X
Uncle Jesse Blackless still resided in the apartment in the working-class neighborhood where Lanny had grown used to visiting him. The fact that he had become a deputy of the French Republic hadn’t made any difference in his life—except that it might have had something to do with his decision to marry the French Communist who had been his “companion” for ten years or more. The living-room of his apartment was still a studio, one corner of it packed solid with his paintings; he was busy making another when Lanny knocked on the door. He had a little gamin for his model, and when he saw his nephew he gave the youngster a few francs and sent him along, then lighted his old pipe and settled back in his old canvas chair to “chew the rag.”
They had plenty to talk about: family affairs, the news that Beauty was in Paris and that Robbie was going to become a millionaire all over again; the news about pictures, what Lanny had bought and what was to be seen in the autumn Salon; then political events, the killing of Barthou, and the chances of Laval’s taking his place—Lanny told what Denis de Bruyne had said about this fripon mongol, and it was data that Jesse would use in his next Red tirade in the Chamber. Of course without hinting at the source of his information.
Bald, lean, and wrinkled Jesse Blackless was what is called a “character”; perhaps he was born one, but now he clung to it as a matter of principle. The income he enjoyed from the States was sufficient to have enabled him to wear a clean new smock, but he chose to be satisfied with one which revealed all the different colors he had had on his palette for several years. And it was the same with many of his habits; elegance was a sign of caste, and he chose to be one of the “workers”—although he had never worked at anything but making pictures and speeches. He chose to believe that everything the workers did was right and that everything the rich did was wrong, this being in accordance with the doctrine of economic determinism as he understood it.
Lanny hadn’t been able to find many formulas which satisfied him, and it amused him to pick flaws in his Red uncle’s. They would wrangle, both taking if as a sort of mental boxing-match. Jesse sounded quite fierce, but basically he was a kind-hearted man who would and frequently did give his last franc to a comrade in distress. What he wanted was a just world, and the preliminary to this was for the rich to get off the backs of the poor. Since dialectical materialism demonstrated that they wouldn’t, the thing to do was to throw them off.
The funeral of Freddi Robin had been reported in both Le Populaire and L’Humanite, the former celebrating it as a Socialist event and the latter treating it as an anti-Nazi event. This provoked the painter to declare the futility of attempting to overthrow the Nazis except by Communism; which in turn made it necessary for Lanny to declare the futility of attempting to achieve the goal without the co-operation of the middle classes. Jesse said that the middle classes were being ground to pieces by the economic process, and to hell with them. Lanny said statistics showed the middle classes increasing in America, despite all Marxist formulas. And so on.
If Irma Barnes had heard her husband arguing she might have imagined that she had converted him; but no, if she had been here, he would have been driven to take the side against her. This wasn’t perversity, he would insist; he was trying to see the problem from all of its many sides, and argued against all persons who wanted to see only one side. He dreamed of a just social order which might come without violence; but apparently everything in this old Europe had to be violent!
XI
The newly established mistress of this household came in, and the argument was dropped, for Francoise, hard-working party member, lacked the American sense of humor and would be annoyed by Lanny’s seeming-flippant attitude to the cause which constituted her religion. Lanny chatted for a polite interval and then excused himself, saying that he had an engagement to dine with his father. He went out to walk in the pleasant streets of Paris at the most pleasant hour of sunset, and stopped in a couple of art-shops whose dealers were acquainted with him and were pleased to show him new things. This would keep his record clean—he had been “looking at pictures.”
The ladies of the trottoir manifested an interest in a handsome; well-dressed, and young-looking man. In fact, walking alone on the streets of la Ville Lumiere was no easy matter on this account. Lanny liked women; he had been brought up among them and was sorry for them all, the rich as well as the poor; he knew that nature had handicapped them, and this was no world in which to be weak or dependent. He would look at the thin pinched faces of those who sought to join him; their paint did not deceive him as to the state of their nutrition, nor their artificial smiles as to the state of their hearts. He saw their pitiful attempts at finery, and his own heart ached for the futility of these efforts at survival.
There came one, more petite and frail than usual, and with a manner showing traces of refinement. She put her arm in Lanny’s, saying: “May I walk with you, Monsieur?” He answered: “S’il vous plait, Mademoiselle—vous serez mon garde du corps.” One would keep the others away!
