“President Truman referred explicitly to that. Let the UN order an armistice and supervise a free election in which the people shall choose what sort of government they desire. Our formula in America is ballots instead of bullets.”
“And for Germany, what?”
“Obviously we must supervise Germany for a long time, to make sure that she does not rearm. We have to learn to do that together—or else we shall find ourselves competing for her support in another war. I am not saying that it will be easy to solve these problems; I am saying that we have to solve them or risk the loss of our civilization in the most awful holocaust of all time. Atomic power is an entirely new thing, Marshal Stalin, and we cannot go on as if it did not exist; we have to make the decision as to whether we shall use it to build up the world or to destroy it. I point out to you that it would be possible for the Soviet Union to get a large reconstruction loan from my country—provided only that we were assured it would be spent for civilian and not for military purposes. It is my hope to persuade you to carry on your warfare against capitalism by constructive methods. Prove to the world the truth of our Socialist theorem that the wastes of competition consume two-thirds of its product. Show the world how much more efficiently a co-operative economy can work. Give them an example of a nation without strikes and unemployment, panics and crises and fear. Surely we must not forget our old idealism, and let the capitalists drag us down to their level of thinking and doing!”
Lanny had been called a utopian and a dreamer by his father and many of his wealthy friends. He wondered, would the Red dictator hold the same opinion of him? Somewhere deep in Stalin’s consciousness must be memories of his youth and the vision of a free and just world which had inspired him! Surely he could still recall the formula of Engels and Lenin that when the state was no longer an instrument of class repression it would fall into disuse and wither away! Having read literature and heard speeches like that since boyhood, Lanny knew all the phrases—and now was the time to bring them forth. He made it clear that he didn’t want to compromise with capitalism or admit its right to dominate the world’s economy. What he wanted was that the peoples who possessed democratic institutions and had learned to use them should find their own way of escape. Leave us alone. Marshal Stalin, and we’ll know how to deal with our exploiters!
X
This interview continued until late into the night. The Red leader asked many questions, and some of them showed that he doubted the possibility of what Lanny wanted. At the end his statement was, “What you tell me is important, and I am obliged to you for coming. I promise you that I will think it over carefully and put it before my associates. There exists in your country the fixed notion that I rule Russia like a despot, but I assure you it is not so. We have a political party and we have a government, and I do not dictate, I advise.”
The P.A. replied quietly, “I accept your assurance, sir. I would be very happy if I could know that you would advise in favor of a policy of live and let live in this crucial moment of our history.”
This was a bid for Stalin to get down to cases, but he did not take it. Said he, “You may tell your President that I most earnestly desire and intend peace between our two countries. I can see no possibility of war, and we shall certainly not contemplate it or prepare for it. In the covenant of the UN we renounced force as a means of settling disputes, and we mean it and take it for granted that your country means it also.”
When the interpreter had finished this last sentence the host pressed a button, and wine and cakes were brought in. While these were being consumed Stalin asked, “Is there anything I can do for you personally, to reward you for a long journey?”
Lanny had expected this and was prepared. “Yes, Marshal,” he replied. “Let me explain that I have a half-sister, now living in France. She was involved in one of the conspiracies against Hitler and was shut up in Leipzig concentration camp and tortured cruelly. Now she is recovering, but she is still far from normal. She has an uncle of whom she was very fond and of whom she asks frequently. You know him, I believe—Jesse Blackless. He is old and can hardly be of service to you any longer. If I could take him out with me to join his niece, it would be a favor.”
Thus the tactful diplomat; and the other’s face clouded. “I am sorry to have to tell you, Blackless died of pneumonia about a year ago. I overlooked the fact that he was your uncle or I would have taken steps to inform you.”
Lanny was shocked, and of course wondered if that story was exactly true or if his Red uncle had shared the fate of so many others of the Bolsheviks who had found themselves dissatisfied with a dictator’s policies. Lanny would never know; and all he could say was, “I am saddened to hear that news. It was Jesse who first brought me into touch with Socialist ideas. It was because I had some of his literature in my pocket that I had my first brush with the police—that was in Paris, just after World War I. He and I had something to do with Lincoln Steffens being sent to Russia.”
“Is there anything you would like to see in this country?” inquired Stalin, changing the subject; and Lanny said, “No, sir, it is my duty to take your message back to President Truman at once.”
“I will arrange for you to be flown to Stockholm tomorrow,” said the other, and they shook hands.
34
Hope to the End
I
Lanny’s plane did not fly until noon; meantime Captain Briansky inquired if he would like to visit the Ballet School. The Marshal himself had suggested this, because Harry Hopkins, on his visit a year ago, had expressed such interest in this world-famous institution. Hopkins had told the Marshal how much the visit had pleased him, and the Marshal had replied that he had been twenty-eight years in Moscow and had never seen the place. Later he had followed Mr. Hopkins’ example and thought that Mr. Budd might like to do the same.
