Гилберт Кит Честертон

Английский с улыбкой:Охотничьи рассказы = Tales of the Long Bow

© Пирогов М. С., адаптация текста, комментарии, словарь, 2016

© ООО «Издательство АСТ», 2016

Chapter I. The unpresentable appearance of colonel crane

These stories tell about things recognized as impossible to do. If the writer just said that they happened, without saying how they happened, nobody would believe him, just like no one believes the story about the cow who jumped over the moon.

The first story begins on a straight road of bright houses in a suburb of a big city. The time was about twenty minutes to eleven on Sunday morning, when a procession of suburban families in Sunday clothes were going up the road to church. And the man was a very respectable retired military man named Colonel Crane, who was also going to church, as he had done every Sunday at the same hour for many years. He was dressed very elegantly for church as if for parade; but his clothes did not stand out in any way. He was quite handsome in a dry, sun-baked style; but his blond hair was of a colourless sort, and though his blue eyes were clear, they looked out a little heavily under lowered eyelids.

Colonel Crane belonged to the previous age in the history of England. He was not really old, indeed he was hardly middle-aged, and had received his last medals for the Great War[1]. But for a number of reasons he still belonged to the traditional type of the old professional soldiers, the way it had existed before 1914. Each church in those times had only one colonel as it had only one priest. It would be quite unjust to call him an old ruin; indeed, it would be much better to call him a bastion. Because he had remained in the traditions as firmly and patiently as he had stood under enemy fire. He was simply a man who had no taste for changing his habits, and had never worried about conventions enough to change them. One of his excellent habits was to go to church at eleven o’clock, so he went there every Sunday. And he did not know that there went with him something from an old-world atmosphere and a paragraph in the history of England.

When he came out of his front door on that particular morning, he was twisting a piece of paper in his fingers and frowning. Instead of walking straight to his garden gate he walked once or twice up and down his front garden, swinging his black walking-stick. The note had been given to him at breakfast, and it clearly described some practical problem which he needed to solve immediately. He stood for a few minutes looking at a red flower on of the nearest flower-bed; and then a new expression came to his bronzed face. Folding up the paper and putting it into his pocket, he walked round the house to the back garden. Behind the back garden there was a kitchen-garden, in which an old servant named Archer was working as a gardener.

Archer was also a bastion. Indeed, the two had stood together through a number of things that had killed many other good people. But though they had gone through the war together and had a complete confidence in each other, Archer could never lose the manners of a servant. He performed the duties of a gardener as if he were a butler. He really performed the duties very well and enjoyed them very much. Perhaps he enjoyed them so much because he was a clever Cockney[2], and for him the country crafts were a new hobby. But somehow, whenever he said, “I have put in the seeds, sir,” it always sounded like, “I have put the drinks on the table, sir”; and he could not say “Should I pull out the carrots?” without seeming to say, “Would you like some red wine?”

“I hope you’re not working on Sunday,” said the Colonel, with a much more pleasant smile than most people got from him, though he was always polite to everybody. “You’re getting too fond of this agricultural hobby. You’ve become an uncultured peasant.”

“I was preparing to examine the cabbages, sir,” replied the uncultured peasant, in a very polite intonation. “Their condition yesterday evening did not look satisfactory to me.”

“Glad you didn’t spend the whole night near them,” answered the Colonel. “But it’s lucky you’re interested in cabbages. I want to talk to you about cabbages.”

“About cabbages, sir?” asked the other respectfully.

But the Colonel did not answer this question. He was suddenly looking in an abstracted way at another object in the vegetable plots in front of him.

We will never understand how a man’s soul and social type always affect his surroundings. Anyhow, the soul of Mr. Archer affected the kitchen-garden. It made his kitchen-garden different from any other. Mr. Archer was after all a practical man, and he liked his new profession much more than we would think.

So the kitchen-garden did not look like somebody’s backyard, it really looked like a corner of a farm in the country. All sorts of practical devices were used there to protect the vegetables and berries from birds. Strawberries were covered with nets, strings with feathers were stretched across the plots, and in the middle of the biggest plot stood an old and authentic scarecrow. Perhaps the only one who could compete with the scarecrow for the crown of the kitchen-garden was the shapeless South Sea idol, which marked the border of the garden’s territory. Colonel Crane would not have been such a typical officer of the old army, if he had not hidden somewhere a hobby connected with his travels. His hobby was folklore of the Oceanic islands and he had a souvenir from there in his garden. At the moment, however, he was not looking at the idol. He was looking at the scarecrow.

“By the way, Archer,” he said, “don’t you think the scarecrow needs a new hat?”

“I think it is hardly necessary, sir,” said the gardener gravely.

“But look here,” said the Colonel, “you should consider the philosophy of scarecrows. In theory, that thing is supposed to convince some rather simple-minded bird that I am walking in my garden. That thing with a terrible hat is me. Perhaps, it is a little bit sketchy. Some sort of impressionist portrait. But it is hardly likely to impress. A man with a hat like that would never be really firm with a sparrow. Conflict of wills, and all that, and I bet the sparrow would be the winner. By the way, what’s that stick tied on to it?”

“I believe, sir,” said Archer, “that it is supposed to represent a gun.”

“It is holding it wrong,” remarked Crane. “A man with a hat like that would miss for sure.”

“Do you want me to buy another hat?” asked the patient Archer.

“No, no,” answered his master carelessly. “Since the poor fellow has such a rotten hat, I’ll give him mine. Like the scene of St. Martin and the beggar[3].”

“Give him yours,” repeated Archer respectfully, but very quietly.

The Colonel took off his polished top-hat and gravely placed it on the head of the Oceanic idol at his feet. It had a strange effect of making the grotesque piece of stone look alive, as if a goblin in a top-hat was grinning at the garden.

“Do you think the hat shouldn’t be quite new?” he asked almost anxiously. “Not usual among the best scarecrows, perhaps. Well, let’s see what we can do to make it a little older.”

He raised his walking-stick above his head and hit the silk hat with a loud smack, smashing it over the empty eyes of the idol.

“Softened with the touch of time now, I think,” he remarked, holding out what remained of the silken hat to the gardener. “Put it on the scarecrow, my friend; I don’t want it. You can be a witness that it’s no use to me.”

Archer obeyed like a robot. A robot with rather round eyes.

“We must hurry up,” said the Colonel cheerfully. “I was early for church, but I’m afraid I’m a bit late now.”

“Did you plan to attend church without a hat, sir?” asked the other.

“Certainly not. Most disrespectful,” said the Colonel. “Nobody should neglect to remove his hat when he enters church. Well, if I don’t have a hat, I will neglect to remove it. Where is your logic this morning? No, no, just dig up one of your cabbages.”

Once more the well-trained servant managed to repeat the word “Cabbages” with his own polite intonation; but he couldn’t say it very loudly at the moment.

“Yes, go and pull up a cabbage, please,” said the Colonel. “I must really be going; I believe I heard the clock strike eleven.”

Mr. Archer moved heavily in the direction of a plot of cabbages, where many monstrous contours and many colours were open to the eye; objects, perhaps, more worthy of the philosophic eye than is usually taken into account. Vegetables are curious-looking things and less trivial than they sound. If we called a cabbage a cactus, or some other exotic name, we might see it as an equally exotic thing.

The Colonel revealed these philosophical truths by dragging a great, green cabbage with its long root out of the earth, before the dubious Archer had time to do it. He then picked up a knife and cut short the long tail of the root. After that he cut out the inside leaves to create some empty space, and gravely reversing it, placed it on his head. Napoleon and other military princes have crowned themselves; and he, like the Caesars, wore a wreath that was, after all, made of green leaves or vegetation. There can be other historical parallels, of course, if the reader is ready to look at such a hat without judgement.

The people going to church certainly looked at it; but they did not look at it without judgement. They followed the Colonel as he walked almost cheerfully up the road, with feelings that no philosophy could for the moment describe. There seemed to be nothing to be said, except that one of the most respectable and respected of their neighbours, one who might even be called in a quiet way an example of good manners if not a leader of fashion, was walking solemnly up to church with a cabbage on the top of his head.

There was indeed no general action to meet the crisis. In their world a crowd could not gather to shout or to attack someone. No rotten eggs could be collected from their tidy breakfast-tables; and they were not those people who could throw old cabbage leaves at the cabbage. Each of these men lived alone and they could not create an angry crowd. For miles around there were no public houses[4] and no public opinion.

When the Colonel approached the church porch and prepared respectfully to remove his vegetarian hat, he was greeted in a tone a little more cheerful than the everyday friendly manners of his neighbours. He responded to the greeting without embarrassment, and paused for a moment when the man who had spoken to him decided to continue speeking. This was a young doctor named Horace Hunter, tall, handsomely dressed, and confident in manners. Though his face was rather ordinary and his hair rather red, he was considered to have a certain charm.

“Good morning, Colonel,” said the doctor more loudly than usual, “what a f… what a fine day it is.”

Stars turned from their courses like comets, so to speak, and the world moved towards wilder variants, at that crucial moment when Dr. Hunter corrected himself and said, “What a fine day!” instead of “What a funny hat!” The reason why he corrected himself, a true picture of what passed through his mind might sound rather exotic in itself. It would be less than enough to say he did so because of a long grey car waiting outside the Colonel’s house. It might not be a complete explanation to say it was because of a lady walking on stilts at a garden party. It might still not be clear, even if we said that it had something to do with a nickname; nevertheless all these things mixed together in the medical gentleman’s mind when he made his decision. Above all, it might or might not be sufficient explanation to say that Horace Hunter was a very ambitious young man, that the ring in his voice and the confidence in his manner came from a very simple resolution to rise in the world.

He liked to be seen talking so confidently to Colonel Crane on that Sunday parade. Crane was comparatively poor, but he knew People. And people who knew People knew what People were doing now; while people who didn’t know People could only wonder what in the world People would do next. A lady who came with the Duchess when she opened the local market had nodded to Crane and said, “Hello, Stork,” and the doctor had decided that it was a sort of family joke and not a small ornithological mistake. And it was the Duchess who had started all that racing on stilts, which the Vernon-Smiths had introduced at their house. But it would have been devilish awkward not to know what Mrs. Vernon-Smith meant when she said, “Of course you stilt.” You never knew what they would start next. It was strange to imagine that he would ever begin to see vegetable hats here and there, but you never could tell. His first medical impulse was to add a straitjacket to the Colonel’s unusual costume. But Crane did not look like a madman, and certainly did not look like a man who was joking. He took it quite naturally. And one thing was certain:if it really was the latest fashion thing, the doctor must take it as naturally as the Colonel did. So he said it was a fine day, and was very happy to learn that there was no disagreement on that question.

The doctor’s dilemma, if we may use the phrase, was the whole neighbourhood’s dilemma. The doctor’s decision was also the whole neighbourhood’s decision. It was not so much that most of the good people there shared Hunter’s serious social ambitions, but rather that negative and cautious decisions were natural for them. They did not want other people to bother them about how they lived; and they followed the same principle by not bothering others. They also felt that the polite and respectable military gentleman would not be a very easy person to bother. The result was that the Colonel carried his monstrous green hat about the streets of that suburb for nearly a week, and nobody ever mentioned the subject to him. It was about the end of that time (while the doctor had been scanning the horizon for aristocrats crowned with cabbage, and, not seeing any, was collecting his courage to speak) that the final interruption came, and with the interruption the explanation.

The Colonel looked like he had completely forgotten all about the hat. He took it off and put it on like any other hat; he hung it on the hat-peg in his narrow front hall where there was nothing else but his sword and an old brown map of the seventeenth century. He gave it to Archer when that loyal man insisted on his official right to hold it. Archer did not insist on his official right to brush it, because he was afraid it could fall to pieces; but he occasionally gave it a cautious shake, accompanied by a look of restrained dislike. But the Colonel himself never showed any signs of either liking or disliking it. The unconventional thing had already become one of his conventions – the conventions which he never thought about enough to break. So it is probable that what at last happened was as much of a surprise to him as to anybody. Anyway, the explanation, or explosion, came in the following way.

Mr. Vernon-Smith was a small, neat gentleman with a big nose, dark moustache, and dark eyes with a constant expression of anxiety, though nobody knew what he was so anxious about in his very solid social life. He was a friend of Dr. Hunter; you could almost say a humble friend. He had the negative snobbishness that could only admire the positive and progressive snobbishness of that social figure. A man like Dr. Hunter likes to have a man like Mr. Smith, because he can pose as a perfect man of the world before him. What is more extraordinary is that a man like Mr. Smith really likes to have a man like Dr. Hunter to pose and to show his superiority. Anyhow, at one moment Vernon-Smith decided to hint that the new hat of his neighbour Crane did not look like it was from a fashion magazine. And Dr. Hunter, bursting with his secrets, called this idea stupid and made jokes about it. With calculated, confident gestures, with large phrases full of allusions, he left on his friend’s mind the impression that the whole social world would be destroyed, if anyone said a word on such a delicate topic. Mr. Vernon-Smith formed a general idea that the Colonel would explode with a loud bang at the slightest hint on vegetables, or any word which sounded just a little bit like ‘hat’. As usually happens in such cases, the words he was forbidden to say repeated themselves constantly in his mind with the rhythm of his pulse. At the moment he wanted to call all houses hats and all visitors vegetables.

When Crane came out of his front gate that morning he found his neighbour Vernon-Smith standing outside, between a tree and a lamp-post, talking to a young lady, a distant cousin of his family. This girl was an art student – a little too independent for the standards of this neighbourhood. Her brown hair was cut very short, and the Colonel did not admire short haircuts. On the other hand, she had a rather attractive face, with honest brown eyes a little too wide apart, which diminished the impression of beauty but increased the impression of honesty. She also had a very fresh and natural voice, and the Colonel had often heard it calling out scores at tennis on the other side of the garden wall. In some way it made him feel old; at least, he was not sure whether he felt older than he was, or younger than he was supposed to be. It was not until they met under the lamp-post that he knew her name was Audrey Smith; and he was thankful for the simple short name. Mr. Vernon-Smith presented her, and very nearly said:“May I introduce my cabbage?” instead of “my cousin.”

The Colonel, without a change in his intonation, said it was a fine day. And his neighbour, happy to escape from a very difficult situation, continued the conversation cheerfully. His manner, like when he came to local meetings and committees, was at once hesitating and confident.

“This young lady is going into Art,” he said; “a poor prospect, isn’t it? I expect we will see her drawing in chalk on the pavement and expecting us to throw a penny into the – into a tray, or something.” Here he escaped from another danger. “But of course, she thinks she’s going to be a Royal Academician[5].”

“I hope not,” said the young woman hotly. “Pavement artists are much more honest than most of the Royal Academicians.”

