Пользователь - WORLDS END

VII

The president of Budd Gunmakers Corporation had been born in a red brick mansion on the residence boulevard which skirted the edge of Newcastle. He had lived in it all his life, and meant to die in it, regardless of automobiles, country clubs, and other changes of fashion. His butler had been his father's butler, and wasn't going to be changed, even though he was becoming tottery. There were electric lights in the house, but they were hung in old chandeliers. The hand-carved French walnut bookcases were oiled and polished until they shone, and behind their glass doors Lanny caught glimpses of books which he would have liked to examine. He knew this was a very old mansion, and that political as well as business history had been made in it; but it seemed strangely ugly and depressing.

The master was in his study, the ancient butler said, and Robbie led his son at once to the room. At a desk absorbed in some papers sat a man of seventy, solidly built and heavy, as if he did not exercise; partly bald, and having a considerable tuft of whitish gray hair underneath his chin, a style which Lanny had never seen before. He wore gold spectacles, and had creases between his heavy gray eyebrows, which gave him a stern expression, cultivated perhaps for business purposes. From his desk it appeared that he had carried home with him the burden of winning a war.

"Well, young man?" he said, looking up. He did not rise, and apparently didn't plan even to shake hands.

But to Lanny it seemed that a gentleman ought to shake hands with his grandfather when he met him for the first time; so he went straight to the desk and held out his hand, forcing the other to take it. "How do you do, Grandfather?" he said; and as the answer appeared to come slowly he went on: "I have heard a great deal about you, and I'm happy to meet you at last."

"Thank you," said the old gentleman, surprised by this cordiality.

"Everybody has been most kind to me, Grandfather," continued Lanny, as if he thought his progenitor might be worrying about it.

"I am glad," said the other.

Lanny waited, and so did the old man; they gazed at each other, a sort of duel of eyes. Robbie had told him not to talk; but something came to Lanny suddenly, a sort of inspiration. This old munitions maker wasn't happy. He had to live in an ugly old house and be burdened day and night with cares. He had an enormous lot of power which other people were trying to get away from him, and that made him suspicious, it forced him to be hard. But he wasn't hard; underneath he was kind, and all you had to do was to be kind to him, and not ask anything from him.

Lanny decided to follow that hunch. "Grandfather," he announced, "I think I am going to like America very much. I liked England, and I've been surprised to find everything here so much like England."

"Indeed, young man?"

"The best part of England, I mean. I hope I shan't see anything like their terrible slums."

The elderly industrialist rose to the bait. "Our working people are getting double wages now. You will see them wearing silk socks and shirts, and buying themselves cars on the installment plan. They will soon be our masters."

"I was told the same thing in England, sir. People complain about the taxes there. The owners of the great estates say that they are going to have to break them up. Do you think that will happen in this country?"

"Apparently we plan to finance our share of the war by means of loans," replied the president of Budd's. "It is a dangerous procedure."

"M. Zaharoff talked about that. He doesn't seem to object to war loans of any size. Maybe it is because he is getting so large a share of the proceeds."

"Ahem! Yes," said the grandfather. "I am happy to say that Budd's have not conducted their affairs on the same fly-by-night basis as Zaharoff."

The art of conversation is highly esteemed in France, and Lanny had acquired it. He had heard the worldly-wise Baroness de la Tourette declare that the one certain way to interest a man was to get him to talking about his own affairs. A beginning having been made in this case, Lanny went on to remark: "I find that Budd's have a very good reputation abroad, sir."

"Humph! They want our products just now."

"Yes, sir; but I mean with persons who are disinterested."

"Who, for example?"

"Well, M. Rochambeau. He spent a good part of his life in the Swiss diplomatic service, so he's very well informed. He has been most helpful to me during the two and a half years that I haven't been seeing Robbie. Anything I didn't understand about world affairs he was always land enough to explain to me."

"You were fortunate."

"Yes, Grandfather. Before that there was M. Priedieu, the librarian at Mrs. Chattersworth's chвteau. He helped to form my literary taste."

"What books did he give you, may I ask?"

"Stendhal and Montaigne, Corneille and Racine, and of course Moliere."

"All French writers," said the deacon of the First Congregational Church. "May I inquire whether any of your advisers ever mentioned a book called the Bible?"

