The Versailles treaty had set up a row of little states between Russia and Germany, made out of territories taken from both those countries. So long as the little states endured, France was comparatively safe; but who was going to protect them? France couldn’t do it alone, and the British navy couldn’t get there. But British money could arm them, and Zaharoff had the plants to make the arms. Of course Robbie Budd didn’t fail to point that out to his son, and Lanny showed the letter to Rick. Was that what Herriot meant when he clamored for “security” as well as “arbitration”? MacDonald insisted that arbitration was enough, and he drew a picture of “the League of Nations looked up to, not because its arm is great but because its mind is calm and its nature just.” Were those samples of the phrases which the Prime Minister of Labor used because they brought applause, but which he didn’t know how to relate to reality? Suppose somebody came along who wasn’t either calm or just, and didn’t respect those qualities?
X
Zoltan Kertezsi had been to Rome, and stopped to see Lanny on his way to London. He skipped about the world like that, and always had something to report. He had sold a Moroni which Lanny had found, and expected to sell a Lorenzo Lotto when he went to New York later on. He had done more business in Berlin and Munich, and had deposited to Lanny’s bank account close to fifteen thousand dollars. It was not merely having money grown on trees, it was having it drop off into your pocket; in fact, this lively and intelligent money opened your pocketbook and forced its way in. Zoltan wouldn’t listen to the nonsensical idea that Lanny hadn’t earned his share in Rome; if they started splitting hairs like that, they would have no firm basis for co-operation. Lanny didn’t know what he would do with all that money, but hoped that somebody would come along to suggest uses for it.
He and Zoltan were two men who knew how to enjoy life as they went along. Lanny took him driving along the shores of that incredibly blue lake. The tang of autumn was in the air and the leaves were falling from the plane trees which line the streets of the towns and villages; the sun shone dazzling bright, and the tops of the mountains glittered like scenes in a fairy-tale. Long after the sun had disappeared the snow-caps were changing from pale pink to lilac and then deep purple. Stop and watch them—for it’s no good being so wrapped up in pictures that you can’t enjoy the realities which the pictures attempt to portray!
They climbed to the Old Town of Geneva and looked at the ancient gray buildings and monuments; they went through the Musée d’Art together, and Zoltan said: “Why don’t you hunt up some pictures here?”
“The Swiss made too much money out of the war,” replied Lanny; but his friend said he’d find many German Swiss who had speculated in marks, and would be glad to get some cash.
So when Lanny was tired of hearing statesmen argue about the details of “sanctions” and who was to decide what an aggressor was, he would amuse himself looking for private art collections. Among his friends in Geneva was that Sidney Armstrong who had introduced him and Rick to the League more than three years ago. The young American had been promoted, and now was an important official, tremendously proud of his work in this crisis of history. He knew a lawyer in the city who was a lover of paintings, and for the cost of a luncheon Lanny got from this gentleman the names of several possessors of valuable works. Almost always a courteous note would gain permission to view one of these collections, and after that the tactful sounding out was a matter of routine. Before Lanny left Geneva he was able to send Zoltan a list, and when he got home he would add to his cardfile and send more descriptions and photographs to possible customers.
XI
Also, the day before Lanny took his departure he had an adventure. His amie had been talking about his finding a young woman who was sympathetic to his ideas, so Lanny could hardly be blamed for adding that idea to his others. It chanced that Armstrong had a secretary, an American woman a year or two older than Lanny—which wasn’t as bad as being forty. She was quiet and unobtrusive, extremely well informed, refined in her manners—in short, everything that a secretary ought to be. Besides, she had qualities not so necessary to her profession—she was slender and graceful, had soft brown eyes and fluffy brown hair, and wore a cream-colored sweater of soft knitted stuff which set off her figure. When Lanny asked questions about people in Geneva who knew about art, it was Miss Sloane who looked up their addresses, and Armstrong remarked that Miss Sloane knew more about everything than he did, and what would he do without her? Which of course made Miss Sloane blush and made Lanny decided that she was an attractive young woman. He was always deciding about some one of them.
