Isadora and her friend put on bathing-suits of the ultra-scanty sort and lay about on the white sand of the Juan beach. Lanny joined them and listened to an account of what had happened in France one night while Lanny had been on board the yacht in the North Sea—the night of August 22, 1927, when Sacco and Vanzetti had died. Lanny recalled the first time this case had been mentioned in his hearing, by Ambassador “Cradle” during the Genoa conference. Since then it had become an international scandal, and when the Italians were executed there had been mobs marching in all the cities of Europe, and many American embassies and consulates had had their windows smashed. To Isadora the two men were martyrs and heroes, and their death had been a personal bereavement; she was going to create a dance for them, and take it to New York—yes, and to Boston!
The daughter of the Muses was still a beautiful creature; she had been dieting and was getting herself into condition so that she could dance again. She was a completely reformed woman, so she assured Lanny; the rest of her life to be consecrated to that marvelous art which she alone could embody and express. She said it, and who could deny it? She was going to be a dancing nun from this time forth; except, of course, that she had to find a pianist, some devoted soul who would play her accompaniments. The young Russian had left her.
Always when Isadora was in a mood like this she had to have a school. Children became the incarnation of her thwarted dreams; children were the future, the repository of her art, the torch-bearers who would carry it to posterity. She had been to Les Forêts and persuaded Emily Chattersworth to give her another chance; now she wanted Lanny and his mother to persuade some of the fashionable residents to send her their children as pupils. That beautiful studio near Nice was to be consecrated to this noble service.
Lanny took the problem to his mother, who didn’t want to have anything to do with it. He sought to persuade her that this might be the great chance of Marceline’s life. Isadora was nearly fifty, and couldn’t live forever. She had something that no other woman in the world had. Lanny reminded his mother of that cruel tragedy which had wrecked the dancer’s personal life; thirteen years had passed since her adored little ones had been drowned in the river Seine, and everybody knew that she had never got over it, the horror haunted her dreams and poisoned her joys. And then her third baby, that had died in her arms a few hours after it was born—had Beauty forgotten how she and Emily had wept over the event, in those tragic hours while the troops were being mobilized in Paris and marched to the trains? Surely a woman who had suffered such griefs could be forgiven many errors!
Beauty said: “She will get drunk and the child will see her.”
“All right,” argued Lanny, “what of it? Marceline is not going to live in this part of the world without seeing somebody drunk. We’ll just have to explain to her what it is. You managed to teach me not to get drunk, and surely you and I together can teach Marceline. If she sees an example it may give her a shock, but it will disgust her and warn her, too.”
“All right,” said the mother at last; “but it’s your responsibility!”
IV
Lanny drove to tell the dancer that they would help to find pupils for her. But he found everything changed, the studio in a turmoil, Isadora raising a ruction because a second-hand dealer had offered her such small sums for the furniture of the place; she would give everything to a hospital, rather than sell at such prices. It appeared that she had changed her program a couple of days ago, and had been too busy or too excited to let Lanny know about it. She was taking a long motor-trip; she was going to be happy again; youth and joy had come back to her. She told Lanny about it in the extravagant language which she loved.
What had happened? She forgot to explain, but presently it came out—“Lohengrin” had returned! The sewing-machine man had promised her a large check, and all her problems were solved. “You know how I always adored him, Lanny.” Yes, Lanny had met this tall, blond gentleman, who looked like a middled-aged Norse god, and poured out bounty like the purse of Fortunatus. He was going to take her on a tour, and they would sample the fresh new wines of all the vineyards of France. She would still have her school, of course, but it would have to wait. “Oh, Lanny darling,” she exclaimed, “I am truly grateful to you—honestly, I’ll prove it!” She gave him a great hug and kiss as earnest of her intentions. Rosemary was in England.
In the studio was a young Italian, who had been an ace aviator during the war, and Isadora adored men who had defied danger. He looked as if he didn’t enjoy seeing Lanny kissed, so she kissed him also; she was so happy, she had enough for everybody. “This dark-eyed Adonis is going to take me to a concert tonight,” she said. “Won’t you come along?”
