Between Two Worlds (The Lanny Budd Novels)

by Upton Sinclair

  “Is it that bad, dear?”

  “I just can’t go on pretending that I agree with your mother and her friends; and when I keep silent, I wonder if I am shutting my lips too tightly and making myself look disagreeable. I’m not a skilled actress, and I can’t be happy pretending what I don’t feel. Let me say that Aunt Juliette is not well.”

  A little cloud, no bigger than a man’s hand; and Lanny brushed it away quickly. Of course, it would be perfectly all right; the darned conference would be over and they could all forget politics and be happy again; they would live in art, which was the same to English and French and Germans and Americans, a garden of delight with none of its delicious fruits forbidden.

  So Marie made her excuse—and of course didn’t fool the mistress of Bienvenu for a single moment. “She’s a French patriot,” thought Beauty; “a Nationalist, like her husband.”

  When Lanny came back she said this to him, and he answered: “Oh, surely not that bad!”

  “As bad as Poincaré!” insisted the mother. “They’re all getting ready to invade Germany. You’ll see!”

  IX

  The conspiracy was marching hour by hour. Rathenau’s associates came to Bienvenu, and it happened that the majestic Lord Curzon, that very superior purzon, dropped in, purely by accident. Also came the American ambassador to London, Colonel Harvey; another “Kentucky” title, like that of Colonel House, but the new ambassador took it seriously and could equal any British viscount in self-importance. He had been a New York editor, and boasted of having been the first to suggest the president of Princeton University for President of the United States; but when the campaign had got under way, Wilson had become worried as to Harvey’s connections with the unpopular House of Morgan, and had asked him to withdraw from the limelight. So now the Wall Street colonel was a Republican, and Harding had given him the most highly valued of all diplomatic prizes. He was supposed to be in Cannes only as an “observer,” but he was doing what he could to get trade with Europe started up again.

  Meanwhile the French statesmen were repairing to Sept Chênes, and there too the British were dropping in, purely by accident, and Lloyd George was explaining that he didn’t really mean all the harsh things he had said, but it was necessary to satisfy the Times. It was while Emily Chattersworth was giving a luncheon for Briand and Lloyd George that the latter sprang his invitation to a game of golf, and it was hard for her to keep her face straight when the French Premier accepted—yes, for that very afternoon! It actually came off, and was the joke of the Riviera for several hours—that is, until Paris was heard from! One can readily believe that the innkeeper’s son cut no graceful figure with a golf club in his hands; he had no idea how to hold it, and this showed plainly in the pictures of which the papers were full.

  But Briand enjoyed it; he was something of a gay dog, and liked to be conspicuous, and his lack of subtlety kept him from being sure whether people were laughing with him or at him. He was overworked, and glad to get out into the sunshine; he was followed by a crowd of curious spectators, kept at a respectful distance by detectives but making the scene pleasant with their bright costumes.

  When he and the genial Prime Minister sat down to rest between holes, Lloyd George said that he had just had a chat with Rathenau, who was really a decent fellow and an author of some distinction—why couldn’t he and Briand have a private meeting and at least try to understand each other’s point of view? Was it the sunshine, or the personal charm of the Welsh wizard, or perhaps the ineffable prestige of the British ruling class? Anyhow, in a burst of good nature Briand said all right, but where on the Riviera could they meet without a scandal? Lloyd George said he would undertake to arrange that, and a tentative date was made for five o’clock on the following afternoon.

  Whereupon Bienvenu was thrown into the greatest turmoil of its twenty years’ history. British emissaries arriving, French and German secretaries, police agents, secret-service men, all whispering together, and conferring with the hostess and her intelligent son—whom none of them had happened to observe in conference with an Italian syndicalist-anarchist on the beach at Jaun-les-Pins! Lanny took them for a tour of the estate, and showed them the rear gate, which was on another road; it was his suggestion that the German minister and his aides should drive along this road and stop in front of the gate and slip in quietly while the car went on. They would have quite a walk to the house, but Dr. Rathenau was an active man, his secretary said. The French Premier would be driven in at the front gate and then it would be locked, and the walls patrolled from the inside, and neither anarchists nor newspapermen would get over.

