Wide Is the Gate

by Upton Sinclair

  Britain and France had been playing as partners, but were greedy and suspicious, each of the other, and Britain was willing to let Germany grow stronger in order to keep France from growing too strong. So France turned to Russia, which she hated, trying to work out a deal for common defense against a greater danger. Hitler and Mussolini, two upstarts jealous of each other, were ready to break all the rules of the game in the effort to grab something for themselves. Pierre Laval, fresh from a visit to Moscow, paid one to Rome, in which he cooked up a deal with Mussolini pledging them both to mutual assistance should Germany take what was called “unilateral action” in the matter of rearming. Meanwhile the British Foreign Secretary was angling for an invitation to Munich in order to negotiate with Hitler the terms on which Britain might grant him permission to rearm. Then, of course, it wouldn’t be “unilateral action”!

  Such was the state of affairs on the sixteenth of March, when Hitler in one of those sudden moves which Europe was learning to know to its terror, upset the continental chessboard by announcing conscription and universal military service in Germany; also that the army, which the Versailles treaty had limited to a hundred thousand men, was to be increased to more than five hundred thousand. At the same time he issued to the German people one of those flamboyant manifestoes, which to Lanny Budd was like hearing his raucous scolding voice. For the ten-thousandth time “Adi” recited the outrages of the Versailles Diktat; for the ten-thousandth time he repeated the tale which he had invented and taught to the German people, that the Allies had promised at Versailles to disarm themselves; for the ten-thousandth time he made that declaration of peaceful and honorable intentions which cost him nothing and was worth several army corps to him and his party:

  “In this hour the German government renews before the German people, before the entire world, its assurance of its determination never to proceed beyond the safeguarding of German honor and freedom of the Reich, and especially does it not intend in rearming Germany to create any instrument for warlike attack, but, on the contrary, exclusively for defense and thereby for the maintenance of peace. In so doing, the German Reich government expresses the confident hope that the German people, having again reverted to their own honor, may be privileged in independent equality to make their contribution toward the pacification of the world in free and open co-operation with other nations and their governments.”

  V

  A great many people thought that Adolf Hitler Schicklgruber was insane, and they wrote and talked that way concerning him. When Lanny’s friends asked him about this, he replied that it might be a question of definition. If Adi was a lunatic, he was one of that well-known kind which possesses and displays the utmost cunning. He had learned about the British habit of weekends, and so he made it a rule to announce his bold moves on a Saturday. No British statesman could possibly take action on that day, and every British statesman would have all day Sunday to pray over it, to contemplate the horrors of war and work himself into a state of conscientiousness. He would threaten and bluster, of course; he had to do that in order to be re-elected, but he wouldn’t take any action—so Adi figured.

  For a while Lanny Budd was fooled, and thought that the Versailles law—the only law that poor Europe had—was going to be enforced. The French government issued a call for common action, and French troops moved up to the German border. The British liberal and labor papers, those which Lanny read, all clamored for the ending of this intolerable menace. The statesmen rushed here and there like ants whose nest has been upset; they argued and scolded and issued high-sounding pronouncements. The French appealed to the League of Nations, whose duty it was to enforce the law, and the League summoned its Council to decide upon a course.

  Lanny, the optimist, cherished the dream that Nazism was going to be checked at last, and he was disconcerted by the letter which came from his English chum, saying: “What’s the use of getting excited about German rearmament when you know that it’s been going on for years? And don’t make the mistake of expecting any action from the sort of statesmen we have here. The British lion is old and has lost nearly all his teeth.”

  Lanny couldn’t believe it, and waited in a state of tension which threatened to interfere with his health. He composed a long letter to Rick, which caused his friend to protest: “No good convincing me. Convince Ramsay, the world’s worst maker of phrases! Convince Simon, the world’s worst pettifogging lawyer!”