“No, thanks,” replied Lanny. “I have an engagement at home.”
“Oh, my dear, don’t be provoked with me! If you knew the depth of misery I have been in, you would understand my need of happiness. Look, I will dance for you and change the world.”
She had a marvelous red shawl made of Chinese silk crape, heavy, and with long fringes. It was a couple of yards in length, painted with an enormous yellow bird, and in the corners were blue Chinese asters and black Chinese characters; Isadora pretended to find meaning in the latter. She adored this treasure, and had used it in many of her dances. Now she caught it up from a chair, and tossing it about began a dance of the vineyards of France in the harvest season. “Play for me, Lanny!” she cried; and he, remembering the happy hours at Les Forêts, played the ballet music from Samson and Delilah. Again the magic of art; a lily blossoming from the mud, a miracle repeating itself, always astonishing, the last time as the first.
Lanny wished her luck and went home. Again he had no gift of second sight, and it wasn’t until the next morning that he heard the dreadful tidings. The young Italian had come with his low racing-car to take Isadora to the concert, and she had come out from the studio with that marvelous long shawl about her neck. To those who came to see her off she said: “Adieu, mes amis; je vais a la gloire.” She stepped into the car, leaning her head against the side, and one end of the shawl hung down outside, and the wind blew it about. As the car began slowly to move, the fringes caught in the rear wheel and were twisted round and round; By the time the car had moved a few feet the tightening fabric had become a strong rope wound about Isadora’s neck; it drew her lovely face against the side of the car and crushed it, broke her neck, and severed her jugular vein.
All the world of art was grief-stricken when that story reached it next morning. The ruined body was sealed in a zinc-lined coffin and taken in a funeral train to Paris. Lanny didn’t go, for Lohengrin was in charge, the man she had chosen. At the Père-Lachaise cemetery there was such a throng that it was hard to get the funeral car in. Soldiers stood with heads bowed and art students sobbed aloud. At the crematory an orchestra played Bach’s Mass in D, which was her favorite. Thousands stood and watched the pale gray smoke rising from the chimney of the crematory, and wondered to what heaven the soul of their adored one was bound.
V
Lanny came to London in the disagreeable autumn weather, and installed himself in a little flat to which Rosemary would come when the spirit moved her. Zoltan was there, and they attended the exhibitions and sales, and the Countess of Sandhaven helped to find members of the aristocracy who had old pictures and would prefer to have cash. There were theaters to visit, and concerts to hear; dancing with the smart young people, and supper parties, all the “social whirl.” One could have a very good time if one didn’t think, didn’t see the signs of poverty and suffering, didn’t read the sort of papers in which such things were mentioned.
Robbie came for another visit. He had been in Geneva while Lanny was on the yacht, and had helped to set up a bureau to send news back to America, opposing the naval-limitation project which was being discussed. Robbie was aggressive and determined about it, and pleased because he had won. Britain and Japan had been unable to agree with the United States regarding the limitation of cruisers. Robb
ie said it was preposterous to imagine that Japan would keep such agreements; Japan would keep secrets.
This time Robbie was here because of his oil business. You couldn’t make large sums of money without having troubles, it appeared; all sorts of people rose up to make them for you. One of the old sheiks had died, and his nephew had ousted the son—a sort of South American revolution in Arabia. There had been a raid on the oil field, just like the gang wars in Chicago; amazing how fast civilization had spread! Robbie had pulled wires through the State Department, and had got a British destroyer sent there, but the Arabs had fled on their horses and the destroyer didn’t have any. Robbie wanted a British army post established on or near the concession of the New England-Arabian Oil Company, and when he failed to get it, he served notice that he was going to have his own private army, and cabled the New York detective agency which did the underground work for the Budd plant in Newcastle to go ahead and recruit some men. A rather amusing circumstance: Robbie Budd, head of the European sales department of Budd Gunmakers, was going to sell arms to Robbie Budd, president of New England-Arabian Oil—and get his commission on the deal!
