Between Two Worlds (The Lanny Budd Novels)

by Upton Sinclair

  The Pomeroy-Nielsons were about to leave for England, and so was Margy; also Hansi and Bess were sailing for London after their American tour. Lanny said: “All right, let’s have a holiday.” He had always had a good time in England. But right away the thought of Rosemary smote him. Wouldn’t he miss her there? Would London ever seem the same again? Lanny had become like a sailor with a girl in every port—only these were ghosts of girls: Irma on the Riviera, Marie in Paris, Rosemary in England, Gracyn in Connecticut and New York. Would he find one with a spell powerful enough to exorcise four such delightful ghosts?

  Everybody agreed that he must go where the girls were: the lovely young creatures, the debutantes, fresh and virginal, each so carefully groomed, like a thoroughbred for a cup race; each quivering with excitement, sniffing the air, hearing the shouting of the vast throng. One by one they would be trotted out, each representing a fortune in time, thought, and money; each in the pink of condition, at the top of her form. The marriage market! Mayfair! The London “season”! Lanny was excited by the thought of it, and would enjoy it with one half of him, the social half, that of his mother and her friends. The other half would analyze it and reduce it to economic formulas; that half would say: “What am I doing here? Is this what I really want?”

  Lanny’s new stepfather was going along, his first journey since before the war. He told the stepson he thought it was his duty to go because he was able to moderate Beauty’s extravagant tendencies; she had expanded her requirements on the basis of Lanny’s supposed conquest, and hadn’t yet adjusted herself to the fact that he had been unhorsed in the fray. The travelers made a big party, almost a migration: Lady Eversham-Watson and her maid; Beauty and hers; Marceline and Miss Addington; Nina and her three children, and their governess. The Riviera was used to seeing families going out wholesale in that fashion in April and the beginning of May: English and Americans especially.

  Lanny motored Rick, who wanted to stop in Paris and meet political people and journalists. Lanny always liked to have lunch with his Socialist friends, and then spend an evening with his Red uncle and family and hear their caustic comments on the Socialists. Lanny had the idea of being broadminded, but what actually happened was that he became confused, and found human society more bewildering, more painful to contemplate. He had dreamed a Utopia in which people might be happy; but here they didn’t seem to know what was good for them or how to get it, and intellectual life degenerated into wrangling and scolding. It was that way in politics, both domestic and international; it was that way even in the arts, where beauty, order, and serenity should have reigned. Every old master had its price, and became the object of barter, intrigue, and “bluff.”

  VIII

  Robbie had written about Zaharoff; he had seen him in Paris, and the old man had taken up the role of the sphinx of Egypt; all that he would say was that he had laid down the burden of business forever. Lanny, knowing that a heavy part of this burden had been laid on Robbie, gave some thought to the matter, and recollected Zaharoff’s invitation to call. The young man had a sudden impulse to try to help his father. It would be the second time he had made such an attempt in connection with Zaharoff, and the first had not been conspicuously successful; however, he had the entrée this time, and wouldn’t have to break any laws.

  He telephoned to the Avenue Hoche, and learned that Sir Basil was at home and would be pleased to receive him. Approaching the familiar mansion, he noticed that smoke was coming from one of its chimneys in front; it might have struck him as peculiar for anybody to be having a fire in his drawing-room on this particularly warm spring afternoon; but Lanny’s thoughts were on his father’s affairs, and what he was going to say to an old Greek trader. His imaginative mind was living a series of detective stories, in which one of the shrewdest and most devious intriguers of Europe was continually betraying himself to a very young Franco-American idealist.

