“Thank you, sir,” said Lanny, returning the letter.
Another silence. Finally the old gentleman remarked: “So Robert Budd thinks I have had his portfolio stolen! May I inquire where this happened?”
“On board the steamer Pharaoh, sir.”
“The thief has not yet reported to me; but as soon as he does, I promise that I will return the property unopened—just as you have done with mine. You will tell your father that?”
“Certainly, sir. Thank you.” Lanny was quite solemn about it, and only afterward did he realize that Zaharoff had been “spoofing” him.
“And you won’t feel that you have to intercept any more of my invitations?”
“No, sir.”
“You are going to be an honorable and truthtelling young gentleman from now on?”
“I will try, sir,” said Lanny.
“I, too, used to have the same thought upon occasions,” said the munitions king. Was it wistfulness or was it humor in his soft voice? “However, I found that it would be necessary for me to retire from my present business—and unfortunately it is the only one I have.”
Lanny didn’t know how to reply, so there was another silence. When Zaharoff spoke again, it was in a business-like tone. “Young man, you say that your father told you to state the facts.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then tell me: does your father wish to see me?”
“Not that I know of, sir.”
“You don’t think that he sent you here for that purpose?”
Lanny was taken aback. “Oh, no, sir!” he exclaimed. Then realizing the full implication of the question, he decided to fight back. “My father once told me about Bismarck—who said that the way he fooled people was by telling them the truth.”
The old man smiled again. “You are a clever lad,” said he; “but don’t let Bismarck fool you with nonsense like that. Do you think your father would object to seeing me?”
“I don’t know why he should, sir.”
Zaharoff had in his hand the letter from the Marquise des Pompailles. He went to the escritoire and sat down and did some writing on it. Then he handed this to the boy, saying: “Read it again.” Lanny saw that Zaharoff had marked out some of the words and written others over them. He read:
“M. Basil Zaharoff requests the pleasure of the company of M. Robert Budd and his son to tea this afternoon to discuss the problems of the armaments industry.”
XI
The duquesa did not appear for the occasion. The waiter who brought the tray poured whisky and soda for the two gentlemen, and tea for Lanny; then he retired with quick bows.
The peasant boy from Asia Minor had become a citizen of whatever country he was in; so now he was an American businessman, using American business language. He sat erect and spoke with decision. He said that while he had never met Mr. Budd, he had watched him from a distance and admired him. Zaharoff himself had been a “hustler” in his time, although the Americans had not yet taught him that word. He said that the leaders of the armaments industry ought to understand one another, because theirs was the only trade in which competitors helped instead of harming. The more armaments one nation got, the more the other nations were compelled to get. “We are all boosters for one another, Mr. Budd.”
It was flattering to be called one of the leaders of the armaments industry, but Robbie tried not to feel too exalted. He said that the future of the industry had never looked so bright to him as it did just then; they could all afford to be “bullish.” The other replied that he could say even more than that; they were going to have to learn to go into a new element, the air. Robbie agreed with this also. Basil Zaharoff forgot now and then that he was an American, and set down his glass and rubbed his hands together, slowly and thoughtfully.
He soon made it clear why he had asked for a conference. He looked at Robbie and then at Lanny, and said: “I suppose this bright little man never talks about his father’s affairs?” Robbie answered that whatever mistakes the little man might make, he would never make that one.
Tactfully, and with many flatteries, the Greek trader declared that he had conceived a great admiration for the methods of New England Yankees. He wanted to do for Mr. Budd what he had done nearly forty years ago for the Maine Yankee named Maxim. He gave Mr. Budd to understand that he was prepared to make him an excellent proposition; he added that he meant those words in the most generous sense; he made a gesture of baring his heart.
