“He doesn’t care, Lanny! He’s in love with me.”
“Well, he oughtn’t to be—at least, I mean, he oughtn’t try to take you away from us!”
VI
Lanny Budd, in the middle of his fifteenth year, had to sit down and figure out this complicated man and woman business. He had been collecting data from various persons, over a large section of Europe. They hadn’t left him to find out about it in his own way, they had forced it upon him: Baron Livens-Mazursky, Dr. Bauer-Siemans, the Social-Democratic editor, Beauty, Marcel and Harry, Edna and Ezra Hackabury, Miss Noggyns and Rosemary, Sophie and her lover—Lanny had seen them embracing one evening on the deck of the Bluebird—Mrs. Emily, who had a leading French art critic as her ami, old M. France and his Madame de Caillavet and his Argentine actress—to say nothing of his jokes about the leading ladies and gentlemen of history, rather horrid persons, some of them. King Louis XV had said to one of his courtiers that one woman was the same as another, only first she must be bathed and then have her teeth attended to.
In this world into which Lanny Budd had been born, love was a game which people played for their amusement; a pastime on about the same level as bridge or baccarat, horse racing or polo. It was, incidentally, a duel between men and women, in which each tried to achieve prestige in the eyes of the other; that was what the salons were for, the dinner parties, the fashionable clothes, the fine houses, the works of art. Lanny couldn’t have formulated that, but he observed the facts, and in a time of stress understanding came to him.
Concealment was an important aspect of nearly all love, as Lanny had observed it; and this seemed to indicate that many people disapproved of the practice—the church people, for example. He had never been to church, except for a fashionable wedding, or to look at stained-glass windows and architecture. But he knew that many society people professed to be religious, and now and then they repented of their love affairs and became actively pious. This was one of the most familiar aspects of life in France, and in French fiction. Sophie’s mother-in-law, an elderly lady of the old nobility with a worthless and dissipated son, lived alone, wore black, kept herself surrounded by priests and nuns, and prayed day and night for the soul of the prodigal.
Of course, there were married persons who managed to stay together and raise families. Robbie was apparently that sort; he never went after women, so far as Lanny had heard; but he seldom referred to his family in Connecticut, so it hardly existed for the boy. Apparently the Pomeroy-Nielsons also got along with each other; but Lanny had heard so much of extramarital adventures, he somehow took it for granted that if you came to know a person well enough, you’d find some hidden affaire.
The fashionable people had a code under which they did what they pleased, and he had never heard any of them question this right. But evidently the outside world did question it, and that seemed to put the fashionable ones in a trying position. They had always to guard against a thing called “a scandal.” Lanny had commented upon this to Rick, who explained that “a scandal” was having your affaire get into newspapers. Because of the libel laws, this could happen only if it was dragged into court. In English country houses, everybody would know that Lord Black and Lady White were lovers, and all hostesses would put them in adjoining rooms; but never a word would be said about it, except among the “right” people, and it was an unforgivable offense to betray another person’s love affair or do anything that would bring publicity upon it.
Lanny had been officially taught the “facts of life,” and so was beginning to know his way about in society. He had come to know who was whose, so to speak, and at the same time he knew that he wasn’t supposed to know—unless the persons themselves allowed him to. There were things he mustn’t say to them, and others he must never say to anyone. The persons he met might be doing something very evil, but if there hadn’t been “a scandal,” they would be received in society, and it wasn’t his privilege to set up a code and try to enforce it.
It had never before occurred to Lanny to find any serious fault with his darling Beauty. But now his quick mind could not fail to put two and two together. For years he had been hearing her tell her friends that she refused to “pay the price”; and now, how could he keep from believing that she was changing her mind? It was painful to have to face the idea that his adored mother might be selling herself to a handsome young millionaire in order to be able to have her gowns made by Paquin or Poiret, and to wear long ropes of genuine pearls as her friend Emily Chattersworth did! He told himself that there must be some reason why she was no longer happy with Marcel. The only thing he could think of was the painter’s efforts to keep her from gambling, and from running into debt and losing her sleep. But Lanny had decided that Marcel was right about that.
