And that was all; she wasn’t going to discuss the basis of her interest, or say anything about the underground—not to a troglodyte, a dweller in darkness, a person in whom no humanity was to be assumed. Nor was she going to say anything about his having neglected her in Berlin. No, if a gentleman does not desire the society of a Baltimore lady, she would have her tongue cut out before she would drop a hint on the subject. It is his privilege to stay away, and hers to be busy with more important matters!
Nor was she going to say a word about the car. He thought: “Maybe she has had lessons, and will offer to take me for a drive!” But nothing of the sort; she talked about the London weather, which can be bad in March, and about a concert she had attended at Queen’s Hall. “Sir Thomas Beecham is a lively and volatile person,” Lanny remarked.
He told her he had brought a painting out of Germany. He didn’t say it belonged to Göring, for that would surely have displeased her, right now while she was in a revolutionary mood. He said: “A Canaletto; do you know him? He painted Venice in the eighteenth century.” He told her about this particular example, and then said: “Have you visited the museums here?” When she replied that her visits had been brief, he suggested that the Tate Gallery was not to be missed. It was just a short walk to the Embankment and he offered to escort her. This meant another of his free lectures, for which she thanked him.
They strolled, and came to an open space where stood a lorry, and on it several men with the collars of their overcoats turned up and their hands in their pockets, it being a raw day. One was making a speech to a crowd which left barely room for the traffic to get past. He was denouncing the apathy of the British government while the free peoples of Europe were assassinated one by one. He was suspicious of the ruling classes of his own country, and thought they did not like republics, and especially not those which had a Socialist tinge, like Spain.
That much the pair heard as they pushed through the crowd. Lanny didn’t offer to stop, for he had to keep away from the dangerous subject of politics. His companion asked: “Do you think there will be a war?” and he answered: “Not yet, but soon; there are always wars in Europe, you know.” It was the ivory-tower attitude, and they passed on out of the noise of traffic and mob, and into the dignity and quiet of one of the world’s great art treasuries.
Now Lanny was at home, and could talk out of his heart. Since his friend had no special preference, he took her to the Turners. His eyes lighted up and his soul warmed as he gazed at them; his manner appeared to say that whether or not Europe went to war was a small matter compared with the fact that a man of genius had learned to put upon a piece of canvas all the marvels of the sky, the glory of sunsets, the terror of storms, the mystery of vast distances veiled by haze. He told about this odd character who had been embittered because his talents were not appreciated to the full, and who would come to the Academy on Varnishing Day and add bright reds and yellows to his canvas in order to “kill” some rival’s work which had been placed alongside. Here was The Fighting Téméraire Being Towed to Her Last Berth, by a tug with a tall smokestack, through a symbolical sunset over a river. It had been exactly a hundred years ago that the painter had come and heightened the glory of that sunset because he objected to some painting which had been hung beside it for a few weeks!
“Artists are strange creatures,” remarked the son of Budd-Erling; and in his mind was the thought that Laurel Creston must be thinking him a strange creature, too—a man who could be completely indifferent to the fact that the peoples of Europe might be plunging into a slaughter pit at the very hour when he was delivering a lecture on the painting of light. In his pleasure over some pigments spread on canvas he was forgetting the fact that now, as he spoke, a thousand bombing planes might be on their way to blow the paintings and the museum which held them and the city which held the museum all into the original molecules of which they had been put together!
BOOK THREE
Let Joy Be Unconfined
10
When Fortune Favors
I
Lanny called his father on the transatlantic telephone, a new miracle which had been brought in during the past two or three years; at first it had been noisy, but now it was fairly clear. The cost was high, and unless you were very rich you considered what you were going to put into your three minutes.
Lanny said: “Your friend Tiergarten is on the way”—that being the code word they had agreed upon.
“Good God!” exclaimed Robbie. “You don’t mean it!”
“Expect him in a few days. He is well and happy, so far as I know.” Lanny would have liked to say more, and Robbie would have liked to ask questions, but it wouldn’t do. “I’m coming myself. I have a couple of picture deals to attend to and then I’ll pay you a visit. How is everybody?”
Robbie had nothing special to report. Business was picking up fast; the world was coming his way. Lanny said: “Remember the precautions we agreed upon; they are urgent.” This was in reference to the supercharger, and Robbie said: “Trust me.” He was used to keeping secrets and didn’t have to be told twice, especially not over the transatlantic telephone. Lanny asked about members of the family, and then said: “Well, so long!” He didn’t even need all his three minutes.
He shipped the painting by express, and put his car in storage with the hotel. With steamer trunk, one suitcase, and his little typewriter, he boarded a boat-train. Ocean liners had become palaces in these days, and Lanny had a smooth passage, and plenty of time to think over his plans. He was on the way to see one whom he considered the most important of living men. Putting things into his mind was the nearest Lanny could come to changing the world, the present state of which was so little to his taste.
II
Arriving in New York, Lanny’s first action was to telephone to his father. “Has our friend arrived?” The reply was: “I have met him, and I think everything is all right. It will be some days before I can be certain.”
