“Oh, my God!” cried Uncle Jesse — he too addressing the youth. “He talks about slaughter — and he's just finished killing ten million men, with weapons he made for the purpose! God Almighty couldn't count the number he has wounded, and those who've died of disease and starvation. Yet he worries about a few counter-revolutionists shot by the Bolsheviks!”
VII
Lanny saw that he hadn't accomplished anything, so he sat for a while, listening to all the things his father didn't want him to hear. This raging argument became to him a symbol of the world in which he would have to live the rest of his life. His uncle was the uplifted fist of the workers, clenched in deadly menace. As for Robbie, he had proclaimed himself the man behind the machine gun; the man who made it, and was ready to use it, personally, if need be, to mow down the clenched uplifted fists! As for Lanny, he didn't have to be any symbol, he was what he was: the man who loved art and beauty, reason and fair play, and pleaded for these things and got brushed aside. It wasn't his world! It had no use for him! When the fighting started, he'd be caught between the lines and mowed down.
“If you kill somebody,” Uncle Jesse announced to the father, “that's law and order. But if a revolutionist kills one of your gangsters, that's murder, that's a crime wave. You own the world, you make the laws and enforce them. But we tell you we're tired of working for your profit, and that never again can you lead us out to die for your greed.”
“You're raving!” said Robbie Budd. “In a few months your Russia will be smashed flat, and you'll never get another chance. You've shown us your hand, and we've got you on a list.”
“A hanging list?” inquired the painter, with a wink at the son.
“Hanging's not quick enough. You'll see how our Budd machine guns work!”
Lanny had never seen his father in such a rage. He was on his feet, and kept turning away and then back again. He had had several drinks, and that made it worse; his face was purple and his hands clenched. A little more and it might turn into a physical fight. Seeing him getting started on another tirade, Lanny grabbed his uncle by the arm and pulled him from his seat. “Please go, Uncle Jesse!” he exclaimed. “You said you would let me alone. Now do it!” He kept on, first pulling, then pushing. The uncle's hat had been hung on a chair, and Lanny took it and pressed it into his hand. “Please don't argue any more — just go!”
“All right,” said the painter, half angry, half amused. “Look after him — he's going to have his hands full putting down the Russian revolution!”
“Thanks,” said Lanny. “ll do my best.”