VII
“I must go and see Isadora,” said Mrs. Emily. “Maybe Lanny would like to go along.”
Lanny cried: “Oh, thank you! I’d love it—more than anything.” For years he had been hearing about Isadora, and once he had seen her at a lawn party at Cannes, but he had never had an opportunity to meet her or even to see her dance. People raved about her in such terms that to the boy she was a fabulous being.
Harry Murchison telephoned, and when Beauty told him about the proposed trip, he begged to be allowed to drive them. Mrs. Emily gave her consent; it appeared that she was promoting the affair between Harry and Beauty, giving the latter what she considered sensible advice.
They set out, Lanny riding in the front seat beside the young scion of plate glass, who laid himself out to be agreeable. But Lanny was hard to please; he was polite, but reserved; he knew quite well that he wasn’t being wooed for his own beautiful eyes. Harry Murchison was well dressed and dignified, and had been to college and all that, but his best friend couldn’t have claimed that he was a brilliant talker. When it came to questions of art and the imagination, he would listen for a while, trying to find something to say that was safe.
For example, Harry had seen Isadora Duncan dance; and what could he say about it? He said that she danced on an empty stage, and with bare feet, and that people in Pittsburgh had considered that decidedly risqué. He said that she had an orchestra, and danced “classical” music—as if anybody had imagined her dancing a cake-walk! If you made him search his memory he might add that she had blue velvet curtains at the back of the stage, and wore draperies of different colors according to the music, and that people clapped and shouted and made her come on again and again.
But imagine Marcel Detaze talking about Isadora! In the first place, he would know what was unique in her art, and how it was related to other dancing. He would know the difference between free gestures and any sort of conventionalized form. He would know the names of the compositions she danced, and what they expressed—poignant grief, joy of nature, revolt against fate, springtime awakening—and as Marcel told you about them he would grieve, rejoice, revolt, or awaken. He would use many gestures, he would make you realize the feat that was being performed—one small woman’s figure, alone and without the aid of scenery, embodying the deepest experiences of the human soul; struck down with grief, lifted up in ecstasy, sweeping across the stage in such a tumult that you felt you were watching a great procession.
In short, Lanny was all for French temperament, as against American common sense. Of course, plate glass was useful, perhaps even necessary to civilization; but what did Harry Murchison have to do with it, except that he happened to be the grandson of a man who had known about it? Harry got big dividend checks, and would get bigger ones when his father and mother died; but that was all. He had sense enough to find Pittsburgh smoky and boring, and had come to Paris in search of culture and beauty. And that was all right—only let him find some other beauty than that upon which Lanny and Marcel had staked their claims!
Mrs. Emily in the back seat was telling about the affaires of Isadora, and Lanny turned his head to listen. The dancer was another person who had been experimenting with the sex life. She was a “fre
e lover”—a new term to Lanny. He gathered its meaning to be that she refused to conceal what she did. Defying the dreadful thing called “scandal,” she had had two children, one by a son of Ellen Terry, the actress, and the other by an American millionaire whom she called “Lohengrin.” The smart world could not overlook such an opportunity for entertaining itself, and delighted in a story that Isadora had once offered to have a child by Bernard Shaw, saying that such a child would have her beauty and his brains; to which the skeptical playwright had replied: “Suppose it should have my beauty and your brains?”
The jealous fates would not permit a woman to believe too much in happiness, or to practice what she preached. Early in the previous year a dreadful tragedy had befallen those two lovely children. They had been left in an automobile, and apparently the chauffeur had failed to set the brakes properly. The car had rolled down hill, crashed into a bridge, and plunged into deep water; the children had been taken out dead. The distracted mother had wandered over Europe, hardly knowing what she did; but now her friend “Lohengrin” had taken charge of her, and had purchased a great hotel in the environs of Paris, and Isadora was trying to restore herself to life by teaching other people’s children to dance—and incidentally, so Mrs. Emily revealed, by having another child of her own.