Lanny and Rosemary would go to The Reaches for a week-end, and listen to Sir Alfred and his guests discussing the state of the world. The older men had now decided that Europe was in for a long period of peace, such as it had enjoyed before the World War; they would give figures regarding the revival of trade, and since the general strike had been put down, they expected prosperity at home. Rick, the young firebrand, had written a book opposing this comforting faith; but nobody objected—in their easy-going way they all took it for granted that a young man should wave some sort of torch. Only when you were thirty-five or forty were you expected to settle down, and when you were seventy you were ready to become an unpaid magistrate.
Rick’s book was out, and getting very good notices; he had a new lot of press cuttings whenever Lanny saw him. Because of Rick’s knowledge of political movements in Europe a well-known theatrical producer had invited him to do some writing on a play; it might be an important connection, so Rick and his family wouldn’t come to the Riviera that winter. As it happened, one of Rosemary’s children had had a severe cold; and there was that lodge at Bienvenu standing vacant. Why wait for Christmas? Have Christmas there! The decision was taken; Lanny motored down to get things ready, and Rosemary came by train with the governess and maids and three children. Marceline would have a different set of playmates that winter, but Lanny would have the same one!
VI
The beautiful estate on the Cap d’Antibes had passed through a series of stages. It had been one sort of place when Lanny Budd had been a little boy and his mother had been alone. It had been another sort when Marcel was living there, and yet another under the regime of Kurt. Now, without Kurt and without Rick, the life was without its intellectual distinction. No more discussions of politics, literature, and art; no more music, except what Lanny made for himself, plus the phonograph and a new radio-set. Kurt’s big piano had been brought over to Lanny’s studio, and he would play it there; he found time for that and for reading, because the bridge problem had happily solved itself. Sophie Timmons had married her retired businessman, and was now Mrs. Rodney Armitage, and they made a contented four with Beauty and Rosemary.
Mr. Armitage was older than his wife, a widower with grown children in the States. It meant that Sophie had accepted middle age, and was sad about it, or pretended to be; though, with a comfortable villa and plenty of money, her fate might have been worse. The new husband was a vigorous man in spite of his gray hair; sensible and dependable, he knew several different bridge systems, and used the one his wife preferred, which, as everybody knows, is important to marital happiness. When they weren’t playing cards he told stories about the strange parts of the world which he had visited as an engineer installing electrical equipment. Rosemary liked him, and got along with the flamboyant and free-spoken Sophie because they were so different that they amused each other.
Lanny’s business kept on growing. Amazing, the way people were making money! Those who came to the Riviera seemed to have unlimited drawing-accounts, and those who laid claim to culture wanted to take home something distinguished to remind them of Europe. The Murchisons showed up, after nearly five years; Harry a little stouter, Adella more sure of herself. If she was shocked to discover Lanny with a married sweetheart, she was too well bred to speak of it; after all, an English countess was not to be sneezed at. Adella reported that the Goya and the alleged Velásquez had hit the bull’s eye; also, those friends whom she had sent to Lanny were well pleased with what he had done for them.
Now they had more money than ever, for Harry was shipping plateglass all over the world. They wanted to be taken about and shown old chateaux, and meet distinguished people, and be told what was what by an elegant and fashionable guide, a super-cicerone. “Give us some of your time,” said the lady from Pittsburgh, in her straightforward way, “and I’ll see that it’s made worth your while.” It cost them a total of a hundred and seventy thousand dollars, but they carried home a couple of Gobelin tapestries and a magnificent Turner landscape which Lanny had discovered in the home of an English family, residents of Cannes for half a century. Lanny pocketed his ten percent and was satisfied with the value set upon his time.
Rosemary was more contented that winter, because she had the children with her, and didn’t gad about so much or miss so much sleep. The children throve in the sunshine, and Lanny said: “Why not bring them every season?” Rosemary was pleased by this evidence of his honorable intentions, but she said: “What will Rick and Nina do?” The young prince of plutocracy replied: “I’ll build another lodge for you.”
Why not? Money was rolling in, and there was plenty of room in the estate; a house anywhere on the Cap would never be wasted, it could always be rented in case of need. Robbie approved of buildings, even more than of stocks and bonds, and Beauty, sociable soul, was glad to have more people around her. No sooner said than settled; they amused themselves planning the sort of house that Rosemary and her children and servants ought to have. The more nursery space the better it pleased Beauty, for she had a purpose hidden in her heart; that space wouldn’t always be used by other men’s children!
