II
The door was opened by a uniformed elderly Negro. He bowed slightly and said: “Good evening, sir,” in a low, liquid voice. Lanny found himself in a spacious and brilliantly lighted hall, with many doors, a staircase, and several irregular rows of portraits and historical scenes on the walls. Another uniformed servant took his hat. Then came a slender man in formal attire, who announced himself as the chief usher. “Mr. Prescott” gave his name, and this official consulted a cardboard which he carried under his arm. “You will sit at Mrs. Adamic’s right,” he said. Lanny, who was used to these formal affairs, replied: “Thank you. I will remember.”
He was escorted to a reception room and introduced to other guests: a Mr. Robinson, tall and sunburned, a cousin of the “First Lady,” as he learned later; two pretty girls of eighteen or twenty whose names he didn’t get—they were English by their accent; finally a couple, Mr. and Mrs. Louis Adamic. Lanny recognized the name and knew the man as a writer, of Yugoslav descent, much interested in the problems of the foreign-born in his adopted country. He was about Lanny’s age, and as tall, with thinning hair, gentle features, and a quiet voice. Lanny would have liked to talk to him, but circumstances did not permit. The two girls were worried because they were not wearing long dresses—they had been invited at the last moment and told to come as they were. Mr. Robinson was worried because the Allies were doing so badly in the war; he had just arrived from Peru and had got the full impact from the papers. How could it be that the Germans were able to have their way in the Crimea and North Africa, and the Japs all over the eastern world?
The usher appeared again and led them to a small elevator which took them to the second floor. Just as they emerged, Mrs. Roosevelt appeared from a door in the corridor. She wore a light blue gown in which Lanny thought she looked especially impressive; the upswept hairdress and long gown made her appear even taller than she was. She looked well and strong, but sad and harassed when her face was in repose. Now she was smiling, and stretched out her two hands to her women guests.
The English girls, having been the last to enter the elevator, were the first to emerge. She greeted them as friends of the family and motioned them to enter the Lincoln room. Then came her cousin; she revealed her affection for him and commented upon his sunburn acquired in high altitudes. Then came the Adamics—Lanny having lagged behind out of politeness. Mrs. Adamic, a tiny person, was enfolded in one of the First Lady’s arms; the author’s wife had just been told that she was to sit at the President’s right hand, which could be expected to scare her. Then it was Lanny’s turn, and the hostess shook hands with him warmly. “How do you do, Mr. Prescott?” she said distinctly, to let him know that she had been told and was not going to forget.
III
The Lincoln room contains fine old period pieces and chintz-covered armchairs; there are cheerful green-and-yellow drapes, and too many pictures and prints crowded onto its walls. Lanny had heard the tradition that sometimes late at night the residents of this mansion hear footsteps and see a very tall man clad in a long black frock coat. Certainly they could not be the steps of the present master of the household, who was taken everywhere about the building in a wheel chair. At present he was discovered seated at a desk halfway down the long wall of the room, amusing himself with a cocktail shaker, a bowl of crushed ice, and several bottles with fancy labels. If he had any worry about the state of the world, he wasn’t going to let his wife’s cousin see it. “Hello, Monroe,” he called, and held out a firm strong hand. His face was ruddy and his close-set gray eyes flashed with a zest of living that infected everybody who came near him. When anything was going on he watched with his head cocked, ready for a bit of fun or a chance to start it ahead of the next fellow. He wore a well-fitted dinner jacket, soft white shirt, and natty black bow tie; his long broad-shouldered torso and powerful arms were so active that you lost all thought of his disability.
Mrs. Roosevelt brought up the other guests and introduced them, and he shook hands with each and had a friendly word. To Lanny he said: “Glad to see you, Prescott,” putting emphasis on the name and grinning at the same time, a sort of half wink in his eyes. At this moment the President’s little black Scottie appeared from somewhere and began sniffing at the visitor’s shoes and the cuffs of his trousers; then, seeming satisfied, he sat back on his haunches. “You pass,” said Roosevelt, laughing. “Do you have a dog?”