When he was ready to leave, he called on Armstrong to thank him and say good-by. The official was expected back shortly, so Lanny sat in his office, and as Miss Sloane happened to be there, he told her about the satisfactory outcome of his art researches. He discovered that she knew the Musée d’Art very well, but she had the impression that all great paintings were in such public places, and hadn’t realized that great numbers were privately owned. She was disposed to find the buying and selling of them a highly romantic occupation.
She was going out to lunch. Of course it was accidental, their leaving the old League of Nations building at approximately the same moment. It was natural that he should ask if she was going to lunch, and then if he might invite her; it was natural for her to be taken aback, and to ask if she ought to let him. Lanny said: “Why not?” and she didn’t seem to know any reason, so he took her. Because he was fastidious about his meals he drove to a good place, where they would be waited on in style. This would take time, and perhaps distract a secretary’s mind; Lanny, who had been a secretary for six months, should have known better.
Miss Sloane had heard about his misadventure in Italy. Had she heard about the lady companion? If so, she didn’t mention her. She said that the Italians were the least international-minded of any of the people who came to Geneva; the Fascists were intolerable. The attitude of many Italian men to women inspired an American girl with impulses toward murder; she didn’t say what they did, but Lanny knew that they sometimes indicated their admiration by coming up in back of a woman on the street and giving her a large pinch on the behind. He said that he understood Miss Sloane’s feelings.
In fact he found that he understood most everything about her. He talked about Matteotti, and didn’t have to make apologies for his conduct; she didn’t see how he could have done otherwise. He discovered himself to be a shining hero in the eyes of this fine young woman, and of course that is a pleasant sensation for any man, young or old. It transpired that she was able to discriminate clearly among the different shades of Red and Pink, and that these distinctions were important to her. She said: “We find the Socialists have the broadest viewpoint of any of the groups we have to deal with.” By “we” she meant, not merely her employer and herself, but the secretariat of the League, which ran the League. In short, Janet Sloane took a broad view of herself and her activities, and Lanny could understand such an attitude, having taken it in the spring of 1919, when he had thought that he was remaking the world.
It is pleasant talking with someone from whom you don’t have to conceal any of your thoughts. Marie had forfeited this position in Lanny’s life; his mother and his father likewise had forfeited it—in fact, Eric Pomeroy-Nielson was the only friend with whom he felt free to speak with complete frankness. He told Miss Sloane about the struggle that was going on in his mind, the difficulty he had in being sure what he really believed. She said that was a credit to him, for the world was darned complicated right now, and it was better not to get set in a groove. This warmed Lanny’s heart, and he talked a lot, and kept this young woman away from her work longer than he had any right to.
When he drove her back to her office he said how much he had enjoyed talking to her, and she remarked: “It’s too bad you have to leave so soon.” That certainly gave him an opening, and he said he wasn’t leaving until morning, and did she have any engagement that evening? If not, might
he take her for a drive and have supper at one of several pleasant places he knew? In the words of the old music-hall song, first she said she wouldn’t, then she said she couldn’t, then she answered, well, I’ll see. She did.
XII
Lanny told this agreeable new friend to wear a warm coat, and he put a warm rug in the car, and drove her all the way around Lac Leman, a distance of some ninety miles; one doesn’t undertake a drive like that unless one really means to get acquainted. They watched the sublime scenery through the changes of twilight and evening, and they became acquainted very quickly. They talked about nature and art and life—but not about love, because they didn’t dare to.
What was happening became exquisitely apparent to both when they sat in a quiet niche in a café, with only a small table between them. Miss Sloane would lift her soft brown eyes to her companion’s, and a flush would steal into her throat and over her cheeks, and she would have to drop her eyes, she just couldn’t bear his glance; he knew it, and was afraid to look at her, because it embarrassed her so greatly, and he didn’t want to be one of those Italians, staring into a woman’s face. They would go on trying to eat their food, and to talk about the problems of Europe; but to hell with Europe!