“I wish those friends of yours didn’t give you such revolutionary ideas,” said Mr. Vernon-Smith. “My cousin knows the most dreadful eccentrics, vegetarians and – mad Socialists.” He decided to say it, feeling that vegetarians were not quite the same as vegetables; and he felt sure the Colonel would share his horror of Socialists.

“People who want to be equal, and all that. What I say is – we’re not equal and we never can be. As I always say to Audrey – if all the property were divided tomorrow, it would go back into the same hands the next day. It’s a law of nature, and if a man thinks he can get round a law of nature, why, he’s talking through his – I mean, he’s as mad as a – “

Trying to escape from the image in his head, he was searching madly in his mind for the alternative of a March hare[6]. But before he could find it, the girl had cut in and completed his sentence. She smiled calmly, and said in her clear and ringing tones:

“As mad as Colonel Crane’s hatter.”

It is not unjust to Mr. Vernon-Smith to say that he ran as from a dynamite explosion. It would be unjust to say that he left a lady in distress, because she did not look in the least like a distressed lady, and he himself was a very distressed gentleman. He tried to ask her to go indoors, and then vanished there himself with a random apology. But the other two took no notice of him; they continued to confront each other, and both were smiling.

“I think you must be the bravest man in England,” she said. “I don’t mean anything about the war, or your medal and all that; I mean about this. Oh, yes, I know a little about this, but there’s one thing I don’t know. Why do you do it?”

“I think it is you who are the bravest woman in England,” he answered, “or, at any rate, the bravest person in these parts. I’ve walked about this town for a week, feeling like the last fool on Earth, and expecting somebody to say something. And not a soul has said a word. They all seem to be afraid of saying the wrong thing.”

“I think they’re deadly,” said Miss Smith. “And if they don’t have cabbages for hats, it’s only because they have turnips for heads.”

“No,” said the Colonel gently, “I have many generous and friendly neighbours here, including your cousin. Believe me, there is a reason why people have conventions, and the world is wiser than you know. You are too young not to be intolerant. But I can see you’ve got the fighting spirit; that is the best part of youth and intolerance.”

“You see, I can’t keep calm when they say all these polished vulgarities about everything – look at what he said about Socialism.” answered the girl.

“It was a little superficial,” said Crane with a smile.

“And that,” she concluded, “is why I admire your hat, though I don’t know why you wear it.”

This trivial conversation had a curious effect on the Colonel. There went with it a sort of warmth and a sense of crisis that he had not known since the war. A sudden purpose formed itself in his mind, and he spoke like one stepping across a border.

“Miss Smith,” he said, “I wonder if I might ask you to pay me a bigger compliment. It may be unconventional, but I believe you do not insist on these conventions. An old friend of mine will be visiting me shortly, to finish the rather unusual business or ceremonial of which by chance you have seen a part. If you would do me the honour to have lunch with me tomorrow at half-past one, the true story of the cabbage awaits you. I promise that you will hear the real reason. I might even say I promise you will SEE the real reason.”

“Oh, of course I will,” said the unconventional one cheerfully. “Thanks awfully.”

The Colonel took an intense interest in the preparations for lunch next day. With surprise he found himself not only interested, but excited. Like many of his type, he took a pleasure in doing such things well, and knew his way about in wine and cookery. But that would not alone explain his pleasure. Because he knew that young women generally know very little about wine, and emancipated young women probably least of all. And though he wanted the cookery to be good, he knew that one part of it would appear rather fantastic. Again, he was a good-natured gentleman who wanted young people to enjoy a lunch party, as he would have wanted a child to enjoy a Christmas tree. But there seemed no reason why he should have a sort of happy insomnia, like a child on Christmas Eve[7]. There was really no excuse for his walking up and down the garden with his cigar, smoking furiously almost till the morning. Because while he looked at the purple irises and the grey pool in the moonshine, something in his feelings moved as if from the one end to the other; he had a new and unexpected reaction. For the first time he really hated the masquerade he had put himself through. He wished he could smash the cabbage as he had smashed the top-hat. He was little more than forty years old, but he suddenly felt the monstrous and solemn vanity of a young man growing inside him. Sometimes he looked up at house next door, dark against the moonrise, and thought he heard quiet voices in it, and something like a laugh.

The visitor who came to the Colonel next morning may have been an old friend, but he certainly had a very different personality. He was a very absent-minded, rather untidy man in a shabby suit; he had a long head with straight hair of the dark red colour, one or two bits of which stood on end however he brushed it. His face was long and clean-shaven and a little fuller around the jaw and chin, which he usually put down and settled firmly into his cravat.

His name was Hood, and he was a lawyer, though he had not come to the Colonel on strictly legal business. Anyhow, he exchanged greetings with Crane with a quiet warmth and satisfaction, smiled at the old servant as if he were an old joke, and showed every sign of an appetite for his lunch.

The appointed day was unusually warm and bright, and everything in the garden seemed to glitter; the goblin god of the Oceania seemed really to grin; and the scarecrow really to have a new hat. The irises round the pool were swinging and flapping in a light wind; and he remembered they were called “flags” and thought of purple banners going into battle.

She had come suddenly round the corner of the house. Her dress was of a dark but fresh blue colour, of a very simple form, but not too artistic. And in the morning light she looked less like a schoolgirl and more like a serious woman of twenty-five or thirty; a little older and a great deal more interesting. And something in this morning seriousness increased the reaction of the night before. One single wave of relief went through Crane to think that at least his terrible green hat was gone and finished with for ever. He had worn it for a week without caring one bit for anybody’s opinion; but during that ten minutes’ trivial conversation under the lamp-post, he felt as if he had suddenly grown donkey’s ears in the street.

Because of the sunny weather he prepared a little table for three in a sort of veranda open to the garden. When the three sat down to it, he looked across at the lady and said:

“I fear I’m going to look like an eccentric; one of those eccentrics your cousin disapproves of, Miss Smith. I hope it won’t spoil this little lunch for anybody, but I am going to have a vegetarian meal.”

“Are you?” she said. “I would never have said you looked like a vegetarian.”

“Just lately I have only looked like a fool,” he said calmly; “but I think I’d sooner look a fool than a vegetarian in the ordinary way. This is rather a special occasion. Perhaps my friend Hood had better begin; it’s really his story more than mine.”

“My name is Robert Owen Hood,” said that gentleman, rather sarcastically.

“That’s how improbable memories often begin; but the only point now is that my old friend here insulted me horribly by calling me Robin Hood.”

“I would have called it a compliment,” answered Audrey Smith. “Buy why did he call you Robin Hood?”

“Because I used the long bow[8],” said the lawyer.

“But to do you justice,” said the Colonel, “it seems that you hit the bull’s eye.[9]”

While he spoke

Archer came in with a dish which he placed before his master. He had already served the others with the earlier meals, but he carried this one with the pomp of one bringing the boar’s head at Christmas[10]. It consisted of a plain boiled cabbage.

“I was challenged to do something,” continued Hood, “which my friend here declared to be impossible. In fact, any sane man would have declared it to be impossible. But I did it all the same. Only my friend, in the heat of rejecting and mocking the idea, used an expression he didn’t think about. I might almost say he made a rash vow[11].”

“My exact words were,” said Colonel Crane solemnly, “‘If you can do that, I’ll eat my hat.’”

He leaned forward thoughtfully and began to eat it. Then he continued in the same meditative way:

“You see, all rash vows are literal or nothing. There might be a debate about the logical and literary way in which my friend Hood fulfilled HIS rash vow. But I accepted it as a challenge in the same pedantic sort of way. It wasn’t possible to eat any hat that I wore. But it could be possible to wear a hat that I could eat. Parts of dress could hardly be used for diet; but parts of diet could really be used for dress. It seemed to me that it could become my hat, if I wore it systematically as a hat and had no other, putting up with all the disadvantages. Making a fool of myself was the fair price to be paid for the vow or bet; because you should always lose something on a bet.”

And he rose from the table with a gesture of apology.

The girl stood up. “I think it’s perfectly splendid,” she said. “It’s as wild as one of those stories about looking for the Holy Grail.[12]”

The lawyer also had risen, rather quickly, and stood touching his long chin with his thumb and looking at his old friend under bent brows in a rather meditative manner.

“Well, you’ve made me a witness all right,” he said, “and now, with the permission of the court, I’ll leave the witness-box. I’m afraid I must be going. I’ve got important business at home. Good-bye, Miss Smith.”

The girl answered a little mechanically; and Crane seemed to recover from a similar trance, when he stepped after the retreating figure of his friend.

“I say, Owen,” he said quickly, “I’m sorry you’re leaving so early. Do you really have to go?”

“Yes,” replied Owen Hood gravely. “My private affairs are quite real and practical, I assure you.” His grave mouth showed some signs of a smile at the corners when he added:“The truth is, I don’t think I mentioned it, but I’m thinking of getting married.”

“Married!” repeated the Colonel, as if struck by a lightning.

“Thanks for your compliments and congratulations, old fellow,” said the satiric Mr. Hood. “Yes, it’s all been thought through. I’ve even decided who I am going to marry. She knows about it herself. She has been warned.”

“I am really sorry,” said the Colonel in great distress, “of course I congratulate you from my heart; and her even more so. Of course I’m very happy to hear it. The truth is, I was surprised… not so much in that way…”

“Not so much in what way?” asked Hood. “I suppose you mean some would say I was on the way to be an old bachelor. But I’ve discovered it isn’t half so much a question of years as of habits. Men like me get elderly more by choice than chance; and there’s much more choice and less chance in life than your modern fatalists believe. For such people fatalism changes even chronology. They’re not unmarried because they’re old. They’re old because they’re unmarried.”

“Indeed you are mistaken,” said Crane earnestly. “As I say, I was surprised, but my surprise was not as rude as you think. It wasn’t that I thought there was anything wrong about… somehow it was rather the other way… as if things could fit better than one thought… as if – but anyhow, as little as I know about it, I really do congratulate you.”

“I’ll tell you all about it before long,” replied his friend. “It’s enough to say just now that it was all connected with my succeeding after all in doing – what I did. She was the inspiration, you know. I have done what is called an impossible thing; but believe me, she is really the impossible part of it.”

“Well, I must not keep you from such an impossible engagement,” said Crane smiling. “Really, I’m awfully glad to hear about all this. Well, good-bye for now.”

Colonel Crane stood watching the square shoulders and dark red hair of his old friend, when they disappeared down the road, in a rather indescribable state of mind. When he turned quickly back towards his garden and his other guest, he noticed something had changed. Things seemed different in some light-headed and illogical manner. He could not himself understand what had happened; indeed, he did not know whether it happened inside or outside. He was very far from being a fool; but his brains were of the sort that are directed outwards to things, the brains of the soldier or the scientific man, and he had no practice in analysing his own mind. He did not quite understand why the news about Owen Hood should give him that strange sense of a difference in things in general. Without a doubt, he was very fond of Owen Hood; but he had been fond of other people who had got married without especially disturbing the atmosphere of his own back-garden. He even thought that his feelings on their own might have worked the other way; that they might have made him worry about Hood, and wonder whether Hood was making a fool of himself, or even feel suspicious or jealous of Mrs. Hood – something else made him feel quite the other way. He could not quite understand it; there seemed to be an increasing number of things that he could not understand. This world in which he himself wore pieces of green cabbage and in which his old friend the lawyer got married suddenly like a man going mad – this world was a new world, at once fresh and frightening, in which he could hardly understand the figures that were walking about, even his own. The flowers in the flower-beds looked differently, at once bright and nameless; and even the line of vegetables beyond could not altogether depress him with the memories of his last escapade. Indeed he felt very much like someone in the morning of the world; but beyond that he could understand nothing.

Audrey Smith was standing not so very many yards away, because he had followed his elder guest for only a few steps towards the gate. Yet her figure had fallen back far enough to be surrounded by the green framework of the garden. Her dress looked almost blue with a shade of distance. And when she spoke to him, even from that little way off, her voice sounded to him like the voice of someone shouting familiarly and from afar, like you call to an old friend. It made him emotional in a disproportionate way, though all that she said was:

“What became of your old hat?”

“I lost it,” he answered gravely, “obviously I had to lose it. I believe the scarecrow found it.”

“Oh, let’s go and look at the scarecrow, please,” she cried.

He led her without a word to the kitchen-garden and gravely explained each of its outstanding features; from the serious Mr. Archer resting on his spade to the grotesque Oceanic island god grinning at the corner of the plot. He spoke more and more solemnly and used too many words, and all the time knew little or nothing of what he said.

At last she cut into his monologue so suddenly that it was almost rude; yet her brown eyes were bright and her sympathy undisguised.

“Don’t talk about it,” she cried with illogical enthusiasm. “It looks as if we were really right in the middle of the country. It’s as unique as the Garden of Eden. It’s simply the most delightful place – ”

It was at this moment, for some unknown reason, that the Colonel who had lost his hat suddenly decided to lose his head. Standing in that grotesque vegetable scenery, a black and stiff yet somehow majestic figure, he offered the lady in the most traditional manner everything he had, not forgetting the scarecrow or the cabbages.

“When I think of the people who live on this piece of land – ” he concluded. “Well, there they are; a scarecrow and a cannibal fetish and a stupid man who is stuck on a road of respectability and conventional ways.”

“Very conventional,” she said, “especially in his taste in hats.”

“That was the exception, I’m afraid,” he said honestly. “You’d find those things very rare and most things very boring. I couldn’t avoid falling in love with you; but we still are in different worlds; and you belong in a younger world, which says what it thinks, and cannot see what most of our silences meant.”

“I suppose we are very rude,” she said thoughtfully, “and you must certainly excuse me if I do say what I think.”

“I deserve no better,” he replied mournfully.

“Well, I think I must be in love with you too,” she replied calmly. “I don’t see what time has to do with being fond of people. You are the most original person I ever knew.”

“My dear, my dear,” he protested almost brokenly, “I fear you are making a mistake. Whatever else I am, I never wanted to be original.”

“You must remember,” she replied, “that I have known very many people who did decide to be original. Any Art School is full of them; and there are any number among those socialist and vegetarian friends of mine you were talking about. It would be no problem for them to wear cabbages on their heads, of course. Any one of them would be capable of getting inside a pumpkin if he could. Any one of them might appear in public dressed entirely in salad leaves. But that’s just it. They go with the stream. They do those things because those things are done; because they are done in their own Bohemian society. Unconventionality is their convention. I don’t mind it myself; I think it’s great fun; but that doesn’t mean that I don’t know real strength or independence when I see it. All that is just formless; but the really strong man is one who can create a convention and then break it. When a man like you can suddenly do a thing like that, after twenty years of habit, for the sake of his word, then somehow you really feel that man is a man and master of his fate.”