“Do you need me in the meantime?” When the father answered in the negative, Lanny explained: “I have a deal that ought to be attended to at once. I’ll call you again in a couple of days.”
That being settled, Lanny called a secret number in Washington and asked for “Baker.” When he heard the voice he gave his code name and number, and the reply was: “Call back in three hours.” That gave Lanny a chance to have a bath and a shave, and to read the papers and learn that his friend Adi Schicklgruber had rounded out the grabbing season by moving into Memel, a part of Lithuania at the eastern edge of East Prussia. Madrid was in the last throes of its agony, which had lasted something like a hundred and forty weeks—and not one of those weeks that Lanny’s heart hadn’t ached for what was happening. A grim time to be living in—and this moment the grimmest yet.
Lanny indulged in telephone chats with several friends, including Zoltan Kertezsi, whom he had called a “grasshopper.” Zoltan’s latest hop had brought him to New York, where he was supervising a oneman show of Jacovleff, one of his discoveries. He wanted to rave about it, and Lanny said: “See you before long; I have to skip out of town.”
Promptly on the minute he put in the Washington call, and the voice of Baker requested him to fly to Washington and be on a certain street corner at nine that evening. Lanny repeated the time and place and said: “O.K.” Flying two hundred miles was a routine matter, and the P.A. established himself in a Washington hotel, ate his dinner, read the evening papers, and listened to a radio in his room until the time drew near. Promptly on the second he strolled to the corner agreed upon; a car drew up, the rear door was opened, and he stepped into a vacant seat.
He gave his code number and a flashlight was turned upon his face. “O.K.,” said the familiar voice. He knew nothing about the, man, and the man knew nothing about him except face and voice. Lanny said: “I have sent you a total of eleven reports since I was last here. Is that correct?” The reply was: “They have all been delivered.”
Lanny added: “The last time
, you searched me.”
“I know you now,” was the answer.
“It won’t hurt my feelings if you make sure,” replied Lanny. “I think a lot of the Chief.”
The man passed a pair of quick practiced hands over Lanny’s overcoat and then under it, not omitting his armpits and trouser-legs. This ceremony over, he said: “O.K.—and thanks,” and that was the end of conversation. Superfluous words were considered bad form.
They drove into the grounds of Number 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, known to most of the world as the White House. They drove up to the front entrance, tactfully called the “social door” and serving the purposes of a “back door.” Baker escorted the visitor, and the guards admitted them without question. They went up a flight and a half by a broad stairway, and Baker said “Hello” to a colored attendant who sat just outside a half-open door. He tapped, and a voice that most of the world knows over the radio called: “Come in.” And so Lanny Budd entered the chamber of the man whom he had chosen for his guide.
III
F.D.R. was in bed, as always on these occasions; it was a big old-fashioned magohany bed with a carved back. He had on blue-and-white-striped pongee pajamas, with a comfortable blue cape about his large and strong shoulders. He had a collection of legal-appearing documents on his lap, and he put these aside, took off his spectacles, and leaned over to greet his visitor with a handshake and a cheerful “Hello.” Not until Baker had bowed himself out and closed the door did he speak the visitor’s name. “Well, Lanny! Every time you come you bring me a bigger load of troubles!”
“That’s why I come,” replied the other, with a grin. He had had four sessions here and one at Hyde Park, and understood this genial great man’s fondness for “kidding.”
“Great guns! You sure collected a mess this time! Has the great anaconda finished his swallowing act?”
That was an invitation for Lanny to tell his story, and he went to it. He had already put the essentials into his reports; now he went over the same ground, putting in the local color, bringing to life the various personalities involved in the diplomatic battle of Europe. There was a minor battle going on inside Germany for the possession of the Führer’s mind; it was between—you couldn’t say the conservatives, for there were no such leaders of the NSDAP, but there were some less reckless than others. Göring and Hess were among these, and Lanny had sought them as his friends; the other crowd, of whom Ribbentrop and Goebbels were the most conspicuous, he couldn’t stand, even as a matter of duty.
The “Governor” wanted to know how deep that cleavage went; would it ever become a real split? Lanny answered: “Not a chance of it. Once Hitler announces his decision, they all fall into line, like so many humble rookies. The reason for that is, not so much that they trust Hitler—many of them privately think he’s a bit cracked—but they know he’s managed to get the German people behind him. That is the basis of his power—that, and his luck; he’s managed to get away with one thing after another, and of course every concession by the rest of the world increases that prestige, makes him bolder and his people more adoring.”
Said F.D.R.: “I have the feeling that we are drifting into a frightful calamity.”
“There can be no question about it, Governor.” The great man had been Governor of New York State, and it had been a simple homely job compared to the one he now had, that was enough to break the back of a dromedary, so he declared.
Lanny went on: “The world needs someone to take command and put a block across the pathway of these dictators.”
