Wide Is the Gate (The Lanny Budd Novels)

by Upton Sinclair

  Being married to the eloping debutante’s half-brother, Irma Barnes Budd was in the news stories, and her telephone was being rung by reporters. Having been brought up in cafe society, she wasn’t worried by it. “After all, Lanny,” she remarked, “running away with an army captain and war hero, the nephew of a marchesa, isn’t exactly the same thing as if it were the family chauffeur. It’s all right to try to stop them, but if you find they’ve got away with it, take my advice and put a bold face on it.” Lanny realized that the phrase “Fascist aviator” was different in Irma’s ears from what it was on his lips. To him it was a term of odium, and the performance of dropping bombs on helpless “niggers” was far from glorious; but Irma found excuses for Mussolini as she did for Hitler, and there was no use raising the issue again.

  In the course of the day came another message from Bienvenu, reading:

  “Couple sailed from Marseille steamer Firenze bound New York married at sea do meet them probably penniless.”

  So there was another blow over Lanny’s heart. For six or seven years the story of how Irma and he had outwitted the Archbishop of Canterbury by getting on board a vessel more than ten miles out at sea and being married by the captain—that delightful anecdote had been a part of the Budd family legend. Of course Marceline remembered it, and had been able to tell her lover how to get around the stringent laws which Napoleon Bonaparte had devised for the protection of the French family and its property. The young couple had found out about an Italian steamer and had scraped together the cost of their passage. Probably they had sailed as a married couple and, after the vessel was at sea and away from French jurisdiction, they had appealed to or bribed the captain to make their presence regular. Best feature of all, from the point of view of the rascal pair, was the fact that Irma and Lanny would be completely barred from criticism; if either ventured it, they would only have to look innocent and say: “But we thought it was the right thing to do.”

  Chickens coming home to roost!

  VI

  “Of course you’re absolutely bound to meet them”—so declared the mistress of Shore Acres. “I must go along—that’s the only way to keep it from being a scandal.”

  “It’s pretty tough on you, Irma,” he remarked.

  “I’ve lived in your mother’s home about half my married life and been treated as a daughter. What sort of person would I be to refuse shelter to my young sister-in-law?”

  “You mean to invite her here?”

  “What else can I do, decently?”

  “Well, it’s up to you, Irma. I want you to know that I’m not asking it.”

  “What on earth would you propose?”

  “I would make it plain to that fellow that he has to take her back to Italy and earn a living for her.”

  “But you say he’s been wounded in the war, Lanny! Surely you can’t expect him to go to work until he’s had a chance to recuperate!”

  “He’s recuperated enough for love-making, and he’s coming here because he’s been told that you have a lot of money and aren’t stingy with it.”

  “Are you sure you’re not prejudiced against the man? It seems to me unlikely that a Fascist could win your approval by anything he did, either in war or peace. The fair thing is for me to meet him, and see what I make of him, and what chance there is that he can make Marceline happy.”

  No small joke on Lanny Budd, who had been glad to get away from Bienvenu because he so greatly disliked the sacro egoismo—and now the damned thing was moving in on his other home, the place where he had been hoping to enjoy the company of his little daughter. He understood and to some extent had foreseen what was happening to him—he was being ousted from his world. “Give me a fulcrum and a long enough lever and I can move the earth”—so Archimedes is said to have remarked. Adi Schicklgruber had made himself a long, long lever, and with it he had reached out and pried Lanny Budd, first from the Meissner home and then from his wife’s bed. And now came the Blessed Little Pouter Pigeon with a crowbar to pry him out of Shore Acres, and perhaps later out of Bienvenu—for surely Lanny wouldn’t find any pleasure in living there if Vittorio di San Girolamo was going to be the co-cock of the roost.

  VII

  The American heiress had visited the Fuhrer in his eyrie, and had pledged her sympathy and support. Was it likely that so competent and tireless a propagandist as Adi would overlook this opening? Would he fail to drop a memorandum to his publicity man, the crooked little Reichsminister Doktor Goebbels, who also knew the heiress and her prince consort and had had them as guests in his home? No, indeed! Lanny had been anticipating results from that scene in the Berghof, and wondering what form they would take.

  While they were waiting for Marceline’s steamer to arrive, the wife said: “Lanny, I have company for dinner this evening, and I want to be sure it will be agreeable to you.”

  “Bless your heart!” he replied. “I’m not censoring your guest list. Who is it?”

  “Forrest Quadratt, the poet.”

  “Never heard of him; but that may be my fault.”

  “He’s well known in New York, I’m told; he came to me with a letter from Donnerstein.”

  “A German?”

  “American born of German parents. He divides his time between the two countries, trying to interpret each to the other.”

  “Is he a Nazi?”

  “I suppose you would call him that. He prefers to be known as a man of letters.”

  “That is understandable. Have you told him about my views?”

  “Not a word. I promised, and I’ve kept the promise.”

  “Well, I’m perfectly willing to meet him. Unless you’d rather I went to town, of course.”

  “Not at all; I’ll be interested in your reaction to him. But I didn’t want to subject you to boredom without warning.”