Such a message was a command, and Lanny was driven to the great institution, which had survived two wars and a revolution, and whose graduates had taught the world a fascinating variety of art. He was introduced to the instructors, and to the ballerinas en masse; they were all a-twitter with excitement over meeting an American who was a friend of both Marshal Stalin and President Roosevelt. He watched their training for an hour or two, and when he told them that in his boyhood he had studied at the Dalcroze School in Hellerau, they plied him with questions about this method. To an outsider there might have been something comical in the sight of a tall gentleman of forty-five, clad in tweeds, demonstrating gymnastics which were supposed to be executed by young people in scant, tight-fitting black bathing suits. But to these Russians dance techniques were the most serious things in the world, and when Lanny showed them by what motions massed group of performers had manifested pity and terror, they felt themselves in hell with Orpheus and Eurydice.
Then back to the hotel, and after a generous lunch with the affable captain Lanny was driven to the airport and seated in a plane, again with blacked-out windows. A few hours later he was in Stockholm, where a reservation to London had been made for him. Early next morning he rose into a cloudless sky. He reached Croydon Airport well before dark, and his London hotel in time to do his telephoning, both to Irma at the Castle and to Laurel in New Jersey. Irma’s protests had been feeble, and three seats had been engaged for the following afternoon. The American Embassy had ordered them, and it appeared that they had some influence with Pan-American Airways.
II
Next morning, Lanny read in The Times that this was the ninetieth birthday of George Bernard Shaw, and that in honor of the occasion his friends had assembled an exhibition of his books, manuscripts, playbills, and posters. The presidential agent had been thinking about Shaw, who had been at Hellerau, the object of eager if discreet curiosity to three musketeers of the arts, Lanny, Rick, and Kurt Meissner. Shaw had then been fifty-seven, and now he was ninety. What had those years done to him?
The showing was by invitation, and Lanny strolled to the new home of the National Book League in Albemarle Street.
He introduced himself to the director as the secret agent who had testified against Göring at Nürnberg, and also as the friend and collaborator of the playwright, Sir Eric Vivian Pomeroy-Nielson. He received a card and joined a couple of hundred of the elect in letters, politics, and society assembled in the handsome eighteenth-century rooms. He listened attentively and applauded politely the addresses of John Masefield, president of the League, and Dean Inge, the speaker of the day, both of them witty and urbane.
Then the guests moved around to look at one famous name in several hundred different sizes and styles of type, framed and hanging on walls, or seen through the glass of showcases. First editions of everything from An Unsocial Socialist to In Good King Charles’s Golden Days, and the anniversary book prepared for this occasion, large, and labeled in large letters: G.B.S. 90. There were framed playbills and large posters of Arms and the Man, Man and Superman, Back to Methuselah, and the other great successes of stage and screen, some from performances given in France, Germany, and other European countries. The guests were amused by a framed letter dated 1875, from a firm of “estate agents” who testified in guarded terms that George B. Shaw who had been in their employ and who was now leaving was an earnest and diligent worker whom they could conscientiously recommend and for whose future they had good hopes.
The director came alongside Lanny and said in a low voice, “Don’t leave yet, it’s just possible that Shaw may come in.” So the P.A. waited, and saw the tall, thin old gentleman with the famous white whiskers, the baby-pink skin, and bright blue eyes. He wore an inconspicuous business suit, a trifle shabby—since no one there had anything else in these days. He walked about, looking at the record of his life. He held himself proudly erect, but Lanny thought that he was a trifle tottery on his legs.
The art expert was introduced to the world’s most famous writer, and found his manner as mild and benevolent as his pen was sharp. Lanny inquired whether he remembered the Festspiel in the year of 1913; when the playwright said that he did, Lanny remarked, “I was one of the small boys who danced in the chorus of the demons in Gluck’s Orpheus. Outside, I had stood and looked at you for some time, but I was too shy to speak. I remember the wind blowing over the bright meadow—Hellerau—and there were lovely glints of gold in your beard.”
“I much prefer it as it is,” responded the nonagenarian. “It is a mark of experience.”
“I was reminded of those days yesterday morning when I visited the Ballet School in Moscow. I found that the students there didn’t know about Dalcroze, and they begged me to give a demonstration. I found it less easy at the age of forty-five than I had at thirteen.”
“You will find it still less easy when you are twice forty-five,” remarked the old gentleman with a touch of grimness. “Did I understand you to tell me that you were in Moscow yesterday?”
“I was flown here. And this afternoon I am to be flown to Washington. I have an appointment with President Truman, and it occurs to me that you might like to send him a message.”
The playwright studied the face of the well-dressed American for a moment, then said, “Tell your President that I consider him the most unfortunate of men. In time he will find out why.”
“I think he knows it already, sir. But you know, it is the role of the hero to turn misfortune into triumph. You may see it happen in the White House.”
“Tell him to hurry,” replied G.B.S. “I am not planning to stay much longer to watch the follies of this tormented human race.”
“I have studied Back to Methuselah,” said Lanny, “and I know how the elders are bored with the young. Thank you for your patience, sir.” He moved on to give way to others who wished to speak to the great man. Before leaving, he thanked the friendly director and inquired, “How did you get him to come?” The reply was, “That was easy; we told him not to.”
III
The three were to fly from Croydon Airport. Irma wouldn’t come to town—she was so ill pleased with her ex-husband. His lordship drove his stepdaughter in and turned her over to her father. Scrubbie was in the hotel, but Lanny told him to keep out of sight—no point in mentioning that he was going along.