“I doubt if I am master of my fate,” replied Crane, “and I do not know whether I ceased to be yesterday or two minutes ago.”

He stood there for a moment like a knight in heavy armour. Indeed, the old image is appropriate here in more ways than one. The new world within him was so alien from the whole habit in which he lived, even from the way he walked and gestures he made every day for countless days, that his spirit had to fight before it broke its shell. But it was also true that even if he could have done what every man wishes to do at such a moment, something supreme and satisfying, it would have been something in a way formal or it would not have satisfied him.

He was one of those to whom it is natural to be ceremonial. Even the music in his mind, too deep and distant for him to catch and sing, was the music of old and ritual dance and not for a party. And it was not an accident that he had built step by step around him that garden of the grey stone fountain and the hedge. He bent suddenly and kissed her hand.

“I like that,” she said. “You also need a wig and a sword.”

“I apologize,” he said gravely, “no modern man is worthy of you. But indeed I fear, in every sense I am not a very modern man.”

“You must never wear that hat again,” she said, pointing at the crushed original top-hat.

“To tell the truth,” he remarked calmly, “I had no intention of returning to that one.”

“Silly,” she said, “I don’t mean that hat; I mean that sort of hat. As a matter of fact, there couldn’t be a finer hat than the cabbage.”

“My dear – ” he protested; but she was looking at him quite seriously.

“I am an artist, and don’t know much about literature,” she said. “Well, do you know, it really does make a difference. People who love literature often let words get between them and things. We at least look at the things and not the names of the things. You think a cabbage is funny because the name sounds funny and even vulgar; something between ‘cab’ and ‘garbage,’ I suppose. But a cabbage isn’t really funny or vulgar. You wouldn’t think that way if you simply had to paint it. Haven’t you seen Dutch and Flemish galleries, and don’t you know what great men painted cabbages? What they saw was certain lines and colours; very wonderful lines and colours.”

“It may be all very well in a picture,” he began doubtfully.

She suddenly laughed aloud.

“You idiot,” she cried; “don’t you know you looked perfectly splendid? The curves were like a great turban of leaves and the root rose like the top of a helmet; it was rather like the turbaned helmets on some of Rembrandt’s figures, with the face like bronze in the shadows of green and purple. That’s the sort of thing artists can see, who keep their eyes and heads clear of words! And then you want to apologize for not wearing that stupid black pipe, when you went about wearing a coloured crown like a king. And you were like a king in this country – they were all afraid of you.”

He continued a faint protest, and she laughed louder. “If you’d stuck to it a little longer, I swear they’d all have started wearing vegetables for hats. I swear I saw my cousin the other day standing with some sort of a garden instrument and looking indecisively at a cabbage.”

Then, after a pause, she said with a beautiful irrelevancy:“What was it Mr. Hood did that you said he couldn’t do?”

But these are upside-down stories, so they have to be told back to front. And if the reader wants to know the answer, the next story awaits him.

Chapter II. The improbable success of mr. Owen hood

Heroes who have managed to read to the end the story of The Unpresentable Appearance of Colonel Crane know that his achievement was the first of a series of things, which we call impossible, like the quests of the Arthurian knights. For the purpose of this story it is enough to say that he was long known and respected, before his last escapade, as a retired military man in Surrey, with a tanned face and an interest in the mythology of Oceania. As a fact, however, he had gathered the tan and the Oceanic myths some time before he had managed to collect the respectability and the suburban myths. In his early youth he had been a restless traveler. He belonged to a club of young men, who were all eccentrics of one kind or another. Some had extreme revolutionary and some extreme reactionary opinions, and some both. Mr. Robert Owen Hood, who is the hero of this story, belonged to the last group.

Robert Owen Hood was Crane’s closest friend, but he had a very different personality. Hood was from the first as stable as Crane was adventurous. Hood was to the end informal as Crane was conventional. The double name of Robert Owen came from a revolutionary tradition in his family; but he inherited together with it a little money that allowed him to forget about the law and to cultivate a taste for liberty and for walking and dreaming in lost corners of the country. There was a small island in the Thames in which he especially loved to sit fishing – a shabby but not typical figure dressed in grey, with red hair and a long face with a large chin, rather like Napoleon. On this occasion his quick military friend was standing near him in his uniform, which created a striking contrast. Colonel Crane was going to leave on one of his odysseys in the South Seas.

“Well,” asked the impatient traveller, “have you caught anything?”

“You once asked me,” replied the fisherman calmly, “what I meant by calling you a materialist. That is what I meant by calling you a materialist.”

“If one must be a materialist or a madman,” said the soldier, “give me materialism.”

“On the contrary,” replied his friend, “your hobby is much madder than mine. And I doubt that it’s any more fruitful. The moment men like you see a man sitting by a river, they just have to ask him what he has caught. But when you go off to hunt for big animals in Africa, nobody asks you what you have caught. Nobody expects you to bring home a hippopotamus for supper. Nobody has ever seen you walking up Pall Mall, followed respectfully by a giraffe you captured. Personally, I doubt that you ever catch anything. It’s all hidden in desert sand and doubt and distance. But what I hunt for is something much more hard to catch, and as slippery as any fish. It is the soul of England.”

“I think you’ll catch a cold if not a fish,” answered Crane, “sitting with your feet in water like that. I like to move about a little more. Dreaming is not for me.”

At this point a symbolic cloud should come across the sun and some shadow of mystery and silence must cover for a moment the heroes of our story. Because it was at this moment that James Crane, blind with inspiration, pronounced his famous Prophecy, which is central to this story. As usual with men who make prophecies, he had no idea he just made one. A moment after he would probably not know that he had said it at all.

The prophecy took the form of a proverb. At the right moment the readers will see, what proverb. Actually, the conversation for a big part consisted of proverbs, which is natural for men like Hood, whose hearts are with that old English country life from which all the proverbs came. But it was Crane who said:

“It’s all very well to be fond of England, but a man who wants to help England mustn’t let the grass grow under his feet[13].”

“And that’s just what I want to do,” answered Hood. “That’s exactly what even your poor tired people in big cities really want to do. When a sad little clerk walks down Poverty Street, wouldn’t he really be delighted if he could look down and see the grass growing under his feet – like a magic green carpet in the middle of the pavement? It would be like a fairy-tale.”

“Well, but he wouldn’t sit like a stone as you do,” replied the other. “A man might let the grass grow under his feet without actually letting the ivy grow up his legs[14]. That sounds like a fairy-tale, too, if you like, but there’s no proverb to recommend it.”

“Oh, there are proverbs on my side, if you come to that,” answered Hood laughing. “I might remind you about the rolling stone that gathers no moss.[15]”

“Well, who wants to gather moss except a few strange old ladies?” asked Crane. “Yes, I’m a rolling stone, I suppose; and I go rolling round the earth as the earth goes rolling round the sun. But I’ll tell you what; there’s only one kind of stone that does really gather moss.”

“And what is that, my dear geologist?”

“A gravestone,” said Crane.

There was a silence, and Hood sat looking with his owlish face at the water in which the dark woods were mirrored. At last he said:

“Moss isn’t the only thing found on that. Sometimes there is the word ‘Resurgam’[16].”

“Well, I hope you will,” said Crane with a smile. “But the trumpet will have to be pretty loud to wake you up. It’s my opinion you’ll be too late for the Day of Judgement.”

“I could say,” remarked Hood, “that it would be better for you if you were. But it is not a nice way to say goodbye. Are you really leaving today?”

“Yes, tonight,” replied his friend. “Are you sure you won’t come with me to the Cannibal Islands?”

“I prefer my own island,” said Mr. Owen Hood.

When his friend had gone he continued to look absent-mindedly at the calm upside-down world of the green mirror of water. He did not change his position and hardly moved his head. This might be partly explained by the quiet habits of a fisherman; but to tell you the truth, it was not easy to discover whether the solitary lawyer really wanted to catch any fish. He would often carry a book by Isaac Walton in his pocket, because he had a love of the old English literature as of the old English landscape.

But the truth is that Owen Hood had not been quite candid with his friend about the spell that held him to that particular little island in the Upper Thames. If he had said (as he was quite capable of saying) that he expected to catch the whale that swallowed Jonah, or even the great sea-serpent, his expressions would have been only symbolical. But they would have been the symbol of something as unique and unattainable. For Mr. Owen Hood was really fishing for something that very few fishermen ever catch; and that was a dream of his boyhood, of something that had happened on that lonely spot long ago.

Years before, when he was a very young man, he had sat fishing on that island one evening when the twilight changed to dark. The birds were coming down to the ground and there was no noise except the quiet noises of the river. Suddenly, and without a sound, as if in a dream, a girl came out of the woods on the other side. She spoke to him across the river, asking him he hardly knew what, which he answered he hardly knew how. She was dressed in white and carried a bunch of bluebells in her hand; her golden hair was low on her forehead; she was very pale, and her eyelids moved constantly as if she were nervous. He felt stupid. But he must have managed to speak civilly, because she stayed; and he must have said something to amuse her, because she laughed. Then followed the incident he could never analyse, though he understood himself well. Making a gesture towards something, she dropped her blue flowers in the water. He didn’t know what sort of storm was in his head, but it seemed to him that legendary things were happening, as in an epic of the gods. All visible things were only small signs. Before he realized what was happening he was standing dripping on the other bank; because he had splashed in somehow and saved the bunch as if it were a drowning baby. Of all the things she said he could recall one sentence, that he repeated constantly in his mind:“You’ll catch a cold and die.”

He only caught the cold and not the death; but even the idea of death did not seem out of place somehow. The doctor, to whom he had to give some sort of explanation of his decision to dive, was very interested in the story (or the part that he heard) because he liked to write down the pedigrees of the aristocratic families and to understand the relationships of the best houses in the neighbourhood. By some complicated process of deduction he discovered that the lady must be Miss Elizabeth Seymour from Marley Court. The doctor spoke about these things with respectful admiration; he was a rising young doctor named Hunter, afterwards a neighbour of Colonel Crane.

He shared Hood’s admiration for the local landscape, and said it was so beautiful because of how the family looked after Marley Court.

“It’s land-owners like that,” he said, “who have created England. The Radicals can say whatever they want; but where would we be without the land-owners?”

“Oh, I’m all in favour of land-owners,” said Hood in a tired voice. “I like them so much I would like more of them. More and more land-owners. Hundreds and thousands of them.”

We cannot be sure that Dr. Hunter quite understood his enthusiasm, or even his meaning; but Hood had reason later to remember this little conversation; as far as he was in a mood to remember any conversations except one.

All through the years when he felt his first youth was passing, and even when he seemed to be drifting towards middle age, he haunted that valley like a ghost, waiting for something that never came again. It is by no means certain, that he even expected it to come again. Somehow it seemed too like a miracle for that. Only this place had become the temple of the miracle; and he felt that if anything ever did happen there, he must be there to see. And so it came about that he was there to see when things did happen; and rather strange things had happened before the end.

One morning he saw an extraordinary thing. That indeed would not have seemed extraordinary to most people; but it was quite apocalyptic to him. A dusty man came out of the woods carrying what looked like dusty pieces of wood, and built on the bank what turned out to be a sort of a very large wooden notice-board. The message in enormous letters said:“To Be Sold,” with remarks in smaller letters about the land and the name of the land agents. For the first time in years Owen Hood stood up in his place and left his fishing, and shouted questions across the river. The man answered with the greatest patience and good-humour; but it is probable that he went away convinced that he had been talking to a madman who escaped from a hospital.

That was the beginning of what was for Owen Hood a nightmare. The change came slowly, year after year, but it seemed to him that he was helpless and paralysed, exactly like a man is paralysed in an actual nightmare. He laughed with an almost horrible laughter to think that a man in a modern society is supposed to be master of his fate and free to follow his pleasures; when he had not power to prevent the daylight he looks on from being darkened, or the air he breathes from being turned to poison, or the silence that is his full possession from being shaken with the cacophony of hell. There was something, he thought grimly, in Dr. Hunter’s simple admiration for agricultural aristocracy. There was something in quite primitive and even barbarous aristocracy. Feudal lords fought every day of the week; they put collars round the necks of some serfs; they occasionally hanged a few of them by the neck. But they did not wage war day and night against the five senses of man.

There had appeared first on the river-bank small wooden buildings, for workmen who seemed to be occupied in putting up bigger wooden buildings. To the last moment, when the factory was finished, it was not easy for the traditional eye to see what was temporary and what was permanent.

It did not look as if any of it could be permanent. Anyway the structure grew and grew until there stood on the river bank a great black block of buildings with a tall brick factory chimney, from which a stream of smoke rose into the silent sky. A heap of some sort of rubbish lay on the bank of the river; and an iron piece, red with rust, fell on the spot where the girl stood when she brought bluebells out of the wood.

He did not leave his island. He loved the country and he loved to sit still, but he was not the son of an old revolutionary for nothing. It was not for nothing that his father had called him Robert Owen or that his friends had sometimes called him Robin Hood. Sometimes, indeed, he felt so sad that he was almost thinking about suicide, but more often he marched up and down like a soldier, happy to see the tall wild-flowers waving on the banks like flags so close to what he hated, and muttering, “Hang out the banners on the outward wall.”[17] He had already, when the land of Marley Court was divided for building, taken some steps to establish himself on the island. He had built a sort of hut there, in which it was possible to picnic for long periods.

One morning when dawn was still bright behind the dark factory something like a growing ribbon of a different colour and material crept out upon the satin water of the river. It was a thin ribbon of some liquid that did not mix with the water, but lay on top of it wavering like a worm. Owen Hood watched it as a man watches a snake. It looked like a snake, with mixed colours not without some beauty. But to him it was a very symbolic snake; like the snake that destroyed Eden. A few days afterward there were ten snakes covering the surface; little oily rivers that moved on the river but did not mix with it. Later there came darker liquids with no pretensions to beauty, black and brown flakes of grease that floated heavily.

It was highly characteristic of Hood that until the last moment he was unsure what the factory was for. So he didn’t know what kind of chemicals were flowing into the river. He saw that they were mostly of the oily sort and floated on the water in flakes and lumps. A big part of it was something like petrol, which was used perhaps not for power but as material. He had heard a rumour in the village that the factory produced some kind of hair-dye. It smelled rather like a soap factory. As far as he understood, the factory’s product was a combination of hair-dye and soap, some kind of new and very hygienic cosmetics. These things had become even more fashionable since Professor Hake had written his book proving that cosmetics were of all things the most hygienic. And Hood had seen many of the fields of his childhood now decorated with large notice-boards with a phrase “Why Grow Old?” and a portrait of a young woman grinning in a strange manner. The name on the notices was Bliss, and he understood that it all was connected with the great factory.

