"Miss Francis & the 2 others acted like crazy. They kept shaking each other"s hands & saying We are here, we are here, altho any body but a Nut would have thought saying it was a waste of time as even a small child could have seen that they were. And any way, why any body should want to be there is some thing beyond me.
"We took off from Whitney on the 14th inst., flying back S. West.
There were no land marks, but the navigator told me when we were over the Site of L. A. I have to report that the Gra.s.s looked no different in this Area, where it is the oldest. Then we flew North E., looking for the Gt. Salt Lake according to yr. instructions. I am sorry to say that we could not find it altho we flew back & forth for some time, searching while the instruments were checked. The Lake has disappeared in the Gra.s.s.
"We headed North E. by E., finding no land marks except a few peaks above the snow on the Rocky Mtns. I am very glad to say that the Gt.
Lakes are still there, altho much smaller & L. Erie & L. Ontario so shrunk I might have missed them if the pilot had not pointed them out. The St. Lawrence River is of course gone.
"We followed the line of the big Canadian Lakes N., but except for Depressions (which may be Swamps) in the lat.i.tudes of the Gt. Bear & Gt. Slave Lakes, there is nothing but Gra.s.s. We stayed over night at Banks Is. & it was very cold & miserable, but we were happy to remember that there was no Gra.s.s underneath the Snow below us. Next morning (the 16th) after fueling up we took off (with the ground crew) for the Homeward trip.
"Stopping at Whitney, every thing was O.K. except that I did not see the lady professor (Miss Francis, I mean) as Mr. White and Mr. Black said she was too busy.
"I will be in London to meet you on the 1st as arranged & give you any further news you want. Until then, I remain, Yrs. Truly, A. Preblesham, Vice-Pres. in Chge of Field Operations, Cons. Pem."
I cannot say Preblesham"s report was particularly enlightening, but it at least squelched any notion the Gra.s.s might be dying of itself. I did not expect any great results from the scientists" expedition, but I felt it worth a gamble. In the meantime I dismissed the lost continent from my mind and turned to more immediate concerns.
_71._ The disappearance of American foundries and the withdrawal of the Russian products from export after their second revolution had forced a boom in European steel. English, French, and German manufacturers of automobiles, rails, and locomotives, antic.i.p.ating tremendously enlarged outlets for their output--even if those new markets still fell short of the demand formerly drawing upon the American factories--had earmarked the entire world supply for a long time to come.
Since I owned large blocks of stock, not only in the industries, but in the rollingmills as well, this boom was profitable to me. I had long since pa.s.sed the point where it was necessary, no matter how great my expenses or philanthropies, for me to exert myself further; but as I have always felt anyone who gains wealth without effort is no better than a parasite, I was contracting for new plants in Bohemia, Poland, Northern Italy and France. I did not neglect buying heavily into the Briey Basin and into the Swedish oremines to ensure the future supply of these mills. In spite of the able a.s.sistance of Stuart Thario and the excellent spadework of Preblesham, I was so busy at this time--for in addition to everything else the sale of concentrates diagrammed an everascending spiral--that food and sleep seemed to be only irritating curtailments of the workingday.
It was the fashion when I was a youth for novelists to sneer at businessmen and proclaim that the conduct of industry was a simple affair, such as any halfwit could attend to with but a portion of his mind. I wish these cynics could have come to know the delicate workings and balances of my intricate empire. We in responsible positions, and myself most of all, were on a constant alert, ready for instant decision or personal attention to a ma.s.s of new detail at any moment.
_72._ On one of the occasions when I had to fly to Copenhagen it was Winifred and not General Thario who met me at the airport. "General T is so upset," she explained in her vivacious way, "that I had to come instead. But perhaps I should have sent Pauline?"
I a.s.sured her I was pleased to see her and hastened to express concern for her father.
"Oh, it"s not him at all, really," she said. "It"s Mama. She"s all bothered about Joe."
I lowered my voice respectfully and said I was sure Mrs Thario was overcome with grief and perhaps I had better not intrude at such a time.
"Poo!" dissented Winifred. "Mama doesnt know what grief is. She"s simply delighted at Joe"s doing a Custer, but she"s awfully bothered about his music."
"In what way?" I asked. "Do you mean getting it performed?"
"Getting it performed, nothing. Getting it suppressed. That a long line of generals and admirals should wind up in a composer is to her a disgrace which will need a great deal of living down. It preys on her mind. Poor old Stuart is home now reading her choice pa.s.sages from the _Winning of the West_ by Theodore Roosevelt to soothe her nerves."
I had been more than a little apprehensive of meeting Mama again, but Winifred"s report seemed to rea.s.sure me that she would be confined, if not to bed, at least to her own apartments. I was sadly disillusioned to find her ensconced in a comfortable armchair beside a brightly burning fire, the general with a book held open by his thumb. He greeted me with his usual affection. "Albert, I"m sorry I wasnt able to get to the airport."