  Sir John Simon, British Foreign Secretary, had spent his long life confusing property-rights, and thought to confuse Hitler in the same way. Or, at any rate, so Rick said of him. The big Tory papers were all for “peace,” and they were the papers from which nine-tenths of the British people got their ideas. As for the League, it hadn’t stopped Japan from taking Manchuria, and wasn’t ever going to stop any greedy power from taking whatever it could. The Nazi tiger was coming out of his cage—one small step at a time, and very softly, on padded feet, purring most beautiful phrases about making his contribution toward the pacification of the jungle in free and open co-operation with other predatory beasts.

  Lanny couldn’t give up his hope. How could a man go on living in a world such as Rick portrayed—a world governed by knaves or fools, or a combination of both? Something ought to be done, and Lanny was getting unhappy with himself about it. Here he was dressing up and helping to entertain his wife’s friends; taking her out to parties whose sole distinction was the amount of money which had been squandered upon them; exchanging words of little consequence with persons who were considered distingues, not because they were wise or good, but because they had learned to spend their wealth upon highly conventionalized forms of costume and conduct. Lanny would drink tea, and dance, and bridle his tongue when political subjects were brought up. When he could stand no more of it he would go off to his studio and pound upon the piano—loudly enough to wake the ghosts of Marcel Detaze, who had painted the pictures on the walls of this studio, and of Great-Great-Uncle Eli Budd, who had willed Lanny most of the noble books which lined the rest of the wall-space.

  Irma had come to understand that she had drawn an odd card in the marriage lottery. She knew that he had to let off steam, and didn’t allow herself to be disturbed by thunderous sounds rolling over the estate. But after an hour or two, when she thought he had had a good “workout,” she would appear in the studio door clad in a Chinese silk wrapper with magnificent embroidery, plus a pair of bathing-slippers, and holding by the hand a lovely little daughter who had just celebrated her fifth birthday with a party for all the aristocratic children of Cannes and the Cap d’Antibes. “Come on, Beethoven,” she would say—or Chopin or Liszt, as she happened to guess. And of course Lanny couldn’t resist such condescension; he would slip into his bathing-suit and they would race down to the blue Mediterranean, the temperature of which was exactly right at this time of the year. So the grandson of Budd’s would forget the world’s woes and follow the advice offered to Alexander the Great:

  Lovely Thais sits beside thee,

  Take the good the gods provide thee.

  VI

  Now and then, in some newspaper or magazine—mostly the leftward and wishful-thinking ones—Lanny would come upon some reference to the underground movement of Nazi Germany and the great success it was having; then something would warm up inside him and he would have a few hours of deep inward peace. He dictated letters and mailed out copies of photographs of paintings which he recommended to his clients, and by April he had found purchasers for three more of Goring’s works. He was beginning to worry about not hearing from his fellow-conspirator; but at last came a note like the others: “If you see Herr Schmidt, the art dealer, tell him that I have some more sketches, which I hope he will interest himself in. Mueller.”

  Lanny had been preparing his wife, telling her of the orders he had got and suggesting a trip to Germany in the spring. Irma, for her part, had been preparing a more elaborate program. Her mother in the Long Island palace was clamoring about being neglected an
d not having seen her adored granddaughter for nearly a year. Irma had been afraid to take the child to America for fear of kidnapers; but now these seemed to have been all caught, and Irma wasn’t the sort of person to stay worried about anything very long. Said she: “Let’s go and spend at least part of the summer, and see how Robbie’s getting along with his job.”

  They would visit Berlin and then sail from Bremen, or from London in case Lanny wanted to see Rick. They would motor, of course; and just as they were discussing whether to go by way of Paris or Vienna, there came a postcard from Pietro Corsatti, American-born Italian who represented a New York newspaper in Rome. They hadn’t heard from him for a long time, but would never forget him because of the part he had played in helping to get them married. Now he wrote on a picture postcard showing an alluringly colored scene, a blue lake, a little island with a huge vine-covered palace having a red roof, and behind it green mountains capped with snow. “Isola Bella” was its name—Beautiful Isle—and underneath it “Pete” had written: “Another gab-fest. Why not come and listen in?”