He decided to learn a little more than this. He began to make inquiries and complaints, and participated in a correspondence which ended in an actual interview with some of the most important people involved in this matter. The correspondence had gone on for a long time before it even came near to anything as natural as that. Indeed, the correspondence for a long time was entirely on his side. The big businesses are not businesslike at all – just like the Government departments. They are not any more effective and their manners are much worse. But in the end he had his interview, and with a sense of bitter amusement he came face to face with four people who he wanted to meet.

One was Sir Samuel Bliss. He was a small, quick man like a ferret, with grey beard and hair, and active or even nervous movements. The second was his manager, Mr. Low, a strong, dark man with a thick nose and thick rings, who stared at strangers with a curious heavy suspicion. It is believed that he expected to be attacked. The third man was a surprise, because he was no other than his old friend Dr. Horace Hunter, as healthy and cheerful as ever, but even better dressed (now he had a great official appointment as medical inspector of the sanitary conditions of the district). But the fourth man was the greatest surprise of all. Their conference was honoured by so great a figure in the scientific world as Professor Hake himself, who had revolutionized the modern mind with his new discoveries about the importance of hair-dye for a healthy lifestyle. When Hood realized who he was, a light of understanding came upon his long face.

On this occasion the Professor developed an even more interesting theory. He was a big, blond man with blinking eyes and a bull neck; and doubtless there was more in him than met the eye, which is usual with great men. He spoke last, and he spoke about his theory as if it were the final truth. The manager had already stated that it was quite impossible that a large amount of petrol had escaped, because only a small amount was used in the factory. Sir Samuel had explained, in an irritated manner, that he had built several parks for the public, and that the dormitories of his work-people were decorated in the simplest and best taste, and nobody could accuse him of vandalism or not caring for beauty and all that. Then it was that Professor Hake explained the theory of the Protective Screen. Even if it were possible, he said, for some thin film of petrol to appear on the water, because it would not mix with the water, the water would actually be kept in a clearer condition. It would become a protective screen; like a plastic package upon some preserved food.

“That is a very interesting view,” remarked Hood; “I suppose you will write another book about that?”

“I think we should feel privileged,” remarked Bliss, “because we are the first people to hear of the discovery, before our expert has published it for everybody else.”

“Yes,” said Hood, “your expert is very expert, isn’t he – in writing books?”

Sir Samuel Bliss’s face became angry. “I trust,” he said, “you do not doubt that our expert is an expert.”

“I have no doubt of your expert,” answered Hood gravely. “I do not doubt either that he is expert or that he is yours.”

“Really, gentlemen,” cried Bliss in protest, “I think no one can say such things about a man in Professor Hake’s position – ”

“Not at all, not at all,” said Hood in a friendly manner, “I’m sure it’s a very comfortable position.”

The Professor blinked at him, but a light burned in the eyes under the heavy eyelids.

“If you come here talking like that – “he began, when Hood cut off his speech by speaking across him to somebody else, with a cheerful rudeness that felt like a kick.

“And what do you say, my dear doctor?” he said to Hunter. “You used to be almost as romantic as myself about the beauty of this place. Do you remember how much you admired the landlords for keeping the place quiet; and how you said the old families preserved the beauty of old England?”

There was a silence, and then the young doctor spoke.

“Well, it doesn’t mean I can’t believe in progress. That’s your problem, Hood; you don’t believe in progress. We must move with the times, and somebody always has to suffer. Besides, the river-water is not so important nowadays. Even the Thames is not so important. When we have the new law, people will have to use the Bulton Filter in any case.”

“I see,” said Hood calmly, “You first make the water dirty for money, and then you try to look good when you force people to clean it themselves.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Hunter angrily.

“Well, I was thinking at the moment,” said Hood. “I was thinking about Mr. Bulton. The man who owns the filters. I was wondering whether he might join us. We seem such a happy family party.”

“I cannot see why we should continue this impossible conversation,” said Sir Samuel.

“Don’t call the poor Professor’s theory impossible,” protested Hood. “A little unusual, perhaps. And as for the doctor’s view, surely there’s nothing impossible in that. You don’t think the chemicals will poison all the fish I catch, do you, Doctor?”

“No, of course not,” replied Hunter quickly.

“They will adapt themselves by natural selection,” said Hood dreamily. “They will develop organs suitable to an oily environment – will learn to love petrol.”

“Oh, I have no time for this nonsense,” said Hunter, and he was turning to go, when Hood stepped in front of him and looked at him very steadily.

“You mustn’t call natural selection nonsense,” he said. “I know all about that, at any rate. I can’t tell whether liquids that are spilt on the shore will fall into the river, because I don’t understand hydraulics. I don’t know whether your machinery makes a hellish noise every morning, because I’ve never studied acoustics[18]. I don’t know whether it stinks or not, because I haven’t read your expert’s book on ‘The Nose’. But I know all about adaptation to environment. I know that some of the lower organisms do really change with their changing conditions. I know there are creatures so low that they do survive by surrendering to every kind of mud; and when things are slow they are slow, and when things are fast they are fast, and when things are filthy they are filthy. Thank you for convincing me of that.”

He did not wait for a reply, but walked out of the room after bowing quickly to the rest; and that was the end of the great conference on the question of fisherman’s rights and perhaps the end of the Thames and of the old aristocracy, with all its good and ill.

The general public never heard very much about it; at least until one catastrophic scene which followed. There was some weak echo of the question some months later, when Dr. Horace Hunter decided to go to Parliament. One or two questions were asked about his duties in relation to river pollution; but it was soon clear that no party actually wanted to push the question against the best opinions expressed by their opponents. The greatest living authority on hygiene, Professor Hake, had actually written to The Times (in the interests of science) to say that in such a hypothetical case as this, a medical man could only do what Dr. Hunter had done. It so happened that the most important business in that part of the Thames Valley, Sir Samuel Bliss, had himself, after some serious consideration of different policies, decided to Vote for Hunter. The great organizer’s own mind was rather abstract and philosophical in the matter; but it seems that his manager, a Mr. Low, had a more practical and pushing spirit. He warmly invited his employees to vote for Hunter, pointed out to them the many practical advantages they would gain if they voted for the doctor, and the even more practical disadvantages they might suffer if they didn’t. So it followed that the blue ribbons, which were the local badges of the Hunterians, were not only attached to the iron railings and wooden posts of the factory, but to various human figures, known as “hands,” which moved in it.

Hood took no interest in the election; but while it was proceeding he followed the matter a little further in another form. He was a lawyer, a lazy, but in some ways a good one; because he enjoyed studying and so he had originally learned the trade he had never used. More in protest than in hope, he once carried the matter into the Courts, defending his cause on the basis of a law of Henry the Third[19] against frightening the fish of the King’s servants in the Thames Valley. The judge complimented him on his erudition and logic, but rejected his appeal while demonstrating his own erudition and logic. His lordship argued that no test was provided to measure the degree of fear in the fish, or whether it was that serious fear which was important for the law. But the great judge pointed out the precedent of a law of Richard the Second[20] against certain witches who had frightened children; in which case the child “must return and of his own will testify to his fear.” It did not seem that any one of the fish in question had returned and gave any such testimony to any proper authority. So the judge chose in favour of the defendants. And when the learned judge happened to meet Sir Samuel Bliss at dinner that evening, he was congratulated on his clear judgement. Indeed, the great judge had really enjoyed the logic both of his own and Hood’s arguments; but the conclusion was inevitable. For our judges are not stopped by any old code; they are progressive, like Dr. Hunter, and make friends only with the progressive forces of the age, especially those they will probably meet at a dinner party.

But it was this short law case that led to something much more important for Mr. Owen Hood. He had just left the courts, and turned down the street that led in the direction of the station, he was walking in that direction in his usual brown coat. The streets were filled with faces; it struck him for the first time that there were thousands and thousands of people in the world. There were even more faces at the railway station, and then, when he looked at four or five of them, he saw one that was to him as incredible as the face of the dead.

She was coming out of the tea-room, carrying a handbag, just like anybody else. That mystical quality of his mind had fixed his sacred dream in its original colours. No detail could be changed without the vision dissolving. It was impossible for him that she could appear in anything but white or come out of anything but a wood. And he found himself turned upside-down by the fact that blue suited her as well as white. She did not come out of the wood, but even the teashops and the railway stations didn’t spoil the view.

She stopped in front of him and her pale, flying eyelids lifted from her blue-grey eyes.

“Why,” she said, “you are the boy that jumped in the river!”

“I’m no longer a boy,” answered Hood, “but I’m ready to jump in the river again.”

“Well, don’t jump on the railway-line,” she said, when he turned quickly in that direction.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I was thinking of jumping into a railway-train. Do you mind if I jump into your train?”

“Well, I’m going to Birkstead,” she said with some doubt in her voice.

Mr. Owen Hood did not care one bit where she was going, because he had decided to go there, but he actually remembered a little station on that line that lay very near to where he was going, so he tumbled into the carriage. The landscapes shot by them while they sat looking in a dazed and almost foolish manner at each other. At last the girl felt how absurd it all was and smiled.

“I heard about you from a friend of yours,” she said; “he came to call on us soon after it happened. At least that was when he first came. You know Dr. Hunter, don’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Owen, a shadow coming over his shining hour. “Do you… Do you know him well?”

“I know him pretty well now,” said Miss Elizabeth Seymour.

The shadow on his spirit became darker; he suspected something quite suddenly, and the idea made him furious. Hunter, in Crane’s old phrase, was not a man who would let the grass grow under his feet. It was so like him to use the incident as an introduction to the Seymours. Things were always stepping-stones for Hunter, and the little rock in the river had been a stepping-stone to the country-house. But was the country-house a stepping-stone to something else? Suddenly Hood realized that all his anger had been very abstract anger. He had never hated a man before. At that moment the train stopped at the station of Cowford.

“I wish you’d get out here with me,” he said quickly, “only for a little – and it might be the last time. I want you to do something.”

She looked at him with a curious expression and said in a rather low voice, “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to come and pick bluebells,” he said.

She stepped out of the train, and they went up a country road without a word.

“I remember!” she said suddenly. “When you get to the top of this hill you see the wood where the bluebells were, and your little island beyond.”

“Come on and see it,” said Owen.

They stepped on the top of the hill and stood. Below them the black factory threw its yellowish smoke into the air; and where the wood had been there were now rows of little houses like boxes, built of dirty yellow brick.

Hood spoke. “And when you see the abomination of desolation sitting in the Holy of Holies[21] – isn’t that when the world is supposed to end? I want the world to end now – with you and me standing on a hill.”

She was staring at the place with parted lips and she was paler than usual; he knew she understood something monstrous and symbolic in the scene; yet her first remark was short and trivial. On the nearest of the yellow brick boxes she could see the cheap colours of different advertisements; and larger than the rest a blue poster proclaiming “Vote for Hunter.” With a final touch of hatred, Hood remembered that it was the last and most important day of the election. But the girl had already found her voice.

“Is that Dr. Hunter?” she asked with very usual curiosity; “is he standing for parliament?”

A load that lay on Hood’s mind like a rock suddenly rose like an eagle; and he felt as if the hill he stood on were higher than Everest. He understood well enough that SHE would have known well enough whether Hunter was standing, if —

if there had been anything like what he supposed. Suddenly, the weight wasn’t there anymore, and he lost his balance and said something quite indefensible.

“I thought you would know. I thought you and he were probably… well, the truth is I thought you were engaged, though I really don’t know why.”

“I can’t imagine why,” said Elizabeth Seymour. “I heard he was engaged to Sir Samuel’s daughter. They’ve got our old place now, you know.”

There was a silence and then Hood spoke suddenly in a loud and cheerful voice.

“Well, I say, ‘Vote for Hunter,’” he said cheerfully. “After all, why not vote for Hunter? Good old Hunter! I hope he’ll be a member of Parliament. I hope he’ll be Prime Minister. I hope he’ll be President of the World State. By George[22], he deserves to be Emperor of the Solar System.”

“But why,” she protested, “why should he deserve all that?”

“For not being engaged to you, of course,” he replied.

“Oh!” she said, and something of a secret shiver in her voice went through him like a silver bell.

Abruptly, all of a sudden, the rage of raillery seemed to have left his voice and his face, so that his Napoleonic profile looked earnest and eager and much younger, like the profile of the young Napoleon. His wide shoulders lost the slight stoop that books had given them, and his rather wild red hair fell away from his lifted head.

“There is one thing I must tell you about him,” he said, “and one thing you must hear about me. My friends tell me I am a drifter and a dreamer; that I let the grass grow under my feet; I must tell you at least how and why I once let it grow. Three days after that day near the river, I talked to Hunter; he was my doctor and he talked about it and you. Of course he knew nothing about either. But he is a practical man; a very practical man; he does not dream or drift. From the way he talked I knew he was thinking even then how this accident could be used; used for his purposes and perhaps for mine too (because he is good-natured; yes, he is quite good-natured). I think that if I had taken his hint and formed a sort of social partnership, I might have known you six years sooner, not as a memory, but – an acquaintance. And I could not do it. Judge me how you will, I could not bring myself to do it.

That is what is meant by being born with a bee in the bonnet[23], with an impediment in the speech, with a stumbling-block in the path. I could not bear to approach you by that door, with that gross and grinning lackey holding it open.

I could not bear that terrible snob to take so much space in my story or know so much of my secret. A revulsion I could never describe made me feel that the vision should remain my own even by remaining unfulfilled. It should not be vulgarized. That is what people mean when they say you are a failure in life. And when my best friend made a prophecy about me, and said there was something I should never do, I thought he was right.”

“Why, what do you mean?” she asked rather faintly, “what was it you would never do?”

“Never mind that now,” he said, with the shadow of a returning smile. “Rather strange things are moving in me just now, and who knows, maybe I will try something yet? But before all else, I must make clear for once what I am and for what I lived. There are men like me in the world; I am far from thinking they are the best or the most valuable; but they exist, to the irritation and surprise of all the clever people and the realists. There has been and there is only one thing for me; something that in the normal sense I never even knew. I walked about the world blind, with my eyes turned inside me, looking at you. For days after a night when I had dreamed of you, I was broken. I was like a man who had seen a ghost. I read over and over the solemn lines of the old poets, because only they were worthy of you. And when I saw you again by chance, I thought the world had already ended. It is like meeting you beyond the grave. It is too good to be true.”

“I do not think,” she answered in a low voice, “that life after death is too good to be true.”

When he looked at her a thrill went through him like a message too quick to be understood; and at the back of his mind something awoke that repeated again and again like a song the same words, “too good to be true.” There was always something distressing, even in her days of pride, about the short-sighted look of her half-closed eyes; but it was for other reasons that they were now blinking in the strong white sunlight, almost as if they were blind. They were blind and bright with tears:she gained control of her voice and it was steady.