VIII
The hotel at Bellevue was a large place with several hundred rooms; a commonplace building, but with lovely gardens sloping to the river, and from the terrace in front of it a view over the whole of Paris. The dining room had been turned into the dancing room, and there were Isadora’s blue velvet curtains. Tiers of seats had been built on each side, where the pupils sat while the lessons were given on the floor. The teachers were the older pupils; the school had been going for only a few months, but already they had been able to give a festival at the Trocadéro and rouse an audience to transports of delight.
Isadora Duncan was a not very large woman, with abundant dark brown hair, regular features, a gentle, sad expression, and a figure of loveliness and grace. She had come from California, unknown and without resources, except her genius, and had created an art which held vast audiences spellbound in all the capitals of Europe and America. Even now, expecting a baby in a few days, she would step forward to show her troop of children some gesture; she would make a few simple movements against the background of her blue curtains, and something magical would happen, a spirit would be revealed, an intimation of glory. Even reclining on a couch, making motions with arms and hands, Isadora was noble and inspiring.
The music of a piano sounded and a group of children swung into action, eager, alert, radiating joy. Lanny Budd’s whole being leaped with them. It took him back to Hellerau, but it was different, more spontaneous, lacking the basis of drill. In “Dalcroze” there was science; but these children caught a spirit—and Lanny, too, had that spirit; he knew instantly what they were doing. He could hardly keep his seat; for dancing is not something to be watched, it is something to be done.
Afterward they had lunch in the garden, the visitors, the teachers, and the children. “Lohengrin” was pouring out this prodigality, and to Lanny the place seemed a sort of artists’ heaven. The children, boys and girls of all ages, wore tunics of bright colors; they lived on vegetarian foods, but it didn’t keep them from having bright cheeks and eyes, and hearts full of love for Isadora, and for the beauty they were helping to create. Lanny exclaimed: “Oh, I’d like to come here, Beauty! Do you suppose Isadora would take me?”
“Perhaps she would,” said Beauty; and Mrs. Emily said she would ask her, if they meant it. Mrs. Emily had helped Isadora to become known, and the lovely white feet had danced more than once on the lawn under the chestnut trees at Les Forêts.
But suddenly Lanny thought, was he free just then to think about dancing? Didn’t he have to stay with Beauty, and watch over her, and try to save poor Marcel from having his happiness ruined? Oh, this accursed sex problem!
Artists came to Bellevue, and sat upon a platform in the center of the hall and made sketches of the dancing children. At Meudon, not far away, was the studio of a famous sculptor, Auguste Rodin; a sturdy son of the people with a great spade beard, broad features, and ponderous form. He was an old man now, becoming feeble, but he could still make wonderful sketches. He sat near Lanny and, when the dancing was over, talked about the loveliness of it, and wished he could have had such models for all his work—models who lived, and moved, and brought harmony before the eyes in a thousand shifting forms. Lanny thought that this old man himself had been able to make marble and bronze live and move; he tried to say it, and the sculptor put his big hand on the boy’s head, and told him to come to the studio some day and see the works which had not yet been given to the world.
Driving into Paris, the ladies talked about Rodin, who also was providing evidence about the love life! He was getting into his dotage, and had fallen prey to an American woman, married to a Frenchman who bore one of the oldest and proudest names in history. “But that doesn’t keep them from being bad characters,” said Mrs. Emily. She told how this pair had preyed upon the old artist and got him to sign away much of his precious work.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear!” exclaimed Beauty Budd. “What pitiful creatures men are!” She meant it for Harry, of course; but Lanny heard it and agreed. People wished to take love as a source of pleasure, but it seemed to bring them torment. The primrose path had thorns in it, and as time passed these thorns became dry and hard and sharper than a serpent’s tooth.
