I
THE home of Sir Alfred Pomeroy-Nielson was called “The Reaches,” and was close to the Thames River some way below Oxford. It was a very old place, and not much had been done to modernize it, because, as Rick explained, his father was too poor; they had all they could do to keep the place, and not much left for their beloved arts. There was a little bit of everything in the architecture of the house: an old tower, a peaked roof with gables, mul-lioned windows, a crenelated wall, a venerable archway through which you drove to the porte-cochere. The structures were jammed one against another, and topping them all were chimney pots, sometimes three or four in a row. This meant that all the year except summer the maidservants were busy carrying coal scuttles; and since there was very little running water, when they had finished with scuttles they carried pails.
But, of course, in summertime everybody went to the river, crossing a beautiful sloping lawn under an archway of aged oaks. It was a new kind of swimming for Lanny, and he thought he could never get enough of it. The boys lived in bathing suits, and “punted” in a long flat-bottomed boat with a ten-foot pole. It was a nice friendly little river, neither wide nor deep. Boathouses lined it, and gaily decorated motorboats went by, and long thin shells, with oarsmen practicing for the coming races. It was a holiday thoroughfare, and there was laughter and singing; the three musketeers of the arts sang all the songs they knew.
Rick had a sister, two years older than himself, and therefore too old for either of the visitors; but she had friends with younger sisters, so there was a troop of English girls bright-cheeked and jolly, interested in everything the boys were doing, and sharing their sports. Lanny was just at the age where he was preparing to discover that girls were wonderful, and here they were.
Sir Alfred Pomeroy-Nielson was a middle-aged gentleman, tall and slender, with handsome dark mustaches turning gray, sharp features, a hawk's nose, and keen dark eyes. He had a Spanish mother, and maybe a trace of Jewish blood, as Rick had said. He was a lover of all the arts and friend of all the artists. He knew many rich people, and acted as a sort of go-between for the bohemian world; telling the “swells” what was what in art and helping the struggling geniuses to find patrons. An impecunious playwright would bring him a blank-verse tragedy, and Sir Alfred would decide that it was a masterpiece, and would design a group of magnificent sets for it; then he would set out to find a backer, and when he failed he would declare that England was going to the dogs. He had very high standards, and would relieve his disappointments by composing sharp epigrams.
It was a free and easy world which he had made for himself within his castle. The most extreme opinions were freely voiced, and it was everybody's pride not to be shocked. But at the same time it would be better not to commit any lapse of table etiquette, and when you took off your bathing suit you put on the right sort of clothes. This made an odd mixture of convention and scorn for convention, and a boy with American parents had now and then to ask his friend for guidance. Rick would give it with an apology. “The older people try to be mod'n, but they really aren't quite up to it.”
Kurt Meissner found even greater difficulties, because he was stiff and serious and couldn't get used to the idea of saying things that you didn't entirely mean. “In a Pickwickian sense,” was the English phrase, and what was a youth from a province of Prussia to make of it? Kurt was puzzled by their habit of running down their own country; what they said about the state of England was what Kurt himself believed, but he couldn't get used to the idea of Englishmen saying it. They would even discuss the desirability of getting rid of their royal family. “The Prince of Wales is going to turn out to be another dancing boy,” Sir Alfred would remark blandly; “a ladies' man like his grandfather.”
And then the suffragettes! The son of the comptroller-general of Castle Stubendorf had read in the newspapers about maniacal creatures who were pouring acids into letter boxes and chaining themselves to the railings of the House of Commons in order to prove their fitness to have the vote; but never in his wildest moment had it occurred to him that he might be called upon to sit at dinner table with one of these creatures, and to take her punting upon the Thames! But here was Mildred Noggyns, nineteen years old, the daughter of a former undersecretary in the government; pretty, but pale and rather grim, only three weeks out of Holloway gaol after having chopped a hole in the painted face of the Velasquez Venus, most highly prized treasure of the National Gallery. And talking quite calmly about it, discussing the “cat-and-mouse act,” by which the authorities were combating hunger strikes; they let you out of jail when they thought you were near dying, and took you back again as soon as you had picked up a bit.