“You talk about failures,” she said. “I suppose most people would call me a failure and all my people failures now – except those who would say we never failed, because we never had to try. Anyway, we’re all poor enough now. I don’t know whether you know that I teach music. I dare say we deserved to go. I dare say we were useless. Some of us tried to be harmless. But – but now I MUST say something, about some of us who tried rather hard to be harmless – in that way. The new rich people will tell you those ideals were aristocratic, and all that – well, it doesn’t matter what they say. They know quite as little about us as we about them. But to you, when you talk like that… what can I do, but tell you that you that if we were stiff, if we were cold, if we were careful and conservative, it was because deep down in our souls some of us DID believe that there might be loyalty and love like that, for which a woman can wait even to the end of the world. What is it to these people if we chose not to be drugged or distracted with anything less worthy? But it would be hard indeed if when I find it DOES exist after all… hard on you, harder on me, if when I have really found it at last…”

She stopped and couldn’t speak anymore. The silence caught and held her.

He took one stride forward as into the heart of a whirlwind; and they met on the top of that windy hill as if they had come from the ends of the earth.

“This is an epic,” he said, “and an epic demands actions, not words. I have lived with words too long.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you have turned me into a man of action,” he replied. “As long as you were in the past, nothing was better than the past. As long as you were only a dream, nothing was better than dreaming. But now I am going to do something that no man has ever done before.”

He turned towards the valley and raised his hand with a gesture, almost as if the hand was holding a sword.

“I am going to break the Prophecy,” he cried in a loud voice. “I am going to make fun of my evil star. Those who called me a failure will admit I have succeeded where all humanity has failed. The real hero is not he who is bold enough to fulfil the predictions, but he who is bold enough to make them false. And you will see how it happens tonight.”

“What in the world are you going to do?” she asked.

He laughed suddenly. “The first thing to do,” he cried, turning around with a new look of resolution and even cheerfulness on his face, “the very first thing to do is to Vote for Hunter. Or, at any rate, help to get him into Parliament.”

“But why in the world,” she asked wondering, “do you want so much to get Dr. Hunter into Parliament?”

“Well, we must do something,” he said with an appearance of good sense, “to celebrate the occasion. We must do something; and after all he must go somewhere, poor devil. You will say, why not throw him into the river? It would make us feel better and make a splash. But I’m going to make something much bigger than a splash. Besides, I don’t want him in my nice river. I’d much rather pick him up and throw him all the way to Westminster. Much more sensible and suitable. Obviously there should be a brass band and a torchlight procession somewhere tonight; and why shouldn’t he have a bit of the fun?”

He stopped suddenly as if surprised at his own words. Indeed, for him his own phrase fell with the significance of a falling star.

“Of course!” he muttered. “A torchlight procession! I thought that what I wanted was trumpets and what I really want is torches. Yes, I believe it can be done! Yes, the hour has come! By stars and comets, I will give him a torchlight procession!”

He was almost dancing with excitement on the top of the hill; now he suddenly went running down the slope beyond, calling to the girl to follow, as carelessly as if they were two children playing. Strangely enough, perhaps, she did follow; more strangely still when we consider the extravagant scenes through which she allowed herself to be led. They were scenes from a completely different world than all her sensitive and even secretive dignity.

This world was loud with lies and vulgarity. For her it was like joining a travelling circus right before the end of the world. It was as if a Carnival day could also be a Day of Judgement. But the farce could no longer offend her, so the tragedy could no longer terrify. She went through it all with a pale smile, which probably nobody in the world understood. It was not in the normal sense excitement; yet it was something much more positive than patience. Perhaps in a way, more than ever before in her lonely life, she was sitting in her ivory tower; but it was all bright within, as if it were lit up with candles or decorated with gold.

Hood’s wide movements brought them to the bank of the river and the offices of the factory, all of which were covered with the coloured posters of Dr. Hunter, and one of which was obviously a busy committee-room. Hood actually met Mr. Low coming out of it, dressed in a fur coat and bursting with speechless effectiveness. But Mr. Low’s little black eyes glistened with an astonishment bordering on suspicion when Hood in the most friendly fashion offered his sympathy and co-operation. That strange subconscious fear, that underlay all the wealthy manager’s success and security in this country, always came to the surface at the sight of Owen Hood’s ironical face.

Just at that moment, however, one of the local agents ran to him with telegrams in his hand and distracted him. They didn’t have enough men, they didn’t have enough cars, they didn’t have enough speakers. The crowd at Little Puddleton had waited half an hour, Dr. Hunter could not come to them till ten past nine, and so on. The agent in his agony was ready to ask a black person to speak on behalf of a nationalist party without asking him about his own opinions. That’s how impractical all these practical people are. On that night Robert Owen Hood would have been encouraged to go anywhere and say anything; and he did. It might be interesting to imagine what the lady thought about it; but it is possible that she did not think about it. She had some memory of passing through a number of ugly rooms with gas lamps and piles of leaflets, where little irritated men ran about like rabbits. The walls were covered with large allegorical pictures printed in black and white or in a few bright colours, representing Dr. Hunter as a knight in shining armour, as killing dragons, as rescuing ladies who looked like classical goddesses, and so on. Just in case someone might think that Dr. Hunter had a habit of killing dragons as part of his everyday routine (as a form of exercise) the dragon had its name written down in large letters.

It seemed its name was “National Extravagance[24]”. For those who were not sure about the alternative to extravagance which Dr. Hunter had discovered the sword was decorated with the word “Economy.” Elizabeth Seymour, who was watching these pictures, could not avoid thinking that she herself had lately practised economy a lot and had resisted many temptations to extravagance; but she would have never thought about the action as about killing a big green monster with a sword.

In the central committee-room they actually came face to face for a moment with the candidate, who came in very hot and breathless with a silk hat on the back of his head. He probably had forgotten about it, because he did not take it off. She was a little ashamed of thinking about such little things, but she came to the conclusion that she would not like to have a husband going to Parliament.

“We’ve talked to all those people on Cold Road,” said Dr. Hunter. “We will not get any votes in The Hole and those dirty streets, so we shouldn’t waste time on them.”

“Well, we’ve had a very good meeting in the Masonic Hall,” said the agent cheerfully. “Sir Samuel Bliss spoke, and really he managed all right. He told some stories, you know, and they listened to him.”

“And now,” said Owen Hood, slapping his hands together in a cheerful manner, “what about this torchlight procession?”

“This what procession?” asked the agent.

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Hood sternly, “that preparations are not complete for the torchlight procession of Dr. Hunter? That you are going to let this night of triumph pass without making a hundred fires to light the road of the conqueror? Do you realize that the hearts of a whole people have spontaneously moved and chosen him? That the suffering poor whispered at night ‘Vote for Hunter’ long before his party made him a candidate? Do you not want the poor people make torches from their last cheap bits of furniture to do him honour? Why, from this chair alone – ” He took the chair on which Hunter had sat before that and began to break it enthusiastically. They stopped him in this; but he actually persuaded the company to follow his idea at the last possible moment.

In the evening he had actually organized his torchlight procession, escorting the triumphant Hunter, covered with blue ribbons, to the river. It looked as if the doctor was going to be baptized like a new Christian or killed like a witch.

Hood was holding his bright torch close to the Hunter’s astonished face. Then he climbed on some pile of rubbish on the bank of the river and spoke to the crowd for the last time.

“Dear citizens, we meet upon the shore of the Thames, the Thames which is to Englishmen as important as the Tiber ever was to Romans[25]. We meet in a valley which English poets love as much as English birds. We don’t have any other kind of art that is as native to our island as our old national tradition of landscape-painting in water-colour[26]. And the most elegant and delicate water-colour paintings are dedicated to these holy waters. One of the best of old English poets repeated in his poetic meditations the single line, ‘Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song.’[27]

“There have been rumours that someone wants to bring trouble to these waters; but now we can be calm, because we have heard promises. People who are now as famous as our national poets and painters have promised that the stream is still as clear and pure and beautiful as in the old days. We all know the wonderful work that Mr. Bulton has done on filters. Dr. Hunter supports Mr. Bulton. I mean, Mr. Bulton supports Dr. Hunter. I may also mention no less a man than Mr. Low. Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song.

“But then, we all support Dr. Hunter. I myself have always found him quite supportable; sorry, I should say quite satisfactory. He is truly a progressive, and nothing gives me greater pleasure than to watch him move forward. All of his patients in this locality will be very happy when he goes to the higher world of Westminster. I hope you understand what I mean. Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song.

“My only purpose tonight is to express that solidarity. Maybe there have been times when I had a different position then Dr. Hunter; but I am glad to say that all that has ended, and I have now nothing except for the most friendly feelings towards him. I will not say why, but I have a lot to say. As a symbol of this reconciliation I now solemnly throw away this torch. As this fire dies in the cool crystal waters of that sacred river, so will all such conflicts disappear in the pool of universal peace.”

Before anybody knew what he was doing, he raised his torch above his head and sent it flying like a meteor out into the dark water of the river.

The next moment a short, loud cry was heard, and every face in that crowd was staring at the river. You could see that all the faces were staring, because they were all lit up by a wide pale unnatural flame that rose up from the surface of the stream; a flame that the crowd watched as it would have watched a comet in the sky.

“There,” cried Owen Hood, turning suddenly to the girl and catching her arm, as if demanding congratulations. “Old Crane’s prophecy did not come true!”

“Who on Earth is Old Crane?” she asked, “and what prophesy did he say?”

“Only an old friend,” said Hood, “only an old friend of mine. It’s what he said that’s so important. He didn’t like my quiet way of sitting with books and fishing, and he said, while standing on that same island, ‘You may know a lot; but I don’t think you’ll ever set the Thames on fire. I’ll eat my hat if you do.’”

But the readers already know the story of how Old Crane ate his hat. And if they want to know any more about Mr. Crane or Mr. Hood, they must prepare themselves for reading the story of The Unobtrusive Traffic of Captain Pierce.

Chapter III. The unobtrusive traffic of captain pierce

People who know the stories about Colonel Crane and Mr. Owen Hood, the lawyer, may or may not be interested to know that they had an early lunch of eggs and bacon and beer at the inn called the Blue Boar, which stands at the turn of a road in the Western part of England.

Crane was fond of good cooking; and the cooking in that lonely inn was better than in a fashionable restaurant. Hood was fond of the legends and less-known aspects of the English countryside. Both had a healthy admiration for beauty, in ladies as well as landscapes; although (or more probably because) both were quite romantically attached to the wives they had married under rather romantic circumstances.

And the girl who served them, the daughter of the innkeeper, was herself a very beautiful thing to look at; she was of a slim and quiet sort with a head that moved like a brown bird, brightly and usually unexpectedly. Her manners were full of unconscious dignity, because her father, old John Hardy, was the type of old innkeeper who had the status, if not of a gentleman, at least of an independent man. He was not without education and talents; a gray-haired man with a clever, stubborn face.

There was little sound in the valley or the sky; the notes of birds fell only from time to time; only a distant aeroplane passed and re-passed, leaving a trail of faint thunder. The two men at lunch paid no more attention to it than if it had been a buzzing fly; but the way the girl looked at it every few minutes might have suggested that she was at least conscious of the fly. She looked at it, when no one was looking at her; the rest of the time, she tried to look indifferent to it.

“Good bacon you get here,” remarked Colonel Crane.

“The best in England, and in the matter of breakfast England is the Earthly Paradise,” replied Hood readily. “I can’t think why we should boast of the British Empire when we have bacon and eggs to boast of. It was bacon and eggs that gave all that morning glory to the English poets; only a man who had a breakfast like this who could rise with that giant gesture:‘Night’s candles are burnt out; and jocund day…’[28]”

Then, noticing the girl within earshot, he added:“We are saying how good your bacon is, Miss Hardy.”

“It is supposed to be very good,” she said with legitimate pride, “but I am afraid you won’t get much more of it. People aren’t going to be allowed to keep pigs much longer.”

“Not allowed to keep pigs!” cried the Colonel in astonishment.

“By the old regulations they had to be away from the house, and we’ve got ground enough for that, though most of the cottagers hadn’t. But now they say that some people are breaking the law, and the county council are going to stop pig-keeping altogether.”

“Stupid pigs,” snorted the Colonel.

“You should not call them that,” replied Hood. “Men are lower than swine when they do not appreciate pigs. But really I don’t know what the world’s coming to. What will the next generation be like without proper pork? And, talking about the next generation, what has become of our young friend Pierce? He said he was coming down, but he can’t have come by that train.”

“I think Captain Pierce is up there, sir,” said Joan Hardy in a correct voice, as she went away.

Her tone might have indicated that the gentleman was upstairs, but she looked for a second at the blue emptiness of the sky. Long after she was gone, Owen Hood remained staring up into it, until he saw the aeroplane darting and wheeling like a bird.

“Is that Hilary Pierce up there?” he asked, “doing tricks and behaving like a madman generally. What the devil is he doing?”

“Showing off,” said the Colonel shortly, and finished his beer.

“But why would he show off to us?” asked Hood.

“He jolly well wouldn’t,” replied the Colonel. “Showing off to the girl, of course.”

“A very good girl,” said Owen Hood gravely. “If there’s anything going on, you may be sure it’s all straight and serious.”

The Colonel blinked a little. “Well, times change,” he said. “I suppose I’m old-fashioned myself; but speaking as an old Tory, I must confess he might do worse.”

“Yes,” replied Hood, “and speaking as an old Radical, I should say he could hardly do better.”

While they were speaking the aviator had eventually landed on a flat field near the hill, and was now coming towards them. Hilary Pierce looked more like a poet than a professional aviator; and though he had distinguished himself in the war, he was very probably one of those whose natural dream was of conquering the air than conquering the enemy. His yellow hair was longer and more untidy than when he was in the army; and there was a touch of something irresponsible in his blue eye. He had a fighting spirit, however, as soon became clear.

He had paused to speak to Joan Hardy by the rather ruinous pig-sty in the corner, and when he came towards the breakfast-table he seemed transfigured as with flame.

“What’s all this infernal insane nonsense?” he demanded. “Who is so damned rude to tell the Hardys they mustn’t keep pigs? Look here, the time has come when we must fight against all this sort of thing. I’m going to do something desperate.”

“You’ve done enough desperate things for this morning,” said Hood. “I advise you to take a little desperate lunch. Sit down, please, and don’t stamp about like that.”

“No, but look here – ”

Pierce was interrupted by Joan Hardy, who appeared quietly at his elbow and said quietly to the company:“There’s a gentleman here who asks if he may speak to you.”

The gentleman himself stood some little way behind and looked polite but so stiff and motionless that it almost made you nervous. He was dressed in such a complete and correct version of English holiday suit that they were quite sure he was a foreigner. But they couldn’t choose a country in Europe where the man came from. His face was very tanned. But when he spoke, they could immediately understand where he was from because of his accent.