VII
Kurt was married, and sent a picture of his bride, sweet and gentle-looking, as he had said; a bit insipid, Beauty thought—but then you couldn’t expect her to be enthusiastic. No doubt the girl was what Kurt needed, and Beauty hoped he would be happy, and not remember too vividly the raptures of illicit love. Kurt sent copies of his new compositions, and press items about them. He didn’t send Nazi literature, for he knew that Lanny was never going to become a convert; but Heinrich Jung still clung to his hope—impossible for him to believe that anybody could resist the pull of a movement that was spreading so rapidly over Germany. Once in a while the papers he sent would have something cut out of them, and Lanny would smile to himself and wonder just what it was that Heinrich didn’t consider proper for a foreigner to read. Some too crass announcement of Aryan purpose to rule the world? Some too crude abuse of that vile and poisonous race which was conspiring with both Bolsheviks and bankers at the same time?
Lanny still kept up his interest in the Reds and the Pinks, though he didn’t work very hard at it. He took several of their papers and read them now and then, and his conscience was kept uneasy. In Italy the labor movement was completely crushed; there were no more strikes, and those who might have any thought of opposing Fascismo were either dead or in exile. The latter group wanted support for their paper in Paris, and Lanny could help them generously, owing to the fortunate circumstance that what was a little money for him was a great deal for them. In France nobody was getting arrested or beaten, at least not that Beauty Budd heard about, so gradually she decided that being a Pink meant nothing worse than having lunch with a visiting journalist, or giving a thousand-franc note to some poor creature with ill-fitting clothes and hair untrimmed. Since the
amount was no more than she would spend for a spring hat or an embroidered handkerchief, she put it down as a form of charity, to which we all have to make contributions for the good of our souls.
The only time when Bienvenu became really Red was when Hansi and Bess came for a visit. These two young people were really quite shocking; especially Bess, who now called herself an out-and-out Bolshevik. Silly to imagine that the propertied classes would ever give up their stranglehold upon society unless they were forced to! Silly to waste your time talking to them about brotherhood—who was ever brother to a slave but another slave? The daughter of Esther Budd had conceived the most intense antagonism to the social system which had given her so many privileges. She had decided that her education was a mass of falsehoods, and was ready to prove it by illustrations taken from personal experience.
That was the way the young folks were going, and there seemed to be nothing you could do about it. Hansi, gentle and sweet-natured, was careful not to say things to hurt people’s feelings, but in his convictions he was at one with his wife. He was going back to Germany to begin a concert tour and in the autumn was going to make a tour of the United States. He was to be paid a percentage of the receipts, and if the tours were successful he would make large sums of money. Everything above their traveling-expenses he was going to turn over to organizations which gave relief to the refugees of Fascism and to workers persecuted for their labor activities. That meant for the most part Communists, and both Hansi and Bess were prepared to tell the newspaper reporters what they believed—and so perhaps ruin their tours, as poor Isadora had ruined hers.
Lanny saw in the attitude of his half-sister the impatience of the very rich, who were used to having their own way; also of the young, who had never suffered and therefore knew no fear. No stopping her, and no use to argue with her. To her mind Lanny had become one of those ineffectual dreamers who proposed to cut off the claws of the tiger of capitalism one by one—and always with the tiger’s kind consent. It was all right to be a noble-souled idealist, but when you let your influence be used by Social-Democratic politicians who were misleading the workers, using them to get elected to office and then to dicker and betray—that was terrible! Lanny, for his part, thought that Bess was becoming one of Uncle Jesse’s phonograph disks. As always, he lamented the tragic split among the workers, which made them impotent in the grip of their exploiters. In due course, he told himself, Bess would discover the flaws in the tightly welded formulas of the Communists; also, alas, the difference between the preaching and the practice of most humans. “Take it easy, kid,” he would say. “A lot of things are going to happen, and you’ll have plenty of time to think about them.” So old and worldly-wise he had become!