So the toper says to himself: “I am reformed now; everything is settled and safe; I will never again touch liquor in any form; but of course a glass of beer now and then, or a little light wine at mealtimes, cannot do me any harm!”
Lanny had the sketch framed and carefully packed, and sent it by registered mail to Mme. Rahel Robin, Juan-les-Pins, Alpes-Maritimes. Also he wrote a note on the stationery of the Hotel Crillon to the mysterious Mr. Bernhardt Monck, stating that he expected to be in London in two or three days and would get in touch with him. Without mentioning the matter, he enclosed a one-pound banknote with the letter, thus making sure that Mr. Monck wouldn’t perish of starvation in the meantime.
3
A YOUNG MAN MARRIED
I
Bidding temporary farewell to his parents, Lanny Budd set out early on a damp and chilly morning to motor to England. Not far off the route lay the Chateau les Forets, home of Emily Chattersworth, and he detoured to pay a duty call on her. This old friend of the family was not so well or so happy; the leading art critic who had been her ami for a quarter of a century had decided that a younger woman was necessary to his welfare, and when that happens the older woman does not find joy in even the finest landed estate. Emily had stood by Beauty Budd when her son was born out of wedlock, and she had been a sort of informal godmother to Lanny; having helped to make his match with a famous heiress, she was always interested to hear how it was coming along. After the fashion of this free and easy world of wealthy expatriates, she discussed the troubles of her heart with the young man, and he kept no secrets from her.
There was news to be exchanged concerning the people they knew and what they were doing. Lanny told about Freddi’s funeral, and about Lady Caillard’s “coming through,” and about the success of the concert tour which Hansi Robin and Lanny’s half-sister Bess were making in the Argentine. He told about the Salon at which he had spent the previous day, and described a painting he had bought for one of his clients. Emily wanted to know about Robbie’s affairs, and he advised her: “Keep away from him; he’s in one of his high-pressure moods.” That always awakens the curiosity of the rich—they are used to being run after and are impressed when they are run from. Emily talked about the state of the market, and said it was shocking the way her income had fallen off; however, she couldn’t bear to think of changing her investments while the prices of all her holdings were so low. Lanny said there was no use remembering that they had ever been higher.
She really wanted to hear about Robbie’s project, so Lanny reported on it. He perceived that a white-haired chatelaine was a victim of the same tropism as an aged Levantine trader; he teased her about it, and she made the answer which the rich always make—they have so many taxes, so many dependents, such a variety of expenses which cannot be cut down; whatever their income, they are always “strapped.” Lanny said: “You know I’m no promoter, but it looks as if Robbie’s going to make a lot of money.” Emily responded: “Do you suppose he’ll come out to see me if I phone him?”
II
On to Calais, the town full of memories never to be erased; it was there that Lanny had waited for the Robin family to arrive on their yacht, and had learned that the Nazis had seized them. He drove his car onto the packet-boat, and paced the deck watching the busy stretch of water which he had crossed with Marie de Bruyne, then with Rosemary, Countess of Sandhaven, and of late with Irma Barnes; he thought of each in turn, experiencing those delicate thrills which accompany the recollection of happy loves. Here, too, he had crossed with his father in wartime, through a lane made by two lines of steel nets held up by buoys, with destroyers patrolling them day and night. People of Lanny’s sort now spent much time discussing the question whether such things were likely to be seen again, and if so, how soon.
There were no fields of clover when Lanny went up from Dover. The green was beginning to fade from the landscapes, and a soft drizzling rain veiled every scene, making it look like an old painting whose varnish has turned brown. Lanny enjoyed this season of mist and mellow fruitfulness, and observed with the eyes of an art connoisseur the thatched cottages and moldy-looking roofs, the hedges, the winding roads—but watch your reactions, for it’s tricky when you drive one-half the day on the right and the other half on the left! He by-passed London bound for Oxfordshire and home; he had wired Irma, and Mr. or “Comrade” Monck would have to wait a day or two longer.