They came into Paris at the hour when the shops and factories were closing, and the streets swarming with people. The crowds did not seem to be hurrying as usual; they would form groups and stand talking together. The newsboys were shouting everywhere, and the headlines on the papers were big enough so that motorists could read without stopping. LA GUERRE! was the gist of them all. Austria had that day declared war upon Serbia! And what was Russia going to do? What would Germany do? And France? And England? People stared at one another, unable to grasp the awful thing that was crashing upon the world.
11
C’est la Guerre
I
Beautiful flowers bloomed in the garden that was Europe. They spread wide petals to the sunshine, trusting the security of the warm and sheltered place. Over them fluttered butterflies, also of splendid hues and delicate structure, loving the sunlight, floating upon peace and stillness. But suddenly came a tempest, harsh and blind, tearing the fragile wings of the butterflies, hurling them against the branches of trees or into the sodden ground; ripping the petals off the flowers, stripping the foliage, leaving bare wrecked limbs to mock the lovers of beauty. So it was with Lanny Budd during the next dreadful week, and so with all the persons he knew, and with countless millions of others, from Land’s End to Vladivostok, from Archangel to the Cape of Good Hope. It was the worst week in the history of Europe—and there were many more to follow.
Lanny had been expecting his friend Kurt Meissner in Paris; but several days before had come a letter from Kurt, written on a Channel steamer, saying that his father had telegraphed him to return home at once, taking the first boat by way of the Hook of Holland. Kurt had been worried, thinking there must be illness in his family; but now Lanny understood what had happened—Herr Meissner had known what was coming. In London and Paris one heard many stories about Germans who had received such warnings, and had taken measures for their personal safety or their financial advantage. Here and there one had even passed on a discreet “tip” to an American friend.
Lanny and his mother came to Paris, and Robbie showed up there on the morning after Austria declared war. He wouldn’t lack advance information, be sure! He said that a salesman of armaments wouldn’t have to do any more traveling now; the governments would find him wherever he was. The thing had come which Robbie had said couldn’t possibly come; but it didn’t take him long to adjust himself to it. “All right, it’s what Europe wants, let them have it.” Budd’s would continue to turn out products, and anybody co
uld buy them who came with the cash. Somebody had been telling Robbie about Shaw’s Major Barbara, so now he talked impressively about “the Creed of the Armorer.”
It was good to have Robbie at hand in a time like this; self-possessed as ever, a firm rock of counsel, also a checkbook open to friends in trouble. He and Beauty and Lanny settled down to a conference; and presently Harry Murchison came into it—forcing himself in, by taking his problem to Robbie. They had met once before and were on friendly terms, Harry being the sort of fellow that Robbie approved.
“Mr. Budd,” said he, “I don’t know why you and Beauty parted, and I’m not interested; but I know you’re still her friend, and she listens to you, and I wish you’d give her sensible advice. I want to marry her—right now—today—and take her out of this hell that’s starting here. She can have a new life in America; I’ll do most anything she asks, give her anything she can think of. As for Lanny, I’ll take care of him, or you can—I like the boy, and we’ll be the best of friends if he’ll let me. Surely that’s a fair offer!”
Robbie thought it was; and so the whole situation was forced into the open. Lanny talked to his father, not merely about Marcel, but about Baron Livens-Mazursky, and Dr. Bauer-Siemans, and the Hackaburys, and Isadora, and Anatole France, and all the rest; he had to make Robbie understand how he came to know so much about love, and why he was taking it upon himself to keep a French painter from losing his beautiful blond mistress. Robbie didn’t have much use for either Frenchmen or painters, but he was very much for Lanny, and couldn’t help being tickled by this odd situation, a sensitive, idealistic kid undertaking to make a hero out of his mother’s lover—and seeming very likely to get away with it. It was clear that Beauty was still half in love with her painter; the other half in love with the idea of becoming a respectable American lady, wife of a man who could give her security and position. Which would she choose?