Dragon's Teeth

by Sinclair, Upton;

  There had been dancing in Marceline’s home ever since she was old enough to toddle about. So-called “society” dancing, Dalcroze dancing, Isadora Duncan dancing, Provençal peasant dancing, English and American country dancing—every sort that a child could pick up. Some kind of music going most of the time, and a phonograph and a radio so that she could make it to order. On the yacht, as soon as her lessons were finished, she would come running to where Hansi and Bess were practicing; she would listen for a minute to get the swing of it, then her feet would start moving and she would be dancing all over the saloon. She would hold out her hands to Lanny, and they would begin improvising; they had learned to read each other’s signals, and once more, as in the old Dalcroze days, you saw music made visible.

  No wonder Marceline could dance rings all around a lad who knew only that somnambulistic walking in time to jazz thumping which prevailed in fashionable society. Alfy would try his best, but look and feel like a young giraffe caught in an earthquake. “Loosen up, loosen up!” she would cry, and he would kick up his heels and toes in a most un-English manner. The girl would give him just enough encouragement to keep him going, but never enough to let him doubt who was going to call the tune in their household.

  Lanny would see them sitting apart from the others while music was being played in the evening. Sometimes they would be holding hands, and he would guess that they were working out their problem in their own way. He recalled the days when he had paid his first visit to The Reaches, and had sat on the bank of the River Thames, listening to Kurt Meissner playing the slow movement of Mozart’s D-minor concerto. How miraculous life had seemed to him, with one arm about Rosemary Codwilliger, pronounced Culliver, shivering with delight and dreaming of a marvelous future. Nothing had worked out as he had planned it; he reflected upon life, and how seldom it gives us what we expect. The young people come along, and clamor so loudly for their share, and have so little idea of the pain that awaits them. One’s heart aches at the knowledge, but one cannot tell them; they have to have their own way and pay their own penalties.

  III

  The Bessie Budd cruised in waters frequented by vessels of every size, from ocean liners down to tiny sailboats. One more did not matter, provided you kept a lookout and blew your whistle now and then. They went up into the Irish Sea; the weather was kind, one day of blue sky succeeded another, and the air resounded with music and the tapping of feet upon the deck. Hansi and Bess practiced diligently, Beauty and Irma played bridge with Nina and Rahel, while Lanny and Rick sat apart and discussed everything that had happened to them during the past year.

  Lanny had visited the great manufacturing-plant of his forefathers, and had been received as a prince consort in the Newcastle Country Club and in Irma’s imitation French château on Long Island. Rick, meanwhile, had written a play about a young married couple who were divided over the issue of violence in the class struggle. Rick had written several plays about young people tormented by some aspect of this struggle. In the present opus the talk of his young idealist sounded much like that of Lanny Budd, while the ultra-Red wife might have had a private yacht named after her. Rick apologized for this, saying that a dramatist had to use such material as came to his hand. Lanny said that doubtless there were plenty of futile and bewildered persons like himself, but not many determined, hard-fighting rebels like Bess among the parasitic classes.

  Rick had talked with editors and journalists in London, with statesmen, writers, and all sorts of people in his father’s home. He knew about the upsurge of the Nazi movement in the harassed Fatherland. Not long ago he had had a letter from Kurt, who was always hoping to explain his country to the outside world; he sent newspaper clippings and pamphlets. The Germans, frantic with a sense of persecution, were tireless propagandists, and would preach to whoever might be persuaded to listen. But you rarely heard one of them set forth both sides of the case or admit the slightest wrong on his country’s side.

  They were put ashore in a small Irish harbor, and the young people took a ride in a jaunting car, while the ladies dickered with sharp-witted peasant women for quantities of hand-embroidered linen. They were put ashore in Wales, where the mountains did not seem imposing to one who had lived so close to the Alps. They visited the Isle of Alan, and Lanny recalled a long novel which he had thought was tremendous in his boyhood, but which he now guessed to be no great shakes. They put into Liverpool, where they had arranged to receive mail, and among other things was a telegram from Robbie, who was back in Paris. “Sale concluded at eighty-three better than expected thanks to you sailing tomorrow good luck to the ghosts.”