They were living in a villa which Irma had rented from the Honorable Evelina Fontenoy, aunt of Lord Wickthorpe. It was called “small,” but was large, also modern and comfortable, in contrast to Wickthorpe Castle, whose estate it adjoined. It had a high hedge for privacy, and very lovely lawns; the drive made a turn when it entered, so that passers-by couldn’t see the house at all. When Lanny came up the drive at twilight he heard a shout, and here came a small figure with brown hair streaming—little Frances, dressed in a raincoat and overshoes, and let out in care of a groom to await the arrival of that wonderful father, almost as rare as Santa Claus. He stopped the car and she clambered in beside him, to drive a hundred feet or so; there was a present for her in the seat, but she mustn’t unwrap it until she got her wet things off.
The “twenty-three-million-dollar baby” so much publicized by the newspapers was now four and a half years old, and wise care had averted most of the evils which might have been predicted for one in her position. She hadn’t been kidnaped, and hadn’t been too badly spoiled, in spite of two rival grandmothers. A trained scientist had had the final say about her, and had said it with effect. Frances Barnes Budd was a fine sturdy child, and was going to grow up a young Juno like her mother. She had been taught to do things for herself, and nobody had been permitted to tell her that she would some day be abnormally wealthy.
Irma came to the head of the stairs when she heard the child’s excited cries. Lanny ran up, two steps at a time, and they embraced; they were in love with each other, and a week’s absence seemed long. She wore an embroidered red silk kimono in honor of his coming—her blooming brunette beauty could stand such adornment. She led him into her sitting-room, and the child took a perch upon his knee and unwrapped his present, a picture book with pastel drawings of that gaiety which the French achieve by instinct. She wanted it read to her right away, but Irma said that she and Lanny had much to talk about, and sent the little one off to the governess, whose accomplishments included French.
Then they were alone, and there was the light of welcome in Irma’s eyes, and they were happy together, as they had been so many times, and might be forever, if only he would let it happen. At least, so it seemed to Irma; but even while she still lay in his arms, fear crept into her soul like a cloud over a blue sky. She whispered. “Oh, Lanny, do let us be happy for a while!” He answered: “Yes, darling, I have promised.”
But his tone meant that the cloud was still there. When lovers have had a clash of wills and unkind words have been spoken, these words are not forgotten; they sink into the back of the mind and stay there, having a secret life of their own, generating fear and doubt. Especially is this so when the cause of the disagreement has not been removed; when the clash of wills is fundamental, a difference of temperaments. The lovers may try to deny it, they may cry out against it, but the difference goes on working in their hearts.
A duel carried on in secrecy and darkness! Lanny thought: “She is trying to put chains upon me; she has no right to do it.” Irma thought: “He will think I am trying to put chains upon him; he has no right to think that.” But then, in her fear, she thought: “Oh, I must not let him get that idea!” Lanny, in his love, thought: “I must not let her know that I think that! I have caused her too much unhappiness already.” So it went, back and forth, and each watched for the signs of stress in the other, and suspected them where they were not actually present, resenting them even while resolving not to cause them. So it is when a ray of light is caught between two almost parallel mirrors and is reflected back and forth an endless number of times, or when a w
ave of sound is thrown into a tangle of rocky hills and echoes are set rolling back and forth as if evil spirits were mocking the source of the sound.
III
Lanny talked about his trip. Not much about the funeral, for Irma wanted to forget all that as quickly as she could. But she was interested in Robbie and his project, and in the visit of Zaharoff and its outcome. She said: “Lanny, that ought to prove a big thing.”
“I believe it will,” he replied.
“Doesn’t Robbie want me to come in on it?”
“You know how he is—he’s shy about putting it up to you.”
“But that’s silly. If he has a good thing, why shouldn’t I have a chance at it?”
“Well, he said he wouldn’t mention it unless you asked him to.”
“He ought to know that I have confidence in him, and that it’s a family matter. I would be hurt if he left me out.”
