Weimer regarded him incredulously, smiling. He sat up, interested, wanting to hear more from this absurd fanatic. And yet, he kept glancing furtively at his friend, Adolf Schacht. Georges, for his part, tried, humorously, to catch the pale German’s eye. But Schacht was looking only at Peter; his eyes were narrowed.
He said coolly: “And if this is so, what can you, or anyone else, do about it?”
Peter shook his head hopelessly. “I don’t know. No one believes anything. We’re too prosperous, in America, to see the signs, or care to look for them. Besides, you’ve got to live in Europe.”
There was another silence, then Schacht began to speak, almost musingly: “I’m not laughing at you. I believe what you say. But I interpret the signs differently. I know, for instance, that Germany is overrun with Communists. I know that she is friendly to Russia, and open to Russian propaganda. You don’t particularly admire Russia, Mr. Bouchard? I thought not. Neither do we Germans. That is, the real Germans. We believe that Communism means the disintegration of everything that is prideful in a nation: patriotism, nationalism, racial integrity. You don’t like these things, do you? I can see that. But true Germans believe they are the holies of holies. Just as war, aggressive and conquering war, is holy.”
Peter interrupted: “I met hundreds of fine Germans who didn’t think war is holy. And they believe, as I do, that insane patriotism and banner-flying and drum-pounding are childish and dangerous and stupid. They believe, as I do, that men are men, whether their eyes are blue or brown, their hair yellow or black, and that they differ only in degree. They believe that patriotism is the deliberate poison manufactured by bad men who have something to gain by wars.”
Schacht waved his hand indulgently. “Perhaps so. But, you see, I don’t call those men ‘bad.’ I call them adenturers, perhaps. But excellent adventurers, who give nations excitement and glory, and the greatest pleasure of all: murder. You don’t think murder is a pleasure? Well, ask a soldier. Not a yellow coward, but a real soldier. A real man. A natural, normal, healthy man.
“But anyway, I interpret your signs differently. I think Germany will soon be aroused against Communism, and against everything which is destroying her patriotism and racialism. Such as the Jews, and the capitalists, and the liberals and democrats. I believe that Germany will destroy democracy, not only in Europe, but in America. For, you see, there are many just like me who believe that democracy is the most abominable philosophy ever to pollute government and pervert nature.”
He added, with such a low quiet viciousness in his voice that even the smiling Georges was startled: “Democracy! The doctrine that scum is as valuable as the strong! The theory that every man has the right to say what wars he shall die in, or what sort of society he shall live in! The philosophy that affirms a creature is human just because he has no tail to wag, and can stand on his hind legs! We’ll get rid of it, first in Germany, and then in all the rest of the world.”
Peter turned to Georges and said simply: “You see?”
But Georges said to Doctor Schacht: “You are quite a realist, aren’t you?”
“Certainly. Sentimentality, religion and wish-fantasies have been dominant too long in governments.”
Georges murmured: “As my wife would say: ‘Let us be honest and get down to fundamentals.’ Adolf, I don’t think Abraham Lincoln would have liked you.”
Schacht smiled. “I don’t think I should have liked Abraham Lincoln. He, like so many others, was the prophet of the non-existent He believed that all men are thinking animals who love freedom. He did not realize that freedom is the thing men fear the most, and hate the most, and that to urge them to think is to make them hate you. They love to be kicked and commanded; they love to be treated like the dumb beasts they are. It’s too much of a strain on them to expect them to act like human beings. Therefore, any system of government which affirms that these creatures have a right to vote, to order their way of life, is bound to be secretly hated by them, and easily overthrown. That is why it is going to be the easiest of all revolutions to overthrow democracy in every nation.”
Peter said: “There has never been any real democracy in Europe. But we have it in America. I don’t think you’ll find it so easy to destroy it here.”