Robbie answered with equal courtesy that he appreciated this honor, but was unfortunately compelled to decline it. No, it was not merely that he was under contract; it was a question of home ties and loyalties. Zaharoff interrupted him, urging him to think carefully; his offer would not merely satisfy Mr. Budd, but even surprise him. The business he was doing at present would be small indeed compared to what he could do if he would join forces with Vickers, Limited. The whole world was open to them—
“Mr. Zaharoff,” said the younger man, “you must understand that Budds have been making small arms for some eighty years, and it’s a matter of prestige with us. I am not just a munitions salesman, but a member of a family.”
“Ah, yes,” said the old gentleman. “Ah, yes!” Had this young fellow meant to give him a sword prick? “Family dignity is an important thing. But I wonder”—he paused and closed his eyes, doing his wondering intensely—“if there might be the possibility of a combination—some stock that might be purchased …?”
“There is stock on the market,” replied Robbie; “but not very much, I imagine.”
“What I meant is if your family might see the advantage …? We have Vickers in most of the countries of Europe, and why not in the States? Do you think that members of your family might care to sell?”
Their eyes met; it was the climax of a duel. “My guess is, Mr. Zaharoff, they would rather buy Vickers than sell Budd’s.”
“Ah, indeed!” replied the munitions king. Not by the flicker of an eyelash would he show surprise. “That would be a large transaction, Mr. Budd.”
It was David defying Goliath; for of course Budd’s was a pygmy compared to Vickers. “We can leave it open for the moment,” said Robbie, blandly. “As it happens, my son and I have one advantage which we have not earned. I am under forty, and he is fourteen.”
Never was war more politely declared, nor a declaration of war more gracefully accepted. “Ah, yes,” said the munitions king—whose duquesa had no sons, only two daughters. “Perhaps I have made a mistake and devoted myself to the wrong industry, Mr. Budd. I should have been finding out how to prolong life, instead of how to destroy it. Perhaps thirty years from now, you may decide that you have made the same mistake.” The speaker paused for a moment, and then added: “If there is any life left then.”
A man who wishes to succeed in the world of action has to keep his mind fixed upon what he is doing; he has to like what he is doing, and not be plagued with doubts and scruples. But somewhere in the depths of the soul of every man lurk weaknesses, watching for a chance to slip past the censor who guards our conduct. Was it because this naïve little boy had broken into the munitions king’s life with his odd problem of conscience? Or had the father touched some chord by his reference to age? Anyhow, the master of Europe was moved to lift a corner of the mask he wore. Said he:
“Have you noticed, Mr. Budd, the strange situation in which we find ourselves? We spend our lives manufacturing articles of commerce, and every now and then we are seized by the painful thought that these articles may be used.”
Robbie smiled. If a civilized man has to face the secrets of his soul, let him by all means do it with humor. “It appears,” he suggested, “the ideal society would be one in which men devoted their energies to producing things which they never intended to use.”
“But unfortunately, Mr. Budd, when one has perfected something, the impulse to try it out is strong. I have here a torpedo”—the munitions salesman held it up before the mind’s eye—“to the devising of which my gr
eat establishment has devoted twenty years. Some say that it will put the battleship out of business. Others say no. Am I to go to my grave not knowing the answer?”
Robbie felt called upon to smile again, but not to answer.
“And this new project upon which we are all working, Mr. Budd—that of dropping bombs from the air! Will that be tried? Shall we have to take our armies and navies into the skies? And ask yourself this: Suppose some nation should decide that its real enemies are the makers of munitions? Suppose that instead of dropping bombs upon battleships and fortresses, they should take to dropping them upon de luxe hotels?”
The mask was up, and Lanny knew what his father meant when he said that Zaharoff was a coward. The magnate who was supposed to hold the fate of Europe in his hands had shrunk, and had become a tormented old man whose hands trembled and who wanted to break down and beg people not to go to war—or perhaps beg God to forgive him if they did.
But when Lanny made this remark to his father afterward, the father laughed. He said: “Don’t fool yourself, kid! The old hellion will fight us twice as hard for the next contract.”
BOOK TWO
A Little Cloud
7
The Isles of Greece
I
Robbie went to Bucharest, and then back to Connecticut, and the vacant place in Lanny’s life was taken by Mr. and Mrs. Ezra Hackabury and their yacht Bluebird.