  Lanny had never seen his mother in such a flutter. Emily and Sophie Timmons had to come and advise her what to wear, and what kind of sandwiches to serve, and what color flowers for the drawing-room. She couldn’t invite them to be present—the agreement was that nobody but herself and her son and her servants should be in the house. No, not even Kurt, there wouldn’t be any opportunity for music this time; the destinies of Europe were going to be decided, and peace, real peace, would at last be worked out between France and Germany. Beauty had always wanted peace, even while she wanted also to sell guns! “Why, Lanny,” she exclaimed, in the small hours of the morning, “Bienvenu will have a place in the history books!”

  Yes, it was true! They would have a brass plaque made and set up beside the front door: “In this house, January 11, 1922, the Premier of France, Aristide Briand, met with Walther Rathenau, German Minister of Reconstruction, and arranged the terms of reconciliation between the two countries.” “How’s that?” asked Lanny; and his excited mother kissed him and cried: “Oh, you darling!”

  X

  But alas for the best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men! Just when the last of the sandwiches had been made and wrapped in oil paper to keep them fresh; when the wine had been packed in ice and the flower arrangements in the various rooms completed; when the hairdresser had started on Beauty’s coiffure, and the maid was laying the proper dress on the bed—right at that instant came the most desolating of messages ever heard over a telephone wire: M. Briand’s secretary, grief-stricken to announce that the Premier was compelled to leave immediately for Paris, there being a Cabinet crisis which required his presence without a moment’s delay.

  All on account of that wretched game of golf—or at any rate that is what Beauty Budd would believe until her dying day. When the pictures had reached Paris a howl of rage had arisen. Young and old, rich and poor, male and female, all admitted with humiliation and shame that the British were making a monkey out of their national leader. Golf is not a French game; there was no French game at a time like this, with widows mourning by the millions and tragedy hanging over the land. Was that the way the destinies of la patrie were being decided?—between two games of golf—or between a game of golf and a cup of tea—the journalists didn’t seem to agree which way it had been.

  The guilty statesman was summoned home—for the Riviera wasn’t really France, it was a playground rented or sold to the international idlers. The guilty statesman stood up in the Chamber and defended himself in a long speech, which seemed to everybody a defense of Germany rather than of France; it was full of unpleasant figures, which meant that the people had been cheated ever since the war, that their foes had got away with everything, and there was no way la patrie could be recouped or saved. They had won the war but lost the peace, and now they had to decide whether to do it all over again!

  Like a thunderbolt hitting one of the chimneys on top of Bienvenu came the news that Briand was out. Resigned, either in a fit of pique or because he saw that his foes had him! And all those intrigues and all those appeasements which had been arranged by Beauty and Emily and Sophie and Nina—all scattered like a house of cards in a hurricane!

  The news reached the Cannes conference just as Walther Rathenau was in the midst of another of his elegantly polished speeches. It was hardly worth while finishing; everything was ended now, Poincaré was going to be the n
ext Premier of France, and there would be no more conferences—so he had said, he wouldn’t attend ’em! The Germans could go home and find some way to raise the money, or else there would be “sanctions,” French troops marching into German cities, and we’ll see who won the peace! And no brass plaque by the door of Bienvenu, and nobody to admire the flower arrangements, nobody to eat the sandwiches except the children of Mme. Scelles’s school for French orphans—sandwiches don’t keep, as everyone knows, and Beauty was sick at heart and done with hospitality forever, so she swore!