  Irma, who rarely read the newspapers, didn’t know what this meant; Lanny explained that at Stresa, on Lago Maggiore in the Italian Alps, the statesmen of Britain, France, and Italy were assembling in the effort to agree upon a program to tie Hitler down and make him behave. Pete’s suggestion struck a spark in an amateur publicist’s soul. Over a period of many years he had been wont to grace these international gatherings with his airy presence; he knew most of the correspondents and some of the diplomats, and it was fun to watch history in process. He said: “Wickthorpe will probably be with the British staff.” Irma replied: “Let’s go!”

  After their fashion, at half a day’s notice, they tossed their things into their bags: winter things as well as summer, because, while it would be warm in Italy, there would be heavy snows in the Alpine passes. No need to make detailed plans; they would go like the wind, where they listed, and in due time would write or wire instructions for their packing, and for the twenty-three-million-dollar child and her staff. Beauty was staying on at Bienvenu, having not yet decided upon plans for herslf and husband; she might be in England visiting Margy when Irma and Lanny arrived. Such was the delightful way of the rich. When a hot spell came, they picked up and moved to the north; when chill winds arose, they fled south again; they were birds of passage, beautiful and elegant birds of passage for whom the modern world had been made.

  VII

  First the route along the Cote d’Azur, to Lanny as familiar as the letters which composed his name. Then the Italian Riviera, full of exciting memories. All border passport controllers had little books with alphabetical lists of undesirable characters; but Lanny’s sins were elven years old, and he trusted that the list wouldn’t go back that far, and it didn’t. Up through the passes to Milan at the loveliest season of the year, with fruit trees in full blossom, turning the humblest garden into a place of magic, filling the air with delicious scents. Lanny loved this country and its people—at least the poor ones, so cheerful and friendly—and he jabbered away with them whenever he had a chance. If he hated those in authority he kept his mouth shut—even when alone with his wife, who considered all authority as necessary, or it wouldn’t exist.

  Lanny knew the beautiful mountain lake, forty or fifty miles long. Stresa is one of its smaller towns, popular with tourists and crowded with tile-roofed villas and hotels. They hadn’t wired for accommodations, because Lanny thought his name might attract the attention of his old enemies, the Fascist Militi. There were plenty of other resorts along the shore, and no trouble to drive a few miles. The precaution proved wise, for never had a conference been so thoroughly policed. Perhaps it was the recent killing of King Alexander and Barthou; Mussolini was harboring some of those conspirators and protecting them, but when he himself was on the scene it was quite another matter.

  Here in Stresa the carabinieri were everywhere, and in hotels and other public places were swarms of men whom no one had trouble in recognizing as detectives. The sessions were held on a tiny island having one great palace and nothing else, so there was no difficulty in protecting its secrets; motor-boats with armed police kept intruders away, and an airplane overhead made certain that no adventurous revolutionist dropped bombs on visiting statesmen. Lanny and his wife arrived after dark, and the first thing they noted was searchlights in the sky and others sweeping the surface of the lake from motor-boats.

  Lanny thought it the part of wisdom to establish his social status; so, as soon as they were in their suite, he put in a call to the hotel which had been set aside as headquarters of the delegations. It was evident from the sounds on the telephone line that one or more persons were listening in, and that was what he wanted. He asked for the secretary of Lord Wickthorpe. “Certainly, Mr. Budd, I am sure His Lordship will be glad to speak to you.” Then, after a wait: “His Lordship wishes to know if you and Mrs. Budd will come for tea tomorrow afternoon.” After that, Lanny could be sure that, however carefully the authorities might watch him, they wouldn’t request him to leave.