“Very sorry to interrupt, gentlemen,” he said, “but this young lady says you know everything about this area. I’ve walked around trying to find an ancient building or two, but it seems I don’t know how to look for them. If you’d be so kind as to tell me about the main architectural styles and historic places of this region, I’d be very much obliged.”

Since they were a little slow in recovering from their first surprise, he added patiently:

“My name is Enoch B. Oates, and I’m pretty well known in Michigan, but I’ve bought a little place near here; I’ve looked about this little planet and I’ve come to think the safest and brightest place for a man with a few dollars is the place of an aristocrat in your fine old feudal landscape. So the sooner I’m introduced to the mediaeval buildings the better.”

In Hilary Pierce the astonishment had given place to an enthusiasm bordering on ecstasy.

“Mediaeval buildings! Architectural styles!” he cried out. “You’ve come to the right place, Mr. Oates. I’ll show you an ancient building, a sacred building, in an architectural style of such antiquity that you’ll want to transport it to Michigan, as they tried to do with Glastonbury Abbey[29]. You will be privileged to see an historic institution before you die or before all history is forgotten.”

He was walking towards the corner of the little kitchen-garden attached to the inn, waving his arm with wild gestures of encouragement; and the American was following him with the same stiff politeness, looking strangely like a robot.

“Look on our architectural style before it disappears,” cried Pierce dramatically, pointing to the pig-sty, which looked like a dirty combination of leaning and broken boards put together, though it was practical enough. “This, the most unmistakably historic of all mediaeval buildings, may soon be only a memory. But when this monument falls England will fall, and the world will shake.”

The American had what he himself might have described as a poker face; it was impossible to discover whether his words indicated extreme innocence or extreme irony.

“And would you say,” he asked, “that this monument is an example of the early mediaeval or Gothic architectural school?”

“I would hardly call it strictly Perpendicular,” answered Pierce, “but there is no doubt that it is Early English[30].”

“You would say it is historic, anyhow?” said Mr. Oates.

“I have every reason to believe,” affirmed Pierce solemnly, “that Gurth the Swineherd[31] made use of this building. I have no doubt that it is in fact much older. The best authorities believe that the Prodigal Son[32] stayed here for some time, and the pigs – those noble animals – gave him such excellent advice that he returned to his family. And now, Mr. Oates, they say that all this magnificent heritage should be destroyed. But it will not be. We will not so easily surrender to all the vandals and vulgar tyrants who would tear down our temples and our holy places.

The pig-sty will rise again in a magnificent resurrection – larger pig-stys, higher pig-stys will yet cover the land; the towers of more magnificent and more ideal pig-stys, in the most striking architectural styles, will again declare the victory of the holy pig over his unholy oppressors.”

“And meanwhile,” said Colonel Crane drily, “I think Mr. Oates had much better begin with the church down by the river. Very fine Norman foundations and traces of Roman brick. The priest understands his church, too, and would give Mr. Oates rather more reliable information than you do.”

A little while later, when Mr. Oates had gone on his way, the Colonel criticized his young friend.

“Bad form,” he said, “making fun of a foreigner asking for information.”

But Pierce turned on him with the same heat on his face.

“But I wasn’t making fun. I was quite serious.”

They stared at him steadily, and he laughed slightly but went on with undiminished fire.

“Symbolical perhaps but serious,” he said. “I may seem to have talked a bit wildly, but let me tell you the time has come to be wild. We’ve all been a lot too tame. I do mean, as much as I ever meant anything, to fight for the resurrection and the return of the pig; and it will yet return as a wild boar that will destroy his enemies.”

He looked up and his eye found the blue heraldic shape on the sign-board of the inn.

“And there is our wooden standard!” he cried, pointing in the same dramatic fashion. “We will go into battle under the standard of the Blue Boar.”

“Hurray, hurray, hurray,” said Crane politely, “and now come away and don’t spoil the speech. Owen wants to walk to the local old church, like Mr. Oates. I’m more interested in new things. Want to look at that machine of yours.”

They began to walk down the zig-zag road with hedges on both sides and flower-beds like a garden grown on a staircase, and at every corner Hood had to argue with the slow-walking young man.

“Don’t be forever looking back on the paradise of pigs,” he said, “or you’ll be turned into a pillar of salt[33], or maybe of mustard – as more appropriate to such meat. They won’t run away yet. There are other creatures formed by the Creator for man to see; there are other things made by man after the fashion of the creatures, including that great white bird on which you yourself flew among the birds.”

“Bird that lays rather dreadful eggs,” said Crane. “In the next war – Hey, where the hell has he gone?”

“Pigs, pigs,” said Hood sadly. “The overpowering charm which pigs have upon us at a certain time of life; when we dream about their snouts and their little curly tails…”

“Oh, stop it,” said the Colonel.

Indeed Mr. Hilary Pierce had vanished, turning under the corner of a hedge and running up a path, over a gate and across the corner of a hayfield, where a final cut through bursting bushes brought him on top of a low wall looking down at the pig-sty and Miss Joan Hardy, who was calmly walking away from it. He jumped down on to the path. The morning sun painted everything in clear colours like a children’s book.

“I felt I must speak to you before I went,” he said. “I’m going away, not exactly on active service, but on business – on very active business. I feel like the fellows did when they went to the war… and what they wanted to do first… I am aware that a proposal over a pig-sty is not as symbolical to some as to me, but really and truly… I don’t know whether I mentioned it, but you may be aware that I worship you.”

Joan Hardy was quite aware of it; but the world-old conventions of the countryside were like concentric castle-walls around her. There was in them the stiff beauty of old country dances and the slow and delicate needlework of a peasantry. Of all the ladies mentioned in this little book about modern-day knights, the most reserved and dignified was the one who was not a lady at all by birth.

She stood looking at him in silence, and he at her; and her head looked a little bit like that of a bird.

“Really, you seem in a terrible hurry,” she said. “I don’t want to be talked to in a rush like this.”

“I apologize,” he said. “I am in a rush, but I didn’t want you to be in a rush. I only wanted you to know. I haven’t done anything to deserve you, but I am going to try. I’m going off to work; I feel sure you believe in quiet steady work for a young man.”

“Are you going into the bank?” she asked innocently. “You said your uncle worked in a bank.”

“I hope all my conversation was not on that level,” he replied. And indeed he would have been surprised if he had known how exactly she remembered all such boring details he had ever mentioned about himself, and how little she knew in comparison about his theories and dreams, which he thought so much more important.

“Well,” he said with appealing frankness, “it would be a little bit too much to say I am going into a bank. I know a lot of more country-side and romantic professions that are really quite as safe as the bank. The truth is, I think of going into the bacon trade. I think I see an opportunity for a quick young man in the ham and pork business.”

“You mustn’t come here, then,” she answered. “It won’t be allowed here by that time. The neighbours would – ”

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, “I will be a commercial traveller. Oh, such a commercial traveler! As for not coming here, the thing seems quite impossible. You must at least let me write to you every hour or so. You must let me send you a few presents every morning.”

“I’m sure my father wouldn’t like you to send me presents,” she said gravely.

“Ask your father to wait,” said Pierce earnestly. “Ask him to wait till he’s seen the presents. You see, mine will be rather curious presents. I don’t think he’ll disapprove of them. I think he’ll approve of them. I think he’ll congratulate me on my simple tastes and adequate business principles. The truth is, dear Joan, I’ve committed myself to a rather important enterprise. You shouldn’t be frightened; I promise I won’t trouble you again till it succeeds. I will be content that you know it is for you I do it; and will continue to do it, even if I challenge the world.”

He jumped up on the wall again and stood there staring down at her in an almost irritated manner.

“That anybody should forbid YOU to keep pigs,” he cried. “That anybody should forbid YOU to do anything. That anybody should dispute YOUR right to keep pet crocodiles if you like! That is the unpardonable sin; that is the supreme blasphemy and crime against the nature of things, which must not go unpunished. You will have pigs, I say, if the skies fall and the whole world is in war.”

He disappeared like a flash behind the wall, and Joan went back in silence to the inn.

The first incident of the war did not seem very encouraging, though the hero of it seemed by no means discouraged by it. As it was reported in the police news section of various papers, Hilary Patrick Pierce, formerly of the Flying Corps, was arrested for driving pigs into the county of Bluntshire, against the law made for the sake of public health. It seemed he had almost as much trouble with the pigs as with the police; but he made a funny and elegant speech when he was arrested, to which the police and the pigs seemed to be equally indifferent. The incident was considered trivial and his punishment was very light; but after this occasion some of the authorities decided to finally establish the new rule.

The figure behind the new regulation was the famous hygienist, Sir Horace Hunter, who had begun life, as some readers may remember, as a successful doctor in the suburbs and had later distinguished himself as an officer of health in the Thames Valley. He was fully supported in extending the existing precautions against infection from the pig by other magistrates, Mr. Rosenbaum Low, millionaire and formerly manager of Bliss and Co., and the other the young Socialist, Mr. Amyas Minns. All of them agreed that the best way to finish all problems connected to drinking was total prohibition of alcohol, and the different problems linked with swine-fever were best solved by a simple regulation against pigs.

The next lunch at which the three friends met was in a rather different setting; because the Colonel had invited the other two to his club in London. It would have been almost impossible to be that sort of Colonel without having that sort of club. But as a matter of fact, he very seldom went there. On this occasion it was Owen Hood who arrived first and was escorted by a waiter to a table near a window overlooking the Green Park. Knowing Crane’s military punctuality, Hood thought that he might have mistaken the time; and while looking for the note of invitation in his pocket-book, he paused to re-read an article that he had cut out of the newspaper aside as a curiosity some days before. It was a paragraph headed “Old Ladies as Mad Motorists,” and ran as follows:

“An unprecedented number of cases of motorists exceeding the speed limit have lately occurred on the Bath Road and other western highways. The extraordinary thing about this case is that in so many cases the rule-breakers seemed to be old ladies of great wealth and respectability who declared they were merely taking their pugs[34] and other pet animals to get some fresh air. They said that the health of the animal required much more rapid transit through the air than that of a human being.”

He was looking at this article and with as much surprise as when he had first read it, when the Colonel entered with a newspaper in his hand.

“I say,” he said, “I think it is getting rather ridiculous. I’m not a revolutionist like you; quite the opposite. But all these rules and regulations are getting beyond all rational explanation. A little while ago they started forbidding all travelling circuses; not, as you might think, demanding proper conditions for the animals, but forbidding them altogether for some nonsense about the safety of the public. There was a travelling circus stopped near Acton and another on the road to Reading. Crowds of village boys must never see a lion in their lives, because once in fifty years a lion has escaped and been caught again. But that’s nothing compared to what has happened since. Now there is such mortal fear of infection that we should leave the sick to suffer, just as if we were barbarians. You know those new hospital trains that were started to take patients from the hospitals down to the health resorts. Well, they will not run after all, it seems, because by merely taking an invalid of any sort through the open country we could poison the four winds of heaven. If this nonsense goes on, I will go as mad as Hilary himself.”

Hilary Pierce had arrived during this conversation and sat listening to it with a rather curious smile. Somehow the more Hood looked at that smile the more it puzzled him; it puzzled him as much as the newspaper article in his hand. He caught himself looking from one to the other, and Pierce smiled in a still more irritating manner.

“You don’t look so fierce and fanatical as when we last met, my young friend,” remarked Owen Hood. “Have you got tired of pigs and police-courts? These new laws the Colonel’s talking about would have roused you to lift the roof off at once.”

“Oh, I’m all against the new rules,” answered the young man coolly. “I’ve been very much against them. In fact, I’ve already broken all those new laws and a few more. Could you let me look at that article for a moment?”

Hood handed it to him and he nodded, saying:

“Yes; I was arrested for that.”

“Arrested for what?”

“Arrested for being a rich and respectable old lady,” answered Hilary Pierce; “but I managed to escape that time. It was a fine sight to see the old lady jump over a hedge and run across a field.”

Hood looked at him under his low eye-brows and his mouth began to work.

“But what’s all this about the old lady having a pug or a pet or something?”

“Well, it was very nearly a pug,” said Pierce calmly. “I pointed out to everybody that it was, as it were, almost a pug. I asked if it was just to punish me for a small mistake in spelling.”

“I begin to understand,” said Hood. “You were again smuggling pigs down to your precious Blue Boar, and thought you could break the enemy lines in very rapid cars.”

“Yes,” replied the smuggler happily. “We were quite literally Road-Pigs. I thought at first about dressing the pigs up as millionaires and members of Parliament; but when you come to look close, there’s more difference than you would imagine. It was great fun when they forced me to take my pet out of all the shawls, and they found what a large pet it was.”

“And do I understand,” cut in the Colonel, “that it was something like that – with the other laws?”

“The other laws,” said Pierce, “are certainly irrational, but you do not altogether do them justice. You do not quite understand their motive. You do not fully realise their origins. I may say with modesty, I believe that I was their origin. I not only had the pleasure of breaking those laws, but the pleasure of making them.”

“More of your tricks, you mean,” said the Colonel; “but why don’t the newspapers say so?”

“The authorities don’t want them to,” answered Pierce. “The authorities won’t advertise me, you bet. I’ve got far too much popular support for that. When the real revolution happens, it won’t be mentioned in the newspapers.”

He paused a moment in meditation and then went on.

“When the police searched for my pug and found it was a pig, I started wondering how they could be stopped from doing it again. I thought that they might not want to touch a wild pig or a pug that bit them. So, of course, I travelled the next time with dreadfully dangerous animals in cages, warning everybody of the angriest tigers and panthers that were ever known. When they found out what the tigers really were, they didn’t want to make this information public, so they could only fall back on their own stupid idea of a total prohibition. Of course, it was the same with my other idea, about the sick people going to health resorts to be cured of various fashionable and aristocratic illnesses. The pigs spent some time as aristocrats and rich people in beautifully decorated railway carriages with hospital nurses to take care of them; while I stood outside and told the railway officials that the best treatment for the patients was rest, and they must not be disturbed for any reason.”

“What a liar you are!” exclaimed Hood in simple admiration.

“Not at all,” said Pierce with dignity. “It was quite true that they were going to be cured.”

Crane, who had been staring rather absentmindedly out of the window, slowly turned his head and said:“And how’s it going to end? Do you propose to go on doing all these impossible things?”

Pierce jumped on his feet with the same romantic enthusiasm that he had when he made his vow over the pig-sty.

“Impossible!” he cried. “You don’t know what you’re saying or how true it is. All I’ve done so far was possible and prosaic. But I will do an impossible thing. I will do something that is written in all books and poems as impossible – something that has become a proverb about impossible things. The war is not ended yet; and if you two fellows will position yourselves on the hill opposite the Blue Boar, next Thursday at sunset, you will see something so impossible and so self-evident that even the newspapers will find it hard to hide it.”