The route was by way of the Azores and Bermuda direct to Washington; pleasant weather and an uneventful trip. From Boiling Field Lanny phoned his wife to say that all were well and asked her to phone Robbie. Frances and the RAF captain would ride on what was called a “rubberneck wagon” and look at white marble buildings while Lanny attended to business. He called the White House and asked for the secretary; after some delay he was told that President Truman would receive him at nine that evening.
IV
It wasn’t like going to F.D.R. and finding him in bed. Truman sat at his desk—he had to sign his name an average of six hundred times every twenty-four hours, he told Lanny, and constitutionally there was no way to escape it. He would sign some at night and get up at half-past five to finish; still he looked fresh—the Lord in whom he put his trust had endowed him with a tough constitution. He looked up at his agent, smiled, and held out a vigorous hand. “Well, Mr. Budd—you saw him?”
“I spent about three hours with him.”
“And what did you accomplish?”
“I fear not much. I don’t want to delude you or myself. I brought you some fine generalities, which may or may not preclude hostile actions. Only time can tell.”
“Let me hear about it,” commanded the other, and the P.A. told the long story. He was brief about what he himself had said, for Truman had already heard that. Following his notes point by point, he told everything that Stalin had said. The President interrupted only a few times, to make sure of some detail. When it was over he asked, “What do you make of it?”
“The longer I think it over,” replied the messenger, “the less I know what to say. He made exactly the same protestations to me four years ago. Then he desperately needed help; now he has had the help, and his words are the same but his actions are different. I don’t even know how much power he has or how much he uses. He didn’t ask me to meet any of his associates, as he called them, and I don’t know whether he will think it worth while to tell them what I said. I put a set of ideas into his mind, and we shall have to wait for his actions to find out if they had any effect. If you ask my advice, I’d give it in the maxim ‘Trust in God, but keep your powder dry.’”
“That is a pretty depressing story,” commented the President.
“As much so to me as to you,” was the reply. “But we must never make the mistake of taking words for deeds. The words I spoke to him would have moved any true Socialist; if they fail to move Stalin it will be because the Soviet revolution has turned into Russian imperialism. It will mean that he respects only force, and we shall have to make it clear that we understand that language. I don’t expect you to agree with me, Mr. President, that this country has got to have social ownership of its basic industries; but we can agree this far, that whatever we have, it will be what our people want and not what outsiders force upon us.”
“You are right,” exclaimed the ex-farm boy.
V
Laurel had stepped into the car and driven to Washington to meet the party. Three rooms in a hotel was a lot to ask, but the White House secretary arranged it. When Lanny and Laurel were alone in one of these rooms she came and sat beside him, saying with a happy smile, “I have written you a poem!”
He showed due husbandly interest, and she went on, “Not very much of a poem—only four lines! When you go on one of these long journeys I can never get away from the dreadful thought that you may never come back. I go to sleep asking myself, ‘What would this world be like without him? Could I love life again, ever? Would I want to continue this struggle against evil?’ Then I dream of you, and awaken in tears. All that set me to thinking about the strange thing we call memory—the reality of you in my mind. I tried to tell myself that if you were never to return”—her voice broke for a moment—“I should not have lost you; you would be with me still in the de
eps of my own mind. So I comforted myself to sleep and dreamed of you, and when I came half awake, four little lines came singing themselves, and I called them ‘Memory.’”
She put the paper into his hands, and he read:
In my mind I see you yet,
Great in dignity and grace;
Never think I could forget
The trusting sweetness of your face!
Lanny took her hands and held them. “Darling,” he said, “you are a poet as well as a storywriter. Poets know secrets that ordinary people miss. You would always have me with you because you have created some of me in your own mind—much better than I am. Kiss me, and we’ll have another pleasant memory!”
VI
In the morning they set out for Edgemere. It was Thursday, and Lanny hadn’t missed a single one of the precious broadcasts. The guest of the evening was the editor of the New Leader, who was going to talk about the causes of depressions and by what signs you could recognize the coming of the next one in America. When they reached home Lanny would take a long walk and think up the story he wanted to tell on his part of the show.
Meantime he felt free to tell them where he had been and a little of what he had heard—under the seal of secrecy. He would tell Rick and Nina also, and Professor Alston and his father, but no one else. Frances listened, entranced; to her, Moscow was a legendary place, and Stalin a name of awe; but her wonderful father could go there and return, in less than one week! She listened to the discussions of what he had said and what the Red dictator had answered; she would listen to the radio talks, and the discussions of these—all those disturbing ideas which her mother and grandmother had tried so hard to keep from her. Being young and emotional, she would take fire and turn a violent Pink. Scrubbie, also, was of that hue, and she would fall head over heels in love with him, and marry him instead of a duke; she would agree with Lanny’s ideas instead of her mother’s, and so would be lost forever to Wickthorpe Castle. Who could tell, she might even get elected to Parliament some day, and rise up and answer Lady Astor—a Budd of Connecticut versus a Langhorne of Virginia!
O Shepherd, Speak! Page 71