Schacht burst out laughing. He stared at Peter derisively. “You don’t think so, Mr. Bouchard? I disagree with you. Animals are animals, no matter under what flag they live. An American mob is no brighter than an Italian one, or a French or German. See how easy it is to stir up prejudice and hatred right now, in America. The Ku Klux Klan, for instance, was a merciful opening through which you Americans could discharge your natural animal venom. As life becomes more complicated and more intense, you’ll have to make other openings, through which your people will be able to murder, torture, kill and destroy when the pressure gets too hard. Otherwise, you’ll have the bloodiest revolution in history.”
He smiled. “Take your choice: mob murders or war. But if you attempt to stop both, it’ll be the end of you. Men must kill. It is their primal instinct, and right. In Germany, for instance, they will soon turn to the Jews. More and more Germans are drawn to Hitler, because he has promised them a general pogrom. A pogrom will lance the suppressed abscess that is swelling in Germany. And is swelling in every other nation.”
“You draw a nice picture of the human race,” said Georges, grinning unpleasantly.
Schacht shrugged. “Nice or not, it’s an authentic one. Realists through all the centuries have made wars for the benefit of their people. Now we have idiots who try to suppress wars. So, there’s nothing left but the Jews. We can’t attack the Catholics so easily, any more. There are too many of them. And few people feel strongly enough about any religion to kill for it. I warn you: if you don’t want to be sickened by massacres of Jews, you’ll encourage healthy wars.”
Georges shook his head: “So long as American, workmen can buy silk shirts, and a Saturday-night woman, and a speedy little car, we won’t have wars, and we won’t have pogroms.”
Peter turned to him and said somberly: “But they won’t have silk shirts and women and cars much longer. Our family, and their friends, will see to that.”
Little Weimer, still on the grass, yawned again and said musingly: “I’m a doctor. I’m going to have a fine laboratory. I hope I can find a virulent-enough bug to kill off human infestation. You know, I don’t think the discoverer of an anti-toxin for tuberculosis and cancer and syphilis will be such a hero. The man deserving of God’s eternal gratitude will be the man who produces a toxin to destroy his kind in twenty-four hours.”
“Don’t worry,” said Peter, grimly. “The world still has the Bouchards and the Skedas and the Robsons-Strongs and the Kronks and the Schultz-Poirets.”
They all laughed. Schacht poked Peter playfully in the chest with one slight finger. “Don’t condemn your people. They are really life-savers. They lance the abscesses.”
Marion came around the side of the house, briskly. She was evidently annoyed at the disappearance of her husband and guests. “Georges, I must say! Doctor Schacht! There are so many people who want to meet you. And you, too, Peter.” She smiled at Adolf Schacht. “We all do so want to hear your next lecture, Doctor. When and where is it going to be, and what is the subject?”
“At the German-American Hall, in Yorkville, Mrs. Bouchard. On August 10th. ‘American Communism’ is to be the title.” He turned to Peter: “Will you come? I should like to have you there.”
“I’ll come,” said Peter. “We Americans can’t know too much about our enemies.”
Schacht stared at him. And then he burst out into enjoying laughter.
CHAPTER XLI
Henri listened to the somniferous sound of the brilliant blue water that lapped against the sides of the yacht. The striped awnings made a dim but luminous shade on the white deck, in which the jeweled ring of Annette’s little white finger sparkled vividly. His eyes were half-closed; he sprawled in his chair, his feet thrust out before him
. The yacht seemed to move as gently as a shadow on a sleeping breast. He could see the intense blue sky which merged with the intense blue sea. It was very hot, but the air was both fresh and strong, and burningly pure. Far off, a pale mauve line, was the coast of Long Island, but here was no sound but the soft creaking of the yacht, the flutter of awnings, the murmurous lapping of calm and glittering water.
The young man was half asleep; the heat and the silence and the gentle motion of the vessel made his thoughts run together and dissolve into mist. He was also extremely bored, and uneasy. Between his partially closed lashes he could see nothing but a colorful glare, and in the midst of it, inescapable, the little dropped white.hand with its sparkling ring. He closed his eyes; he could still see it. He moved restlessly against the weight of sleep, and looked at Annette.