“I see you looking at me,” replied the man in the striped pajamas. His words were playful but his look became grave. “I can only tell you that I am completely helpless. The American people are not awake to the situation and will not listen to any warning. They fear Europe, they despise it a little, because of the hateful things that are done there. They do not see the slightest reason why they should stick their fingers into the mess. Isolation is the watchword of the hour, and every smallest move I make to help our friends abroad brings a storm about my head. You saw what happened the other day when I let the French purchase a few of our military planes.”
“Yes,” replied Lanny, “I had a talk with Bullitt after he got back to Paris.”
“Well, you can say, that I should have the courage to face such storms; and I do; but I am not a dictator and have no idea of becoming one, in spite of all that my enemies say. I cannot afford to break completely with Congress, for if I do I merely render myself impotent for the scant two years of office that I have left, and if I cannot influence the choice of my successor I shall have the pain of seeing all my New Deal measures repealed and my labors brought to naught.”
“I don’t think you need worry about the two years, Governor. I can assure you that Hitler will force a crisis before that—unless, of course, the British are prepared to back down completely and let him treat Poland as he has treated Czechoslovakia.”
“They give me very strong assurances that they will not do that; and we have all been cheered by the firm stand which Chamberlain has taken.”
“God knows I hope he sticks by it,” declared the son of Budd-Erling. “But his temperament is all against that, and the forces which will try to break him down again are powerful and unscrupulous. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the fate of Prague which moved him to protest, but a small block of territory at the eastern tip of Slovakia which separated Poland from Hungary and gave Hitler access to Rumania and then into Russia if he wanted it.” Lanny told the story of his talk with Wickthorpe and Albany on Wednesday evening and the public outburst of Chamberlain on Friday. The President chuckled, for he had a streak of mischief in him and doubtless was no ardent admirer of that stiff and lanky representative of Birmingham commercialism; he didn’t love that type at home and they didn’t love him.
“Lanny,” he remarked, “you must get a great kick out of your job, associating exclusively with the world’s headliners. How on earth do you manage it?”
“It’s largely a matter of accident. My father’s job brought me into contact with prominent people, and my own job helps me to keep it up. Hitler thinks he is promoting friendship with both France and America when he buys some of my former stepfather’s paintings, and when he sends me to Paris and London with messages about his ardent love for those nations. I deliver the messages, and the wealthy and fashionable appeasers receive them gladly. I can only hope and pray that the damage I do is overbalanced by the value of what I bring to you.”
“I think you can reckon upon that,” said the President. “I have read all your reports, and I keep your facts in mind. You must understand my position—the American people have piled a man-killing job onto my shoulders. No one man can know the hundredth part of what I am required to know. Look at this, for example.” He pointed to the mass of papers which he had set to one side on his bed. “I have promised to give a decision on all that tomorrow morning. And some day, sure as God made little apples, I shall have to give decisions about Europe. Most of my information comes from men who see through colored spectacles—and the color isn’t Pink, believe me! The playboys of our diplomatic crowd, who meet only the plush-lined set in Europe and gather their facts and interpretations at tea parties—you know them, I am sure.”
“Indeed, yes, Governor!”
“Well, a man who knows Europe as you do, and yet keeps the democratic point of view, is truly useful to me. I want you to know it and never have any doubts about it.”
“That’s all I need to hear,” replied the P.A., fervently. “I can get along for a year on that.”
IV
It was time for him to offer to depart, and he did so. But his Chief said: “No, I don’t see you very often. Tell me your plans.”
“I thought I would take a few weeks off, unless you have something urgent in mind. I have some picture deals to attend to—that’s how I pay my way.”
“You understand that I will put you on my payroll if you wish.”
“There is no
need of it. I get a lot of fun out of handling pictures, and it gives me a chance to travel about and get acquainted with my own country. I don’t think there’s anything important going to happen in Europe this spring. The anaconda has got his bellyful, and all he wants is to be let alone while he digests it.”
F.D. put a cigarette into the long thin holder which he used, lighted it and took a puff or two. Then he began: “You know, Lanny, we have been having another business recession, and much as I dislike it, I can’t see any other recourse but another shot of lending and spending. Congress is balking; in fact, they have got to the point where they won’t do anything if they think it’s what I want. They refuse to modify the Neutrality Act and allow me to distinguish between aggressor and peaceful states. They know that this impotence is one of the main factors the dictators count upon; but Congress will not act, and so I am tied hand and foot.”
This appeared to be an opening, and Lanny stepped in. “All but your tongue,” he ventured.
“I am afraid of using that too much. People soon get tired of hearing only scolding and complaining.”
“Do you want me to speak frankly, Governor?”
“Nothing else is ever of any use to me.”
“You must understand that I have a pretty lonely life over in Europe. I can’t explain my conduct or ideas to anyone, and it cuts me off from all social life—except what you might call my stage career, with the Nazis and Fascists whom I despise and have to pretend to admire. So you must know that I think about you a lot; I’m all the time having imaginary talks with you, and imagining what I would do in your place. I make my reports as brief as possible, but in my imaginary talks I say a mouthful.”