stretching of tissues, and comforted the stranger as best he could. Later on, seeing that his
advice was without effect, Lanny became bored, and buried himself in the latest issue of the
New Statesman.
He would have liked very much to inquire whether there had been any change in the status
of his wife; but the egregious emotionalism of Monsieur Fouchard reminded him that the Budds
were stern Anglo-Saxons and should behave accordingly. He resolutely fixed his attention upon
an article dealing with the final reparations settlement of the World War, now more than
eleven years in the past, and the probable effects of that settlement upon the various nations
involved. This was a subject of interest to a young man who had been born in Switzerland of
American parents and had lived chunks of his life in France, Germany, England, and "the
States." His many friends in these countries belonged to the ruling classes and took political
and economic developments as their personal affairs.
The surgeon was a long time in returning, and Lanny began once more to feel himself a
defrauded client. He forgot that there are telephones, whereby an obstetrician can keep
informed as to his patient while reading the latest medical journal at home or playing a game of
billiards at his club. When the Englishman at last appeared, he informed the anxious husband
that the time for action was approaching, and that Mrs. Budd would soon be taken to the
delivery-room. After that Lanny found it impossible to interest himself in what L'illustration
had to report about the prospects for the spring Salons—important though this subject was to
one who earned his living by buying or selling works of art on commission.
There was no use trying to be Anglo-Saxon any longer. Better give up and admit the
hegemony of mother nature. Lanny put down his magazine and watched Monsieur Fouchard
pacing the floor of the reception-room, and when Monsieur Fouchard sat down and lighted a
cigarette, Lanny got up and did the pacing. Meanwhile they talked. The Frenchman told about
his wife; she was only nineteen, her charms were extraordinary, and Monsieur Fouchard spared
no details in describing them. He wanted to tell the whole story of their courtship and marriage,
and was grateful to a stranger for listening.
Lanny didn't tell so much; nor was it necessary. Monsieur Fouc hard had heard the surgeon
call him by name, and was aware who this elegant young American must be. He had read about
Irma Barnes, and began to talk as if he were an old friend of the family, indeed as if he were about
to take charge of Irma's convalescence and the nursing of her infant. Lanny, who had grown up
in France, knew that it wasn't worth while to take offense; much better to be human. They would
set up a sort of temporary association, a League of Husbands in Labor. Others might be joining
them before the night was over.
X
The accoucheuse of Madame Fouchard arrived, a Frenchwoman; she succeeded in persuading
the husband that it would be a long time before the blessed event could take place, so that
gentleman bade his fellow league-member a sentimental farewell. Lanny answered a call from
his mother and reported on the situation; after pacing the floor some more, he sat down and tried
to put his mind upon an account of a visit to the hanging monasteries of Greece. He had seen
them as a boy, but now wouldn't have cared if all the monks had been hanged along with the
monasteries. He simply couldn't believe that a normal delivery could take so long a time. He
rang the bell and had a session with the night head nurse, only to find that she had learned the
formulas. "Tout va bien, monsieur. Soyez tranquille."
Lanny was really glad when the door opened and a lady was escorted in, obviously in that
condition in which ladies enter such places. With her came a French gentleman with a dark
brown silky beard; Lanny recognized him as a piano-teacher well known in Cannes. The lady
was turned over to the nurse's care, and the gentleman became at once a member of Lanny's
league. Inasmuch as Lanny was a pianist himself, and had a brother-in-law who was a violin
virtuoso, the two might have talked a lot of shop; but no, they preferred to tell each other how
long they had been married, and how old their wives were, and how they felt and how their
wives felt. This confrontation with nature in the raw had reduced them to the lowest common
denominator of humanity. Art, science, and culture no longer existed; only bodies, blood, and
babies.