  VIII

  At these conferences there was always a press headquarters, a sort of clubhouse for the swarms of correspondents. Thus it was easy to get hold of Pietro Corsatti. Would he have dinner? Indeed he would; but why not come with Pietro and meet some of the bunch? This pleased Lanny more than anything; it had been his function to pay the bill, and his privilege to listen while the men who knew what was going on in the world shared their “tips” with one another. Most of them had known the grandson of Budd’s over a period of years; he wouldn’t betray any confidences, and if they mentioned him and his plush-lined wife as among the visitors at a diplomatic “gab-fest,” that would enhance the prestige of a budding Salonniere. The newsmen liked Irma because she was easy-going and informal, having been trained in cafe society; they cultivated Lanny because he had social contacts which might make him a source of news.

  The correspondents were having the devil of a time here at Stresa, they reported. Never had speech-making statesmen been kept so aloof as out on that island, where Napoleon had once entertained an Italian diva. The future of Europe for a hundred years might depend on what they were deciding, but the information you got was contradictory, and the Americans were having to pad their dispatches with accounts of Blackshirt parades and the loveliness of almond blossoms. The journalist with an Italian name and a Brooklyn accent cried desperately: “For Pete’s sake, get Wickthorpe to spill some beans!” Lanny replied: “For Pete’s sake, I’ll do what I can.”

  Laval and Flandin were representing France; a queer pair, one squat, the other several inches taller than anybody else and that much duller. Pete said they were the calamity twins of France, and MacDonald and Simon were the same for England. Il Duce was here, representing himself; he had just issued decrees doubling his own army, and now France and England were trying to buy him to some program that would at least look like restraining Hitler. What price was Musso demanding, and how much of it was he going to get? These were the questions which tormented the journalists; and the extreme secrecy meant bad luck for somebody. Austria, perhaps? Or was it Abyssinia? “Poor niggers!” exclaimed one of the Americans; he had read Thoreau in his youth, and didn’t like killing, but fate had made him into a war correspondent, and his editors had sent him here because they thought that something was “cooking.”

  A few months ago there had been an “incident” at a place called Ual-Ual, which wasn’t in any gazetteer, and which consisted of a well and some mud-huts in the Ogaden Desert near Italian Somaliland. Native troops accompanying a border commission had driven some Italian troops away. This had been an insult to Il Duce’s dignity, and his kept press denounced the intolerable conditions of disorder existing in this backward land. To watchful editors it meant that Mussolini was getting ready to start that empire which he had been promising his young Blackshirts for a matter of twelve or thirteen years. Pete pointed out that the headwaters of the Nile are in that land, and surely
Britain wasn’t going to let anybody dam them and divert them from the cotton-fields of the Sudan!

  So they argued, outspokenly, and Il Duce’s badly disguised detectives sat at near-by tables and listened, scowling. Lanny, the most vulnerable person there, said the least. Later in the evening they heard shouts in the square outside, and they left the trattoria and joined the throngs which were hailing their stuffed-shirt leader. “Duce! Duce!” They made it into a sort of chant, accenting and spacing the two syllables equally, so that nobody could have been sure whether they were saying “Doo-chay” or “Chay-doo.” The great empire-builder was in a hotel in front of them, and presently he appeared on a balcony, clad in breeches and riding-boots. Appearing on balconies is one of the principal functions of a dictator, and always a spotlight is ready to make him look grand in his shiny uniform—even if he is rather short and thick through the middle like the leader of the Fascisti.

  Fifteen years had passed since Lanny had first seen this man of destiny in San Remo, a thin, pasty-faced fellow with a little black mustache and a black suit and tie; a renegade Socialist editor, being cursed in public by one of the men he had betrayed. Now, walking on the Promenade with Irma and their friend, Lanny told the story of this encounter, and what he had learned about the “Blessed Little Pouter Pigeon” from a couple of his former associates. Before the World War he had appeared in Milan, a wretched half-starved youth whining about his syphilis, and the Socialists had taken him in, fed him, and taught him all he knew. Now those Socialists were dead, or in exile, or slowly dying on barren rocky islands in the Mediterranean; but this new Caesar was grown so great that he appeared on illuminated balconies, and when Americans wished to say what they thought of him they had to refer to him as “Mister Big.”