He told Emily the news about the pictures that Zoltan was selling, and the prospects for one that she wished to get rid of; about Hansi and Bess and their tour in the United States, the fine notices they were getting, and how Esther Budd had apparently reconciled herself to having a genius in the family; about his own latest bereavement and the state of his heart. “Do you miss her very much?” asked Emily.
“To be perfectly honest, not so much as I did Marie. She never wanted love as Marie did, wouldn’t accept it from any man. I knew it was bound to end sooner or later; I was up against the British Empire.”
“Did you get along well with her?”
“It was like being married. I had to go a lot of places when I’d much rather have stayed at home and read a book.”
“You really want a studious woman, don’t you, Lanny?”
“One that wears glasses,” he smiled.
“Most of them would rather go blind nowadays,” replied this white-haired grande dame—who used a lorgnette except when she was reading. Presently she remarked, à propos de bottes: “Irma Barnes is coming next week.”
“I know; the ladies are all ganging up on me. Even Nina has joined.”
“Don’t be foolish, Lanny. I have every reason to think she’s a fine young woman. I haven’t seen her since she was a girl, but then she was bright and intelligent. Her mother is one of the Vandringhams—an excellent family, old New Yorkers, not the flashy ones.”
“Quite a change in one generation, wouldn’t you say?”
“You can’t blame a girl because her father grows rich. It’s to be doubted if she put him up to it.”
“I know, Mrs. Emily; but the fact remains that when people have so much money, it does something to them; it seems to be stronger than they are.”
“That is true; I’ve felt it myself, even though I never had any such sums as the Barneses. But remember, she’s a girl like any other, and she wants some man to love her for herself.”
“She’ll have the devil of a time finding him, I’m guessing.”
“If so, that’s a reason to be sorry for her.”
“Oh, I’ll do that,” he laughed; “but I doubt if she’ll thank me!”
“What I mean is, give her a chance, like anybody else. See what she’s really like, and don’t make up your mind in advance.”
Lanny told her about Tennyson’s Northern Farmer New Style, with which he had teased his mother. “Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny is.”
“You come to lunch and meet Irma and her mother, and I’ll let them know that you’re one caller who isn’t interested in her fortune.”
“I wonder,” said the young man, promptly. “I have been quite entertained, thinking what I’d do if I had a fortune like that. I’ve decided that I’d set up a foundation to study the effects of stockmarket speculation upon wages and the cost of living!”
III
Kurt Meissner wrote now and then. He was glad to hear the news about Beauty’s marriage, and sent his best wishes for her happiness. He enclosed a picture of his young wife and their first baby, a boy; also of the very modest cottage in which they were living on the Stubendorf estate, the Graf having given them the use of it for the glory of German music. Kurt told about the composition on which he was working, and about a trip he had made to Munich, where his work was being taken up by the National Socialists with ardor. Heinrich Jung had become an active party leader, and they had won successes at the last elections. They were a legal party now, but they were still carrying on street wars with the Communists.
Rick looked at the photo of the bald little Aryan, and said: “I suppose they’ll be having one every year for the glory of the Fatherland.” He added: “Birth control is an important discovery, but it may prove a trap for the more progressive nations if the backward ones refuse to adopt it.”
“Is Germany a backward nation?” inquired Lanny, with a grin.
“It’ll be one very soon if those Nazis have their way. Women become brood-mares, and babies become soldiers to march out and conquer those decadent peoples who dream of being let alone.”
Rick was worried about what was going on in Germany. He insisted that the republic was growing weaker, and failing completely to deal with the nation’s internal problems. Britain and France couldn’t agree on any consistent policy; they wouldn’t help Germany to get on her feet and they wouldn’t pay the cost of holding her down. They had just lifted the arms control of the country, and Germany was busily arming—Rick agreed with Robbie Budd about the facts, and what they meant. The next war was going to be fought with airplanes, and Germany hadn’t been permitted to have military planes, but had been getting a great fleet of commercial planes, and how long would it take to convert them? Moreover, what was important was not so much the planes, but the factories and the skilled workers. Given these, a fleet of war-planes could be turned out in a year or two.
Rick had been to Geneva in September and had written up the situation confronting the Ninth Assembly of the League of Nations. Germany had been admitted, and had been fighting the admission of Poland to the League Council. Anyone could see that Poles and Germans were ready to fly at each other’s throats. “That’s where the next war will start,” said Rick; “right at Stubendorf, or perhaps in the Corridor. It would take a permanent army there to prevent it—and who’s going to pay the bill?”
Rick brought another item from Geneva; greetings to Lanny from Mrs. Sidney Armstrong, wife of that young American functionary who had introduced them to the insides of the League. “You remember her? She used to be his secretary. Janet Somebody.”
“Sloane,” said Lanny. “A jolly girl. We had the idea of falling in love with each other, and I was thinking I might go back and ask her to marry me.”
“You waited too long, old top. They have a baby.”
When Lanny told his mother about this, she said, with a touch of acidity: “There, now! Another one for you to adopt!”