“I’ll tell him,” said Lanny; and so that was settled most agreeably. Would that it had all been as easy!
“I’m glad you got home early,” remarked Irma. “Wickthorpe is having the Albanys to dinner and asked us over in the evening. I said we would come if you got back.”
“Fine,” replied the husband. “And by the way, would you like to run up to town with me tomorrow? I have a letter from a man in Ohio, asking if I can find him a good Sir Joshua. I think I know where there’s one.”
What the art expert had said was true; he was determined never to lie to his wife. If Irma had asked: “Did you see Uncle Jesse?” he would have answered “Yes” and told her what they had talked about. But she didn’t ask; she knew that she didn’t have the right to expect him not to meet Beauty’s brother. He, for his part, knew that she must have known that he would go there, and perhaps meet other Reds, and perhaps make them promises of the sort they always tried to get from him. They would unsettle his thoughts, make him discontented with his life, cause him to be moody and to make sarcastic remarks to his wife’s friends. The wild echoes were set flying in their hearts again; but neither spoke of them.
IV
Gerald Albany was a colleague of Lord Wickthorpe in the British Foreign Office; they had been through Winchester together and were close friends. Albany was the son of a country clergyman and had to make his own way; perhaps for that reason he was more proper and reticent than other members of the diplomatic set whom Lanny had met. He was a tall lean man with a long serious face, and had found a wife who matched him perfectly, a large-boned lady wearing a dark-blue evening costume which was doubtless expensive but looked extremely plain. The half-starved little fille de joie with whom Lanny had strolled on the boulevards had more chic than Vera. Albany could ever have or perhaps wish to have.
The husband was a carefully studied model of a British diplomat, cold in manner and precise in utterance; yet, when you knew him, you discovered that he was a sentimental person, something of a mystic, knowing long stretches of Wordsworth by heart—he had even read the Ecclesiastical Sonnets, not once, but many times, and was prepared to defend them as poetry. He was conservative in his opinions, but tried hard to be open-minded or at least to believe that he was; he would permit Lanny to voice the most unorthodox ideas, and discuss them in such a carefully tolerant way, with so much suavity, that unless you knew his type of mind you might think he half agreed with you. Yes, of course, we are all Socialists now; we are enlightened men and we understand that the world is changing. The ruling classes must be prepared to give way and permit the people to have a larger say about their affairs; but not in India or Central Africa, in Hong Kong or Singapore. Above all, not in too much of a hurry; right now only the Conservatives understand the situation and are able to guide the ship of state in perilous seas!
Irma was deeply impressed by this conscientious functionary, and wished that her husband might be; she tried in a way which she thought was tactful to bring this about. But Lanny, the impatient one, thought that the world ought to be changed right away. He said that the difference between a Bolshevik and a Tory was mainly one of timing; the toughest old die-hard in the Carlton Club could be got to admit that maybe in a few thousand years from now the dark-skinned races might be sufficiently educated to manage their own affairs both political and industrial. But, meanwhile, we have to carry the white man’s burden, placed upon our shoulders by that God of our fathers so intimately known of old.
V
Lanny had been on a scouting expedition, as it were. His friends were pleased to hear what a French financier thought about political prospects in his country and what an ex-munitions king, a Knight Commander of the Bath, had to say about the state of Europe. Pierre Laval had just become Foreign Minister of France, and Lanny told what he had heard about him; speaking in the privacy of the home, the Englishmen agreed that he was an unscrupulous and undependable fellow. That was the difficulty in relations with France; the governments changed so rapidly, and policies changed with them; you could never be sure where you stood. British foreign policy, on the other hand, changed very slowly; in fundamentals it never changed at all. Britain had a Prime Minister who was a Socialist, yet everything remained as it had been. Politicians may come and politicians may go but the old school tie goes on forever.