Lanny would listen for a while, and then he would cease to hear what the bearded Frenchman
was saying. Lanny was walking up and down the floor of the reception-room, with beads of
perspiration standing oat upon his forehead. Oh, God, this surely couldn't be right! Something
dreadful must be happening in that delivery-room, some of those things which the
encyclopedia told about: a failure of the mother's heart, the breaking of the "waters," or one of
those irregular presentations which occur in varying percentages of cases. Manifestly, if the
accoucheur had encountered trouble, he wouldn't come running out to tell the expectant
father; he'd be busy, and so would the nurses. Only when it was all over would anyone break
the tragic news; and then Lanny would never be able to forgive himself.
A serious defect in the practical arrangements of this hospice de la misere! There ought to be
some system, a telephone in the delivery-room, a bulletin board, a set of signals! It is a problem
which calls for collective solution; the opening of a paternity hospital, a place for expectant
fathers, where they may receive proper care! Nurses will have some time for them. Attendants
will consider their feelings, and give them information—perhaps lectures on the subject of
obstetrics, especially prepared for sensitive minds, with the abnormalities omitted or played
down. There will be soft music, perhaps motion pictures; above all there will be news, plenty of
it, prompt and dependable. Perhaps a place like a broker's office, where a "Translux" gives the
market figures on a screen.
Every time Lanny came near the wall with the bell-button he wanted to press it and demand
exact information as to the condition of his beloved wife. Every time the French music-teacher
asked him a question it was harder to conceal the fact that he wasn't listening. A damnable
thing! Put the blame wherever you chose, on nature or on human incompetence, the fact
remained that this wife whom he loved so tenderly, with so much pity, must be in agony, she
must be completely exhausted. Something ought to be done! Here it was getting on toward
midnight—Lanny looked at his wristwatch and saw that three minutes had passed since he had
looked the last time; it was only twenty-two minutes to eleven— but that was bad enough—
some thirteen hours since the labor pains had begun, and they had told him it was time to leave
her to her fate. Damn it—
XI
A door of the room opened, and there was a nurse. Lanny took one glance, and saw that she
was different from any nurse he had seen thus far. She was smiling, yes, actually beaming with
smiles. "Oh, monsieur!" she exclaimed. "C'est une fille! Une tres belle fille! Si charmante!" She
made a gesture, indicating the size of a female prodigy. Lanny found himself going suddenly
dizzy, and reached for a chair.
"Et madame?" he cried.
"Madame est si brave! Elle est magnifique! Tout va bien." The formula again. Lanny poured
out questions, and satisfied himself that Irma was going to survive. She was exhausted, but
that was to be expected. There were details to be attended to; in half an hour or so it should
be possible for monsieur to see both mother and daughter. "Tout de suite! Soyez tranquille!"
The teacher of piano had Lanny Budd by the hand and was shaking it vigorously. For some
time after the American had resumed his seat the other was still pouring out congratulations.
"Merci, merci," Lanny said mechanically, meanwhile thinking: "A girl! Beauty will be
disappointed." But he himself had no complaint. He had been a ladies' man from childhood,
seeing his father only at long intervals, cared for by his mother and by women servants. There
had been his mother's women friends, then his half-sister and his stepmother in New England,
then a new half-sister at Bienvenu, then a succession of his sweethearts, and last of all his wife. He
had got something from them all, and would find a daughter no end of fun. It was all right.
Lanny got up, excused himself from the French gentleman, and went to the telephone. He
called his mother and told her the news. Yes, he said, he was delighted, or would be when he got
over being woozy. No, he wouldn't forget the various cablegrams: one to his father in
Connecticut, one to Irma's mother on Long Island, one to his half-sister Bess in Berlin. Beauty
would do the telephoning to various friends in the neighborhood—trust her not to miss those
thrills! Lanny would include his friend Rick in England and his friend Kurt in Germany; he
had the messages written, save for filling in the word "girl."