She lay in her deck-chair, apparently sleeping. The luminous shadow made her small pale face glow like marble; her light fair ripples of hair were spread out, fanlike, on the deep blue cushions. Her white throat was delicate and frail; her relaxed arms translucent. Henri could see the blue veins in her slight wrists. Her thin white dress hardly rose over her small breasts; her legs were fleshless, though delicate, and defenseless in their relaxation. She was smiling slightly as she slept; her lashes were long and thick and bronze on a cheek that was faintly flushed, as though by a reflection. Henri thought: Poor little thing. He was aware of her sweet and porcelain prettiness, so fragile and piteous. But it was a prettiness which revolted him. The robustness which was his nature turned away from fragility, especially a fragility which had no strong health in it.
Irritation pricked him. The girl sighed, lifted a hand and put it under her cheek. She sighed again. The bronze eyelashes fluttered a moment, did not part. He was relieved. He had no desire to talk to Annette.
He had long ago come to respect her intelligence, and the white integrity of her mind. Because she was much less healthy and vital than Celeste, she was much more patient, much gentler, much more understanding. There was no strength like Celeste’s in her, but there was no sternness, no inflexibility. Celeste, Henri had discovered, could be enormously stubborn. But Annette was never stubborn. He thought it was because she was ill. But he was wrong. Annette was never stubborn because she could always see the other side as clearly as her own, and had come to value compromise as the way to peace and compassion. Sometimes Henri could hardly believe that Celeste was older than her niece. Annette, in her gentleness and patience, and her great comprehension, seemed much older, much less young and vehement.
As he lay there, irritably watching the sleeping girl, he thought: She is almost inhuman. I don’t believe she has any blood. Poor little thing. But she is as dainty and delicate as a piece of ivory. She knows too much! She makes me feel embarrassed too many times, for my own comfort. Imagine being married to her!
His face became heavy and gloomy; he thrust out his large underlip. His hands lifted restiessly, fell back on the arms of his chair. Of course, a man who was married to her need not bother about her much. She would always understand, and never blame. And yet, somehow, he felt a sort of shame at the thought. Who could hurt this poor pretty little creature, and not be the worse for it?
He was a realist, and never retreated from a thought. If he married Annette, he would have taken a complete shortcut to everything he wanted. He smiled. He imagined Christopher’s face. A shortcut, swift and complete. He played with the thought at length, forgetting Annette. But he knew that lie never seriously contemplated it. However, it made him restless and vaguely angry. There was no one, really, for him but Celeste. He was never so completely and passionately in love with Celeste as when he was with Annette.
He forgot Annette swiftly, remembering Celeste. He sat upright moving his neck irritably in his collar. He stared at the distant shoreline. He was a fool to have accepted this week-end invitation of Armand’s. He didn’t know why he had accepted, he said to himself. But he knew. It had been to satisfy himself that he could never endure Annette.
Down in their cabins slept Armand and his wife. Young Antoine had not come, for he had gone to a boys’ camp for the summer. No one was awake on the yacht but the crew. No guests had been invited, except Henri. Henri smiled sardonically. He felt some pity. He saw through Armand so surely and completely. He knew that it had been Armand’s simple belief that if Henri came to know Annette more intimately, he would love her. It was no secret to Henri that Annette loved him, but this fact, instead of touching him, vaguely infuriated him. It was, he thought, as if he had been insulted, his virility and sense deprecated. He was conscious, at times, to his shame, that he wished to hurt her violently. This sadistic urge was sufficient revenge for her daring to want him.
He stretched his short strong legs, his strong muscular arms. His light inexorable eyes fixed themselves upon Annette. A brutal expression appeared about his mouth. She smiled in her sleep; her lips were the color of delicate coral. Henri got to his feet and walked to the rail. The yacht moved dreamily up and down. The mauve shoreline was deepening to a rosy purple. In the west, the sky looked like a golden robe, rippling into folds. A bell chimed softly and clearly in the shining silence. The sea flowed endlessly, blue wave upon wave, with glittering crests. Gulls, with incandescent wings, curved in the pure and brilliant air. Henri folded his arms on the rail and stared at the shoreline. His strong pale profile was sullen.
