Between Two Worlds

by Sinclair, Upton;

  Lanny listened to the story of a genius who came of one of the oldest and proudest New York families, and had inherited a fortune in his own right. He was divinely handsome, gay, a darling of the ladies; he was living here because of some scrape he had got into at home. “He’s a bit wild,” admitted the hostess, “but the most delightful company. You really ought to know him.” Beauty, who watched over her darling so carefully where Reds and Rumanian countesses were concerned, saw nothing to worry about in a society painter, and later on the hostess went to the telephone and told Dick Oxnard about her friend. The answer was: “Send him to lunch tomorrow.”

  So, promptly at the appointed hour of one, Lanny’s sport-car drove up in front of an elegant villa in one of the Riviera valleys. There didn’t seem to be anybody around, and perhaps the bell was out of order; but the door was wide open, which seemed hospitable. Looking in, Lanny saw some of those gorgeous decorative panels and screens in the entrance hall, and as they were what he had come for, he ventured in. Presently along came an elderly Chinese servant in a white duck suit, grinning amiably. “Mornin’. You come blekfas’?”

  “Lunch,” replied the guest.

  “Blekfas,’ lunch, allee same, maybe blunch. You go up, all light, allee same home.” Nothing could have been more cordial; so Lanny went up the wide stairway, stopping half-way to look at a breath-taking design of a market girl of Tehuantepec wearing an elaborately embroidered dress and seated under a tree with an array of fruits piled up in great painted gourds. In the hallway above were several doors, all open, and Lanny didn’t know which to go to; but he was in no hurry, for on the wall was a black Chinese dragon against a background of gold and scarlet flames. Lanny would have been just as well content if there hadn’t been anybody at home in Dick Oxnard’s villa.

  IV

  But the house was full, as it turned out. Through the open door of a large room the guest saw an enormous canopied bed with four posts of carved ebony and draperies of cloth of gold. It was such a bed as Marie Antoinette might have slept in; Lanny had never seen one so big in any castle. But even so, it was hardly big enough for the assortment of girls who were sleeping in it, and some of their arms and feet hung over the sides. They were in miscellaneous scanty costumes of as many hues as an Oxnard wall panel, and appeared to have draped themselves with unconscious art around the central figure of a man.

  Lanny thought he might as well inspect this art along with all the rest. It was of the genre known as “still life,” for the whole group were sound asleep, and their combined breathing was like the sound of a summer zephyr through a grove of pine trees. But suddenly Lanny gave a jump, for behind him the air was shattered by the most astounding racket. On the stair-landing was a great Chinese gong, and somebody must have been hitting it sideswipes with a hammer, for the crashes came rolling through the hall like breakers on a beach; they sped up and down and clashed with one another until it seemed there was nothing in the house but sound.

  It caused one or two of the girls to open their eyes and stretch their arms. Finally the half-buried man came to life and, when he saw Lanny, sat up. “Hello!” he said, with no surprise. “You company?”

  “Lanny Budd,” said the visitor.

  “Oh, good! Make yourself at home, Budd.” The speaker deftly extricated himself from the tangle of girls, and slid over them to the floor. His costume consisted of a loincloth of green and silver, which had come from Ceylon, or Siam, or some such tropical land. He was a grand figure of a man, thirty or so, built like a statue of Hermes, with wavy golden hair and mustache of the same. Apparently this was the way he lived, and he made no apologies. He caught one of the girls by the toe and gave a firm pull, and she let out a shriek of pain; it must have been a familiar procedure, for all the others leaped into life and tumbled out of bed as if they had had an electric shock.

  Some of them wore the costumes of Bali and some of Hawaii; others wore bathing-suits or birthday suits. They came streaming from other rooms—there were more than a score of beautiful young girls in the house, fair and stately ones from the north, and dark, languorous ones from the south. Lanny never did find out about them all, but he learned that several had followed the young god from America, and others had just drifted in and stayed. The doors of the villa were never locked, and coming and going were equally free and easy. The host who was so gay and hospitable would become angry upon the slightest whim, and then he was incredibly brutal to his attendant nymphs; he would address them in language which could not be indicated in print, and one who gave him displeasure would be propelled through the front door by the agency of the beautiful white foot of Hermes, messenger of the gods.

  That came later. For the present all was gaiety. “These are the girls,” said the painter; “help yourself.” That was all the introduction required; apparently the girls liked the visitor’s looks, for several attached themselves to him, told him their first names, and tried to sit in his lap at the first occasion.

  The guest had come to lunch, but the host revealed that they had finished supper not long ago. Lanny said he would just as soon look at paintings, but the other declared that they were always ready to eat. The troop of nymphs came dancing and chattering into the dining-room, which had more of the vivid panels, this time of tropical fishes and long, waving sea-growths. The old Chinese brought in platters of scrambled eggs and buttered toast, and when he had distributed these he brought in half a dozen bottles of champagne and proceeded to open and fill glasses around the table. Fortunately it was a day of warm sunshine, and when you are young you can sit half naked and drink iced champagne for your morning pick-me-up.