  “Thanks, dear,” he said. It wasn’t so different from being husband and wife. “Have you any of his writings?”

  “He gave me a book, but I haven’t had time to more than glance into it. It’s mostly about love, and my guess is you won’t approve it.”

  “I ought to be able to stand it if you can,” he replied, with a smile. She got the thin volume, Eros Unbound. Lanny looked at the date and saw that it was more than thirty years ago. “Is he an old man?”

  “About fifty, I should guess. He has a wife and some grown children in New York.” Irma didn’t say whether she had met them, and tact forbade Lanny to inquire.

  It was the poetry of youthful decadence, a fruit that was rotten before it was ripe. The poet sang the futility of living before he had had time to begin; he identified himself with all the empires which had fallen, with the roses which had withered before they had bloomed. He was sad beyond words, but he had chosen the words with care and knew they were right; he had the gift of melody, and sang in lilting verses the futility of singing. In short, he was the product of a society which was sick and knew nothing but its own sickness.

  Forrest Quadratt in person proved to be rather small and slender, near-sighted and peering out through thick-lensed glasses; his hand was soft when you took it; his hair was gray, his manner gentle, his voice rather melancholy. It was the old-world charm which Lanny knew so well. He disliked the man, but could see that he would have an attraction for women, and that the many romantic adventues of which his poetry boasted might easily have occurred. He was widely read, had a sense of humor, and talked rapidly and nervously, as if he was afraid his witticisms might be anticipated. What did he want with a woman of half his years and very little culture? Was it that she was very rich, or was it that her husband had been absent when the visitor had called?

  Forrest Quadratt took it for granted that he was among sympathizers. He explained that he had once been a poet, perhaps the greatest of his time, but the flame had burned out and he knew better than to try to rekindle it. Now he was what the world disparagingly called a “propagandist”; as the heir of two cultures, he was trying to interpret his own land to the land of his
forefathers, and vice versa. He wanted to introduce Emerson to Goethe and Goethe to Emerson. Two master-peoples, each fitted to organize and guide a hemisphere; two nations which ought to be not rivals, but cooperators—and would be when they understood each other’s ideals and destinies.

  So it went: the old Nazi guff, but embodied in beautifully chosen words, spoken in a refined voice with no trace of accent. Lanny thought: “Goebbels has made a good choice! I wonder what he is paying for it.” Lanny thought: “He’ll get Irma’s money, and be the guiding spirit of the salon she is dreaming about. Will he win her love, too? He’ll try, of course. Wife and children won’t stand in his way.” From that was only a short leap of the mind to the question: “Is it my business to stay and interfere? Shall I try—or will it only mean another quarrel?”

  VIII

  The steamer Firenze came in, and Irma and Lanny were at the pier, but found that the elopers were no longer on board. From the captain of the vessel they learned that the pair were married, but the bride had no passports or papers of any sort, therefore they were being held at Ellis Island, and Marceline might be shipped back on the steamer’s return. The newspaper reporters had gone down to meet the vessel in the harbor, and the couple had been stood up on deck and photographed. It wasn’t long before afternoon newspapers were on the streets with the picturesque story.

  Irma was indignant; she took it as an insult to her family that a relative even by marriage should be detained like a common peasant girl. She insisted on phoning her lawyer and having him go with her to Ellis Island at once; Lanny tagged along, because refusal would have been a public repudiation of his half-sister. The Fascist aviator was a hero in the eyes of most of New York’s Italians as well as of all lovers of newspaper romance; as soon as the reporters learned that the heiress and former glamour girl was interested in the case, it became a front-page story, and every hour’s development was followed by the press. The daughter of a famous French painter had committed no crime against the august United States government, and was a lawfully wedded wife; surely therefore she was entitled to the hospitality of her mother’s native land!

  The learned lawyer and the Immigration Commissioner between them uncovered an amusing set of complications. Apparently under the Italian law she was a citizen of Italy; under the French law she was a citizen of France, and under the United States law she was in a delicate and embarrassing situation. Her status was governed by the United States law of 1907, and if at the time of her birth her mother was married to her father she was a citizen of France; if, on the other hand, she could claim to be illegitimate, she could enjoy the citizenship of her mother, which was American. The fact that she had just married an Italian would not make any difference, because under the act of 1922 marriage would not affect her citizenship status. “Under that law a woman becomes a citizen in her own right and does not derive or lose her citizenship by marriage”—so declared the august Commissioner.

  Lanny had to admit that he had been present at the marriage of his mother to the French painter nearly two years before Marceline was born; so the situation looked dark indeed. The only way to establish Marceline’s right to enter the great port of New York was to have Congress pass an act establishing her as an American citizen. Irma was quite prepared to undertake that, but unfortunately it might take considerable time, so the legal authorities agreed. However, the skies cleared when the suggestion was made that Marceline might come in as a visitor. She and her husband could stay for six months, and that permission could be extended by the Attorney General.