A week later two gentlemen of something more than middle age who had not altogether lost the appetite for adventure positioned themselves under the roof of pine on the top of the hill with all the preparations for a picnic. It was from that place, like from a window looking across the valley, that they saw what looked more like a vision; what looked indeed rather like the parody of an apocalypse. The sky in the west was the colour of a lemon, pale yellow and pale green, while one or two small clouds on the horizon were of a rose-red and even richer colours. But the settling sun itself was a cloudless fire, so that a brownish light lay over the whole landscape. The inn of the Blue Boar standing opposite looked almost like a house of gold. Owen Hood was looking in his dreamy manner, and said at last:

“There’s an apocalyptic sign in heaven for you to start with. It’s strange, but that cloud coming up the valley looks very much like a pig.”

“Like a whale,” said Colonel Crane, yawning slightly; but when he turned his eyes in that direction, he saw that the object in question was too solid for a cloud.

“That’s not a cloud,” he said, “it’s a Zeppelin or something.”

The solid shape grew larger and larger; and as it became more obvious it became more incredible.

“Saints and angels!” cried Hood suddenly. “Why, it IS a pig!”

“It’s shaped like a pig all right,” said the Colonel quickly; and indeed as the great balloon came closer and closer, they could see that the long sausage-shaped Zeppelin body of it had been fantastically decorated with hanging ears and legs, to complete that pantomimic resemblance.

“I suppose it’s one more of Hilary’s tricks,” remarked Hood; “but what is he going to do now?”

When the great monster was moving up the valley it paused over the inn of the Blue Boar, and something fell fluttering from it like a brightly coloured feather.

“People are coming down in parachutes,” said the Colonel shortly.

“They’re strange-looking people,” remarked his companion, peering under frowning brows, for the level light was dazzling to the eyes. “By George, they’re not people at all! They’re pigs!”

From that distance, the objects in question looked a little bit like angels in some brightly coloured Gothic picture, with the yellow sky instead of their golden background. Their parachutes looked like a gorgeous painted plumage. The more the two men on the ground stared at these strange objects, the more certain it seemed that they were indeed pigs; though it was impossible to say whether the pigs were dead or alive from that distance. The men looked down into the garden of the inn into which the feathered things were dropping, and they could see the figure of Joan Hardy standing in front of the old pig-sty, looking up into the sky.

“Extraordinary present for a young lady,” remarked Crane, “but I suppose when our mad young friend falls in love, he can only give impossible presents.”

The eyes of the more poetical Hood were full of larger visions, and he was hardly listening. But when the sentence ended he seemed to wake up from a trance and struck his hands together.

“Yes!” he cried in a new voice, “we always come back to that word!”

“Come back to what word?” asked his friend.

“‘Impossible,’” answered Owen Hood. “It’s the word that runs through his whole life, and our lives too for that matter. Don’t you see what he has done?”

“I see what he has done all right,” answered the Colonel, “but I’m not at all sure I understand what you want to say.”

“What we have seen is another impossible thing,” said Owen Hood; “a thing that the English language has made a challenge; a thing that a thousand songs and jokes and phrases have called impossible. We have seen pigs fly.[35]”

“It’s pretty extraordinary,” admitted Crane, “but it’s not as extraordinary as when thay are not allowed to walk.”

And they gathered their things and began to walk down from the high hill.

While they were walking, it was getting darker and darker, and soon they lost that sense of sitting right under the clouds. They almost felt like they had had a vision; and the voice of Crane came out of the dark like the voice of a person talking about a strange dream.

“The thing I can’t understand,” he said, “is how Hilary managed to DO all that by himself.”

“He really is a very wonderful fellow,” said Hood. “You told me he did incredible things in the War. And though now he uses his skills for these fanatical things now, it takes as much trouble to do one as the other.”

“It takes a lot more trouble to do it alone,” said Crane. “In the War we were organized.”

“You mean he must be more than an unusual person,” suggested Hood, “a sort of giant with a hundred hands or god with a hundred eyes. Well, a man will work terribly hard when he wants something very much; even a man who generally looks like a lazy poet. And I think I know what he wanted. He deserves to get it. It’s certainly his hour of triumph.”

“Mystery to me all the same,” said the Colonel frowning. “I wonder whether he’ll ever clear it up.”

Away on another part of the hill Hilary Pierce, who just landed, came towards Joan Hardy with uplifted arms.

“This is no time for false modesty,” he said. “It is the hour, and I come to you covered with glory —”

“You come covered with mud,” she said smiling, “and it’s that horrible red mud that takes so long to dry. It’s no use trying to brush it till —”

“I have completed the labours like Hercules[36],” he cried in lyric ecstasy. “I have finished the quest. I have made the Hampshire Pig as legendary as the Calydonian Boar[37]. They forbade me to bring it on foot, and I drove it in a car, disguised as a pug. They forbade me to bring it in a car, and I brought it in a train, disguised as an invalid. They forbade me to use a train, and I took the wings of the morning and rose to the sky by a secret and lonely way, the stubborn way of love. I have made my romance immortal. I have written your name upon the sky. What do you say to me now? I have turned a Pig into a Pegasus. I have done impossible things.”

“I know you have,” she said, “but somehow I can’t stop liking you for all that.”

“BUT you can’t stop liking me,” he repeated in a weak voice. “I have stormed heaven, but still I am not so bad. Hercules can be tolerated in spite of his Twelve Labours. St. George can be forgiven for killing the Dragon. Woman, is this the way I am treated in the hour of victory; and is this the graceful manner of the old world of tradition? What is your father doing? What does he say – about us?”

“My father says you are quite mad, of course,” she replied, “but he can’t stop liking you either. He says he doesn’t believe it is a good idea to marry someone from a different social class; but that if I must marry a gentleman he’d rather it was somebody like you.”

“Well, I’m glad I’m the good kind of gentleman, anyhow,” he answered. “But really this power of common sense is getting quite dangerous. Will nothing give you the appetite for a little unreality? What would you say, if I turned the world upside down and set my foot upon the sun and moon?”

“I would say,” replied Joan Hardy, still smiling, “that you needed somebody to look after you.”

He stared at her for a moment in an almost idiotic manner as if he had not fully understood; then he laughed uncontrollably, like a man who has found his glasses on his own forehead.

“What a bump your mother earth gives you when you fall out of an aeroplane,” he said, “especially when your flying ship is only a flying pig. The earth of the real peasants and the real pigs – don’t be offended; I say that as a compliment. What a thing is common sense, and how much better really than the poetry of Pegasus! And when there is everything else as well that makes the sky clean and the earth kind, beauty and bravery and this beautiful head – well, you are right enough, Joan. Will you take care of me?”

He had caught her by the hands; but she still laughed when she answered.

“Yes – I told you I couldn’t avoid it – but you really must let me go, Hilary. I can see your friends coming down from the hill.”

While she spoke, indeed, Colonel Crane and Owen Hood could be seen coming down the hill and passing through a line of elegant trees.

“Hello!” said Hilary Pierce cheerfully. “I want you to congratulate me. Joan thinks I’m an awful charlatan, and she is right; I am what has been called a happy chatlatan. At least you fellows may think my last escapade was not necessary, when I tell you the news. Well, I will confess.”

“What news do you mean?” asked the Colonel with curiosity.

Hilary Pierce grinned and made a gesture over his shoulder to the pigs covered with parachutes, to indicate his last and crowning adventure.

“The truth is,” he said laughing, “that was only a final firework to celebrate victory or failure, however you choose to call it. There isn’t any need to do so anymore, because the veto is removed.”

“Removed?” exclaimed Hood. “Why on earth is that? It’s a bit scary when madmen suddenly do normal things like that.”

“It wasn’t anything to do with the madmen,” answered Pierce quietly. “The real change was much higher up, or maybe lower down. Anyhow, it was in the world of the Big Business.”

“What was the change?” asked the Colonel.

“Old Oates has gone into another business,” answered Pierce quietly.

“What on earth has old Oates got to do with it?” asked Hood staring. “Do you mean that American who came to see the mediaeval churches?”

“Oh, I know,” said Pierce in a tired voice, “I thought he had nothing to do with it; I thought it was the vegetarians, and the rest; but they’re very innocent instruments. The truth is that Enoch Oates is the biggest exporter of pigs in the world, and HE didn’t want any competition from our farmers. And what he wants happens, as he would say. Now, thank God, he’s moved into another business.”

But if the reader wishes to know what was the new line of business Mr. Oates followed and why, he will have to wait for the story of the Exclusive Luxury of Enoch Oates. These stories are about the world upside down, and they should be told backwards.

Словарь

A

abruptly [ə′brʌptlɪ] вдруг, внезапно

absent-minded [æbs(ə)nt′maɪndɪd] рассеянный

active service [′æktɪv ′sɜ:vɪs] служба в армии

adequate [′ædɪkwət] адекватный

advantage [əd′vɑ:ntɪʤ] преимущество

adventurous [əd′venʧ(ə)rəs] предприимчивый, ищущий приключений

advise [əd′vaɪz] советовать

allusion [ə′lu:ʒ(ə)n] намёк, аллюзия

ambition [æm′bɪʃ(ə)n] честолюбие; честолюбивый замысел, амбиции

ancient [′eɪnʃ(ə)nt] древний, старинный

apocalypse [ə′pɒkəlɪps] апокалипсис, конец света

apocalyptic [ə,pɒkə′lɪptɪk] апокалиптический, предвещающий конец света

appealing [ə′pi:lɪŋ] трогательный; обаятельный, привлекательный

appear [ə′pɪə] казаться; появляться

appearance [ə′pɪər(ə)ns] внешний вид

attached (to) [ə′tæʧt] привязанный (к)

aware [ə′weə] знающий, понимающий

B

bachelor [′bæʧ(ə)lə] холостяк

back to front задом наперёд

balloon [bə′lu:n] воздушный шар

banner [′bænə] знамя, флаг

barbarous (barbarian) [′bɑ:b(ə)rəs] ([bɑ′beərɪən]) варварский

bet [bet] пари; держать пари, биться об заклад

bitter [′bɪtə] горький

blasphemy [′blæsfɪmɪ] богохульство, кощунство

blink [blɪŋk] мигать, моргать

bluebell [′blu:bel] колокольчик (цветок)

boar [bɔ:] кабан

boast [bəʊst] хвастаться

bohemian [bəʊ′hi:mɪən] богемный

bother [′bɒðə] надоедать; беспокоить, докучать

brass [brɑ:s] медный (brass band – духовой оркестр)

brush [brʌʃ] чистить щёткой

bump [bʌmp] толчок; удар

businesslike [′bɪznɪslaɪk] деловой, практичный

butler [′bʌtlə] дворецкий

C

cab [kæb] наёмный экипаж, кэб

cacophony [kæ′kɒfənɪ] какофония

call [kɔ:l] окликать; call on sb – наносить кому-либо визит

candid [′kændɪd] искренний, откровенный

capable (of) [′keɪpəbl] способный (на что-либо)

carelessly [′keələslɪ] небрежно; беспечно, легкомысленно

cease [si:s] прекращать; прекращаться

ceremonial [,serɪ′məʊnɪəl] церемониальный

chalk [ʧɔ:k] мел

characteristic [,kærəktə′rɪstɪk] характерный; типичный

charlatan [′ʃɑ:lət(ə)n] шарлатан, обманщик

charm [ʧɑ:m] шарм, обаяние, очарование

cheerful [′ʧɪəf(ə)l] весёлый, радостный; энергичный

chimney [′ʧɪmnɪ] труба

civilly [′sɪv(ə)lɪ] вежливо, учтиво

clerk [klɑ:k] клерк, офисный служащий

code [kəʊd] кодекс, правила поведения

collar [′kɒlə] воротник; ошейник

colonel [′kɜ:n(ə)l] полковник

committee [kə′mɪtɪ] комитет

comparison [kəm′pærɪs(ə)n] сравнение

complaint [kəm′pleɪnt] жалоба

confess [kən′fes] признаться

conquer [′kɒŋkə] завоевать, покорить

conqueror [′kɒŋk(ə)rə] завоеватель, победитель

content [kən′tent] довольный, удовлетворённый

contour [′kɒntʊə] очертание, контур

convention [kən′venʃ(ə)n] обычай, традиция, правила поведения

cookery [′kʊk(ə)rɪ] кулинария

cravat [krə′væt] шарф

Creator [krɪ′eɪtə] Творец

crown [kraʊn] короновать

curious [′kjʊərɪəs] любопытный

curve [kɜ:v] изгиб

cut in встрять (в разговор)