  Lanny might have worked his imagination for many a day without inventing anything as odd as what he actually ran into when the tottery old butler escorted him into the drawing-room. Everything stood exactly as the duquesa had arranged it, Lanny didn’t know how many years ago; the only difference was that on the oriental rug in front of the large fireplace were several metal boxes and wooden chests, and in the middle of them, seated on the floor in oriental fashion with his legs crossed and drawn under him, was the Grand Officer of the Legion d’Honneur of France and Knight Commander of the Bath of Great Britain. Only he wasn’t in the regalia of either of these high offices; on the contrary, he had taken off his smoking-jacket and tossed it onto a chair, and then, becoming still hotter, he had taken off his shirt, and now sat in his undershirt, facing a hot fire made of logs augmented by quantities of paper which he was tossing in.

  “Well, young man,” he said, with that strange smile in which his eyes never took part, “you have arrived at what the future may recognize as a historic moment.” He did not offer to rise, but said: “Seat yourself over there,” pointing to a chair at one side, where the heat from the fireplace would not strike directly. “Take off your coat,” he added, and Lanny did so because it was surely warm in the tightly shut room.

  What strange whim was it which had moved Sir Basil to receive a visitor at such a time? He had always treated Lanny differently from any other person, so far as Lanny had been able to learn from those who knew him. The son of Budd’s had made his appearance as a little thief of conscience; he came now at rare intervals, an itinerant idealist, a roving philosopher, transported as it were from another planet, playing the game of life according to an odd set of rules of his own invention.

  “You have perhaps read about the burning of the library of Alexandria by the Arabs?” inquired the aged trader. When his visitor answered in the affirmative, he added: “You are witnessing an event of similar import.”

  “I understand that historians deplore the loss, Sir Basil.”

  “Only blackmailers will deplore this. I am saving the reputations of most of the great personages of my time.”

  “I have been told that you were a fireman in your early days,” ventured the younger man.

  “In those days I put out fires; now I make one—a beneficial fire, a fire of hope and salvation for my enemies as well as my friends. Many tons of dynamite would not do so much damage as the contents of one of these little books.” The pale blue eyes turned from Lanny to the metal boxes, and the white imperial waggled with laughter as its wearer lifted up a notebook bound in worn red leather. There was apparently a whole box of them. “These are my diaries; a history of world business and diplomacy for more than fifty years. You heard perhaps that these volumes had been stolen?”

  “I read something about it in the papers.”

  “A scoundrelly valet sneaked off with them. Fortunately the police recovered them, and so far as I can learn nothing is missing. But I was forced to give thought to the future of European civilization, and whether it is worth saving. What would you think?”

  Lanny never could be sure how much this strange old man was teasing him. He replied: “I should say, Sir Basil, it would depend upon what one had to put in its place.”

  “Quite so; but unfortunately I have nothing better. Perhaps some day the Ice Age will return, and a vast glacier will spread over Europe and grind our cities to powder. Or perhaps bombs will have done it already.”

  Lanny made no reply. He knew from before the World War that the old man’s imagination was haunted by images of destruction to be made by the weapons which he himself had been producing most of his life.

  “Many people think that I am not a kind man, Lanny; but you can tell them what trouble I have taken on their behalf. I would not trust any person alive to perform this labor; I am doing it with my own hands, and at a cost of considerable discomfort, as you can see. There are a thousand eminent persons who will sleep more peacefully when they learn what I have done.”

  “Do you intend to notify them, Sir Basil?” It occurred to Lanny that this might mak
e a first-rate story for Rick; but the fireman turned stoker merely smiled, and took some more of the leather-bound books and tossed them skillfully into the flames, causing them to fall on edge, and no two on top of each other, so that the fire would get a good chance at them quickly.

  IX

  This went on for quite a while. The flames mounted merrily, and the spacious drawing-room grew hotter and hotter. Lanny watched the yellow tongues creeping round one mass of paper after another, and he felt sorry about it, for he knew that the world was losing many a good story, and he himself some personal enlightenment. What would there be among those papers concerning Budd’s and its European representative? What about the New England-Arabian Oil Company?