He took out his purse and gave her a ten-franc note, which she crammed hurriedly into her sleeve. She didn’t know what he meant, but it sufficed for a start, and as they strolled along he asked her where she came from, how she lived, and how much she earned. Like so many others she was a midinette by day; but work was uncertain in these terrible times and one couldn’t earn enough to pay for food and shelter, to say nothing of clothes. She perceived that this was a kind gentleman; and Lanny understood that if she wasn’t sticking exactly to the facts, this also could be explained by the formulas of economic determinism. Anyhow, she was a woman, and the tones of her voice and the pressure of her hand on his arm told him a good deal.
Their stroll brought them to where the Rue Royale debouches onto the Place de la Concorde. Lanny said: “We have to part now. I have an engagement.” She replied, this time doubtless with entire truth: “Je suis desolee, Monsieur.” She watched him enter the Hotel Crillon, and knew that a big fish had got away. However, the ten francs would buy her a dinner and leave enough over for a scanty breakfast.
XII
Lanny went into the hotel, in whose red-carpeted and marble-walled lobby great events had happened during the Peace Conference of fifteen years ago. For the grandson of Budd’s the place would be forever haunted by the ghosts of statesmen, diplomats, functionaries of all sorts, some in splendid uniforms, others in austere black coats. Many were now dead and buried in far corners of the earth, but the evil they had done lived after them; they had sowed the dragon’s teeth, and already the armed men were beginning to rise out of the ground, in Italy, Germany, Japan; in other places the ground was trembling and one saw the round tops of steel helmets breaking through. Lanny and others who thought they understood dragon agriculture predicted a bumper crop, perhaps the biggest in history.
He went to the desk for his mail. There was a letter, a poor-looking letter in a cheap envelope, not usual in this haven of the rich. But it was common enough in Lanny’s life, he and his wife being targets for begging letters. This one was postmarked London and addressed to Bienvenu, from which place it had been forwarded; the handwriting was foreign, apparently German, and Lanny didn’t recognize it. He opened the envelope as he walked toward the ascenseur, and found a note and also a little sketch on a card the size of a postcard. He looked at it and saw the face of the dead Freddi Robin; it caused him to stop in his tracks, for it was extraordinarily well done.
He glanced at the signature, “Bernhardt Monck,” and did not know the name. He read:
Dear Mr. Budd:
I have a communication which I am sure will be of interest to you. I came to England because I understood that you were here. I hope this letter will find you and I thank you kindly to reply promptly, because the circumstances of the writer are not permitting of a long wait. It is a matter not of myself but of others, as you will understand quickly.
The stranger signed himself, “Respectfully,” and had put in the envelope this little passw
ord, this shibboleth or countersign, which had the power to send cold chills up and down Lanny’s spine. To an art expert this simple pencil drawing, which bore not even an initial on it, was the surest means of identification and the most secret message that could be contrived. Every line of the drawing cried aloud to him: “Trudi Schultz!” The date on it, October 1934, with a black line drawn around it, said to him: “I have learned of Freddi’s dying condition, and have sent a messenger to see you.” The young artist Trudi had been one of the teachers at Freddi’s school in Berlin, and her style was not to be mistaken.
If Lanny had been a discreet person, if he had learned thoroughly the lessons which life was apparently trying to teach him, he would have put this little drawing away in a portfolio with other art treasures, including a sketch of himself by Jacovleff and several by John Sargent; as for the letter, he would have torn it into small pieces and sent them down into those sewers of Paris which have been so vividly described in Les Miserables. He thought of these prudent actions, to be sure; he thought of his wife and what she would make of this situation. He argued with her in his mind. He hadn’t promised her that he would never have anything more to do with Reds or Pinks; he hadn’t said that he wouldn’t receive any more messages from Germany or give any more thought to the struggle against the Nazis. All he had said was: “I will never again get into trouble with the Nazis, or cause you unhappiness because of my anti-Nazi activities.” Surely it couldn’t do harm if he saw a messenger from a young artist of talent and found out what had happened to her, and to her husband, and to the other friends of himself and Freddi Robin in Germany.
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 accomplishment
s 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 wave 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.
Wide Is the Gate (The Lanny Budd Novels) Page 5