They arrived several days late, because they had a bad passage across the Atlantic. But their friends didn’t have to worry, for they had sent frequent messages. The message from Madeira said: “Ezra sick.” The message from Gibraltar said: “Ezra sicker.” The one from Marseille said: “Ezra no better.” When finally the Bluebird showed up in the Golfe Juan and the soap manufacturer and his wife were brought ashore, he had to be helped out of the launch by two of his sailors in white ducks. He was a large, florid-faced man, and when the color went out of his skin it made you think of that celebrated painting—futurist, cubist, or whatever it was—“The Woman Who Swallowed the Mustard-Pot.”
They got him into the car, and then to Bienvenu. He asked them to put him in a lawn swing, so as to “taper him off”; he insisted that the columns of the veranda were trying to hit him. He was one of those fellows who make jokes even when they have to moan and groan them. He was afraid to take even a drink of water, because the drops turned to rubber and bounced out of his stomach. All he wanted was to lie down and repeat, over and over: “Jesus, how I hate the sea!”
Nobody could have afforded a better contrast to Mr. Hackabury than the lady he had chosen for his partner. The sea and the wind hadn’t disturbed so much as one glossy black hair of her head. Her skin was white and soft, her coloring was of pastel shades which she never changed; in fact, she didn’t have to do a thing for herself, so the other women enviously declared. She didn’t have to be witty, hardly even to speak; she just had to be still, cool, and statuesque, and now and then smile a faint mysterious smile. At once the men all started to compare her to Mona Lisa and throw themselves at her feet. She was somewhat under thirty, at the height of her charms; she knew it, and was kind in a pitying way to this large, crude Middle Westerner who had had his sixty-third birthday and who made soap for several million kitchens in order to provide her with the background and setting she required.
Edna Hackabury, née Slazens, was the daughter of a clerk in the office of an American newspaper in Paris. Being poor and the possessor of a striking figure, she had served as a model for several painters, one of them Jesse Blackless, Beauty’s brother. She had married a painter, and when he became a drunkard, had divorced him. It was Beauty Budd who had helped to make a match for her with a retired widower, traveling in Europe with a man secretary and looking for diversion after a lifetime of immersion in soap.
Edna’s beauty had swept the manufacturer off his feet; he had married her as quickly as the French laws permitted, and had taken her on a honeymoon to Egypt, and then back to the town called Reubens, Indiana. Reubens had been awe-stricken by this elegant creature from Paris, but Edna had not reciprocated its sentiments; she hadn’t the remotest intention of living there. She stayed just long enough to be polite, and to make sure that her three stepsons, all married men with families, understood the soap business and would work hard’ to provide her with the money she required. Then she began pointing out to her husband the folly of wasting their lives in this “hole” when there were so many wonderful things to be enjoyed in other parts of the world.
So they set forth, and when they got to New York, Edna tactfully broached the idea that, instead of traveling in vulgar promiscuity on steamships and trains, they should get a yacht, and be able to invite their chosen friends to whatever place might take their fancy. Ezra was staggered; he was a bad sailor, and hadn’t the least notion why it was “vulgar” to meet a lot of other people. But his wife assured him that he would soon get his sea legs, and that when he met the right people, he would lose interest in the wrong ones. The money was his, wasn’t it? Why not get some fun out of it, instead of leaving it to children and grandchildren who wouldn’t have the least idea what to do with it?
So the Hackaburys went shopping for yachts. You could buy one all ready-made, it appeared, with officers and crew and even a supply of fuel oil and canned goods. They found a Wall Street “plunger” who had plunged too deep, and they had bought him out, and sailed to Europe in lovely spring weather, and attended the Cowes regatta of 1913 in near-royal style. This was the summer that Lanny had spent at Hellerau; the Hackaburys had explored the fiords of Norway, taking Lord and Lady Eversham-Watson, and the Baroness de la Tourette and her friend Eddie Patterson, a rich young American who lived all over Europe; also Beauty Budd and her painter friend, Marcel Detaze, and a couple of unattached Englishmen of the best families to dance, play cards, and make conversation.