These friends knew all about Lanny’s misadventures in Germany and made allowances for his extreme views on the subject of Nazism. But they were not prepared to change the fixed bases of their empire’s policy because an American playboy with a pinkish tinge to his mind had got thrown into the dungeons of the Gestapo—nor yet because a family of wealthy German Jews had been blackmailed and plundered. Wickthorpe was prepared to admit that the Nazis were tough customers; an irruption from the gutter, he called them; but they were the government of Germany, de facto and de jure, and one had to deal with them. They might be made to serve very useful purposes; for one thing, as a counterweight to French political upstarts who had a tendency to become extremely arrogant, on account of their country’s great store of gold; and for a second thing, as a check upon Russia. “Oh, yes!” exclaimed Lanny. “Hitler is to put down, the Bolsheviks for you!”
Wherever an American art expert traveled, in Europe, in England, in America, he found the privileged classes, his own kind of people, hypnotized by the Fuhrer’s flaming denunciations of Communism and the Red Menace. The ex-painter of postcards voiced then thoughts completely on this subject; he was their man and promised to do their job. In vain Lanny tried to make them realize that no slogan meant anything to Hitler, except the gaining and keeping of power; political opinions were an arsenal of weapons from which he picked up those which served his need at a certain moment of conflict. When conscientious, God-fearing English gentlemen stood upon a platform and made promises to their electorate, they meant at least part of what they said; and how could they imagine that Hitler, Goring, and Goebbels would change their entire “line” overnight if it suited their political or military purposes?
Lanny was frightened about it, and sad about the state of opinion in all the countries he knew. But there is a limit to the amount of arguing and protesting you can do in the drawing-room of even your best friends; if you keep it up, they will stop inviting you; and long before that happens, your wife will be pointing out to you that you are making yourself socially impossible. Lanny, well trained from childhood and now provided with a thoroughly competent wife, had to sit and listen while Lord Wickthrope proceeded to “adumbrate”—so he said—the future of world history in accord with the best interests of the British Empire. “Good God, man, don’t you suppose that Hitler knows what you are expecting? And why should he oblige you?”—so Lanny wanted to cry out; but he knew that if he did he would get a scolding on his way home.
VI
The master of this ancient chilly castle, a sight for tourists and a home for bats, was slightly older than Lanny, but, like Lanny, appeared younger than his age. He had pink cheeks, fair wavy hair, and a tiny pale-brown mustache; how he had managed to remain a bachelor had been a mystery to Irma sin
ce the first day she had met him at the Lausanne Conference. He had elegant manners and an assured mode of speech. His was a civil service job, and he had had to pass very stiff examinations, so he knew what to do and say in every eventuality. He would listen courteously to what you had to report, and then, if he thought it worth while, would explain to you where you were mistaken. If he didn’t think it worth while, he would turn and talk to someone else.
Irma thought him one of the best-informed men she had ever met, and sometimes she cited him to her husband as an authority. Irma loved the romantic gray-stone castle, in spite of its portable bathtubs which she called “tin.” She loved the respectful tenants who always tipped their hats to her if they were men and “bobbed” if they were women. She liked English reserve, as contrasted with French volubility. She liked living in a world where all the people knew their places and everything had been happening just so for hundreds of years. She wished that Lanny could be dignified, instead of bohemian, meeting all sorts of riffraff, rubbing elbows with “radicals” in smoke-filled cafes and letting them argue with and even ridicule him.
In short, Irma liked a world without confusion whether domestic or intellectual. She had seen, first in Russia and then in Germany, that if you played with dangerous ideas you presently began to witness dangerous actions. She thought that Lanny was old enough to have sowed his cultural wild oats, and she yearned for him to settle down and take care of her and her fortune and her child. She found in Lord Wickthorpe the perfect model of what she would like her husband to be; and while she was too tactful to put it in plain words, Lanny could gather it without difficulty. He wasn’t in the least jealous, but he couldn’t help thinking now and then how pleasant it would be if his wife could agree with him about the things he considered important. His effort to keep his annoying thoughts to himself was resulting in a sort of split personality, and as time passed the hidden part of him was becoming the larger and more active.
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