Rick's sister, Jocelyn, abetted her; and of course these saucy ladies soon found out what was in the haughty soul of the Junker from Silesia, and it became their delight to tease him beyond endurance. They wouldn't let him help them into a punt. “No, thank you, all that nonsense is over, chivalry, and bowing and scraping before women; we're quite able to get into punts by ourselves, and we'll do our share of handling the pole, if you please. And what do you mean when you Say that man is gregarious, and that man is a spiritual being, and so on? Do you refer to lordly males like yourself, or do you deign to include the females? And if you include us, why don't you say so? Of course, we know it's just a way of speaking, but it's a benighted way devised by men, and we object to it.”
“Yes, Miss Noggyns,” Kurt would reply, “but unfortunately I have not learned any word in your language which expresses the concept 'man and woman.'” When the feminist lady proposed that they should create such a word, Kurt replied, gravely: “I have found it hard enough to learn the English language as it exists, without presuming to add anything to it.”
II
The three boys discussed the matter among themselves. Kurt thought that the revolt of women meant the breakdown of English society; it was like the “war of the members” in one of the fables of Aesop. Lanny hoped that, if women got the vote, society might be kinder and there wouldn't be so much talk about war. Rick said: “It won't make much difference, one way or the other; the women'll divide about as the men do, and there'll be more votes to count.” Generally when these three argued they had different opinions — and when they finished, they still had them.
Of course they talked about girls, and what was called the “sex problem.” No one of the three had as yet had a sex experience. Kurt said that he had had opportunities; the peasant girls were often willing enough, and looked upon it as an honor that a gentleman would do them; but Kurt had the idea of saving himself for a great and worthy love. Lanny remembered what the Social-Democratic editor had said about Kurt's father, but of course he wouldn't breathe a word of that.
Rick said, rather casually: “If a sex experience comes my way I'll probably take it; I think people make more fuss about it than is necessary — especially since methods of birth control are generally known. It seems to me the women are waking up and will attend to changing our ideas.”
“I'd hate to put Miss Mildred Noggyns in charge of my ideas.” replied Kurt; and they all laughed.
Lanny, desiring to contribute something to the conversation, told about his unpleasant experience with Baron Livens-Mazursky. Rick, young man of the world, said that homosexuality was spreading, it was one of the consequences of the false morality of Puritanism. “There's a plague of it in our public schools,” he declared. “The boys hide their share from the masters, and the masters hide their share from the boys, or think they do.”
This was one time that Kurt didn't try to prove that Germany was superior to England. “It's bad in our army,” he said. Lanny decided to tell how he had unwittingly got into conversation with a Social-Democratic editor in a railway station, and the man had repeated evil rumors about high-up persons. “Such an editor would believe the worst about our ruling classes,” said Kurt.
They talked also about something that had happened the other day in Sarajevo, capital of the province of Bosnia; the Austrian archduke, heir to the throne of the Empire, had been on an official tour with his wife, and the two of them had been murdered while riding in their motorcar. Rick and Lanny had heard their elders discussing it, but hadn't paid much attention; Kurt now explained that Bosnia was a province of Austria inhabited mostly by Slavs, an inferior and disorderly people. “They are always agitating against the Austrian authorities,” he said, “and the Serbians across the border encourage them. The murder was committed by students, and naturally the Austrians will have to take strong measures to punish the conspirators.”
The other two were interested in the story, but as something far off that didn't mean much to them. It was politics; and they were all agreed that politics was an activity which artists were in duty bound to look upon with contempt. All three were dedicated to the service of the ideal. “Im Ganzen, Guten, Wahren resolut zu leben” — so Goethe had taught, and Kurt repeated it to the other two. The diplomats in the Balkans would continue to squabble, but men of superior mind would pass over such headlines in the newspapers, and give their attention to the reviews of Ravel's Daphnis and Chloe, then being superbly danced by the Russian ballet.