  For the second time in his young life Lanny Budd had made an attempt to improve the nations, and they had stubbornly remained what they were. Once more he had to retire into his ivory tower, where he could have things as he wanted them; once more he reminded himself that the great masters of the arts were his servants always on call. His German friend had the same reaction; having had brief glimpses of the men who were running the world, he had decided that he preferred the three B’s of music. Lanny’s French amie was humble and apologetic; glad that the Cannes conspiracy had failed, but trying to hide the fact, and by sympathy and kindness to make up for her political intransigence.

  Rick was the only one who got anything real out of Cannes. He wrote a coldly ironical article about the conference, and it was published. He wrote also an account of Fascismo and the interview with its founder, but this Rick’s editor rejected; the article was well written, he reported, but that Italian bounder didn’t seem of enough importance to justify the space.

  13

  The World’s Mine Oyster

  I

  In the month of February the Washington Disarmament Conference concluded its labors. Robbie sent information about it, including a letter which he had written to one of the New York newspapers. Said the spokesman of Budd Gunmakers: “It is hard for a sane man to realize that there are people in the world who believe that a nation can keep out of war by being unprepared for war.” He was so wrought up about the destruction of the American fleet—so it seemed to him—that he spent a week in Washington, pleading with senators against the ratification of the agreement, but all in vain. “The fools have the votes,” he said; “they generally do.”

  This conference was the achievement of a Wall Street lawyer named Hughes, who had become a Supreme Court justice and was now Harding’s Secretary of State. He was the stubborn Baptist type of mind—“Ask Beauty about them,” wrote Robbie; “her father is one.” Hughes was putting the job through to his own satisfaction, and even the powerful Budd family was helpless. He cut the major navies of the world about in half, and in his closing speech he did not hesitate to make the flat declaration: “This conference absolutely ends the race in competition in naval armament.”

  Robbie marked that in a newspaper clipping, and wrote on the margin the word: “Jackass.” His letter accompanying it was a lamentation in the tone of the Old Testament prophets. “We make claims, such as the Monroe Doctrine, which require arms to back them up, and then we deprive ourselves of the arms. If that is not the way to invite challenge and calamity, put me down for a madman.” Lanny read this, and returned to the study of Beethoven’s pianoforte sonatas, which he did not find up to the great master’s standard.

  II

  Baby Marceline was four, and the grandson and namesake of Sir Alfred was a month or two older; this is the age when they ask questions, and there was not much peace for the adults of either family, except at siesta time and in the evenings. It became the practice to lend them out, each to the other family, so that Alfy could answer Marceline’s questions and vice versa. Lanny would play the piano for them, or put on phonograph records and dance with them, so by now he had a miniature Isadora school. He would listen to their prattle, and start life all over again, marveling at the strangeness of it; these little centers of expanding consciousness, like buds in spring sunshine, bursting with eagerness, with determination; so full of trust in life, so unaware of tragedies which might lie before them! A voyage in the dark, over an invisible sea, from one unknown port to another!

  The young philosopher had observed that the children of the rich at this age appeared to be perfect. From their first hour they had expert guidance, and the best of food and care; nature and art had combined to do all things possible for them. But from this age on there would begin a change; the needs of the mind were less easy to meet than those of the body. Being waited upon by servants didn’t seem to be good for children; having their own way wasn’t good; seeing their parents’ self-indulgence wasn’t good. By the age of fifteen many of them had become intolerable. Lanny looked back and decided that he himself hadn’t done so well; he knew that his life had been too easy, and it still was—but how could he make it hard? He read stories of the Great Lord Buddha, and of St. Francis d’Assisi and others who had been born to riches and had cast them away; he decided that he might dare to do it, if only it wouldn’t hurt his parents and his friends so deeply!

  Marceline Detaze wasn’t going to be spoiled so long as that stern German taskmaster lived in the house. Since the dreadful night when he had rushed away, Beauty had been more afraid of him than ever. She no longer had the idea that he would leave her for some other woman, but she was sure that he would go in a moment if his conscience so directed; if she failed to conform to his standards, to live what he considered a worthy life. That was one reason why she had worked so hard during the conference; if she could render a real service to Germany, Kurt would remember it all his days. He didn’t blame her for the failure, but it was hard on her because he shut himself up in his music and was more than ever indifferent to the fashionable world.

