World's End

by Upton Sinclair

  Lanny came to realize that he was not merely a lover and a possible backer; he was a model, a specimen of the genus “gentleman” in the technical sense of the word. He was the first that Gracyn had had a chance to know and she was making full use of her opportunity. She watched how he ate, how he dressed, how he pronounced words; she put him through interrogatories about various matters that came up. What was “Ascot”? Where was “the Riviera”? She had heard of Monte Carlo, because there was a song about a man who broke the bank there. She knew that the fashions came from “gay Paree,” but she didn’t know why it was called that, and was surprised to be told that the French pronounced the name of their capital city differently from Americans. Indeed, this seemed so unlikely that she wondered if Lanny wasn’t making fun of her!

  IV

  The role which had been put before this stage-struck girl was one for which her Prince Charming was oddly equipped to give help. It was an English play, the leading lady being a war nurse in a base hospital in France. She was a mysterious person, and the interest of the play depended upon the gradual disclosure that she was a lady of high station. She became the object of adoration of a young wounded officer whom she nursed back to recovery; but she did not yield to his love, and the audience was kept in suspense as to the reason until the last act, when an officer who turned up at the hospital was recognized as the husband who had deserted her several years back. Of course her sense of duty prevailed—otherwise the play would not have been chosen by a group, of society ladies of this highly moral town of Holborn. The handsome young adorer went back to the trenches in sorrow, and one learned from the play that war affords many opportunities to exhibit selfrenunciation.

  “Are there really women who would behave like that?” Gracyn wanted to know. Lanny said, yes, he was quite sure of it; ninetenths of the ladies who saw the play would at least think that it was their duty to behave like that and would shed genuine tears of sympathy. He said that his stepmother would be one of them; and right away Gracyn wanted to know all about Esther Remson Budd.

  Still more important, she had to have information about the manners of an English lady, a being entirely remote from her experience. Lanny was moved to tell her that he had known an English war nurse whose grandfather was an earl, and who was soon to marry the grandson of another. Straightway Rosemary began to be merged with Esther in the dramatic role—a very odd combination. Gracyn, of course, had a nose for romance, and after she had asked a score of questions about Rosemary—where Lanny had met her, and how, and what he had said and what she had said—she asked him pointblank if he and the girl hadn’t been lovers, and Lanny didn’t think it worth while to deny this. The revelation increased his authority and prestige.

  He wouldn’t let Gracyn tell Walter Hayden about this aspect of the matter. But the director knew that Lanny had lived abroad and possessed a treasure of knowledge about fashionable life. Together they pumped him and built the production on his advice—costumes, scenery, business, dialect, everything. The young society man of Holborn who took the part of the “juvenile”—that is, the wounded officer who fell in love—became Rick with his wounded leg, plus a few touches of Lanny himself. The French officer who lay in the next bed took on the mannerisms of Marcel Detaze. The comic hospital servant acquired a Provençal accent like Leese, the family cook at Bienvenu. Gracyn Phillipson received the “juvenile’s” lovemaking with all the ardor of Rosemary Codwilliger, pronounced Culliver; but instead of being a “free woman” she became the Stern Daughter of the Voice of God of Wordsworth’s “Ode to Duty.” That part of her was Esther Remson Budd; and she was so sorrowful, so highminded, so eloquent, that some of the ladies of the college town of Holborn had tears in their eyes even at rehearsals.

  So Lanny became a sort of assistant director, and gave an education as well as receiving one. He lived a double life, one lobe of his brain full of stage business, and the other full of munitions contracts and correspondence. He left the office at five, and was in Holborn by six, had supper with Gracyn and sometimes with Hayden, attended the rehearsal, and was back in bed by midnight. He saw the play growing under his hands and it was a fascinating experience, enabling him to understand the girl’s hunger for a stage career. He told his father about it, and Robbie was sympathetic and kept his uneasiness to himself. He surely didn’t want his son drawn into that disorderly and hysterical kind of life; but he told himself that every youngster has to have his fling and it would be poor tactics trying to force him.

  V

  The great day in the evening drew near. The frightened amateur players had rehearsed a good part of the previous night; but Lanny hadn’t been able to stay for that, he had to leave them to their fate. He invited several of his friends to the show; Robbie promised to bring others, but Esther politely alleged a previous engagement. Rumors had spread concerning the dramatic “find,” and the wealth and fashion of one Connecticut valley was on hand; the Red Cross would have another thousand dollars with which to buy bandages and medicines.

  Lanny had thought he knew Gracyn Phillipson by now, but he was astonished by what she did that evening. Every trace of fright and uncertainty was left in the wings like a discarded garment; she came upon the stage a war nurse, exhausted with her labors and aching with pity, yet dignified and conscious of her social position. All the incongruous elements had been assembled into a character—it might not have satisfied an English lady of society, but it met New England ladies’ ideas of such a person. They believed in her noble love for the young officer, and when she made her sorrowful renunciation their hearts were wrung.