“My mother has too many at her home on the Riviera,” Lanny replied. “You cannot give them away in wartime.”
“For fear that someone might eat them?” And then, addressing the circle of guests: “Fala has been getting a very good press—much better than I. But nearly everybody misspells his name.”
“It is an unusual name,” remarked Mrs. Adamic.
The President reached down to pat the little dog’s head. “One of my Scottish ancestors, away back, was Murray, the Outlaw of Fala Hill. No doubt he had a dog who thought his master was a great man.”
Lanny thought: This is how he keeps sane in an insane world; calm in the dead center of a tornado. Even Cousin Monroe would have to put aside his worries and at least pretend to enjoy social life. It was as if the head of the state were saying: “I know things that you don’t know. Trust me, as Fala does.”
The President passed out the cocktails, one by one, then lifted his glass as a salutation to his guests and took a sip. “Orange Blossom,” he said, and savored it. Mrs. Roosevelt set her glass down and went about with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Lanny, knowing the customs of Europe, reflected that there a liveried servant, not the hostess, would have performed such a duty. The guests began drawing up chairs in a semicircle in front of the host. There was a large armchair, and Lanny moved that, intending it for Mrs. Roosevelt; but when she saw his gesture, she said: “We will save that for the Prime Minister.”
Lanny had been wondering if Churchill was coming to this affair. There hadn’t been a line in the newspapers about his presence in Washington; it was a war secret. All the reporters must have known it, and the burden must have weighed heavily upon them. Later in the evening F.D.R. repeated, with one of his infectious grins, the remark which one of his secretaries had made at a press conference that day: “I am carrying two battleships around, one in each of my side pockets.” He meant, of course, the President and the Prime Minister.
Roosevelt started talking and all the others listened. He wanted to know how Adamic’s latest book had sold. Lanny hadn’t read it, but gathered now that it was a proposal that immigrants and sons of immigrants in America should be used to help restore or set up democratic institutions in each of the Nazi-conquered lands; that a carefully selected and trained commission should be sent to each of these lands to give them material aid and political guidance. The President didn’t say what he thought of the idea.
Said Mrs. Roosevelt: “It will interest you to know that the Prime Minister has had the book in his room four or five days.”
The author’s sunburned cheeks were flushed with pleasure. “I’d give anything to hear his reaction,” he said.
“So would we,” replied the First Lady with a laugh. “The President told Mr. Churchill he might not like the last part; so, no doubt, he read the last part first.” For the benefit of the other guests she explained that the book concluded with an imaginary discussion between John Bull and Uncle Sam on board an American cruiser anchored in the fog off Iceland on a midsummer’s day of the previous year. To Churchill that would mean himself and the President of the United States at the time they had agreed upon the Atlantic Charter; and naturally Adamic, an American liberal, not to say radical, had given the British Tory the worst of the discussion. “I am afraid he won’t like it,” said the author, in the tone of a man who has committed a faux pas. His hostess lifted her hands in a gesture which was equivalent to: “What can we do about that?”
IV
The company was seated; the President was tossing popcorn into his mouth; Fala was snoozing. Lanny was taking note of
the technique whereby a shrewd and determined woman exercised influence upon public affairs. She had read a book which presented a program for democratizing Europe; she had had the same idea that her husband had expressed to his P.A., that the powerful and busy gentleman who governed the British Empire wouldn’t read a book but could be made to listen to conversation; so she had invited the author and his wife to Washington and had added a couple of pretty English girls to “balance the table.”
Lanny understood that this was no time for him to show off any of his social gifts; he was there to listen and learn how his country was being governed in this time of world crisis. He had been promised a talk with the Duke of Marlborough’s descendant later in the evening—while the President of the United States was trying to get his beauty sleep!