"Oh, yes, sir. M. Rochambeau told me that I should study the New Testament. I had some difficulty in finding a copy on the Riviera."

"Did you read it?"

"Every word of it, sir."

"And what did you get out of it?"

"It moved me deeply; in fact it made me cry, four different times. You know it tells the same story four times over."

"I am aware of it," said the old gentleman, dryly. "Have you read the Old Testament?"

"No, sir; that is one of the unfortunate gaps in my education. They tell me you are conducting a Bible class."

"Every Sunday morning at ten o'clock. I am dealing with the First Book of Samuel, and would be pleased to have my grandson enroll."

"Thank you. I will surely come. M. Rochambeau tells me that the best Jewish literature is found in the Old Testament."

"It is much more than Jewish literature, young man. Do not forget that it is the Word of Almighty God, your heavenly Father."

VIII

All that time Robbie Budd had been sitting in silence, occupied with keeping his emotions from showing in his face. Of course he knew that this youngster had had a lot of practice in dealing with elderly gentlemen. Colonels and generals, cabinet ministers, senators, diplomats, bankers, they had come to Bienvenu, and sometimes it had happened that a boy had to make conversation until his mother got her nose powdered; or perhaps he had taken them for a sail, or for a walk, to show them the charms of the Cap. All this experience he had now put to use, apparently with success; for here sat the leader of the men's Bible class of the First Congregational Church of Newcastle, Connecticut, who was supposed to be saving the world for democracy, and had before him a portfolio of important papers contributory to that end; but he put his heavy fist on them, and set to work to save the soul of a seventeen-year-old bastard from a semi-heathen part of the world where you had difficulty in finding a copy of the sacred Word of God.

To this almost-lost soul he explained that the Scripture was a source, not merely of church doctrine, but of church polity; and that officers of the church - including Deacon Budd - were to be thought of as exemplars of Christian doctrine, from whom others might understand the nature of Conversion and the reality of Salvation. The deacon reached into the corner of his desk and produced a small pamphlet, yellowed with age, entitled A Brief Digest of the Boston Confession of Faith. "This," said he, "was composed by your great-great-grandfather for popular use as a simple statement of our basic faith. In it you will find clearly set forth that central truth of our religion - that there is no Salvation save in the blood of the Cross. For that guilt incurred by Adam's sin passed on into humanity together with the colossal iniquity of the accumulated sins through the ages has made all men hopelessly evil in God's sight, and deserving His just punishment of spiritual death. Outraged by human sin, the wrath of God has only been appeased by the atoning blood shed by His Son upon the Cross, and only by faith in the blood of Christ can any man find Salvation. No righteousness of life, no good deeds or kindly words, no service of fellow-men can offer any hope of Salvation. It is belief in that redeeming blood poured out on Calvary that alone can win God's forgiveness and save us from eternal death. I recommend the pamphlet as your introduction to the study of the true Old Gospel."

"Yes, Grandfather," said Lanny. He was deeply impressed. As in the case of Kurt explaining the intricacies of German philosophy, Lanny could not be sure how many of these striking ideas had been created by his remarkable progenitors.

Having thus performed his duty as a guardian of sound doctrine, the old gentleman allowed himself to unbend. "Your father tells me that you had a pleasant voyage."

"Oh, yes," replied the youth, brightening. "It couldn't have been pleasanter - except for the collision with an iceberg. Did Robbie tell you about that?"

"He overlooked it."

"It was such a small iceberg, I suppose it would be better to speak of it as a cake of ice. But it gave us quite a bump, and the ship came to a stop. Of course everybody's mind had been on submarines from the moment we left England, so they all thought we had been torpedoed, and there was a panic among the passengers."

"Indeed?"

"The strangest thing you could imagine, sir. I never saw people behave like that before. The women became hysterical, especially those in the third class. Those that had babies grabbed them up and rushed into the first-class saloon, and they all piled their babies in the middle of the floor. No one could imagine why they did that; I asked some of them afterwards, and they said they didn't know; some woman put her baby there, and the rest of them thought that must be the place for babies, so they laid them down there, and the babies were all squalling, and the women screaming, some of them on their knees praying, and some clamoring for the officers to save them - so much noise that the officers couldn't tell them that it was all right."

"A curious experience. And now, young man, may I ask what you plan to do with yourself in this new country?"

"Surely, Grandfather. Robbie wishes me to prepare for St. Thomas's, and he's going to get me a tutor."