At first it had seemed shocking to Ezra Hackabury to have as guests two couples who weren’t married, but who visited each other’s cabin and stayed. But his wife told him this was a provincial prejudice on his part; it was quite “the thing” among the best people. The baroness was the victim of an unhappy marriage, while Beauty was poor, and of course couldn’t marry her painter; however, she was dear and sweet and very good company, and had helped Edna to meet her Ezra, for which they both owed a debt of gratitude which they must do their best to repay. The considerate thing would be for Ezra to buy a couple of Marcel’s seascapes and hang them in the saloon of the Bluebird. Ezra did so.
II
The cruise proved such a success that another had been arranged, and the guests were arriving with their mountains of luggage, ready to set out for the eastern Mediterranean. Edna and Beauty had one of their heart-to-heart talks, and Beauty told about Baron Livens and Dr. Bauer-Siemans, and how cleverly Lanny had guessed about Marcel. Edna said: “How perfectly dear of him!” She was a longtime friend of that polite little boy, and at once suggested that he should go along on the cruise. “He never gets in anybody’s way, and it’ll be educational for him.” Beauty said she was sure he would love it; and the mistress of the yacht added: “We can put him in the cabin with Ezra.”
It was going to be a delightful adventure for all of them. Marcel Detaze was looking forward to painting the Isles of Greece, where burning Sappho loved and sung. The poetry of Byron being famous, as well as that of Sappho, everybody looked upon the region as one of glamour, and the guidebooks all agreed that it was a paradise in early spring. Everybody was pleased except poor Ezra, who knew only one fact: that every isle was surrounded by water. “The sea is insane,” he kept saying. At first he refused to go; but when he saw tears in his wife’s beautiful dark eyes, he said: “Well, not till I’ve had some food.”
The soapman’s appetite came back with a rush, and next day he was able to move about the garden, and the day after that he wanted to explore the Cap d’Antibes; no, not a drive, but a walk, actually a walk of several miles. The only person who was capable of such a feat was Lanny, who t
ook charge of the one-time farm-boy and answered his questions about how the country people lived here, and what they ate, and what things cost.
The pair sat on the rocks of the Cap and looked at the water, and Mr. Hackabury admitted that it was fine from that vantage point; the coloring varied from pale green in the shallows to deep purple in the distance, and on the bottom were many-colored veils and palm fronds waving like slow-motion pictures. “Could you catch those fish?” asked Mr. Hackabury; and then: “Are they good to eat?” and: “What do the fishermen get for them in the market?” He looked at the anchored vessels of the French navy, and said: “I hate war and everything about it. How can your father stand to be thinking about guns all the time?”
He told Lanny about the soap business; where the fats came from and how they were treated, and the new “straight-line” machinery which turned out cakes of soap faster than you could count them. He told about the selling, a highly competitive business; making the public want your kind was a game which would take you a lifetime to learn and was full of amusing quirks. In fact, Ezra Hackabury selling kitchen soap sounded remarkably like Robbie Budd selling machine guns.
Also Mr. Hackabury talked about America; he thought it was terrible that a boy had never seen his own country. “They are a different people,” he said, “and don’t let anybody fool you, they are better.” Lanny said his father thought so too, and had told him a lot about Yankee mechanics and farmers, how capable and hard-headed they were, and yet how kind. The soapman told about life in a small village, which Reubens had been when he was a boy. Everybody was independent, and a man got what he worked for and no more; people were not worldly, the stranger was welcomed and not suspected and snubbed. Pretty soon the lilacs and honeysuckle would be in bloom.
“Yes,” said Lanny, “I’ve seen them. Mrs. Chattersworth, who lives up on the heights above Cannes, has some in her gardens, and they do very well.”
World's End Page 13