  The last scrap of paper was in, and the flames were roaring up the chimney. Lanny was about to decide that a Greek born in Turkey could stand more heat than an American born in Switzerland, when there came a banging on the front door. The aged butler came in haste, and then ran to the drawing-room door. “Master, the people say the chimney is afire!”

  “Indeed,” said Sir Basil, placidly. “Let it burn. This is an important cremation.”

  “But, master, it will set fire to the house!”

  “The fire is more important than the house!”

  The old servant stood, staring helplessly. “You do not wish me to summon the fire department?”

  “Under no circumstances; at any rate, not until the papers are consumed. Go close the door and let no one in.”

  The munitions king did not move from his seat. Was he playing a role before his visitor? Or did he count upon it that some busybody outside would turn in an alarm? It seemed a safe gamble; and, sure enough, after a while the sound of the engines was heard outside. The old gentleman got up, with the servant’s help and some grumbling about the state of his bones. He put on his shirt, in the interest of propriety, and, knowing the ways of firemen, he told the butler to go and open the door for them. Then he began poking up the fire, so as to observe the condition of the papers, and promote the process of incineration. When the firemen rushed in, they halted before this venerable presence, and listened in confusion of mind while the master of the house explained what he had been doing, and why he did not wish his fire disturbed.

  It transpired that in a modern city a man may not let his house burn even if he wishes to. The best that he can do is to start an argument, and gain several minutes during which the flames may continue their work. Out of the technical knowledge gained in his youth Sir Basil undertook to maintain that a fire in a chimney would burn only the soot which had accumulated in the chimney; but the chief of the Paris fire company, from his more up-to-date experience, insisted that there might be cracks in the chimney; also that when it was heated up it might set fire to the joists or rafters of the mansion. Lanny stood listening with amusement to this novel debate.

  The great man had made his identity known, and his wishes were difficult to disregard; the chief finally agreed not to attack the fire in the hearth, but to go after that in the chimney with extinguishers from the roof. The firemen were escorted upstairs; and presently came jets of liquid dropping down into the fireplace, splashing black soot upon a beautiful and costly rug. There stood the retired munitions king of Europe with a long-handled poker, trying to keep the sacrificial flames alive, and grumbling because of the lack of consideration of modern fire departments. Said he: “When I belonged to the tulumbadschi, those capable firemen of Constantinople, if someone wanted his house to burn down he could arrange it.”

  Lanny was tempted to add: “For a consideration?” But he decided to let the Grand Officer make his own jokes on this delicate subject.

  X

  Lanny did not find out anything about the affairs of the New England-Arabian Oil Company. Instead, he went for a stroll, and stopped in the famous Café de la Rotonde, and there met an English journalist, a big handsome fellow with florid blond hair and mustaches which had been conspicuous at all conferences from San Remo to Locarno. They compared notes, and found themselves in agreement as to the state of Europe. Germany wouldn’t got on paying indemnities many years longer; there was a new generation, which felt that it was not to blame for the war. The Allies had gained little by their colossal effort; it was a saying that men had fought for freedom of the seas and women had got freedom of the knees. The two men now watched the women tripping by in their abbreviated skirts. “I suppose the new generation will be used to legs,” remarked the journalist.

  “I’m not sure,” responded the grandson of the Puritans. “When they’ve seen all there is to see, they get bored, and want something outré.”

  They talked about the public balls of Paris, which grew more scandalous every year. They talked about the Negress from America, whose stage performances had become “the rage.” Paris had formerly been celebrated as a home of elegant conversation, and now it was the home of tough dancing. It was the “cocktail era,” and you ordered drinks with fantastic names—Quetsche de la Forêt Noire, Arquebuse des Frères Maristes. People ran from one sensation to another, until really it seemed that they were going crazy. A man gave a concert with sixteen pianos played by machinery, also a loud-speaker and a noisy fan. The audience stood up and shrieked either approval or disapproval. That was the way to fame; the surrealists had achieved it by creating riots, and now it was Dada, something even more loony. A painter had hoaxed the Salon des Independants by tying a paint-brush to a donkey’s tail and letting him do the art work; the result was entitled Sunset on the Adriatic, and it was hung. When the story was told it caused a good laugh, but didn’t stop the crazy art.