III
Another event of the moment was the Royal Regatta at Henley-on-Thames. Amateur oarsmen from many parts of the world assembled, and the river was put upon the map for three days. There were two American crews among them, so Lanny had a chance to feel patriotic. The finals were rowed on Saturday, and Lanny's mother came with a motoring party from London, and met the family who were hosts to her boy. Of course these free and “mod'n” people didn't concern themselves about her divorce, and she was lovely in her simple white frock, of what the French call mousseline de communion, and a jardiniere hat with pink hedge roses held in place by a white chiffon veil several yards in length. At her throat was a diamond bow brooch that also looked simple — unless you knew that it was set in platinum.
Harry Murchison drove the party, and had servants following in another car, to set up tables and spread an elaborate “breakfast” on the lawn of The Reaches. It was a festivity without a single flaw — unless you counted the fact that wasps persisted in getting stuck in the jam. Afterwards they motored to Henley, and the Pomeroy-Nielsons invited them to a private enclosure of one of the rowing clubs, from which they had a view of the finish. The course had been marked off with piles driven, and booms, and there were no launches and no high wind to trouble the oarsmen, as you had on the big rivers of America: just a nice friendly sort of tea-party place, so that oarsmen rowing down the course could hear the conversation of spectators on both banks. On one side was a towpath, on which the crowd ran or bicycled; on the other side, behind the booms, were punts and rowboats crowded together like sampans on a Chinese river.
It was a gay scene; the men wore blazers with the colors of their rowing clubs, while the ladies in their bright gowns lolled upon silken cushions. Of course you wouldn't expect an English crowd to roar and cheer like an American one. “Well rowed, Harvard!” would be the proper expression of enthusiasm. It happened that the final in the eight-oar event for the Grand Challenge Cup was rowed by two American crews, one composed of Harvard undergraduates, and the other of Harvard graduates; so there were many crimson flags and nasal New England accents. Oddly enough, the race was rowed on the Fourth of July, so the Americans had to be careful not to give offense to their well-mannered hosts.
Only one thing marred a perfect day for Lanny Budd: that was the attention which Harry Murchison was so obviously paying to his mother. It was Harry who helped her out of the motorcar, and Harry who helped her in again, and it happened to be Harry who caught her when one of her fancy high-heeled slippers caused her ankle to turn. He was a good-looking and agreeable fellow, and the Pomeroy-Nielsons could have no reason to criticize his interest in an unattached woman — but that would be because they didn't know about Marcel Detaze. But Lanny thought of Marcel down there at the Cap, painting diligently; he must be lonely, and wondering when his Beauty would get through with the social whirl and return to the life of art and love.
She was going back to France right after this race — but not going home yet. She had been invited to spend a fortnight with Mrs. Emily Chattersworth, an American friend who lived on the Riviera in winter and in a château near Paris in summer. From a bit of conversation Lanny now gathered that Harry Murchison was motoring her there, and would be in Paris and take her to a fete champetre. Lanny couldn't get away from the disturbing thought: was this too-agreeable heir of a plate-glass factory in Pennsylvania trying to win the love of his mother? And if so, where did Marcel come in? Had Beauty begun to tire of her painter? A whole new set of problems for a youngster who was supposed to have learned all the facts of life!
IV
Among the girls who came to The Reaches was the daughter of an army officer by the name of Rosemary Codwilliger, which you pronounced Culliver. She had hazel eyes and smooth thick hair the color of straw, and very regular, rather grave features — she might have served as model for a girlish Minerva, goddess of wisdom. She was a year older than Lanny, and took a maternal attitude toward him, which he liked, being a mother's boy. Rosemary was fascinated by “Dalcroze,” and would watch Lanny and Rick and imitate what they did, and was very good at it. She had been to the Riviera and knew the places Lanny knew, so they had plenty to talk about.
When the young couples strolled apart, it would be Rosemary and Lanny. They were sitting near the river, watching the last tints of the fading day; a single very bright star, and no sound on the river, but up at the house Kurt Meissner playing the slow movement of Mozart's D minor piano concerto. A lovely melody, tender and touching, floated down to them; it died to a whisper, rose again, and then again, in different forms, an infinite variety. It whispered of love and beauty, it captivated the soul and led it into a heaven of ecstasy, pure yet passionate.
