Пользователь - WORLD'S END

"In what you are about to read, I beg you to remember our hours of ecstasy. Remember our tears that mingled, and all the pulses of our hearts. Everything that I have ever been to you, I am today, and will be forever, if fate spares me. I love you; my being trembles when I think of you, my courage dissolves, I curse war, mankind, fate, and God Himself, that gives us such bliss and then tears it away. I feel all that, and I am all that. But also I am a citizen of France, with a duty there is no escaping. Also I am a rational man, knowing what the world is, and what can happen to a woman in it. I say: 'What have you to offer to this woman, or to any woman born to the pleasant things of life?'

"There are times when I feel that I know about the value of my own work. I say: 'It is good, and some day the world will know that it is good.' But then I remember how van Gogh succeeded in selling only one painting in his lifetime, and that to his brother. So I ask myself: 'Have I anything more than he had?' I tell myself there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of painters, each as sure of his own merits as I am of mine; and very few of them can be right. Who can say there is any sure guarantee that genuine merit will be recognized in the world? Why may it not be suffocated by indifference, just as life may be annihilated in the blast of war?

"I tell myself that if you go to America, you will almost certainly marry there, and I shall never see you again. Grief overwhelms me; but then reason speaks, reminding me that my life may be snuffed out in a few days - or worse, that I may be mutilated, and made into something you had better not see or know about. I say: 'If she takes her dear son to America, that will be the happiest path for her and for him. Her wise American friends must be telling her that. What right have I to add to the ache of her heart?'

"It may be, Chйrie, that all this is fantasy. If so, call it a lover's nightmare, and laugh at it. But it is better to write something foolish than not to let you know my heart. If I am called, what I write thereafter will be under the eyes of an army censor. I beg you to learn not to worry about me, it is the destiny of the men of our time. France must be saved from the insolence of an autocrat, and whatever comes to each individual is his to endure. My love, my blessings go with you, and my prayers for your happiness."

Tears had come into Lanny's eyes as he read, and were trickling down his cheeks. When he was through he, too, sat staring before him, not seeing anything, not knowing anything to say. He didn't think that Marcel believed in prayers, or in blessings. Was it just a manner of speaking, or was it a cry wrung from him when his own forces were not enough to meet his need? Maybe he would be glad to go to war, and to get killed, as a way of escape from his grief.

"It's her own affair," Robbie had said to his son. "It's a mistake to urge people to any course, because then they hold you responsible for the consequences. Let her make her own decision." So the boy didn't say a word, just let the tears trickle.

"Oh, Lanny, what shall I do?" whispered Beauty, at last. When he didn't answer, she began to sob. "It's monstrous that a man like Marcel should be dragged away to war!"

"He doesn't have to be dragged," said the boy. "Don't you see that he would go anyway? We can't help that part of it. Most of the women of France will have that to endure." Robbie had said this, and the boy knew it was right.

But Beauty was a different kind of woman, belonging to the class which wasn't supposed to suffer. So far she had refused to do so. That was why it seemed such a perfect solution of the problem to flee to America, in the care of a capable man who had no part in Europe's hates and slaughters. That was undoubtedly the sensible way - as Robbie and Emily and all her friends kept assuring her. How provoking and unreasonable that a woman who had given her heart couldn't get it back without rinding it all bleeding and torn!

"Tell me, what shall I do?" she repeated.

"Robbie doesn't want me to say any more about it," the boy answered. "You know what I think."

"Harry is coming to take me to dinner," persisted the mother. "What am I to say to him?"

The boy remembered what his father had told him during the affaire Zaharoff. "Tell him the facts, Beauty."

VI

Lanny returned to his other job. Robbie wrote out a long message to his father, advising him that Turkish officials were deeply involved in intrigues with Germany and the outcome might be a blockade of all Turkish ports. The British military mission advised that Britain would certainly want all the ground-type air-cooled machine guns it could get. Robbie advised against charging a higher price, except as part of a general boost in the price schedule. He recommended this latter more urgently than ever. Future quotations should be subject to increase depending upon raw-material prices certain to jump enormously.

A long message which would take a good part of the afternoon; Robbie hated to put it off on the youngster, but Lanny said he had never done anything he enjoyed more. He would stick right there and make himself an expert, and when Robbie was willing to send a message without checking it, he would be as proud as if he'd got the tiny red ribbon of the Legion of Honor.

So they went to work, Lanny at his table, and the father talking to harassed and exhausted military men. This went on until after seven o'clock, when Robbie said they'd eat, no matter' what happened to Europe. "Let's go to a place where real Parisians eat," he suggested. "Fellow I know will be there."

They got into a taxi, and he gave an address on the Rue Mont-martre. "We're to meet a journalist; a man who has worthwhile connections, and often brings me tips. I give him a couple of hundred-franc notes. It's the custom of the country."

It was a place Lanny had never heard of before. There were many tables on the sidewalk, but Robbie passed these by and strolled inside; he looked about, and went toward a table where sat a little man with heavy dark mustache and beard, pince-nez on a black silk cord, and a black tie. The man jumped up when he saw him. "Ah, M. Bood!" he exclaimed, trying to say it American fashion, but not succeeding.

"Bon jour, M. Pastier" replied Robbie, and introduced Lanny: "Mon secrйtaire ." The man looked puzzled; for not many businessmen have secretaries fourteen years old. Robbie laughed, and added: "Aussi mon fils."

"Ah, votre fils!" exclaimed the Frenchman, exuberantly, and shook hands with the lad. "C'est le crown prince, hein?"

"J'e l 'espeer," replied Robbie; his French was no better than M. Pastier's American.

The other invited them to sit down. They ordered, and Robbie included a large bottle of wine, knowing that his acquaintance would assist them. The Frenchman was a voluble talker, and impressed Lanny greatly. The boy was too young to realize that persons in this profession sometimes pretend to know more than they can know. To listen to him you would have thought he was the intimate friend of all the prominent members of the cabinet, and had talked with several of them that afternoon.

He reported that Germany had been making desperate efforts to detach France from her Russian engagements. "The German ambassador pleaded with friends of mine at the Quai d'Orsay. 'There is and should be no need for two highly civilized nations to engage in strife. Russia is a barbarous state, a Tatar empire, essentially Asiatic' So they argue. They would prefer to devour us at a second meal," added the Frenchman, his black eyes shining.

"Naturellement," said Robbie.

"But we have an alliance; the word of France has been given! Imagine, if you can, the insolence of these Teutons - they demand of us the fortresses of Toul and Verdun, as guarantees of our abandonment of the Russian alliance. Is it probable that we built them for that?"