  At his father’s request Lanny had put off making the promised date with Zaharoff. Now he mailed a note, saying that the yacht was due on the French coast in a few days and he would wire an appointment. The Bessie Budd idled her way south again, and returned the Pomeroy-Nielsons to Cowes, from which place Lanny sent a wire to the Château de Balincourt, saying that he would bring his friend to a hotel in Dieppe on the following afternoon. He had explained to Mama Robin that he wished to meet a friend there, and she was pleased to oblige him. His mother and his stepfather were told that he desired to make a test with Madame, and to name no names until after it was over. As for the Polish woman, she was used to being bundled here and there for demonstrations of her strange gift.

  IV

  Dieppe is a thousand-year-old town with a church, a castle, and other sights for tourists; also it is a popular watering-place with a casino, so Lanny didn’t have to think that he was inconveniencing his friends. The yacht was laid alongside a pier, and at the proper time he called a taxi and took his charge to the hotel. He had received an unsigned telegram informing him that “Monsieur Jean” would be awaiting him; at the desk he asked for this gentleman, and was escorted to the suite in which Zaharoff sat waiting, alone.

  A comfortable chaise-longue had been provided for the medium and an armchair for each of the men. Since the old one had been thoroughly instructed, no talk was necessary. Lanny introduced him by the fictitious name, and he responded: “Bon jour,” and no more. Lanny said: “Asseyez-vous, Madame,” and not another word was spoken. The retired munitions king was inconspicuously dressed, and one who was not familiar with his photograph might have taken him for a retired business man, a college professor or doctor.

  The woman began to shudder and moan; then she became still, and was in her trance. There was a long wait; Lanny, who kept telling himself that these phenomena were “telepathy,” concentrated his mind upon the personality of María del Pilar Antonia Angela Patrocino Simón de Muguiro y Berute, Duquesa de Marqueni y Villafranca de los Caballeros. It was a personality which failed to live up to the magnificent-sounding names; a rather small, dark lady, very quiet, reserved, but kind. She had fitted the needs of an extremely exacting man of affairs; guarded him, cared for him, loved him, and, if gossip was correct, borne him two daughters. Anyhow, he had adored her, and shown his pride in the restrained fashion which circumstances imposed upon him. For more than thirty-five years they had been inseparable, and a million memories of her must be buried in the old man’s subconscious mind. Would the medium be able to tap them? If so, it might be embarrassing, and perhaps it would have been more tactful of Lanny to offer to withdraw. But Zaharoff had placed a chair, possibly with the idea that the younger man’s help might be needed for the guiding of the experiment.

  Suddenly came the massive voice of the Iroquois chieftain, speaking English, as always. “Hello, Lanny. So you are trying to bowl me out!” It certainly wasn’t an Iroquois phrase, nor did it seem exactly Polish.

  Said Lanny, very solemnly: “Tecumseh, I have brought a gentleman who is deeply sincere in his attitude to you.”

  “But he does not believe in me!”

  “He is fully prepared to believe in you, if you will give him cause; and he will be glad to believe.”

  “He is afraid to believe!” declared the voice, with great emphasis. There was a pause; and then: “You are n
ot a Frenchman.”

  “I have tried to be,” said Zaharoff. Lanny had told him to answer every question promptly and truly, but to say no more than necessary.

  “But you were not born in France. I see dark people about you, and they speak a strange language which I do not understand. It will not be easy for me to do anything for you. Many spirits come; you have known many people, and they do not love you; it is easy to see it in their faces. I do not know what is the matter; many of them talk at once and I cannot get the words.”