  There was another man present, an Englishman who was introduced as “Captain Abernethy, call him Neethy.” It was he who had pounded on the gong in honor of Lanny’s arrival. He too was fair, with brick-red, apoplectic cheeks; he was somewhat older than Oxnard, and apparently acted as his guardian, providing what little sanity there was in the establishment. But he hadn’t always been like that, for presently Dick was telling with laughter how Neethy had been in the cavalry, in the days when there was real cavalry, and while his brother officers were having a party in the mess-room he had ridden his horse through the door and sprung him over the table. Neethy and Dick had been all over the world together, and in Mexico the cavalryman on a wager had leaped into the bullring and onto the back of the bull. He had stuck there, too. “But you know,” said the host, “those greasers mobbed us; they took it as an insult to their bull!”

  In one of the few moments of rationality during this visit Lanny expressed his admiration for the American’s work, and asked him if he ever sold anything. Oxnard said that he hated to do so because it was such a bother; but if Lanny admired the things, he’d be happy to present him with one, for they cluttered up the place. Lanny said that he couldn’t think of accepting such a favor. He said the same thing to a beautiful blond nymph who offered to accompany him to one of the bedrooms, and the result in both cases was the same. When he took his departure he found that a large black-and-gold tiger in a green-and-scarlet jungle had been deposited in his car; also he found a nymph—no painting, but a flesh-and-blood one dressed in a sports costume of knitted pink silk, waiting in the seat beside the driver’s. She was determined to stay, and since Lanny was unwilling to use his foot, it took a lot of argument. He explained with all gentleness that he was devoted to a French lady and by no possibility to be won away from her. The blond darling, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen years of age, wept gently on his shoulder, declaring that it was the dream of her life to find a man to be true to. Lanny said that he would have been deiighted to be that man, had she not unfortunately waited so long before presenting herself.

  V

  Rick brought his family to Bienvenu, and he was in a more hopeful state of mind than Lanny could recall since the war. There had been a general election in Britain, the dreadful Tories were out, and the Empire had its first labor government. The Prime Minister was a Socialist, a former
schoolteacher from Scotland; a tall handsome man and an elegant orator. Ramsay MacDonald had taken a courageous stand against the war, and all forward-looking men now predicted a regime of peace and reconcilement. The German Foreign Minister, Stresemann, was also a reconciler, and all that was needed now as to get rid of the dull Poincaré. The French elections were due in May, and everybody agreed that the tide was running against the party which was responsible for the Ruhr fiasco and the dégringolade of the franc. The left forces were working out an agreement not to oppose one another’s candidates, and Rick was as keen about it as if he had been a Frenchman. Lanny agreed with him, as he always did—but never a word about it in the presence of Marie!

  The problem of reparations was at last being dealt with on a rational basis. A commission of experts was named to determine what Germany could actually pay—this after five years of efforts to compel her to pay what she couldn’t. A Chicago banker was at the head of it, and this so-called Dawes Commission worked out an arrangement; by dint of scaling down the claims every few months—always amid cries of anguish from the French—they would gradually accomplish the purpose of letting Germany get on her feet.

  When the Easter holidays drew near, Robbie was in London and intending to come to Paris; so Lanny drove Marie up, and once more in the drawing-room of the Château de Bruyne he listened to Denis and his father discussing the affairs of Europe; once more in his uncomfortable way he would begin wondering whether all the conclusions to which his English friend had brought him could be trusted after all. Was it really safe to let Germany get on her feet? Could you trust that thing in Berlin which called itself a “republic”? How long would it be before Hindenburg or somebody like him would come into power, and the old dreadful menace would be hanging over France?

  Denis de Bruyne pointed out something which Lanny had heard in Germany, but of which the significance had not been made clear to him. All during the “mark swindle” the great German industries had been required to keep their workers employed and had received government credits for that purpose. They had set the workers to rebuilding and expanding plants; so now, having wiped out her debts both internal and external, the Germans were starting afresh with the most modern productive machinery in the world. What chance would the French stand in international trade, with their still-ruined factories, mills, and mines? It really seemed that the Germans were more capable than their foes. You could say, as Denis did, that it was because they were without moral or business scruples; that made you hate them more—but it didn’t make your peril any less!

  Denis had the idea that the United States ought to recognize this situation and put her moral and financial power behind France. But Robbie had to tell him the painful fact that this was out of the question; any American statesman who advocated it would be quickly retired to private life. This was a world in which you had to look out for yourself, and the very word “idealism” now gave Americans what they crudely called “a pain in the neck.” Europe would have to find a method of paying her debts to America before she asked for any more favors.

  VI

  Fate had given Robbie Budd a new executive of his country. Poor old Harding had died, perhaps of a broken heart—anyhow, just in time to escape an avalanche of scandal which had been sliding down onto his head. The man who ruled in his stead was even more satisfactory to Robbie and his friends; the father described him as the oddest figure, the son of a country storekeeper, with exactly that sort of mind. Vermont, his home state, is a cold, mountainous country, where people work hard to wrest a living from a stony soil; they save every penny and hold onto it tightly, and keep their mouths shut concerning their own affairs. “Cautious Cal” was the name of the new President, and by the easy method of saying nothing he made it possible for the newspapers to build him into a “strong silent statesman.” In reality, Robbie said, he liked to go down into the basement of the White House and keep track of the groceries that were being used. This suited Robbie and his big business friends, for he let them run the country and didn’t meddle with what he didn’t understand.