It was one of those rare moments in which new possibilities of the spirit seem to be unveiled; and when at last the music died away, neither of them moved for a while. Lanny felt the girl's hand touching his; he returned the pressure gently, and again they were still. A faint breeze stirred tiny ripples on the surface of the water, and caused the evening star's reflection to shiver and tremble. In the soul of Lanny something of the same kind began to happen, the strangest, indescribable sense of delight pervading his being. He leaned closer to the girl, who seemed to feel the same way.
The music had begun again. Kurt was playing something that Lanny didn't know. It sounded like Beethoven; slow and mournful, a lament for mankind and the suffering men inflict upon one another. But the magic of art turns sorrow into beauty, pain into ecstasy; the young people were flooded with an emotion which caused their two hands to tighten and tremble, and tears to start down their cheeks. When the music died again, Lanny whispered: “Oh, that was so sweet!” Not a brilliant observation, but the tones of his voice were eloquent.
Rosemary's reply startled him. “You may kiss me, Lanny.”
He hadn't known that he wanted to kiss her; probably he wouldn't have dared to think of it. But he realized at once that it would be pleasant to kiss her — very gently, respectfully, of course. So he planned; but when he touched his lips to hers, her arms folded about him, and they clung together in a long embrace. Those strange thrills became more intense, they suffused the boy's whole being. He seemed to know what all the music of the world was about, what it was trying to express. He wanted nothing but to stay there, perfectly still, and have Kurt go on playing sweet, sad melodies.
Somebody came along, interrupting them, so they got up and went into the house. Lanny's cheeks were flushed, but Rosemary was as cool and serene as the girlish Minerva, goddess of wisdom. Whenever she looked at Lanny she smiled, a gentle smile, at once a reassurance and a pledge of happiness to come.
So after that, whenever circumstances permitted, those two wandered off by themselves. As soon as they were alone, their hands would come together; and when they found a sheltered spot, or darkness to protect them, their arms would be about each other and their lips would meet. They never went any further; Lanny would have been shocked by the idea, and the girl did not invite it. They were at a stage where happiness came easily, and in satisfactory abundance.
It was long before Lanny admitted to himself that these thrills had anything to do with that puzzling thing called “sex” that people were always talking about. No, this was something rare and exalted, a secret bliss which they alone had discovered, and concerning which they would breathe no whisper to anyone else. At least that is what Lanny said, and Rosemary smiled her wise, motherly smile, and said: “You dear!”
They both kept the secret; and when the time came for Lanny to go back to town, the girl told him it would be just “àè revoir” “My mother is talking about the Riviera for next winter,” she said. “We'll write to each other, and surely not forget how happy we've been.”
Lanny answered: “I'll think of it every time I listen to music or play it. And that will be often!”
V
One other adventure before the boy left that green and pleasant land. Kurt had gone up to London to meet his uncle's friends. Rick had to do some studying; owing to his preoccupation with the arts, he had failed in his mathematics and had to stand an examination in the fall. Lanny read for a while, and then went for a walk.
It was delightful country, with a great variety of prospects; the land owners had a right to bar you from their property, but they generally didn't, and there were lanes and footpaths, with stiles over the fences, and little dells with streams running through them. Summer was at its height; the sun, not having long to stay, did its best by shining for long hours, and the green things made the most of their opportunity, crowding to the light. A very different world from Provence; greener trees, and landscapes more intimate and friendly, warmer to the heart if not to the thermometer.
Lanny rambled, turning wherever he saw anything that interested him, and not caring where he went; he knew the names of villages near The Reaches, and anybody could tell him the way. When it was time to go back, he trusted to luck. He found himself on the edge of a patch of woodland, with a fence as you entered, and a stile to enable you to step over it; he sat there to rest, and saw a figure moving on another path, which crossed his at the farther edge of the patch of woods. It was a girl, and Lanny couldn't see clearly, but it appeared that she was carrying something over her shoulder; then, as he watched, she suddenly disappeared and he didn't see her again. He was puzzled, because there seemed to be no drop in the ground. Could it be that the girl had fallen?