  V

  From where Lanny sat he could watch the face of Madame, and saw that it was disturbed, as always when Tecumseh was making a special effort to hear or to understand. By turning his eyes the observer could watch the face of the old munitions king, which showed strained attention. On the arm of Lanny’s chair was a notebook, in which he was setting down as much as he could of what was spoken.

  Suddenly the control exclaimed: “There is a man here who is trying to talk; to you, not to me. He is a very thin old man with a white beard. He says, in very bad English, he was not always like that, he had a black beard when he knew you. His name is like Hyphen; also he has another name, Tidy; no, it is one name, very long; is it Hyphen-tidies? A Greek name, he says, Hiphentides. Do you know that name?”

  “No,” said Zaharoff.

  “He says you lie. Why do you come here if you mean to lie?”

  “I do not recall him.”

  “He says you robbed him. What is it he is talking about? He keeps saying gall; you have gall; many sackfuls of gall. Is it a joke he is making?”

  “It must be.” Zaharoff spoke with quiet decisiveness. Of all the persons Lanny knew, he was the most completely self-possessed.

  “He says it is no joke. Gall is something that is sold. A hundred and sixty-nine sacks of gall. Also gum, many cases of gum. You were an agent.” Tecumseh began to speak as if he were the spirit, something which he did only when the communications came clearly. “You took my goods and pledged them for yourself. Do you deny it?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You did not deny it in the London court. You pleaded guilty. You were in prison—what is it?—the ‘Old’ something, Old Basin? It was more than fifty years ago, and I do not remember.”

  “Old Bailey?” ventured Lanny.

  “That is it—Old Bailey. I was in Constantinople, and I trusted you. You said you did not know it was wrong; but they were my goods and you got the money—”

  The voice died away; it had become querulous, as of an old man complaining of something long forgotten. If it wasn’t real it was certainly well invented.

  VI

  Lanny stole a glance at the living old man, and it seemed to him there was a faint dew of perspiration on his forehead. From what Robbie had told him he was prepared to believe that the Knight Commander of the Bath and Grand Officer of the Legion of Honor had many recollections which he would not wish to have dragged into the light of day.

  Said Tecumseh, after a pause: “I keep hearing the name Mugla. What is Mugla?”

  “It is the village where I was born.”

  “Is that in Greece?”

  “It is in Turkey.”

  “But you are not a Turk.”

  “My parents were Greeks.”

  “Somebody keeps calling you Zack. Then I hear Ryas. Is your name Ryas?”

  “Zacharias is one of my names.”

  “There is a man here who says he is your uncle. Anthony; no, not that. I don’t know these Greek names.”

  “I had an Uncle Antoniades.”

  “He says: ‘Do you wish to talk to me?’”

  “I do not especially wish it.”

  “He says: ‘Ha, ha!’ He does not like you either. You were in business with him, too. It was not so good. You made up wonderful stories about it. Do you write stories, or something like that?”

  “I am not a writer.”

  “But you tell stories. All the spirits laugh when Uncle Antoniades says that. You have become rich and important and you tell stories about the old days. They tell stories about you. Do you wish to hear them?”

  “That is not what I came for.”

  “There is a big strong man with a white beard; it looks like your own, only more of it. He gives the name Max. He speaks good English—no, he says it is not good, it is Yankee. Do you know the Yankee Max?”

  “I don’t recognize him.”

  “He says he is Maxim. You were in business with him, too.”

  “I knew a Maxim.”

  “You bought him out. He made millions, but you made tens of millions. There was no stopping you. Maxim says he did not believe in the future life, but he warns you, it is a mistake; you will be happier if you change all that materialism. Do you know what he means?”

  “It does not sound like him.”

  “I have put off the old man. I was a strapping fellow. I could lick anybody in the Maine woods. I could lick anybody in Canada, and I did. I licked you once, you old snollygoster. Does that sound more like me?”

  “Yes, I recognize that.”

  “I once wrote the emperor’s name with bullets on a target. You haven’t forgotten that, surely!”

  “I remember it.”