  Beauty could stand being a housekeeper and a mother for just so long, and then she had to be a butterfly and have a flutter over the social garden. She had to do something that would bring a crowd of people to Bienvenu and provide an excuse to buy a pretty new frock and call in a hairdresser and a caterer. She would invite people to listen to Kurt’s playing, and some of them would prefer their own chatter, and Kurt’s reaction would be the same as that of his idol Beethoven: “Ich spiele nicht für solche Schweinen!”

  There was Emily Chattersworth with that beautiful estate of Sept Chênes; willing to put it and all her social power at the disposal of a musician whom she admired. She would be going north before long, so it was now or never, and Beauty started agitating with Kurt to let them arrange a recital. Kurt said, what good would it do? The French weren’t ever going to appreciate his music, nor would the sort of Americans who came to a casino town to gamble and play tennis and golf. What he was interested in was the fact that a publishing-house in Leipzig might bring out his Spanish Suite; that was a sign of hope reviving in Germany—but how in God’s name could anybody know what price to print on a piece of sheet music, with the mark standing lower every afternoon than it had in the morning?

  Beauty wouldn’t give up. Suppose that just one person enjoyed Kurt’s playing? Suppose that one critic came and went out and wrote about him—wouldn’t that be worth while? It was the same argument that she had had with Marcel, over and over, year after year. What was the matter with artists, that they wanted to paint pictures for storerooms and compose music for the bottom of an old trunk? Kurt said: “Why don’t you start promoting Marcel?”—which was rather cruel of him, for her hesitations were caused in part by the fear that it might not be pleasing to Kurt himself. Marcel was France, and Kurt was Germany, and the war was still going on—even though it was called “reparations.”

  III

  In the matter of the recital, Lanny took his mother’s side, and finally Kurt said all right, he would come and play whenever he was asked to play, and give them the best he had. It meant that he had to go into Cannes and have himself fitted with heavy black evening clothes of the latest cut, with black silk braid down the trousers. That’s the way they dressed a piano virtuoso, having not the remotest conception of the gymnastic feats he was going to perform, and the lather of perspiration into which he would be thrown. But n
ever mind, he was young, and when he got home he could have a bath, and if the suit was damaged, Beauty would gladly pay the price for so much glory.

  Mrs. Emily sent out her invitations—and never had she spent so much time upon the compiling of a list. There were all sorts of distinguished persons wintering on the Côte d’Azur that season. The lanky King of Sweden played tennis every afternoon, and Aga Khan, one of the richest men in India, rode polo ponies. There were several Russian grand dukes in exile, who would go wherever there were pretty women. There was the English Lord Derby, who looked like a caricature of John Bull, and King Alfonso of Spain, who looked like a caricature of his Habsburg ancestors. There were fabulously wealthy Argentinians and North Americans, Rumanian boyars and Turkish pashas, and even the King of Dahomey, whose black troops had helped to make the world safe for democracy.

  Beauty knew a whole raft of such persons, having cultivated them for Robbie’s business; but it was hard to be sure how they would behave at a musicale—they might come thinking it was a cocktail party and be bored and show it. What Kurt desired was a gathering of music lovers, and the problem was to find celebrities who could qualify in that field. Dear old Anatole France would come, of course, and sit and nod his long horse’s head surmounted with one of his hundred brightly colored silk skullcaps. Maeterlinck was in Nice, but he was rather passé, wasn’t he? Besides, a Belgian might not yet have forgiven the Germans. Blasco Ibáñez, the Spaniard, lived at Menton in exile, and his war novels were having amazing success in the United States, but Emily had sworn that she would never invite him again, because he had spat on one of her carpets.