"Do you really intend to work?"

"I always work hard when I get down to it. I wanted to be able to read music at sight, and I have stayed at it until I can read most anything."

"These are serious times, and few of us have time for music."

"I'm going to learn whatever my tutor wishes, Grandfather."

"Very well; I'll look to hear good reports."

There was a pause. Then the old man turned to his son. "Robert,"

said he, "I've been looking into this vanadium contract, and it strikes me as a plain hold-up."

"No doubt," said Robbie. "But we're getting our costs plus ten percent, so we don't have to worry."

"I don't like to pass a swindle like this on to the government."

"Well, the dealers have their story. Everybody's holding up everybody all along the line."

"I think you'd better go down to New York and inquire around."

"If you say so. I have to go anyhow, on account of that new bomb-sight design."

"It seems to be standing the tests?"

They went on for quite a while, talking technical details. Lanny was used to such talk, and managed to learn something. In this case he learned that an elderly businessman who got his church doctrine and polity from eighteen hundred years ago, and his chin whiskers and chandeliers from at least a hundred years ago, would change a bomb-sight or the formula for a steel alloy the moment his research men showed him evidence of an improvement.

At last the grandfather said: "All right. I have to get back to work."

"You're carrying too much of a load, Father," ventured Robbie. "You ought to leave some of these decisions to us young fellows."

"We'll be over the peak before long. I'll hold up this vanadium deal for a day, and you run up to New York. Good-by, young man" - this to Lanny - "and see that you come to my Bible class."

"Surely, Grandfather," replied the youth. But already the elder's eyes were turning toward that pile of papers on his desk.

The other two went out and got into the car, and Robbie started to drive. Lanny waited for him to speak; then he discovered that the vibration of the seat was not from the engine, but was his father shaking with laughter.

"Did I do the right thing, Robbie?"

"Grand, kid, perfectly grand!" Robbie shook some more, and then asked: "Whatever put it into your head to talk?"

"Did I say too much?"

"It was elegant conversation - but what made you think of it?" "Well, I'll tell you. I just decided that people aren't kind enough to each other." The father thought that over. "Maybe it was worth trying," he admitted.

20

The Pierian Spring

I

NORMAN HENRY HARPER was the name of Lanny's tutor. He didn't in the least resemble the elegant and easygoing Mr. Elphinstone, nor yet the happy-go-lucky Jerry Pendleton. He was a professional man, and performed his duties with dignity. He prepared young men to pass examinations. He already knew about the examinations; he found out about each young man as quickly as possible, and then, presto - A plus В equals C - the young man had passed the examination. To the resolution of this formula Mr. Harper devoted his exclusive attention; his equipment and procedure were streamlined, constructed upon scientific principles, as much so as a Budd machine gun.

Nor was this comparison fantastic; on the contrary, the more you considered it, the more apposite it appeared. Experts on military science had been writing for decades about the perpetual war going on between gunmakers and armorplate makers; and in the same way there were educators, whose business it was to cram knowledge into the minds of youth, and there was youth, perversely resisting this procиss, seeking every device to "get by."

The educators had invented examinations, and the students were trying to circumvent them. Being provided by their parents with large sums of money, it was natural that they should use it to get expert help in this never-ceasing war. And so had developed the profession of tutoring.

This was America that Lanny had come to live in, and he wanted to know all about it. He listened to what Mr. Harper said, and afterwards put his mind on it and tried to figure out what it meant. A young man wanted to get into "prep school" as quickly as possible, in order that he might get through "prep school" as quickly as possible, in order that he might get into college as quickly as possible, in order that he might get out of college as quickly as possible. Mr. Harper didn't say any of that - for the reason that it didn't need saying. If it wasn't so, what was he here for?

Mr. Harper was about forty years of age, a brisk and businesslike person who might have been one of the Budd salesmen; he was getting bald, and plastered what hairs were left very carefully over the top of his head. For about half his life he had been studying college entrance examinations. It would be an exaggeration to say that he could tell you every question which had been asked in any college of the United States during twenty years; but his knowledge approached that encyclopedic character. He knew the personalities of the different professors, and what exam questions they had used for the last few years, and so he could make a pretty good guess what questions were due for another turn. He would hold up his hand in the middle of a conversation; no, no use to know that, they never asked anything like that.