  “All right, then, wake up, and figure out how you will behave in a better world. You cannot solve your problems as you used to do, putting your fingers in your ears.”

  A moment’s pause. “He went away laughing,” said Tecumseh. “He is a wild fellow. When he ate soup it ran down his beard; and it was the same with icecream. You do not like such manners; you are a quiet person, Zacharias—and yet I hear loud noises going on all around you. It is very strange! What are you?”

  VII

  The old Greek made no reply, and the voice of the control sank to a murmur, as if he was asking the spirits about this mystery. For quite a while Lanny couldn’t make out a word, and he took the occasion to perfect his notes. Once or twice he glanced at the munitions king, who did not return the glance, but sat staring before him as if he were an image of stone.

  “What is this noise I keep hearing?” burst out the Indian, suddenly. “And why are these spirits in such an uproar? A rattling and banging, and many people yelling, as if they were frightened. What is it that you do, Zacharias?”

  Sir Basil did not speak.

  “Why don’t you answer me?”

  “Cannot the spirits tell you?”

  “It is easier when you answer my questions. Don’t you like what these people are saying? It is not my fault if they hate you. Did you cheat them? Or did you hurt them?”

  “Some thought that I did.”

  “What I keep hearing is guns. That is it! Were you a soldier? Did you fight in battles?”

  “I made munitions.”

  “Ah, that is it; and so many people died. That is why they are screaming at you. I have never seen so many; never in the days when I commanded a tribe of the Six Nations, and the palefaces came against us. They had better guns and more of them, and my people died, they died screaming and cursing the invaders of our land. So men died screaming and cursing Zacharias the Greek. Do you run and hide from them? They come crowding after you, as if it was the first time they ever could get at you. They stretch out their hands trying to reach you. Do you feel them touching you?”

  “No,” said Zaharoff. For the first time Lanny thought there was a trace of quavering in his voice. Another quick glance revealed distinct drops of sweat on his forehead.

  “It is like a battle going on—it gives me a headache, with all the smoke and noise. I see shells bursting away off, and men are falling out of the sky. No, no, keep back, he can’t hear you, and there is no use yelling at me. Let somebody speak for you all. Any one of you. Come forward, you man, you with the ragged flag. What is it you want to say? No, not you! I don’t want to talk to a man with the top of his head blown off. What sense can come out of only half a head? Keep your bloody hands off me—I don’t care who you are. What’s that? Oh, I see. All righ
t, tell him.… I am the Unknown Soldier. I am the man they have buried by the Arc de Triomphe. They keep the undying flame burning for me, and they come and lay wreaths on my tomb. You came once and laid a wreath, did you not? Answer me!”

  “I did.” The munitions king’s voice was hardly audible.

  “I saw you. I see all who come to the tomb. I want to tell them to go away and stop the next war. I want to tell them something else that will not please them. Do you know my name?”

  “Nobody knows your name.”

  “My name is Mordecai Izak. I am a Jew. Their Unknown Soldier is a Jew, and that would worry them very much. Are you a Jew?”

  “I have been called that, but it is not so.”

  “I understand, brother. Many of us have had to do it.”

  There was a pause, and then Tecumseh was speaking. “They are all laughing. They tell me not to mind if you do not speak the truth. You are a very important man, they say. They push forward a little old woman. I cannot make out her name; it sounds like Haje—is that a woman’s name? She says that she is the mother of your son. Is that possible?”

  “It might be.”

  “She says that your name was Sahar. You changed it in Russia. It was a place called Vilkomir, a long, long time ago. She says your son is living; he is a very poor fellow. She says you have grandchildren, but you do not wish to know it. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Possibly.”

  “The wounded men crowd her away. They do not let her talk. They are shouting again: ‘There is blood on your money! You have a great deal of money, and there is a curse upon it. You murdered a man when you were young, but that is nothing, you have murdered all of us. We are waiting for you in the spirit world. We are the avengers—we, the men without faces, without bowels! Some day you will come to us—’”