit and look and listen. As soon as he got started, everyone else was silent; they had come to hear him, and he knew it, and they knew it, and he knew that they knew it, and so on. Had he rehearsed in his mind what he was going to say? Very probably; but nobody minded that. He poured out for them a stream of ironic remarks, in an even tone, with a serious mien except for a twinkle in the bright old eyes. Now and then he would put his fingers together in front of him, and move them as if he were telling off the points in his mind.

  Most of his talk was too subtle for a youngster. M. France had read everything that was old, and his mind was a storehouse of anecdotes and allusions to history, religion, and art; it was as if you were wandering through a museum so crowded that you hardly had room to move
or time to see anything properly. Possibly there was only one person in the company who could understand everything the great man was saying, and that was M. Priedieu, the pale, ascetic librarian, who stood humbly on the outskirts and was not introduced. Lanny thought there was pain in his face, he being a reverent scholar, whereas M. France made mockery of everything he touched.

  Somebody started to ask him a question beginning: “What do you think—?” and he answered quickly: “I am trying to cure myself of the habit of thinking, which is a great infirmity. May God preserve you from it, as He has preserved His greatest saints, and those whom He loves and destines to eternal felicity!”

  Sooner or later the conversation of French ladies and gentlemen was apt to turn to the subject of love. On this also it appeared that the elderly author was skeptical. A saucy young lady asked him something about love in South America, and he made a laughing reply, and the company was vastly amused. Lanny didn’t understand it, but afterward he gathered that M. France had once taken a lecture trip to the Argentine, and on the steamer had met a young actress; he had traveled with her, introducing her as his wife. Later, when he returned to France, he did not want her as a wife, but the young lady was disposed to insist, and there resulted a considerable scandal.

  Also Lanny heard about a wealthy lady of Paris to whom this story had caused great distress. Madame de Caillavet was her name, and she was credited with having made the fame and fortune of Anatole France, setting up a salon for the display of his talents and driving this most indolent person to the task of writing books. She and her husband had maintained with France the relationship known as la vie à trois—life in threes, instead of pairs. No one had objected to that, but the Argentine actress had made four, and everyone considered her de trop.

  Madame de Caillavet was dead now, so Anatole France no longer had a salon. Perhaps that was why it was possible for an American hostess to lure him to a tea party. After he had taken his departure, they all gossiped about him, saying as many malicious things as he himself had said about Cicero, Cleopatra, St. Cyprian, Joan of Arc, King Louis XV, the Empress Catherine of Russia, and many other personages of history whom he had quoted. However, all agreed that he was an extremely diverting person; they had been so well entertained that for two hours they had forgotten the disturbing news that the Austrian government had delivered to the Serbian government an ultimatum which practically required the abdication of the latter and the taking over of its police functions by Austrian officials.

  V

  Beauty went motoring with Harry Murchison. She was gone all day, and came back looking flushed and happy, and Lanny went to her room to chat. They would have little snatches like that—she would tell him where she had been, and the nice things that Prince This and Ambassador That had said to her.

  But this time she wanted to talk about Harry. He was such an obliging and generous fellow, and his family in Pennsylvania was a very old one; he had an ancestor who had been a member of the First Continental Congress. Harry liked Lanny very much, calling him the best-mannered boy he had ever met; but he thought it was too bad for him not to have a chance to know his own country. “That’s what Mr. Hackabury said, too,” remarked the boy.

  But Beauty didn’t want to talk about soap just then; she was interested in plate glass. “Tell me,” she persisted, “do you really like him?”

  “Why, yes, I think he’s all right.” Lanny was a bit reserved.

  But then came a knockout. “How would you feel if I was to marry him?”

  The boy would have had to be a highly trained diplomat to hide the dismay which smote him. The blood mounted to his cheeks, and he stared at his mother until she dropped her eyes. “Oh, Beauty!” he exclaimed. “What about Marcel?”

  “Come sit here by me, dear,” she said. “It’s not easy to explain such things to one so young. Marcel has never expected to marry me. He has no money and he knows that I have none.”

  “But I don’t understand. Would Robbie stop giving you money if you married?”

  “No, dear, I don’t mean that. But I can’t always live on what Robbie gives me.”

  “But why not, Beauty? Aren’t we getting along all right?”

  “You don’t know about my affairs. I have an awful lot of debts; they drive me to distraction.”

  “But why can’t we go and live quietly at Bienvenu and not spend so much money?”