  The actress had shifted her names around, and appeared on the playbill as “Phyllis Gracyn.” The director considered that better suited for the electric signs on Broadway, for which he now felt sure that it was destined. Lanny listened to the excited questions of people about him: “Who is she? Where does she come from? How did they find her?” When the show was over, they crowded behind the scenes to meet and congratulate her. Lanny didn’t try to join them; she had told him to go home—all she wanted was to crawl into bed in her lodging-house room and sleep a full twenty-four hours.

  When he heard from her again she was in New York. Walter Hayden had advised her to come without delay. She wouldn’t have to bother Lanny for money, because she had saved the greater part of her fifty dollars. She would write him as soon as she had something to tell. As he knew, she wasn’t much at letter-writing; she was always running into words that she wasn’t sure about.

  Lanny returned to the armaments business and found it now lacking in glamour. He had satisfied the first rush of curiosity, and had discovered that contracts are complicated and that when you have read too many they become a blur in your mind; at least that was the case with him, though apparently not with his father. Lanny kept thinking about speeches in the play, and the way Gracyn had said them. They had got all mixed up in his mind with Rosemary, Rick, and Marcel; and it made him sad.

  He went back to tennis and swimming at the country club. He had become a figure of romance in the eyes of the debutantes and the smart young matrons; he had had an affair with a brilliant young actress and might still be having it. More than one of them gave signs of being willing to “cut her out,” but Lanny was absent-minded. It was August, and the papers reported a heat wave in New York; how was that frail little creature standing it? She was meeting this manager and that, she wrote; hopes were being held out to her; she would have good news soon. But not a word about love! Did she think that the Stern Daughter of the Voice of God might be opening Lanny’s mail?

  The war kept haunting him. Every time he went home he looked for a cablegram about Marcel; but nothing came. He thought about the monstrous battle line, stretched like a serpent across northeastern France; the mass deeds of heroism, the mass agony and death. The newspapers fed it to you, twice every day; you breakfasted on glory and supped on grief—

  I sing the song of the billowing flags, the bugles that cry before.

  Ah,
but the skeletons flapping rags, the lips that speak no more!

  VI

  September, and there came an ecstatic letter from Gracyn. She had a part; a grand part; something tremendous; her future was assured. Unfortunately, she couldn’t tell about it; she was pledged to keep it a strict secret. “Oh, Lanny, I am so happy! And so grateful to you. I’d never have made the grade if it hadn’t been for you. Forgive me if I don’t write more. I have a part to learn. I am going to be a success and you’ll be proud of me.”

  So that was that; very mysterious, and a trifle disconcerting to a young man in love. A week passed, ten days, it was almost time to go back to school. Lanny found that he was glad, for it wasn’t comfortable living in Esther’s home when he knew that she didn’t want him and was watching him all the time, anxious when he made the children happy, when he had too much influence over them. He knew that he had ruined himself with his stepmother and that nothing he could do would ever restore him to her favor.

  All right; he might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb; he decided suddenly that he wanted to see the great city of New York. He had had only a few hours there on his arrival, and only one trip with his father the previous summer. He hadn’t seen the great bridges, the art galleries, the museums—to say nothing of the theatrical district, where many new plays were being got ready. He mentioned it to his father, who said all right. He sent his trunk to the school by express and packed a suitcase and took a morning train to the metropolis.

  He had the bright idea that he would surprise Gracyn; so he took a taxi to the address to which he had been writing. He found it was a poor lodging house—and that she had moved from there a month ago, leaving no address. Her mail was being forwarded by the post office; but at the post office they wouldn’t give the address—he would have to write her a letter and wait for a reply. After thinking it over he decided to call Walter Hayden’s office. The director was away on an assignment, but his secretary said, yes, she knew about Phyllis Gracyn, she was rehearsing at the Metropole Theater—she had the leading part in The Colonel’s Lady, a new play by somebody who was apparently somebody, although Lanny had never heard the name.

  He drove to the theater. You don’t have to send in your card during rehearsals; one of the front doors is apt to be unlocked, and you can walk in and look around. Lanny did so. Since the auditorium was dark no one paid any attention to him; he took a seat in back and watched.

  Gracyn was on the bare stage with perhaps a dozen other persons, mostly men: a director, a couple of assistants, a property boy, and so on—Lanny was familiar with the procedure by now. The place was hot, and all the men were in their shirtsleeves and mopped their foreheads frequently. Gracyn was sitting in a chair watching the work; when her cue came she would get up and go through a scene.

  Another war play; the men sat at small tables and it became apparent that they were supposed to be doughboys in a wine shop somewhere behind the lines. Gracyn was a French girl, daughter of the proprietor—her father scolded her for being too free with the soldiers. When he went off she teased them and some of her lines were a trifle crude—evidently it was a “realistic” play. The doughboys sang songs, one of them “Madelon,” in translation. “She laughs—it is the only harm she knows.”

  Gracyn was doing it with great spirit. Oh, yes, she could act! Lanny had never seen the American boys in France, but he recalled the scene with the French soldiers when he and his mother motored to see Marcel. He thought: “I could have given the director a lot of help.” But they wouldn’t let Gracyn tell what she was doing. And yet the secretary at Hayden’s place had known about it and had told it freely. Very strange!

  VII

  Lanny didn’t want to disturb her. He waited until the rehearsal was over and she was about to leave. Then he came down the aisle, saying: “Hello, Gracyn.”