IV
Lanny kept thinking: “Do I want to give my time to that Barnes girl?” He knew he had to give it to some girl before long; but a girl with twenty-three million dollars—even supposing that she would look at a poor man, and that he married her—what a nuisance to be carrying a load like that, having the world make a fuss over you, everybody trying to get something out of you, nobody ever telling you the truth, newspaper reporters besieging you for interviews! What could you say? Lanny had been with Hansi Robin when newspapermen had called, and that had seemed all right, because Hansi had done things and was going to do more; he had talked about music, and it had been worth while. But to talk because you had inherited more money than any other girl! Or because you had married such a girl! Lanny felt cheap even to think about it.
He discussed the problem with Rick, who looked quizzical, and said: “You really haven’t the least bit of curiosity about her?”
“Maybe a little; enough to last through one luncheon.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what: be interested for me. Go and find out all you can about her. Ask her straight questions: What does it feel like to be a glamour girl? Are you excited, or are you bored, or are you scared, or exactly what? And whatever you get, bring it home.”
“What for?”
“Copy, you imbecile. Don’t you know that’s what the public would rather read about than anything else in the world? You and I will collaborate on a play called The Glamour Girl, and make such a hit that we’ll be the glamour boys of Broadway.”
Lanny grinned, but then he reflected: “I’m afraid that would be giving her a rotten sort of deal.”
Said the baronet’s son: “If you find that she has a noble soul and that you are falling in love with her, I won’t use the stuff.”
V
Irma Barnes arrived at Sept Chênes, and the reporters came hurrying, and the photographers, and they put her on the front page of the Riviera papers. Emily telephoned that Lanny was to come to lunch next day. Beauty wasn’t invited, because she might talk to
o much; Emily didn’t say that, but explained that she wanted Lanny to have the field to himself, and Beauty understood. She had managed to get matters straightened out with God, and He had agreed to allow Lanny to treat Irma Barnes as he would any other young woman, not denying her happiness just because she was rich.
The mother had worked herself into a state of excitement, and came to Lanny’s room to see if his tropical worsted was without a spot or wrinkle, and that the shades of his brightly striped tie harmonized with his tan-colored shirt.
“You know, old girl,” he said, “your high-up Englishman is a trifle careless in his dress.”
“He has some details that look careless,” responded the fashionable mother, “but they are studied.”
“Which details of mine are supposed to be careless?” inquired Lanny.
“You’re not English,” said Beauty, and passed on to another problem. “What are you going to talk about?”
“I rather thought I’d leave it to the inspiration of the moment.”
“If I were you I wouldn’t talk about politics, because you don’t want her to find out that you are radical.”
“All right, dear.”
“And I wouldn’t say anything about Marcel’s work, because they might think you were hinting for them to buy it.”
“I’ll leave all business out, I promise.”
“You understand that any sums of money you have made would seem just small change to her.”
“I understand.”
“And better not mention Budd’s, because you don’t want her to think that you’re bragging. Emily will have told her all that sort of thing.”
“I get you,” said Lanny. “I’ll tell her that the sun is shining brightly outside, and that we have many such days on the Riviera, even in January.”
“You used to let me give you advice,” complained Beauty; “but now I’ve become just an old shoe.”
He gave her a hug and a large fat kiss, and said: “I never did that to any of my shoes.”
The mother exclaimed: “Wait! You have pushed your tie all crooked.”
VI
The elaborate carvings on Emily’s white stone villa in French Renaissance style were shining brilliantly in the aforementioned January sunshine when Lanny came up the broad drive. Half a dozen cars were parked there, and he wondered if there were other guests after all; but they were cars of the members of the Barnes entourage who were staying at a hotel in Cannes, also of persons who were trying to see the heiress but were seeing the secretary instead. Lanny went into the drawing-room, and, having been at home here since childhood, he seated himself at the piano. He tried to think what might appeal to a girl who had just come from the hurly-burly of the Great White Way, and he chose the very lovely andante movement of Kurt Meissner’s Spanish Suite; a serenade having all the seductiveness that anyone had every imagined about Valencian nights. “Come out,” it seemed to say, “for the scent of the orange blossoms is heavy in the air, and my heart aches with a longing which I strive to express—it is something beautiful which torments the soul—which cannot be explained.”
Lanny thought: “I will find out if she knows what music is.”
The three ladies appeared in the doorway, and he stopped. The hostess entered first: kind Mrs. Emily, her white hair worn long in defiance of the fashion of the hour; her finely chiseled, intellectual face lined with wrinkles which could no longer be concealed. She had had a surgical operation last summer, and was now supposed to be getting stronger. She had spent a lifetime entertaining other people, trying to give them pleasure, and at the same time a little more wisdom than they had or seemed to want.
Next, Mother Barnes, who had been born a Vandringham, and had acquired weight and majesty through the years; she had an ample bosom, and layers of embonpoint which the dressmaker’s best arts were powerless to suppress; her gray silk chiffon might have been a maternity dress. She had dark hair, and dark eyes set under heavy brows, looking at you through a lorgnette. She was not a talkative person—it seemed that it might be an effort to bring that deep contralto voice into action; but when she did speak it was with authority. She listened and watched attentively, and Lanny could be certain that every detail concerning himself was being noted—perhaps even things which he himself didn’t know. After the meal was over, and they lighted cigarettes, he saw the butler bring Mrs. Barnes a silver tray containing a long torpedo wrapped in gold foil. She unwrapped a dark brown cigar, bit off the end like a man, and proceeded to light up and puff vigorously.