His curiosity was aroused, and he climbed over the stile and went toward the place. Sure enough, there was the girl lying flat on the ground, and a sack of turnips, some of them having spilled out when she fell. Lanny ran toward her, and saw that she was about of his own age, barefooted, wearing a torn and dirty old skirt and blouse; her hair hadn't been combed, and she was far from prepossessing. It looked as if she had fainted; anyhow, there she lay, and Lanny noticed that her skin was bloodless and that she was emaciated to a painful degree. He might have decided that she was drunk, but instead he guessed that she hadn't had enough to eat.
He had heard somewhere that when people fainted you dashed cold water in their faces and slapped their hands. He tried the latter, but perhaps didn't put enough energy into it. He looked and saw buildings some distance beyond the wood, and ran toward them and found a row of cottages close together, of the sort which look picturesque in old etchings. They might have been as old as Queen Anne, or as Elizabeth; they had low thatched roofs, small windows, and doorways not quite regular, and so low that even Lanny had to bend his head to enter. He saw a woman in front of them and ran to her, calling that there was a girl lying out there on the ground. The woman was tousle-headed and red-faced, and she said, dully:
“It'll be that Higgs gel, over thurr,” and pointed to one of the cottages.
Lanny ran to the place and knocked on the door. It was opened after a while by a woman with straggly hair and only three teeth visible. The English poor, whenever they had a toothache, simply pulled the tooth out; no doubt many a woman who looked like this one had been hanged or burned for a witch. “Aye, it'll be Madge,” she said, with no great excitement. She got him some water in a pail, and he went running with it.
By dint of throwing handfuls in the girl's face he got her eyes open by the time the woman arrived. They lifted her to her feet and the woman helped her to the cottage, while Lanny lugged the turnips. Stooping under the doorway, they laid the girl on the bed, which consisted of a mattress stuffed with straw on a board frame. The girl's skin was transparent and looked like wax; she closed her eyes, and Lanny couldn't be sure whether she had fainted again or not.
“Hadn't you better give her something to eat?” he asked; and the reply was: “There's nowt in the house.” This bewildered him. “But what do you do?” he demanded, and the woman said, dully: “The man'll bring summat when he comes, belike.”
That didn't satisfy this good Samaritan. He wanted to know if there wasn't some place where he could purchase food, and the woman told him where to find a shop. It proved to be a miserable place, with flyspecked peppermints and gumdrops in the window. He bought a loaf of bread, a tin of beans, and a rusty one of salmon, his guess at a balanced diet. When he got back to the cottage he found that there was no tin-opener, and he had to break into the tins with a knife and a block of wood. When he put the food before the girl, she wolfed it like a famished animal, leaving only part of the bread.
Lanny looked about him. He had read a poem called “The Cottar's Saturday Night.” He hadn't been quite sure what a “cottar” was, but now he was in the home of one. It didn't bear much resemblance to the poem. A dark-colored clay had been stuffed into chinks of the walls, and the floor was of planks, very old and worn. The fireplace was black with the smoke of ages. There was another bed like the one the girl was lying on, and a table apparently knocked together by amateur hands, and three stools, each with three peg legs. There was also a row of shelves with a few pans and dishes, and some ancient clothing hanging on the walls, and a water bucket on the floor. That was about all.
One place on the floor was wet, and the woman saw Lanny's eyes resting upon it. “It's the roof,” said she. “The blurry landlord won't have it fixed.” Lanny asked who was the landlord, and the reply was: “Sir Alfred.” It gave the boy a start. “Sir Alfred Pomeroy-Nielson?” The woman answered: “Aye, he's the stingy one, he'll do nowt for ye, not if the house was to blow down.”