  “Too much easy money,” was the Englishman’s diagnosis of the trouble; but what could you do about it? Lanny said that the wrong people got the money, and his friend agreed; but again, what could you do? Lanny said he didn’t believe the workers would stand it indefinitely; which led them to Moscow—all talk about economic affairs ended up in the Red capital nowadays. Conflicting reports came out—the Five-Year Plan was a great success—the Five-Year Plan was a fiasco. You believed what you wanted to. Lanny’s companion had recently been in Germany, and said that the Communists were still very strong, and apparently gaining; the republic found it hard to avoid dealing with them. The Stahlhelm, militant organization of the reactionaries, had a new Hymn of Hate against the republic based on that charge.

  They talked about Italy for a while. The Englishman said that Fascismo might be the next stage through which the aged and unhappy continent had to pass. He agreed that Mussolini had learned from Lenin, and Hitler had learned from Mussolini. Lanny found that the journalist knew about Herr Schicklgruber; the Nazi movement had forced its way into the headlines. Any movement started by reactionaries was hated and feared by the masses, and could never get the votes. But here was one that appeared to come from the left, it was of the people, and promised them the peace and plenty which they craved. “Votes from the left and cash from the right”—such was the formula for victory at the polls.

  XI

  Lanny and Rick went on to London. The baronet’s son had finished his book and the manuscript was in the hands of a publisher. He went to get the verdict and came back disappointed. The publisher, a friend of his father, had sought to persuade him to modify his too leftish views. It was a mistake to put a label on himself. Socialism? Yes, we were all Socialists now, more or less; but to espouse a party cause was to weaken your influence, to limit yourself to an audience of the already converted, who didn’t need you. To plump for outright socialization of basic industry—well, it sounded impressive, but it discouraged people who might be willing to consider useful reforms; it played into the hands of the Communists, whether one meant to or not. It seemed plain that capitalism had reached a stage of stabilization in which prosperity was spreading its benefits among wider and wider groups of the community; mass production would come in England as it had come in America, and mass distribution would follow as a matter of course.

  In short, the publisher didn’t
want the book, and he didn’t think any other commercial firm would want it. If Rick wasn’t willing to modify it, he would have to go to some out-and-out Socialist or labor group, and injure his career by getting himself set down as that kind of writer. Said Rick to Lanny: “When I pointed out our million and a half unemployed, he said that I mustn’t lose faith in Britain!”

  Lanny and his mother and stepfather were staying with Margy. You might think that Mr. Dingle wouldn’t have fitted very well into a Mayfair mansion, but that would be because you were out of touch with God, who is the same in marble halls as in a cotter’s hut. Beauty had already taken her man to a tailor and had him made presentable, and now he was a quiet elderly cherub who addressed the servants in the same benevolent tone as he addressed their mistress, and if anything troubled him, he retired to his chamber, where his Heavenly Father comforted him with melodious words: “Well I know thy trouble, O my servant true!”

  When Beauty went out to garden parties and thes dansants, Parsifal Dingle would wander about the streets of the smoke-stained old city, seeking his own in his own way. Presently in a poor neighborhood he came upon a chapel of some “quietist” movement, and there he learned that God was working in England much the same as in Iowa. There were all sorts of spiritual cults; American New Thought magazines were to be bought, and there were many groups of religious healers. Mr. Dingle carried home literature, and began attending meetings, and then he prayed that Divine Power would persuade his wife to accompany him, which it did. He escorted her to a Christian Science church, and to a Swedenborgian church; then, to his own great surprise, he made the discovery that the august Anglican establishment was making timid efforts along the lines of healing by prayer. “We are really quite respectable here!” exclaimed Beauty Budd’s new husband.