It was something that had happened to Lanny more than a few times, and he didn’t know what to do about it. There were just too many desirable women in the world, and one couldn’t love them all. He had had enough experience to be sure that, regardless of what any woman might say, or even what she might believe, if she wanted a man she wanted him to herself and she wanted him all the time. Any temporary pleasure he might give her would be more than balanced by the pain she would suffer when he took his departure. Love ’em and leave ’em might be a good motto for callous hearts, but Lanny was kind, and really cared about the women he met, and so it was the very devil.
Right now was an especially distressing situation. He had labored for months to persuade Marie to come to Bienvenu. Now he had told her that he was coming for her, and she would be packing for the journey south. He had planned to drive all the next day and reach Paris late in the evening; Marie would be waiting at his hotel, and the blood would be in her throat and cheeks also, her arms would be warm for him. Now her image rose between him and Janet Sloane and made a blur between them.
No, he mustn’t do it! He went on talking about the problems of war and peace, and when they went back to the car he wrapped her warmly, without adding the warmth of his arm. But it was hard to keep down his curiosity concerning her. Was she one of these modern women who took what they wanted? Most of the women of all nations who came to Europe didn’t come because they meant to remain virgins. While she talked about the problems of “sanctions,” and the deplorable consequences of American refusal to pledge support to any boycott—“It’ll be exactly like breaking a strike!” she said—Lanny’s mind would wander off on these sidepaths. He would be thinking: “I wonder if Beauty is right, and if I ought to find a wife. I wonder if this girl would make me a good wife. Perhaps I ought to stay and find out about her. How will I ever know if I run away from them?”
It was late when they arrived in front of the pension where she lived. There was no moon, and the street light was some distance away. Lanny got out, and took her hand to help her out, and her hand stayed in his; that was perhaps natural, since you shake hands with a friend when you part. He said: “I’m sorry I have to go.” Then he should have gone, quickly. But he felt her hand trembling, and doubtless his was trembling. Suddenly he heard a faint whisper: “I want you to know, Lanny, I think you are the nicest man I have ever met.”
“Oh, no!” he exclaimed; there was pain in her voice, and he didn’t want to hurt her so much.
“Oh, yes!” she answered; and then: “Would you willing to kiss me just once?”
Of course he couldn’t say no. He took her in his arms, and it was one of those long kisses that don’t want to end; the kind the Japanese censors cut out of the motion pictures that come to their country, and they put the pieces together and make one huge film of a great variety of Anglo-Saxon lips clinging to lips, and they show this to their friends with hilarious glee. Lanny still didn’t know whether Janet was a virgin, but he knew if he had drawn her back to the car, she would have let him take her wherever he wished.
But close as they were together, the image of Marie was still between them. So Lanny said: “I’m sorry, dear. I wish I were free.” That was enough, and she whispered a quick “Good-by” and fled to the door of her pension. Lanny stood by the car with his head bowed, mentally kicking himself. He would have been kicking himself whichever way that adventure had turned out.
BOOK FIVE
The Valley of the Shadow
22
How Happy Is He Born
I
Life settled into its old routine for Lanny Budd. He practiced his music and danced with his little half-sister, who was now seven, a fairy creature, a wellspring of gaiety bubbling incessantly. He attended to his growing business; somebody was always telling him where there were art treasures, or introducing him to someone who loved paintings and might buy something special if it was brought to his attention. Zoltan would give Him tips, and also his many lady friends were helpful; this occupation was ideal from the point of view of that buxom butterfly his mother, providing excuses for buying clothes, going to parties and receptions, and meeting the wealthiest and most elegant people. Everywhere she told the wonder-tale of her son’s successes, nor did she forget her former husband and the astonishing way his fame was spreading. So Lanny promoted Detaze and Detaze promoted Lanny, and the widow and mother basked in the warm sunshine of celebrity.
It was a way of keeping Lanny entertained, and out of the hands of the dreadful Reds. Of course the tactful Beauty and Marie and Emily didn’t say that; they would never find fault with their darling, never let him feel that they were putting pressure upon him; they would just surround him with other interests, flatter him, marvel at his achievements, make him feel that a big picture deal was the most exciting thing in the world. Lanny knew what they were doing; he knew that when he went off to Cannes to give some money to a pitiful Italian refugee, or to meet some friend of Lincoln Steffens just returned from Red Russia, they guessed it and were whispering their fears behind his back. Because he was kind and hated to keep them in a stew all the time, he would do what they wanted, and for the most part refrain from doing anything else. That is the way men are managed, and is one reason why the world changes so very slowly.