VI
So Lanny had something to think about on his short walk to The Reaches. He wasn't sure if he ought to mention the matter to his hosts, but he decided that they'd be apt to hear about it, and would think it unnatural that he had kept silence. Lanny went to Rick and told him; good old Rick, who never got embarrassed about anything. Rick said: “It's that good-for-nothing old laborer, Higgs. He's a sot that spends every penny he can get his hands on for drink. What can you do for such a family? The pater's been talking of getting rid of him for a long time, and he should have done it.” Rick added that he'd tell his father; but he didn't invite Lanny to the conference. Lanny had an uncomfortable feeling, as if he had opened a closed door and a family skeleton had tumbled out.
The Pomeroy-Nielsons thanked him for his good deed, and Rick took the trouble to explain matters further. The land on which those cottages stood belonged to the family, but the tenants worked for other people. “Most of them are behind with their rent,” said Rick, “because the pater's reluctant to press them as other landlords do. The old tenements are nothing but a nuisance, and he has often thought of razing them and plowing the land.” The son of the family added, with one of his dry smiles, that of course that wouldn't go very far toward solving the housing question; but you couldn't expect a man to be an authority on both art and economics.
Lady Pomeroy-Nielson was a stoutish, motherly person who looked after the boys and made them change their shoes when they got wet. She was kind, and told Lanny that she would take the poor child a basket of food. “But I fear it won't do much good,” she added, “unless I stay and see it eaten. That Higgs is a rough fellow, and he'll take anything he can get his hands on and sell it for a drink.”
Rick discussed with his guest the problem of poverty in England's green and pleasant land. He declared that when human beings got below a certain level, it was very difficult to help them; drink and drugs took the place of food and they finished themselves off. Lanny said his father had explained that to him, but he had thought it applied only to city slums; it had never occurred to him that there might be slums in the country. Rick said there could be little difference between country and city; if there was an over-supply of labor in one it shifted immediately to the other. In the hop-picking season, hundreds of thousands of people from London's East End spread out over the country looking for work, and if they found conditions a bit better on the land, some of them would stay.
It was an insoluble problem — as Rick, and Rick's father, and Lanny's father agreed; but all the same Lanny couldn't forget the feel of the pitiful thin body that he had lifted, the waxen skin, and the frantic look in the girl's eyes when food was held out to her. Nor could he drive from his mind the impolite thought that, if he were an English landed gentleman, he would have his lovely green lawn a trifle less perfectly manicured, and spend the money on keeping the roofs of his cottages in repair.
VII
There had come a cablegram from Robbie; he was sailing from New York on the Lusitania, and would be at the Hotel Cecil on a certain day. Of course a summons from Robbie took precedence over all other affairs. Lanny went to town the night before, and telephoned the steamship office to find out at what hour the steamer was due. The boy was sitting in the lobby, reading a book, but looking up every few minutes, and when the familiar sturdy figure appeared in the doorway, he sprang up to welcome his father. It was a hot July morning, and perspiration glistened on Robbie's forehead, but he looked well and vigorous as always, and everything he wore was fresh and spotless.
It had been four or five months since his last trip, and they had a lot of news to swap. At lunch Lanny told about Greece and Africa, and the scene on board the Bluebird. Then he told about his adventures in the slums of London and of Berkshire. The father said: “That's the curse of England. The most depressing thing I ever saw in my life was the people of London's slums spread out on Hamp-stead Heath on a bank holiday; men and women lying together on the ground in broad daylight.”
Robbie Budd had come on an interesting errand. The firm had completed a new gun on high-angle mountings, to be used for protection against airplanes; the season's best-seller in the armaments trade, he predicted. It would mean another battle with Zaharoff, because Vickers already had one, but it wasn't nearly so good and couldn't be fired so fast. “Are we going to wipe him out?” asked the boy. eagerly; and Robbie said they would if there was such a thing as justice in the world. He said this with one of his boyish grins, and added his fear that there wouldn't be any in England for Budd's.
They made themselves comfortable in their suite. Robbie got a bottle of whisky out of his suitcase, and ordered soda and ice — the London hotels were quite “American” now, and ice was one of the signs. For Lanny there was ginger beer, the father having asked him to wait many years before he touched liquor, or smoked, or learned to play poker. He said he wished he had waited longer himself. Lanny was interested to note in how many ways parents expected their children to be wiser than themselves.