  Since the husband had a satisfactory passport visa, all that his wife would require would be some “travel document,” and the Commissioner said he would be satisfied with an affidavit from the captain of the ship stating that the couple had been married by him. Then if Mrs. Irma Barnes Budd would consent to put up a bond of five hundred dollars to guarantee that her relative by marriage would not try to remain permanently in the country, the Commissioner would issue a visitor’s visa allowing her to remain six months. “I will put up a bond for five hundred thousand if necessary,” declared the haughty heiress; and so at last the persecuted young couple emerged from their island cage.

  It was like a stage entrance, carefully built up; just enough uncertainty and delay to fan curiosity into a blaze. All Irma’s friends wanted to meet the runaway pair; if they visited a country club everyone turned to look at them, if they entered a night-spot the limelight was turned upon them. Marceline was walking on the clouds—having suddenly come into possession of everything of which she had been dreaming. The reporters followed her up; when they learned that she was a dancer, they took more pictures of her, and she could have had a stage engagement if she hadn’t been on a honeymoon. She expected Lanny to dance with her, and it would have been unkind of him to refuse.

  Meanwhile here was the wounded Fascist hero, dignified, aristocratic, taking his honors not for himself but for the cause which he served. His talk was much like that of Quadratt, except that he had a different prospectus of the world’s future. There were to be not two great empires, but three. While the Germans moved eastward to destroy Bolshevism, that would leave the Balkans and the Mediterranean area for the newly awakened Italian race. Ultimately Germany would have Asia and Italy would have Africa. This would leave for the United States not merely Canada and Mexico, but the whole of Central and South America, and what more could any reasonable people want? It seemed entirely satisfactory to the ladies and gentlemen to whom the Capitano explained it, and this included the heiress of the Barnes fortune, which he had as good as married.

  IX

  There were now two crowbars working on the prince consort, and it seemed to him they had broken every root which bound him to this sumptuous estate. All except the poor little Frances root! Did he want to carry her off to Bienvenu and take care of her? Was he prepared to give up his other activities and devote himself to raising a child? He knew it would really be Beauty who would do the raising, and in Marceline he saw what the end product would be. The child was happy where she was, and he had no choice but to leave her here.

  Lanny read in the newspapers that the Frente Popular had won a great victory in the Spanish elections; he pictured Raoul exulting over that. Also, Laval had been ousted in France, and the Front Populaire, as it was called in French, was putting up an electoral campaign which should be a spectacle. There came a note from Trudi, saying that she had new sketches to show him. He had been visiting some of his clients and obtaining orders and commissions, so there was money in sight. It was time for him to move on.

  Was he going without any sort of overture to his wife? He had thought of a dozen approaches and dropped them one after another. She seemed entirely satisfied with Forrest Quadratt as mentor, and with the new brother-in-law and his bride as playmates. She found the Capitano convincing as a hero, praised him to all comers and was pleased by their approval. What fault was there to find with the man—except that he didn’t happen to agree with Lanny’s subversive ideas? The fact that there was a conflict between the Teuton dream and the Latin made no impression upon Irma’s mind; her genius did not lie in the field of world statecraft, and she was satisfied with the vague formula that both Italy and Germany were poor nations, badly crowded and compelled to find room in which to expand.

  Lanny could take his licking, of course; he could say: “I am sorry, old girl; I have been rather silly, and I’m ready to quit. I’ll have to be polite to my Red relatives, of course, but I won’t give them any encouragement, and I’ll drop all the other people that make you unhappy.” He could say that with good grace, and Irma would open her arms to him. Neither had spoken any irrevocable word, neither had committed any unforgivable act; they would be as they had been in the beginning. He might even propose a bargain: “I’ll give up my Reds and Pinks if you’ll give up your Nazis and Fascists. Hand the young honeymooners a check and ship them off to Italy. Tell Quadratt you are busy. Let’s cut out all disputers and all subjects of dispute.
”

  What would Irma reply? He pictured her happiness and relief. “These people mean nothing to me,” she would say. “I just wanted you to see how I feel when I see you with people I dislike and fear.” They would seal their bargain with kisses, and Lanny would be the prince consort for the rest of his life, with art experting as an agreeable side pine, and security for all his family and friends. He could have a private yacht, a private orchestra, a private anything. He could go in for charity, helping the worthy poor. He could endow psychic research and perhaps make discoveries which would be of permanent importance. Anything in the world, so long as he didn’t try to undermine the pillars of a public utility king’s fortune; so long as he didn’t impair the value of those bales of stocks and bonds hidden a couple of hundred feet below the sidewalk of one of the great Wall Street banks.

  But no, he didn’t believe in that fortune, he didn’t believe in any great fortune or other form of vested privilege. Therefore he must abdicate and retire, and it was up to him to do so gracefully, in the modern, light-hearted manner. “Well, darling, it’s time for me to be toddling. I’ve had a pleasant holiday and I’m in your debt. I wish I were a better husband, but you know we leopards cannot change our spots. Take good care of yourself and don’t let the gobble-uns git you!” He wouldn’t have to elaborate; she could guess that the “gobbleuns” were Nazis and Fascists, and she would pay just as much attention to his warnings as his “Little Sister” had done.