There was Kurt Meissner also to be guarded; and Lanny had to be taken into that conspiracy. They knew that Kurt was always brooding over the state of the Fatherland, which he said was in pawn to Britain and France, and could no longer move hand or foot without their consent. Living in the enemy’s country, Kurt had to be persuaded to see Bienvenu as a little island of neutrality, a shrine set apart for the worship of the sacred nine. Beauty, who really knew very little about music, had to try to understand her lover’s; she would ask Lanny about it, so as to have something to say that wouldn’t sound fatuous.
She would devise elaborate intrigues to force a new Komponist upon the attention of a heedless public. After many delays, due partly to his meticulous care in reading proofs, the Spanish Suite, Opus 1, and the Piano Concerto, Opus 2, had been published; Beauty would send copies to friends, asking that they be brought to the notice of critics and conductors; if a letter was received or a comment made in print, she would bring it to Kurt without mentioning her part in the matter. She kept a mental cardfile of musical people who came to the Riviera, and if she heard that one had noticed Kurt’s compositions, she would contrive to have that person come to tea and meet him. Sometimes Kurt would be bored, and then Beauty’s feelings would be hurt, for that was her idea of how reputations are made and she was ready with numerous instances to prove it.
II
In December Kurt and Lanny made their annual pilgrimage. In Berlin Kurt went to see his brother, also his publisher, and buri
ed himself in the reading of more proofs, while Lanny went to stay in the Robins’ nest. Kurt still held to his determination not to go there, and of course the Robins knew the reason, and it hurt their feelings; but Johannes wasn’t giving up his business and the boys weren’t turning against him. They still lived quite simply in their apartment with two old servants; what Johannes enjoyed was getting things done, and he was surely doing that, for he had offices downtown that occupied a couple of floors of a large building. Nobody but himself and a couple of trusted employees knew how many properties he had acquired in Germany, but he was being mentioned in the newspapers as one of the “kings” of the new finance; like most of the “kings” Lanny had met in his life, he looked harassed and tired. The old mark had been wiped out, and there was a new currency called the “rentenmark”; it was being kept stable, which was a great relief to everybody in that harassed and tired land.
Amazing the way young people grew up! Here was Hansi, now twenty, an inch taller than Lanny. He had grown so fast that he hadn’t had time to fill out; he looked frail, but really wasn’t, for playing the violin is vigorous exercise. Not that Hansi was one of those performers who toss themselves around and act as if they were conducting an orchestra; he stood as still as he could, and let the music do the talking. He said that the day of the long-haired and theatrical musician was past; with his well-trimmed black hair you might have taken him for a serious young student in a rabbinical school. He had beautiful large dark eyes and a gentle voice, and more and more he seemed to embody all that was noble and inspiring in the tradition of the Jews.
Nobody was promoting Hansi Robin; he knew how it was done but didn’t want it. Having the good fortune to have a rich father, he was helping several poor students at the conservatory. What he wanted for himself was to play the best music as perfectly as possible, and he said that when he could do that he would make a public appearance and wouldn’t need any promotion. He was learning Joachim’s great Hungarian Concerto, which he said would delight Zoltan. He played difficult things such as Paganini’s Moto Perpetuo, but he didn’t love technique for its own sake—he spoke with scorn of “finger gymnastics.” He and Lanny played Mozart’s sonatas, and he extracted loveliness from them just as diligently as if he had had several thousand people listening. Lanny couldn’t be sure how much was Mozart and how much was Hansi, but he felt sure that some day audiences would throng to hear this playing; and of course he had only to say this in order to transport all the Robins into their Jewish heaven. Lanny didn’t know just what they had in that heaven, but he knew that Elijah—or was it Elisha?—had been taken up there in a chariot of fire. He was sure also that the residents there would play Ravel’s Kaddisch, and Ernest Bloch’s Schelomo, which Hansi had transcribed for violin.