He carried out his promise to Pietro Corsatti. It was still early in New York; the story would
make the night edition of the morning papers, that which was read by cafe society, whose
darling Irma Barnes had been. After receiving Pete's congratulations, Lanny went back for others
which the French gentleman had thought up. Astonishing how suddenly the black clouds had
lifted from the sky of a young husband's life, how less murderous the ways of mother nature
appeared! It became possible to chat with a piano-teacher about the technique he employed; to
tell one's own experiences with the Leschetizsky method, and later with the Breithaupt; to
explain the forearm rotary motion, and illustrate it on the arm of one's chair. Lanny found
himself tapping out the opening theme of Liszt's symphonic poem, From the Cradle to the
Grave. But he stopped with the first part.
XII
The cheerful nurse came again, and escorted the successful father down a passage to a large
expanse of plate-glass looking into a room with tiny white metal cribs. Visitors were not
permitted inside, but a nurse with a white mask over her mouth and nose brought to the other
side of the glass a bundle in a blanket and laid back the folds, exposing to Lanny's gaze a brick-
red object which might have been a great bloated crinkled caterpillar, only it had appenda ges,
and a large round ball at the top with a face which would have been human if it hadn't been
elfish. There was a mouth with lips busily sucking on nothing, and a pair of large eyes which
didn't move; however, the nurse at Lanny's side assured him that they had been tested with
a light, and they worked. He was assured that this was his baby; to prove it there was a tiny
necklace with a metal tag; monsieur and madame might rest assured that they would not carry
home the baby of an avocat, nor yet that of a teacher of piano technique.
The bloated red caterpillar was folded up in the blanket again, and Lanny was escorted to
Irma's room. She lay in a white hospital bed, her head sunk back in a pillow, her eyes closed.
How pale she looked, how different from the rich brunette beauty he had left that morning!
Now her dark hair was disordered—apparently they hadn't wished to disturb her even that
much. Lanny tiptoed into the room, and she opened her eyes slowly, as if with an effort;
when she recognized him she gave him a feeble smile.
"How are you, Irma?"
"I'll be all right," she whispered. "Tired, awfully tired."
The nurse had told him not to talk to her. He said: "It's a lovely baby."
"I'm glad. Don't worry. I'll rest, and get better."
Lanny felt a choking in his throat; it was pitiful, the price that women had to pay! But he
knew he musn't trouble her with his superfluous emotions. A nurse came with a little wine,
which she took through a tube. There was a sedative in it, and she would sleep. He took her
hand, which lay limp upon the coverlet, and kissed it gently. "Thank you, dear. I love you."
That was enough.
Outside in the passage was the surgeon, all cleaned up and ready for the outside world. His
professional manner was second nature. Everything was as it should be; never a better patient,
a more perfect delivery. A few hours' sleep, a little nourishment, and Mr. Budd would be
surprised by the change in his wife. A lovely sturdy infant, well over nine pounds—that had
caused the delay. "Sorry you had such a long wait; no help for that. Do you read the Bible, Mr.
Budd? 'A woman when she is in travail hath sorrow, because her hour is come: but as soon as
she is delivered of the child, she re-membereth no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born
into the world.' In this case it's a woman, but we're no longer in ancient Judea, and the women
are bossing the show. In my country and yours they have the vote, and they own more than
half the property, I'm told; it's their world, and what they are going to do with it we men
have to wait and find out. Good night, Mr. Budd."
"Good night," said Lanny. He owed the man thirty thousand francs, which sounded like a
thumping price, but the franc was low. Lanny didn't begrudge it. He thought: "I'd have offered
a hundred thousand an hour ago!"
2
Those Friends Thou Hast
I
THE house on the Bienvenu estate in which Irma and Lanny were living was called the Cottage,
but was nearly as large as the villa and uniform in style, built around a central patio, or
court; the walls were of pink stucco with window shutters of pale blue, and a red-tiled roof
over its single story. It looked out over the ever-changing Golfe Juan, and beyond to the
mountains behind which the sun went down. The house was only three years old, but already
the banana plants in the patio were up to the eaves, and the bougainvillaea vines were crawling