Robbie telephoned the manager of Budd's London office, and while waiting for him to arrive, they talked about the English and their Empire. Lanny knew the country now and took a personal interest in it, but he found that his father didn't share his enthusiasm. Robbie had been in business competition with the English, which was different from being a guest in their well-conducted homes. “They are sharp traders,” he said, “and that's all right, but what gets your goat is the mask of righteousness they put on; nobody else sells armaments for the love of Jesus Christ.” The Empire, he added, was run by a little group of insiders in “the City” — the financial district. “There are no harder-fisted traders anywhere; power for themselves is what they are out for, and they'll destroy the rest of the world to get and keep it.”
Lanny had got the impression that they liked Americans; but Robbie said: “Not so. All that talk about 'Hands across the sea,' don't let it fool you for a moment. They're jealous of us, and the best thing they can think of about us is that we're three thousand miles away.”
Lanny told about a talk with Sir Alfred, in which the baronet had deplored the great amount of graft in American political life, and had expressed satisfaction because they had nothing of the sort in Britain. “They have a lot more,” said the munitions salesman, “only they call it by polite names. In our country when the political bosses want to fill their campaign chest, they put up some rich man for a high office — a 'fat cat' they call him — and he pays the bills and gets elected for a term of years. In England the man pays a much bigger sum into the party campaign chest, and he's made a marquess or a lord, and he and his descendants will govern the Empire forever after — but that isn't corruption, that's 'nobility'!”
You could see the effect of such a system in the armaments industry, Robbie went on to explain; and he didn't have to do any guessing, he was where he could watch the machinery working. “I've come to England with a better gun than Vickers is making; but will the British Empire get that gun? I'm going to do my best, but I'll make a private wager that it'll be the Germans who come across first. The reason is Zaharoff and his associates. They're the besL blood, so called, in England. On the board of Vickers are four marquesses and dukes, twenty knights, and fifty viscounts and barons. The Empire will do exactly what they say — and there won't be any 'graft' involved.”
VIII
Robbie went about his important affairs, while Lanny learned to know the pictures in the National Gallery. Also he met Kurt's uncle, a stout and florid gentleman who told him about rubber plantations in the Dutch East Indies, and took them to lunch at a place where they could have a rijstafel. Rick came to town over the week-end, and they went to the opera and concerts, and to a cricket match. They had lunch with Robbie, who was glad Lanny had picked two such intelligent fellows as friends; he said he would take them to a place that would give them a thrill — the War Planes Review now being held on Salisbury Plain. Robbie had been invited by an army captain who had to do with his negotiations.
The boys were delighted, of course. They had been hearing a lot about the picturesque idea of battles fought in the air. The four of them were up early in the morning, and took a train for Salisbury, some eighty miles west of London, where Captain Finchley had a car to meet them and bring them to the camp. They spent the whole day wandering about seeing the sights. The Royal Flying Corps had put up sheds for seventy planes, and most of them were in the air or lined up on the field, a spectacle the like of which had never before been seen. The officers, of course, were proud of the enterprise and might of Britain.
The largest and newest of the machines was a Farman, and the men dubbed it “the mechanical cow.” It was a frail-looking structure, a biplane spreading nearly forty feet across, the wing frames of light spruce and the surface of canvas, well coated and waterproofed. The flier sat in the open, and of course a mighty gale-blew around him when he was in the air, so he was muffled up and wore a big helmet. The principal service expected of him was to obtain information as to enemy troop movements and the position of artillery; some planes were provided with wireless sets, others with photographic apparatus. That lone fellow up there was going to be pretty busy, for he also had a carbine and a couple of revolvers with which to defend himself; or he might have an explosive bomb attached to a wire cable, the idea being to get above an enemy plane and run the cable over him.