I shook his hand and turned to his wife. "I regret to hear you are indisposed, Mrs Thario."
"Spare me your d.a.m.ned crocodile tears. Where is my son?"
"In his last letter he suggested he would remain in our country as long as it existed; however it is possible--even probable he escaped. Let us hope so, Mrs Thario."
"That"s the sort of d.a.m.ned hogwash you feed to green troops, not to veterans. My son is dead. In action. My grandfather went the same way at Chancellorsville. Do you think me some whimpering broompusher to weep at the loss of a son on the battlefield?"
Stuart Thario put his hand on her arm. "Easy ... bloodpressure ... no excitement."
"Not in regimentals," said Mama, and relapsed into silence.
We had a very uneasy dinner, during which we were unable to discuss business owing to the presence of the ladies. Afterward the general and I withdrew with our coffee--he did not drink at home, so I missed the clarity which always accompanied his indulgence--and were deep in figures and calculations when Winifred summoned us hastily.
"General, Mr Weener, come quickly! Mama ..."
We hurried into the living room, I for one antic.i.p.ating Mama if not in the throes of a stroke at least in a faint. But she was standing upright before the open fire, an unsheathed cavalry saber in her hand. It was clearly a family relic, for from its guard dangled the golden ta.s.sel of the United States Army and on its naked blade were little spots of rust, but it looked dangerous enough as she warned us off with a sweep of it.
In her other hand I recognized the bulky ma.n.u.script of George Thario"s First Symphony which she was burning, page by page.
"Some d.a.m.ned impostor," she said. "Some d.a.m.ned impostor."
"Harriet," protested the general, "Harriet, please ... the boy"s work ... only copy ..."
She fed another leaf to the fire. "... impostor ..."
"Harriet--" he advanced toward her, but she waved him away with the sharp blade--"can"t burn George"s work this way ... gave his life ..."
I had not thought highly of Joe"s talents as a musician, believing them byandlarge to be but reflections of his unfortunate affectations. I think I can say I appreciate good music and Ive often taken a great deal of pleasure from hearing a hotelband play Rubinstein"s Melody in F, or like cla.s.sical numbers, during mealtimes. But even if Joe"s symphony was but a series of harsh and disjointed sounds, I thought its destruction a dreadful thing for Mama to do and the more shocking, aside from any question of artistic taste, because of its reversal of all we a.s.sociate with the att.i.tude of true motherhood.
"Mrs Thario," I protested, "as your son"s friend I beg you to consider--"
"Impudence," declared Mama, pointing the sword at me so that I involuntarily backed up although already at a respectful distance.
"d.a.m.ned impudence," she repeated, feeding another page to the fire.
"Came into my house, bold as bra.s.s and said, "Cream if you please." Ha!
I"ll cream him, I will!" And she made a violent gesture with the saber as though skewering me upon its length.
I whispered to Constance, who was standing closest, that her mother had undoubtedly lost her reason and should be forcibly restrained. Unhappily the old lady"s keen ears caught my suggestion.
"Oho. "Deranged," am I? I spend my life making more money than I can spend, do I? I push my way against all decency into the company of my betters, boring them and myself for no earthly reason, do I? I live on crackers and milk because Ive spent my nervous energy piling up the means to buy an endless supply of steaks and chops my doctor forbids me to eat? I starve my employees half to death in order to give the money I steal from them to some charity which hands a small part of it back, ay?
I hire lobbyists or bribe officials to pa.s.s laws and then employ others to break them? I foster nationalist organizations with one hand and build up international cartels with the other, do I? I"m crazy, am I?"
Excited by her own rhetoric she put several pages at once into the flames. Constance pleaded, "Mama, this is all we have left of Joe.
Please, Mama."
"Sundays the church banner is raised above the Flag. I never heard a post chaplain say immortality was contained on pieces of paper."
"Comfort, then, Mama," suggested Winifred.
"Creative work," muttered the general.
"Is it some trivial thing to endure the pangs of childbed that the creations of men are so exalted? I have offered my life on a battlefield no less and no more than my grandfather fought on at Chancellorsville.
Little minds do not judge, but I judge. I bore a son; he was my extension as this weapon is my extension."
She thrust the sword forward to emphasize her utterance. "I will not hesitate to judge my son. If he did not die in proper uniform at least I shall not have him go down as a maker of piano notes instead of buglecalls." She threw the balance of the score into the fire and stirred it into a blaze with the steel"s point.
The ringing of the telephonebell put a period to the scene. Constance, who spoke several languages, answered it. She carried on an incomprehensible conversation for a minute and then motioned to me with her head. "It"s for you, Mr Weener. Rio. I"ll wait till they get the connection through." She turned to the mouthpiece again and encouraged the operator with a soothing flow of words.
I was vastly relieved at the interruption. It was undoubtedly Preblesham calling me on some routine matter, but it served to distract attention from the still muttering old lady and give her a chance to subside.