  The master of money smiled when his son, the gentle idealist, talked about Ramsay MacDonald and the French Socialists with their dream of peace in Europe. Robbie revealed the one really significant fact: the munitions industry was coming back! All through the post-war depression Robbie had argued with his father against the entire making over of the Budd plants; Robbie’s oldest brother, Lawford, had wanted to drop arms-making, but now, as usual, Robbie was proved to be right! Already he was picking up small orders for various sorts of arms; Dutch traders were buying them and smuggling them into Germany by the network of canals which ran into that country. Also France was making new armament loans to Poland, and to the Little Entente, a new coalition to hold off the Russians on the east and to attack Germany if she should attack France. “Just as soon as business picks up there’s bound to be a boom,” said Robbie; “and we shall get our share, believe me.”

  “But,” argued the son, “what about those huge stocks that were left over after the war?”

  The father smiled. “We have had engineers and technicians at work for five years, and so have Vickers, Schneider, everybody. We have a new machine gun that fires two hundred more rounds per minute than the old one, and reaches a thousand yards farther. The old guns will be all right for South America or China, but not for a modern war. The same thing will apply to grenades, fuses, bombsights; everything that America is going to use in the next war will have to be made new—and not far ahead of the war, either!”

  VII

  Lanny would absorb this information, direct from the fountainhead, and would be impressed by the authority of his masterful progenitor. Robbie Budd was acquiring weight, along with money, and it would be a long time before the sensitive and affectionate son would have courage to face him in a mental showdown. Lanny would drive the busy man of affairs into Paris, and then go wandering to look at new paintings at the dealers’; a temptation would assail him, and somehow he would be powerless to resist it—he had to go calling on that Red uncle of his! He would fool himself with the idea that it was to pick up gossip about painters and what they were doing, the boom in Detaze and what the dealers were saying about it—all that “shop” for which artists have just as much weakness as munitions men. But sooner or later one of Jesse’s left-wing friends would drop in, or perhaps Jesse’s amie to arrange lunch; the talk would turn to politics, and the forbidden “dangerous thoughts” would be flying about the room, hitting Lanny Budd in vital parts of his mental anatomy.

  Again he would be struck by the curious point: how completely his revolutionary uncle and his reactionary father agreed as to the facts of the modern world. Both would say that it was money that made the mare go, and they would agree as to the road on which the mare was traveling and her rate of progress; they would even agree as to what lay over the next hill; their dispute began only beyond the far horizon’s rim. Really, two such surveyors ought to have been able to combine forces and make their maps in common; Lanny, the great reconciler, had been able to bring Britain and France and Germany together in the same household, so why shouldn’t he dream of bringing capitalism and Communism together?

  Jesse Blackless was a man who had channeled his feelings in accordance with a set of social theories. According to his formula, the exploited workers were going to overthrow their oppressors and take control of the world and make it over into something much more rational. This being so, Jesse looked for all merit in the workers, and found it; he would sit all day in a barely furnished little room and paint a picture of some poor waif of the Paris streets, making a touching and pathetic portrait, and when the dealers weren’t interested in it, he would understand that it was because their customers wanted pictures of rich and elegant things. When the painter went for a stroll in the parks and saw the children of the rich with their pretty clothes and their bonnes watching over them, he would have no use for these children, because what they had was taken from the poor child
whom he had painted.

  All problems that arose in conversation were disposed of by Uncle Jesse in the same way. All capitalists, all capitalist groups and nations, were seeking profits; they were like hogs rushing to a feeding-trough, trampling down everything that stood in their way. By the same formula, all Socialist politicians were “labor fakers,” making promises to the people and selling them out to the big business interests. That included Ramsay MacDonald, in whom Rick placed such high hopes; it included Léon Blum and Jean Longuet, and the others who were now carrying on such a vigorous election campaign in France. Jesse Blackless described them as “yellow Socialists,” and hated them for luring the workers away from their true goal of revolution. Lanny said: “Uncle Jesse, your mind is like a phonograph; I put the needle down, I push the lever, and I know exactly what you’re going to say.”

  The painter was a good sport, and willing to take cracks as hard as he gave. “Maybe so,” he replied; “but if a record is right, why change it?”

  Lanny would go off and think about that. If it was true, as both Robbie and Jesse agreed, that competition for raw materials and markets was getting the world ready for another great war, it was certainly desirable that the common people of all nations should know about it and try to stop it. But what could they do? Uncle Jesse said that the capitalists would never give up to mere ballots. Was that true, or wasn’t it? If they would, then obviously the wise thing was to use ballots; but if they wouldn’t, you had to prepare other means. But it was possible to argue that the threat of using other means—that is to say, violence—would frighten the propertied classes, and lead them to use the violence first.