Mrs. Roosevelt arose suddenly from her chair and hastened to the door. Here came John Bull himself, and she held out her hand and greeted him formally, respectfully: “Good evening, Mr. Prime Minister.” The answer came in a close-lipped voice: “Good evening, Mrs. Roosevelt.” The speaker held a fat, freshly lighted cigar in front of him, as if he were making sure that no evil should befall it.
Five years had passed since Lanny had met the Right Honourable Winston Spencer Churchill, who had grown even stouter in those years. He had a rotund dumpy figure with short, slight arms and legs, rather narrow in the shoulders; mostly girth, chest, and head; no neck. He had a pink-and-white baby face and light blue eyes. He advanced into the room with what seemed a semi-scowl on his face; he moved as though he were without joints, all of a piece; solid, unhurried, impervious to obstacles, like a tank or a bulldozer. Behind him came his personal secretary, a slight pale young man named Martin.
“Hello, Winston!” cried F.D.R., and extended his hand dramatically. The reply came through barely moving lips: “Good evening, Mr. President.” It was the first time Lanny had heard them address each other—and what a world of information was in those greetings! Two civilizations meeting and establishing their agreements, but also their disagreements, once and for always! Lanny could imagine that at their first meeting the American had spoken first and had said in effect: “I call you by your first name because that is the American custom.” To that the Englishman had replied in effect: “I address you by your title, because that is the English custom.” Having begun that way, neither could yield with good grace. Having once said “Winston,” F.D.R. couldn’t very well take to saying “Prime Minister.” On the other hand, for the Prime Minister to have said “Franklin” would have been a capitulation, and that was not his nature. So, in spite of all temptations to belong to other nations, he remained an Englishman!
For a longish moment these two gazed at each other, at once knowingly and quizzically. The President’s expression mixed amusement and concern; the Prime Minister’s large round phiz was perfectly smooth, and oh, so innocent!—except for the eyes which were shrewd and the mouth which was determined. The newspapers were making much of the fact that these men were friends; but they were not merely two human beings, they were two parties, two nations, and there were tensions between them.
No one knew this better than Lanny Budd, alias Prescott. Winston Churchill had adjusted himself to democracy in his own country, but he didn’t want any of it in international affairs; he certainly wouldn’t consider it a substitute for the divide-and-rule policy of the British Empire, politely known as the “Balance of Power” on the Continent of Europe. And here was a woman, as determined as he, scheming to force him to read a book and meet an author who was some sort of Pink and perhaps a Red—the Almighty alone could tell the difference. Had he and Roosevelt been arguing that day about it? Had they been at a deadlock over it ever since the two “battleships” had met? Was the democrat presuming to remind the imperialist who it was that had the money and was dispensing the lend-lease?
The democratic man put on one of those smiles which were at once sincere and an act. “Had a good nap, Winston?” he inquired. And at this perhaps undignified revelation the Prime Minister appeared to pout. He stuck his cigar into his mouth and mumbled something which Lanny couldn’t catch although there was dead silence in the room except for that one sound.
V
The V.I.P.—Very Important Person—received his cocktail from the hand of his host; then he sat down in the armchair. Lanny was amused to notice that it had been contrived for the author of Two-Way Passage to be next to him. “Mr. Prime Minister,” said the contriver, “Mr. Adamic is the author of the book I gave you.”
“Yes, yes,” was the reply, rather abruptly given. “I am reading it.” But he didn’t say what he thought of it. He deliberately dodged the subject by pulling from his pocket a letter from his wife. “She thanks you for your gift,” he said to Mrs. Roosevelt, and put on his spectacles and read a paragraph. Then he added: “I have no words to express my appreciation of all the gifts that were sent to me the last time I was here. Someone sent me a corncob pipe!” He put the cigar in his mouth and made it glow.
“I get several every year,” declared F.D.R.
“Are yours worm-eaten, too?” inquired Churchill.
