Upton Sinclair - Dragons’s teeth

LANNY BUDD was the only occupant of a small-sized reception-room. He wasseated in a well-padded armchair, and had every reason to becomfortable, but did not appear so. He fidgeted a good deal, and foundoccasions for looking at his watch; then he would examine hisfingernails, which needed no attention; he would look for specks of linton his tropical worsted trousers, from which he had removed the lastspeck some time ago. He would look out of the window, which gave on oneof the fashionable avenues of the city of Cannes; but he had alreadybecome familiar with the view, and it did not change. He had a popularnovel on his knee, and every now and then would find that he could notinterest himself in the conversation of a set of smart society people.

Now and then one of several white-clad nurses would pass through theroom. Lanny had asked them so many questions that he was ashamed tospeak again. He knew that all husbands behave irrationally at this time;he had seen a group of them in a stage play, slightly risqu butharmless. They all fidgeted and consulted their watches; they all got upand walked about needlessly; they all bored the nurses with futilequestions. The nurses had stereotyped replies, which, except for thelanguage, were the same all over the world. "Oui, oui, monsieur. . . .Tout va bien. . . . Il faut laisser faire. . . . Ilfaut du temps.. . . Cest la nature."

Many times Lanny had heard that last statement in the Midi; it was aformula which excused many things. He had heard it more than once thatafternoon, but it failed to satisfy him. He was in rebellion againstnature and her ways. He hadnt had much suffering in his own life, anddidnt want other people to suffer; he thought that if he had beenconsulted he could have suggested many improvements in the ways of thisfantastic universe. The business of having people grow old and pass offthe scene, and new ones having to be supplied! He knew persons who hadcarefully trained and perfected themselves; they were beautiful to lookat, or possessed knowledge and skills, yet they had to die before long and, knowing that fact, must provide a new lot to take their places.

Lanny Budd belonged to the leisure classes. You could tell it by asingle glance at his smiling unlined face, his tanned skin with signs ofwell-nourished blood in it, his precise little mustache, his brown hairneatly trimmed and brushed, his suit properly tailored and freshlypressed, his shirt and tie, shoes and socks, harmonizing in color and ofcostly materials. It had been some time since he had seen any bloodshedor experienced personal discomfort. His life had been arranged to thatend, and the same was true of his wife. But now this damnable messybusiness, this long-drawn-out strain and sufferinggood God, what weredoctors and scientists for if they couldnt devise something to take theplace of this! It was like a volcanic eruption in a well-ordered andpeaceful community; not much better because you could foresee the event,going in advance to an immaculate hospice de la maternit and engaginga room at so much per week, an accoucheur at so much for the job.

A surgeon! A fellow with a lot of shiny steel instruments, prepared toassist nature in opening a woman up and getting a live and kickinginfant out of her! It had seemed incredible to Lanny the first time hehad heard about it, a youngster playing with the fisherboys of thisMediterranean coast, helping them pull strange creatures out of the seaand hearing them talk about the "facts of life." It seemed exactly asincredible to him at this moment, when he knew that it was going on in aroom not far away, the victim his beautiful young playmate whom he hadcome to love so deeply. His too vivid imagination was occupied with thebloody details, and he would clench his hands until the knuckles werewhite. His protest against nature mounted to a clamor. He thought: "Anyway but this! Anything thats decent and sensible!" He addressed hisancient mother, asking why she hadnt stuck to the method of the egg,which seemed to work so well with birds and snakes and lizards andfishes? But these so-called "warm-blooded creatures," that had so muchblood and spilled it so easily!

Lanny knew that Irma didnt share these feelings. Irma was a "sensiblewoman," not troubled with excess of imagination. She had said manytimes: "Dont worry. Ill be all right. It doesnt last forever."Everybody agreed that this young Juno was made for motherhood; she hadridden horseback, swum, played tennis, and had a vigorous body. Shehadnt turned pale when she crossed the threshold of this hospital, oreven when she heard the cries of another woman. Things always went allright with Irma Barnes, and she had told Lanny to go home and play thepiano and forget her; but here he sat, and thought about the detailswhich he had read in an encyclopedia article entitled "Obstetrics." Fromboyhood he had had the habit of looking up things in that dependablework; but, damn it all, the article gave an undue proportion of space to"breech presentations" and other variations from the normal, and Lannymight just as well have been in the delivery-room. He would have likedto go there, but that would have been considered an extreme variationfrom the normal in this land of rigid conventions.

So he sat in the little reception-room, and now and then theperspiration would start on his forehead, even though it was a coolspring day on the Riviera. He was glad that he had the room to himself;at times, when somebody came through, he would lower his eyes to hisbook and pretend to be absorbed. But if it was one of the nurses, hecouldnt keep from stealing a glance, hoping that it was the nurse andthe moment. The woman would smile; the conventions permitted her tosmile at a handsome young gentleman, but did not permit her to go intoobstetrical details. "Tout va bien, monsieur. Soyez tranquille." Insuch places the wheel of life revolves on schedule; those who tend themachinery acquire a professional attitude, their phrases becomestandardized, and you have mass production of politeness as well as ofbabies.

Lanny Budd was summoned to the telephone. It was Pietro Corsatti,Italian-born American who represented a New York newspaper in Rome andwas having a vacation on the Riviera. He had once done Lanny a favor,and now had been promised one in return. "Pete" was to have the news themoment it happened; but it refused to happen, and maybe wasnt going tohappen. "I know how you feel," said the correspondent, sympathetically."Ive been through it."

"Its been four hours!" exclaimed the outraged young husband.

"It may be four more, and it may be twenty-four. Dont take it too hard.Its happened a lot of times." The well-known cynicism of thejournalist.

Lanny returned to his seat, thinking about an Italian-American with astrong Brooklyn accent who had pushed his way to an important newspaperposition, and had so many funny stories to tell about the regimefascista and its leaders, whom, oddly enough, he called "wops." One ofhis best stories was about how he had become the guide, philosopher, andfriend of a New York "glamour girl" who had got herself engaged to afascinating aristocrat in Rome and had then made the discovery that hewas living with the ballerina of the opera and had no idea of giving herup. The American girl had broken down and wept in Petes presence,asking him what to do, and he had told her: "Take a plane and flystraight to Lanny Budd, and ask him to marry you in spite of the factthat you are too rich!"

It is tough luck when a journalist cannot publish his best story. Petehadnt been asked not to, but, all the same, he hadnt, so now Lanny washis friend for life, and would go out of his way to give him a breakwhenever he could. They talked as pals, and Lanny didnt mind tellingwhat only a few of his friends knew, that Irma had done exactly whatPete had said, and she and Lanny had been married on the day she hadfound him in London. As the Brooklyn dialect had it, they had "goneright to it," and here was the result nine months later: Lanny sittingin a reception-room of an