  “I can’t shut myself up like that, Lanny—I’m just not made for it. I’d have to give up all my friends, I couldn’t travel anywhere, I couldn’t entertain. And you wouldn’t have any education—you wouldn’t see the world as you’ve been doing—”

  “Oh, please don’t do it on my account!” the boy broke in. “I’d be perfectly happy to stay home and read books and play the piano.”

  “You think you would, dear; but that’s because you don’t know enough about life. People like us have to have money and opportunities—so many things you will find that you want.”

  “If I do, I can go to work and get them for myself, can’t I?”

  Beauty didn’t answer; for of course that wasn’t the real point; she was thinking about what she herself wanted right now. After a while Lanny ventured, in a low voice: “Marcel will be so unhappy!”

  “Marcel has his art, dear. He’s perfectly content to live in a hut and paint pictures all day.”

  “Maybe he is, so long as you are there. But doesn’t he miss you right now?”

  “Are you so fond of him, Lanny?”

  “I thought that was what you wanted!” the boy burst out. “I thought that was the way to be fair to you!”

  “It was, dear; and it was sweet. I appreciate it more than I’ve ever told you. But there are circumstances that I cannot control.”

  There was a pause, and the mother began to talk about Harry Murchison again. He had been in love with her for quite a while, and had been begging her to marry him; his love was a true and unselfish one. He was an unusually fine man, and could offer her things that others couldn’t—not merely his money, but protection, and help in managing her affairs, in dealing with other people, who so often took advantage of her trustfulness and her lack of business knowledge.

  “Harry has a lovely home in Pennsylvania, and we can go there to live, or we can travel—whatever we please. He’s prepared to do everything he can for you; you can go to school if you like, or have a tutor—you can take Mr. Elphinstone to America with you, if you wish.”

  But Lanny didn’t care anything about Mr. Elphinstone; he didn’t care anything about America. He loved their home at Juan, the friends he had there and the things he did there. “Tell me, Beauty,” he persisted, “don’t you love Marcel any more?”

  “In a way,” she answered; “but”—then she stopped, embarrassed.

  “Has he done something that isn’t fair to you?”

  The boy saw the beginning of tears in his mother’s eyes. “Lanny, I don’t think it’s right for you to take up notions like that, and cross-question me and try to pin me down—”

  “But I’m only trying to understand, Beauty!”

  “You can’t understand, because you aren’t old enough, and these things are complicated and difficult. It’s hard for a woman to know her own heart, to say nothing of trying to explain it to her son.”

  “Well, I wish very much that you’d do what you can,” said Lanny, gravely. Something told him that this was a crisis in their lives; and how he wished he could grow up suddenly! “Can you love two men at the same time, Beauty?”

  “That is what I’ve been asking myself for a long while. Apparently I can.” Beauty hadn’t intended to make any such confession, but she was in a state of inner turmoil, and it was her nature to blurt things out. “My love for Marcel has always been that of a mother; I’ve thought of him as a helpless child that needed me.”

  “Well, doesn’t he still need you? And if he does, what is going to become of him?”

  Tears were making their way onto Beauty’s tender cheeks. She
didn’t answer, and Lanny wondered if it was because she had no answer. He was afraid of hurting his mother; but also he was afraid of seeing her hurt Marcel. He had watched them both on the yacht, and impressions of their love had been indelibly graven upon his mind. Marcel adored her; and what would he do without her?

  “Tell me this, Beauty, have you told Harry you will marry him?”

  “No, I haven’t exactly said that; but he wants me so much—”

  “Well, I don’t think you ought to make up your mind to such a step in a hurry. If it’s debts, you ought to talk to Robbie about them.”

  “Oh, no, Lanny! I promised him I wouldn’t have any debts.”

  “Well, don’t you think you ought to wait and talk to Marcel at least?” Lanny was growing up rapidly in the face of this crisis.

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that!”

  “But what do you expect to do? Just walk off and leave him? Would that be fair, Beauty? It seems to me it would be dreadfully unkind!”

  His mother was staring at him, greatly disconcerted. “Lanny, you oughtn’t to talk to me like that. I’m your mother!”

  “You’re the best mother in the world,” declared the boy, with ardor. “But I don’t want to see you do something that’ll make us all unhappy. Please, Beauty, don’t promise Harry till we’ve had time to think about it. Some day you may see me making some mistake, and then you’ll be begging me to wait.”

  Beauty began sobbing. “Oh, Lanny, I’m in such an awful mess! Harry will be so upset—I’ve kept him waiting too long!”

  “Let him wait, all the same,” he insisted. He found himself suddenly taking the position of head of the family. “We just can’t decide such a thing all at once.” Then, after a pause: “Tell me—does Harry know about Marcel?”