Many planes were diving and swooping, acquiring the needed skill. Some were learning a new art called “flying in formation”; others were practicing dropping objects upon stationary targets. The visitors watched them until their eyes ached, and the backs of their necks. Every now and then a new plane would take off, and the moment when it left the ground always came to the beholder as a fresh miracle: man's dream of ages realized, the conquest of the last of the elements. The visitors were introduced to some of the pilots, well-padded fellows who of course made it a matter of pride to take it all in the day's work; going up was no miracle to them, and flying around was, to tell the truth, a good deal of a bore, once you got the hang of it. One place in the sky was exactly like another, and the ground beneath was no more exciting than your parlor rug. They were practicing night flying — and that, they admitted, was something that kept you awake. Also, they were very proud because they had succeeded in “looping the loop” in a biplane, for the first time in history.
Lanny was interested to see the effect of all this upon his English friend. Eric Vivian Pomeroy-Nielson, young man of the world whose “note” was sophistication and whose motto was nil admirari, was stirred to eloquence by the idea of military aviation. He remarked to Lanny's father that after all England wasn't as backward as the Americans might have thought. He began asking technical questions of Captain Finchley and the fliers; he wanted to know if it wouldn't be possible to mount a machine gun in a plane, and they told him that the French were trying it. “That would be a fight to put a man on his mettle!” exclaimed Rick; a surprising remark from a youth who had been heard to speak of army men as “troglodytes.”
Captain Finchley was pleased by this enthusiasm. “I wish more English boys felt that way,” he remarked; “the failure of the recent recruiting is a cause of deep concern to all friends of the Empire.”
Robbie Budd took the occasion to speak about the effect which this new kind of warfare was bound to have upon the position of Englishmen. It deprived them of the advantage of their island solitude. Planes were now flying the Channel, and the Americans had even devised a sort of catapult that could launch a plane from a ship. It was certain that in the next war bombs would be dropped upon munitions centers and factories; and guns that could be fired at planes and airships would surely have to be mounted at vital points. Lanny understood that his father was giving a sales talk — Captain Finchley was on the board which had to decide about the Budd gun with high-angle mountings. Robbie had told his son the previous evening that they were trying to “stall” him; they wouldn't say they would buy the gun, yet they were obviously worried by the idea of his taking it anywhere else.
IX
On their way back to town in the evening the four talked about what they had seen, and the likelihood of these dangerous contrivances being actually put to the test. Kurt Meissher was worried by a letter he had received from home; the situation in the Balkans was more serious than anybody in England seemed to realize. Robbie said, yes, but it was always that way; the English were an easygoing people and left problems for others to solve as much as possible. This was just one more crisis.
“But,” exclaimed Kurt, “do the English or anybody else expect the Austrians to let Serbian hooligans incite the murder of Austrian rulers on Austrian soil?”
“The diplomats will get together and stop it,” Robbie told him soothingly. Nothing to worry about.
“But it is said that the Russians are backing the Serbs!”
“I know; they're always shoving one another about. The Russians say: 'You let my Serbian friends alone.' The Germans say: 'You let my Austrian friends alone.' The French say: 'You let my Russian friends alone' — so it goes. They've been making faces at one another for hundreds of years.”
“I know it, Mr. Budd — but they've been going to war, too.”
“The world has been changing so fast that it no longer pays to go to war, Kurt. The nations couldn't finance a war; it would bankrupt them all.”
“But,” argued Kurt, “when people get angry enough, they don't stop to calculate.”
“The masses don't, but they don't have the say any more. It's the financiers who decide, and they're first-class calculators. What's happened is, we've made weapons so destructive that nobody dares use them. Just to have them is enough.” Robbie paused for a moment, and smiled. “Did Lanny ever tell you about his meeting with Zaharoff? The old man was worried by the thought that his armaments might some day be put to use; I suggested to him that the ideal of civilization was to spend all our energies making things we never meant to use.” Robbie chuckled, and they all chuckled with him, though a bit dubiously.
A few days later Lanny set out for France to join his mother, and Robbie was packing up his Budd gun, preparatory to taking it to Germany, in an effort to wake the British up — or so he confided to his son. On that day King George was reviewing the might of the British navy off Spithead. His flagship was the Iron Duke, a dreadnought that could shoot away fifty thousand dollars in a single minute. Included in its armament were two twelve-pounder guns with high-angle mountings against airplanes. On that day . . .
It was the twentieth of July 1914.