  She was startled. “Lanny! Of all people! Where on earth did you come from?”

  “Out of a taxi,” he said.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Your secret appears to have leaked.”

  She came into the auditorium to join him. She led him back, away from the others, and sat down. “Darling,” she said, swiftly, “I have something that’s dreadfully hard to tell you. I couldn’t put it on paper. But you have to know right away.” She caught her breath and said: “I have a lover.”

  “A what?” he exclaimed. When he took in the meaning of her words, he said: “Oh, my God!”

  “I know you’ll think it’s horrid, but don’t be too mean to me. I couldn’t help it. It’s the man who’s putting up the money for the show and giving me this part.”

  The youth had never been so stunned in all his life. He was speechless; and the girl rushed on:

  “I had a chance, Lanny; I might never have had another. He’s a big coffee merchant, who happened to see my performance in Holborn. He lives in New York and he invited me to come. He offered to take me to a good manager and find me a part—right away, without any waste of time. What could I say, Lanny?”

  The youth remembered his mother’s phrase. “You paid the price?”

  “Don’t be horrid to me, Lanny. Don’t let’s spoil our friendship. Try to see my side. You know I’m an actress. I told you I didn’t know anything else, I didn’t care about anything else—I wanted to get on the stage, and I’m doing it.”

  “There isn’t any honest way?”

  “Please, darling—use your common sense. This is New York. What chance does a girl stand? I’d have tramped the heels off my shoes going to managers’ offices, and they wouldn’t even have seen me. I’d have called myself lucky to get a part with three lines—and I’d have spent a month or two rehearsing, going into debt for my board while I did it. The play might have failed the first week, and I’d have twenty dollars, maybe thirty, to pay my debts, with. Believe me, I’ve talked to show girls these few weeks, and I know what the game is.”

  “Well, it’s all right,” he said. “I wish you success, and the highest salary on Broadway.”

  “Don’t sneer at me, Lanny. Life has been easy for you. You were born with a gold spoon in your mouth, and you’ve no right to scorn a poor girl.”

  “I’ll do my best to remember it. Thanks for telling me the truth.”

  “I’d have told you before, Lanny; but it was so hard. I hate to lose you for a friend.”

  “I’m afraid you have done so,” he said, coldly. “Your angel might be jealous.”

  “I know it’s a shock, darling. But you know so little about the stage world. Somebody had to give me a start. You couldn’t have done it—you surely know that.”

  Said he: “It may interest you to hear that I was thinking of asking you to marry me.”

  Did this startle her? If so, she was a good actress. “I haven’t failed to consider that. But you have to go to school, and then to college—that’s five years, and in that time I’d be an old woman.”

  “My father would have helped me to marry, if I’d asked him.”

  “I know, dear, but can’t you understand? I don’t want to be a wife, I want to be an actress! I couldn’t think of settling down and having babies, and being a society lady—not in Newcastle, not even in France. I want to have a career—and what sort of a life would it be for you, tagging along behind a stage celebrity? Would you enjoy being called Mister Phyllis Gracyn?”

  He saw that she had thought it all out; and, anyhow, it was too late. No good saying any unkind words. “All right, darling,” he said—it was the stage name. “I’ll be a good sport, and wish you all the luck there is. I’m only sorry I couldn’t give you what you needed.”

  “No, Lanny dear,” she said. “It’s thirty thousand dollars!” And there wasn’t any acting in what she put into those words!

  VIII

  The sun was going down as Lanny climbed onto the top of one of the big Fifth Avenue busses, which for a dime took you uptown, and across to Riverside Drive, and up to where the nation had built a great granite tomb for Gener
al Grant, in the shape of a soap box with a cheese box on top. Part of the time Lanny looked at the crowds on the avenue, and at sailboats and steamers on the river; the rest of the time he thought about the strange adventure into which he had blundered. He decided that he wasn’t proud of it, and wouldn’t tell anybody, excepting of course Robbie, and perhaps Rick or Kurt if he ever saw them again.

  He told himself that he had made himself cheap. That little tart—well, no, he mustn’t call her names—she had her side, she had her job to do and might do it well. But he mustn’t let himself blunder like that again; he must know more about a woman before he threw himself into her arms. A man had to have standards; he must learn to say no. Lanny thought about the number of times he had said yes to Gracyn Phillipson, and in such extravagant language. He writhed with humiliation.

  He didn’t want to go home in that mood, and he didn’t want to go to school ahead of time, so he put up at a hotel, and spent his time in the museums and art galleries. He looked at hundreds of paintings—and all the nudes were Gracyn, except those that were Rosemary. He told himself with bitterness that they were all for sale, whether for thirty-thousand-dollar shows on Broadway, or for three dollars, the price of the pitiful painted ones who hunted on that Great White Way in the late hours of the evening. Rosemary’s price would be a title and a country estate, but she was being sold just the same; it didn’t matter that the bargain would be solemnized by a bishop in fancy costume, and proclaimed by pealing chimes in St. Margaret’s. Would he ever meet one that didn’t have her price? And how would he know her—since they were all so hellishly clever at fooling you?