The President grinned and offered him another “Orange Blossom,” but Churchill declined. Meantime Mrs. Roosevelt took a tiny sausage impaled on a toothpick and held it up before Fala, who eagerly did his stunt of rolling over, and then sat up to get his reward. “Good boy, Eala!” said the President, and the little dog came and plopped down at his feet.
A butler appeared in the doorway, and the hostess rose. The others all followed suit, and in the momentary diversion the President quickly slid himself from his chair to his wheel chair. His wife wheeled him out to the hall and to the elevator, the ladies following her and the men following the ladies. Churchill and Adamic were last, and Lanny ventured to linger with them, for he was curious about the little drama.
Adamic said very politely: “It is a privilege to meet you, Mr. Prime Minister.”
The reply was: “I am readin’ your book. I find it int’restin’”—a strong accent on the first syllable of that word.
“Thank you, sir. How far have you got into it?”
“About halfway. Do you really think there is a problem there?”
“I do, sir. Unless we succeed in mustering our American idealism and putting it to work.…”
That was as far as this discourse got. They had come to the elevator, and the President, inside, was waiting. “Come on in, Winston,” he called. “The rest of you boys walk down.” On the way Lanny said to the author: “It looks as if he’s not going to be drawn out.” Adamic replied: “I am afraid so.”
When they arrived at the lower floor a uniformed servant was wheeling the President into the dining-room. The First Lady paused and called the attention of the guests to a painting, and so, when they entered the room, the President had already been transferred to his high-backed chair at the large oval table. Lanny observed these deft proceedings; it was important that guests should be spared reminders of his physical handicaps, for the preservation both of his own dignity and the cheerfulness of the guests.
The table had as its centerpiece a silver bowl filled with roses, shining directly under the chandelier. The service began at once: a consommé, broiled fish, roast chicken, a salad, an English trifle, and a demitasse served at the table. Lanny had been placed between Mrs. Adamic and Mrs. Roosevelt’s secretary; he understood that it was better for him to be inconspicuous, and he was glad to listen to what the great and famous had to say.
VI
The President of the United States rubbed his hands, grinned, and, looking over the centerpiece at his wife, remarked: “Well, we had a good day today.”
“Indeed, Franklin?”
“I had a fine press conference. Our newsmen are pleased because I have combined all our information and publicity services into one organization and put Elmer Davis at the head.”
Lanny was familiar with the voice of Elmer Davis, but it hadn’t reached Cousin Monroe in Peru. He asked who
this person was, and the President explained that he was a radio commentator so highly respected by his colleagues and by newspapermen that he would be able to put a stop to the bickering that had been going on among the various unco-ordinated bureaus. Having said this, F.D.R. beamed and took a spoonful of his consommé. Lanny thought: How much like Robbie, coming home in the evening and telling the family and guests what he had done that day, and what excellent judgment he had displayed!
“I hope you are not too optimistic,” said the wife. “I am afraid he will find he has taken a very hot seat.” Lanny said to himself: That might be Esther!
“Of course, the old crowd will fight him,” replied the husband. “There are many who are afraid of having the government acquire any means of getting news to the public—and especially any ideas.” Then, looking across the table: “Don’t you find the same thing, Winston?”
“You forget,” growled the Prime Minister, “that our government owns the B.B.C. and has from the beginning. We are far from being as reactionary as some people imagine.” He went back to scooping up his consommé. Behind him was the concentrated knowledge which a statesman of Britain had acquired through a lifetime of observation and experience. He knew his half of the planet; and at present it was keeping him so busy that he had no time to bother with the other half. He sat calmly sure that he was wiser and more mature than anybody else in this room.
Perhaps the host felt the need of livening up the party; or perhaps he was tired and wanted to keep himself entertained. “Our enemies have got a new one on us,” he announced. “They delight to keep track of the proliferating of our bureaucracy. At the press conference I was asked if it is true that we have a ‘Biscuit, Cracker, and Pretzel Subcommittee of the Baking Industry of the Division of Industrial Operations of the War Production Board.’”