He heard footsteps. The captain was descending the white stairway to the deck. Henri glanced at him without interest. The man hesitated, then seeing that Henri did not desire conversation, he went below. The awnings fluttered in a rising wind. The gold of the west brightened unendurably. A turn in the course, and Annette’s hair, on her blue cushions, became ripples of soft lifting gilt. The delicate tint on her lips and cheeks deepened.
Next week, thought Henri, I will do it. I won’t wait any longer. Christopher’s a fool. Too cautious. It’s now, or never — He thought of Armand’s face, when they all struck him down. For some reason the thought had no pleasure in it, as it had had only a short time ago. He preferred to think of Christopher, and now he smiled somberly. Of them all, all the Bouchards, he hated Christopher the most. The robot. The Trappist. The white snake. Henri knew all the names. He repeated them to himself, appreciatively. His hands clenched into fists on the rail.
He scowled at the water. He was angry with himself for the strong flush of longing and delight which came over him when he thought of Celeste. He was angered that anything should seem more desirable, more imminent, than his revenge. He could feel Celeste beside him; he could hear her breath. He was certain that if he turned he would see her face and the strong dark springing of her hair from her white temples and forehead, and the curve of her young breasts. Hot moisture sprang out in his palms; a passionate thrill of desire ran over his body. There was no woman for him but Celeste. His lips tightened. But what was wrong with Celeste these days? She was too quiet, too pale. When he kissed her she colored violently, but she also seemed afraid, not only of him, but of herself. Sometimes he suspected she avoided him. He struck his hand savagely on the rail. There was a sound behind him, like a sigh and a murmur together, and he turned. Annette was sitting up in her chair, smiling at him, her small face framed in blowing gilt, her lips fresh and glowing.
“Hello,” he said, somewhat sulkily. He hesitated. Then he left the rail and came back to the girl. He stood beside her. She looked up at him. Her light blue eyes, so large, so radiant, were beautiful, he could not help remarking. She did not speak. But all her love for him was in her face, like a light. He hesitated again, then picked up a strand of her hair and rubbed it between his strong fingers. He smiled at her. She seemed to lean towards him passionately, and yet she did not really move. Her transparent flesh seemed to quiver, to glow.
“You slept” he said.
“Yes,” she whispered. All at once there were tears in her eyes. But her smile was more radiant than ever. He gently relinquished the strand of hair he held. His hand lay nea
r her cheek. She gazed at it, filled with an irresistible longing to kiss it, to lay her cheek against it.
Armand had come up on the deck without their hearing him. He stopped, fixed in his tracks. He saw his young daughter’s face, saw Henri beside her, his hand near her cheek. His heart began to beat rapidly. He blinked away a mist that suddenly gathered before his eyes. He went towards them, smiling. He bent down and kissed Annette’s cheek; she wound her thin arms about his neck and he could feel her warm agitated breath on his flesh. Then he straightened up and turned to Henri. The young man was faintly scowling; there was a flush on his face, an annoyed flush, as though he had been caught in something indecent. But Armand said calmly: “I thought you two were sleeping. It’s hot enough to put anybody to sleep.”
“I was asleep, Daddy,” said Annette. She relaxed against her cushions, sighing with a sort of passionate content.
Henri yawned elaborately. “It’s peaceful,” he admitted. “Perhaps a little too peaceful. Anyway, I’ll miss the breeze tomorrow, when I go to Crissons.”
All the color suddenly left Annette’s face; it became pinched, the lips bluish. But she folded her hands quietly in her lap and her expression was very still. She looked at Henri softly. “Give Celeste a kiss from me, Henri. I want to see her so much.” And she smiled.
In spite of himself the young man was touched. He smoothed one of the bright strands of hair that waved over the cushions. “I will,” he promised. Her eyes studied his fape gently, with infinite understanding and love. But Armand’s eyes were hard and dark with pain. Henri added: “You’ll all be at Crissons in two weeks, anyway.”