And then Irma. A brunette like her mother, and no sylph according to the modern style, rather a young Juno. Her dark hair was shingled in the current style and waved about her ears; she wore a cream-colored frock of a simple cut, with a necklace of pearls. Her features were regular and her expression rather placid; she smiled easily, but quietly. Lanny saw at once that she was not a talkative person, which was rather a relief from his home life. She didn’t say: “Oh, what was that lovely music you were playing?” She wasn’t going to gush about anything, but wait for the world to bring her gifts; she would examine them carefully, and if there was anything wrong with them, her mother would tell her about it afterward.
All right; Lanny could talk for a whole tableful of people. He asked the young visitor how she liked the Riviera at first glance, and she replied that it reminded her of parts of the California coast, and also of Bermuda. Lanny hadn’t been to either of those places, but he said that he had lived here since he could remember, and it had been pleasanter in the old days, before the place was so much advertised and such mobs came in. He told how it was when the beach of Juan-les-Pins and been used by fishermen, and he had played with their children, and helped to haul the seine. He had seen many strange creatures come out of that water—the strangest of all a submarine. Then Lanny told about the monument inscribed to the little “Septentrion child” who had “danced and pleased in the theater” some two thousand years ago. He told about the ruins and relics which various tribes of mankind had left on this Côte d’Azur, and how it was still the custom of some of the peasants to pray against the coming of the Saracens.
VII
In short, Lanny did what he could to entertain the minds and stimulate the imaginations of two ladies whom he didn’t know at all. He brought his gifts of myrrh and frankincense, and the queen mother and the royal princess accepted them graciously, but did not indicate that they found them superior to the many other gifts which had been laid before their throne. Presently Lanny told about M. Pinjon, the gigolo, who had come when Lanny was a little boy and played the piccolo flute and showed him the steps of Provencal dances; afterward the poor fellow had lost one leg in the war, and had retired to his father’s farm, and every Christmas he sent Lanny a little carved dancing-man of olive tree wood. “How pathetic!” said Miss Barnes, and Lanny replied: “The Duquesa de Villafranca, who was Zaharoff’s wife, was so touched by the story that she sent him a very fine flute, and I suppose he plays it every night while the flocks come in. Some day, if you and your mother would enjoy a trip into the mountains, I would take you to call on him.”
It appeared that the girl was about to say yes, but she stole a glance at her mother, and then said: “Thank you Perhaps we can arrange it some time.”
Well, Lanny had done his part. He let the stately Mrs. Emily talk about the fashionable people who were on hand this season, and the interesting events which were scheduled. After the meal they strolled out to the loggia in the rear, overlooking the gardens. The best view was from the front, but they couldn’t go onto the portico because of strangers coming and going. However, on the second story there was a balcony, and Lanny asked if Miss Barnes had observed it. He offered to point out the landmarks to her, and she assented.
To the west lay the Esterel mountains, of blood-red porphyry, and to the east Monaco on its rock. The city of Nice was white sprinkled on green. In front lay the blue Golfe Juan, with several gray French warships at anchor; beyond were islands, one of the
m Sainte-Marguerite, where you could sail and have tea; the Germans of the Riviera had been interned there during the war. Over to the left were the heights of Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Port, where the sailors came once a year, walking with bare feet and carrying the image of the Virgin down to the sea so that she might bless the waters and protect them from storms. Apparently Miss Barnes found all this interesting, and Lanny said that he would be happy to come and take her and her mother to see the sights of the coast. She thanked him, and he wondered, was she more human than her mother? Did she perchance consider that she had enough money, so that she might feel free to chat with a poor man now and then? A plausible theory, but it required more evidence.
They went downstairs and he didn’t offer to play the piano, because she knew that he could do it, and it was up to her to ask the favor if she wished it. After some miscellaneous conversation he excused himself, and made no suggestion of a second meeting. If they felt any urge to see him again, they could reveal it to Mrs. Emily. He had done his duty, and at home Rick would have some pages of new manuscript ready—not a play about a glamour girl, but a book supporting the program of the Socialist International!
VIII
“Well, how did it go? What is she like? What did you talk about? What did she say?” Such are the questions which every mother asks; and every mother knows that her son makes unsatisfactory answers, and has to be cross-examined—but not crossly! It all sounded rather enigmatic as Lanny told it, and Beauty could hardly wait until she had a chance to ask Emily. They could only talk guardedly over the telephone, but Emily said that Lanny had been his usual friendly self and nobody could help but like him when they knew him. The last clause gave a dubious turn to the statement; but apparently it was all right, for the next day Emily called Lanny and asked if he would come and take them for a drive—she had assured the ladies that he could tell them more interesting things about this Coast of Pleasure than any other person she knew. “Good old scout!” said Lanny—and that was hardly being guarded!