D

dazed [deɪzd] изумлённый, ошеломлённый

deduction [dɪ′dʌkʃ(ə)n] дедукция, логический вывод

defendant [dɪ′fendənt] ответчик; обвиняемый

desperate [′desp(ə)rət] отчаянный

devellish [′dev(ə)lɪʃ] ужасный, чертовский

dignified [′dɪgnɪfaɪd] обладающий чувством собственного достоинства

dignity [′dɪgnətɪ] достоинство

dilemma [dɪ′lemə] дилемма; затруднительное положение

disadvantage [,dɪsəd′vɑ:ntɪʤ] неудобство; затруднение

disapprove [,dɪsə′pru:v] не одобрять, осуждать

disproportionate [,dɪsprə′pɔ:ʃ(ə)nət] несоразмерный, непропорциональный

disrespectful [,dɪsrɪs′pektf(ə)l] неучтивый, грубый, невежливый

distress [dɪ′stres] несчастье; затруднительное положение; мучить

donkey [′dɒŋkɪ] осёл

dormitary [′dɔ:mɪt(ə)rɪ] общежитие

doubtless [′daʊtləs] без сомнения, бесспорно

drag [dræg] тащить

dubious [′dju:bɪəs] сомнительный

duchess [′dʌʧɪs] герцогиня

Dutch [dʌʧ] голландский

E

earnestly [′ɜ:nɪstlɪ] настоятельно, убедительно

earshot [′ɪəʃɔt] расстояние, на котором слышен звук

earthly [′ɜ:θlɪ] земной (Earthly Paradise – Земной Рай)

ecstasy [′ekstəsɪ] экстаз, восторг

Eden [′i:d(ə)n] Эдем, райский сад

elderly [′eld(ə)lɪ] пожилой

emancipated [ɪ′mænsɪpeɪtɪd] эмансипированный

enterprise [′entəpraɪz] смелое предприятие

epic [′epɪk] эпос

escapade [,eskə′peɪd] эскапада, выходка

eventually [ɪ′venʧʊəlɪ] в итоге, в конце концов

explode [ek′spləʊd] взорваться

explosion [ek′spləʊʒ(ə)n] взрыв

eyelid [′aɪlɪd] веко

F

failure [′feɪljə] неудача, провал; неудачник

fairy-tale [′feərɪteɪl] сказка

feature [′fi:ʧə] черта, характерная особенность

ferret [′ferɪt] хорёк

feudal [′fju:d(ə)l] феодальный

fever [′fi:və] лихорадка

filthy [′fɪlθɪ] грязный; мерзкий, подлый, отвратительный

film [fɪlm] плёнка

flake(s) [fleɪk] хлопья

flap [flæp] колыхаться; хлопать

Flemish [′flemɪʃ] фламандский

flower-bed [′flaʊəbed] клумба

flutter [′flʌtə] трепетать; бить крыльями

fond (of) [fɒnd] хорошо относиться (к), любить

foreigner [′fɒrɪnə] иностранец

formerly [′fɔ:məlɪ] прежде

framework [′freɪmwɜ:k] рамка

frankness [′fræŋknəs] искренность, прямота

frown [fraʊn] смотреть неодобрительно, хмурить брови

fruitful [′fru:tf(ə)l] плодотворный, продуктивный

furious [′fjʊərɪəs] взбешённый, яростный

G

gain [geɪn] приобрести; получить

gate [geɪt] ворота; калитка

gather [′gæðə] собирать; собираться

generous [′ʤen(ə)rəs] великодушный, благородный; щедрый

gesture [′ʤesʧə] жест

glisten [′glɪs(ə)n] искриться, сиять

glitter [′glɪtə] блестеть

goddess [′gɒdes] богиня

good-natured [,gʊd′neɪʧəd] добродушный, добрый

gravely [′greɪvlɪ] серьёзно

gravestone [′greɪvstəʊn] надгробный камень

grease [gri:s] жир

greet [gri:t] приветствовать

grimly [′grɪmlɪ] мрачно

grin [grɪn] ухмыляться, скалить зубы

gross [grəʊs] грубый, вульгарный

grotesque [grəʊ′tesk] гротескный, абсурдный, нелепый

H

hair-dye [heə,daɪ] краска для волос

ham [hæm] ветчина, окорок

handbag [′hæn(d)bæg] дамская сумочка

hare [heə] заяц

hatter [′hætə] шляпник

hay [heɪ] сено (hayfield – луг под сено)

hedge [heʤ] живая изгородь

heritage [′herɪtɪʤ] наследство; наследие

hint [hɪnt] намекнуть

hippopotamus [,hɪpə′pɒtəməs] гиппопотам, бегемот

horror [′hɒrə] ужас

humble [′hʌmbl] скромный

hut [hʌt] хижина

hygiene [′haɪʤi:n] гигиена

I

impediment [ɪm′pedɪmənt] физический недостаток; преграда

impress [′ɪmpres] впечатлить

improbable [ɪm′prɒbəbl] невероятный

indefensible [,ɪndɪ′fensəbl] не имеющий оправдания, непростительный

indifferent [ɪn′dɪf(ə)r(ə)nt] равнодушный

inevitable [ɪ′nevɪtəbl] неизбежный

inherit [ɪn′herɪt] унаследовать

inquiry [ɪn′kwaɪərɪ] вопрос; официальный запрос

insomnia [ɪn′sɒmnɪə] бессонница

insult [ɪn′sʌlt] оскорблять

intolerant [ɪn′tɒl(ə)r(ə)nt] нетерпимый

ivory [′aɪv(ə)rɪ] слоновая кость (ivory tower – башня из слоновой кости)

K

kitchen-garden [,kɪʧɪn′gɑ:d(ə)n] огород

L

land-owner [′lænd,əʊnə] землевладелец

landscape [′læn(d)skeɪp] пейзаж, ландшафт

lawyer [′lɔ:jə] юрист, адвокат

leaflet [′li:flət] листовка

legal [′li:g(ə)l] законный; юридический

legitimate [lɪ′ʤɪtəmət] законный,

light-headed [,laɪt′hedɪd] испытывающий головокружение; находящийся в бреду; безрассудный

likely [′laɪklɪ] вероятно

literal [′lɪt(ə)r(ə)l] буквальный

literary [′lɪt(ə)r(ə)rɪ] литературный, книжный

lordship [′lɔ:dʃɪp] светлость (титулование лорда, судьи)

lump [lʌmp] ком, крупный кусок

M

madman [′mædmən] сумасшедший

magnificent [mæg′nɪfɪs(ə)nt] великолепный, величественный

make fun (of) смеяться над кем-либо; подшучивать

masquerade [,mæsk(ə)′reɪd] маскарад

mediaeval [medɪ′i:v(ə)l] средневековый

merely [′mɪəlɪ] только, просто

military [′mɪlɪt(ə)rɪ] военный

mirror [′mɪrə] отражать

modesty [′mɒdɪstɪ] скромность (false modesty – ложная скромность)

motorist [′məʊt(ə)rɪst] автомобилист, автолюбитель

mortal [′mɔ:t(ə)l] смертный; смертельный

mournfully [′mɔ:nf(ə)lɪ] печально, скорбно

mustard [′mʌstəd] горчица

mutter [′mʌtə] бормотать

N

needlework [′ni:dlwɜ:k] шитьё; рукоделие

neglect [nɪ′glekt] пренебрегать (чем-л.); упускать, не делать (чего-л.) нужного

net [net] сеть; сетка

nightmare [′naɪtmeə] кошмар

nod [nɒd] кивнуть головой

nonsense [′nɒns(ə)ns] чепуха, бессмыслица

notice [′nəʊtɪs] заметить (также to take notice)

notice-board [′nəʊtɪsbɔ:d] доска объявлений

nowadays [′naʊədeɪz] в наши дни

O

offend [ə′fend] оскорбить

occasionally [ə′keɪʒ(ə)n(ə)lɪ] время от времени, иногда

Odyssey [′ɒdɪsɪ] одиссея, долгое путешествие

ornithological [,ɔ:nɪθə′lɒʤɪk(ə)l] орнитологический

P

path [pɑ:θ] тропинка, дорожка; путь

pavement [′peɪvmənt] тротуар; мостовая

peasant [′pez(ə)nt] крестьянин; деревенщина

peasantry [′pez(ə)ntrɪ] крестьянство

pedigree [′pedɪgri:] генеалогия, родословная

peer [pɪə] вглядываться, смотреть пристально

peg [peg] крючок

Pegasus [′pegəsəs] Пегас (крылатый конь)

petrol [′petr(ə)l] бензин

pig-sty [′pɪgstaɪ] свинарник

pleasure [′pleʒə] удовольствие

plot [plɒt] участок земли, грядка

plumage [′plu:mɪʤ] оперение; плюмаж

pollution [pə′lu:ʃ(ə)n] загрязнение

porch [pɔ:ʧ] крыльцо

pork [pɔ:k] свинина

preserve [prɪ′zɜ:v] хранить; консервировать (preserved food – консервированные продукты)

proceed [prə′si:d] продолжаться

procession [prə′seʃ(ə)n] процессия

prohibition [,prəʊ(h)ɪ′bɪʃ(ə)n] запрет, запрещение

property [′prɒpətɪ] имущество; собственность

prophecy [′prɒfəsɪ] предсказание, пророчество

prospect [′prɒspekt] перспектива; шансы (на успех)

proverb [′prɒvɜ:b] поговорка, пословица, крылатое выражение

pumpkin [′pʌmpkɪn] тыква

put up (with) терпеть, мириться с чем-либо

R

rach [ræʃ] поспешный, опрометчивый

raillery [′reɪl(ə)rɪ] насмешки, шутки

rapid [′ræpɪd] быстрый, стремительный

reactionary [rɪ′ækʃ(ə)n(ə)rɪ] реакционный

reliable [rɪ′laɪəbl] надёжный; испытанный

remark [rɪ′mɑ:k] заметить; высказаться о чём-либо

reserved [rɪ′zɜ:vd] сдержанный

resolution [,rez(ə)′lu:ʃ(ə)n] решимость

restless [′restləs] беспокойный, неугомонный

resurrection [,rez(ə)′rekʃ(ə)n] воскресение; возрождение

retired [rɪ′taɪəd] в отставке; удалившийся от дел

revolutionary [,rev(ə)′lu:ʃ(ə)n(ə)rɪ] революционный; революционер

revulsion [rɪ′vʌlʃ(ə)n] отвращение, антипатия

rotten [′rɒt(ə)n] гнилой, прогнивший; поганый

rouse [raʊz] поднимать; воодушевлять

S

sacred [′seɪkrɪd] священный

satin [′sætɪn] атласный (гладкий, как атласная ткань)

scarecrow [′skeəkrəʊ] чучело

score [skɔ:] счёт очков

seldom [′seldəm] редко

selection [sɪ′lekʃ(ə)n] отбор

self-evident [,self′evɪd(ə)nt] самоочевидный, не требующий доказательств

sense [sens] чувство; орган чувств; значение, смысл; разум (good sense – здравый смысл)

serpent [′sɜ:p(ə)nt] змей

servant [′sɜ:v(ə)nt] слуга

setting [′setɪŋ] окружающая обстановка

shabby [′ʃæbɪ] поношенный, пообтрепавшийся

shell [ʃel] раковина, скорлупа

short-sighted [,ʃɔ:t′saɪtɪd] близорукий

show off красоваться, рисоваться

silk (silken) [sɪlk] ([′sɪlk(ə)n]) шёлковый (silk hat – цилиндр)

simple-minded [,sɪmpl′maɪndɪd] глупый, простоватый

slippery [′slɪp(ə)rɪ] скользкий

smash [smæʃ] разбить, сокрушить

smuggle [′smʌgl] провозить контрабандой

snobbish [′snɒbɪʃ] снобистский

snout [snaʊt] пятачок

solar system [′səʊlə,sɪstəm] Солнечная система

solemn [′sɒləm] торжественный, серьёзный

solid [′sɒlɪd] твёрдый; прочный

spell [spel] заклинание, чары

splash [splæʃ] всплеск

standard [′stændəd] штандарт, знамя

steadily [′stedɪlɪ] уверенно

stepping stone [′stepɪŋ,stəʊn] камень, на который наступают (чтобы перейти речку или дотянуться до чего-либо); средство для достижения цели

stiff [stɪf] жёсткий, негибкий

stilts [stɪlts] ходули

stork [stɔ:k] аист

straitjacket [′streɪt,ʤækɪt] смирительная рубашка

stream [stri:m] поток

stumbling-block [′stʌmblɪŋblɒk] камень преткновения

suburb [′sʌbɜ:b] пригород

suburban [sə′bɜ:b(ə)n] пригородный

succeed [sək′si:d] добиться успеха

suit [s(j)u:t] подходить

superficial [,s(j)u:pə′fɪʃ(ə)l] поверхностный

supportable [sə′pɔ:təbl] приемлемый, сносный

supreme [s(j)u:′pri:m] высший; превосходнейший

suspicious [sə′spɪʃəs] подозрительный

swallow [′swɒləʊ] проглотить

swine [swaɪn] свинья, свиньи

swing [swɪŋ] раскачиваться, качать

T

tame [teɪm] приручённый; покорный, послушный

temptation [tem(p)′teɪʃ(ə)n] искушение, соблазн

testify [′testɪfaɪ] давать показания

testimony [′testɪmənɪ] свидетельские показания

thankful [′θæŋkf(ə)l] благодарный

thoughtfully [θɔ:tf(ə)lɪ] задумчиво

thumb [θʌm] большой палец

top-hat [,tɒp′hæt] цилиндр (головной убор)

torchlight [′tɔ:ʧlaɪt] свет факелов (torchlight procession – факельное шествие)

tory [′tɔ:rɪ] тори, член Консервативной партии

trance [trɑ:ns] транс

transfigure [træns′fɪgə] преображать

transit [′trænzɪt] проезд, поездка

tumble (into) [′tʌmbl] ввалиться (куда-то)

turnip [′tɜ:nɪp] репа, турнепс

twilight [′twaɪlaɪt] сумерки

twist [twɪst] крутить, скручивать

U

unattainable [,ʌnə′teɪnəbl] недостижимый, недоступный

unconscious [ʌn′kɒnʃəs] не осознающий

undisguised [,ʌndɪs′gaɪzd] нескрываемый

unobtrusive [,ʌnəb′tru:sɪv] ненавязчивый, скромный

unpardonable [ʌn′pɑ:d(ə)nəbl] непростительный

unpresentable [,ʌnprɪ′zentəbl] непрезентабельный, непредставительный

V

valley [′vælɪ] долина

valuable [′væljʊəbl] ценный; драгоценный

vision [′vɪʒ(ə)n] видение

vow [vaʊ] обет, клятва

vulgar [′vʌlgə] грубый, вульгарный

vulgarity [vʌl′gærətɪ] вульгарность, пошлость

W

wage (war) [weɪʤ] вести (войну)

walking-stick [′wɔ:kɪŋ,stɪk] трость

warn [wɔ:n] предупреждать, предостерегать

waver [′weɪvə] колыхаться, колебаться

wealthy [′welθɪ] богатый, состоятельный

whirlwind [′wɜ:lwɪnd] вихрь, ураган

witness [′wɪtnəs] свидетель, очевидец; засвидетельствовать

witness-box [′wɪtnəs,bɒks] свидетельская трибуна, место для дачи свидетельских показаний

world-old [,wɜ:ld′əʊld] старый как мир

worship [′wɜ:ʃɪp] поклоняться, почитать; боготворить

worthy [′wɜ:ðɪ] достойный

wreath [ri:θ] венок

Y

yawn [jɔ:n] зевать

yellowish [′jeləʊɪʃ] желтоватый

Z

zeppelin [′zep(ə)lɪn] цеппелин (вид дирижабля)

Примечания

1

Great War – «Великая война», речь идёт о Первой мировой войне (1914–1918).

2

Cockney – кокни, житель бедных районов Восточного Лондона.

3

St. Martin – Св. Мартин, согласно преданию, разрезал свой тёплый плащ пополам, чтобы бедняку было во что завернуться зимой.

4

Public houses = pubs (пабы).

5

Royal Academician – член Королевской академии изящных искусств.

6

Мистер Вернон-Смит пытается избежать английских поговорок, в которых упоминаются шляпы. To talk through one’s hat – «говорить через шляпу», т. е. говорить с уверенным видом о предмете, о котором человек не имеет никакого понятия. As mad as a hatter – «безумен как шляпник», т. е. совершенно сошёл с ума (вспомним «Алису в стране чудес» Л. Кэрролла). Спасти мистера Вернон-Смита могла бы поговорка as mad as a March hare – «безумен как мартовский заяц» (тоже персонаж «Алисы»).

7

Christmas Eve – канун Рождества, на следующее утро детей ждут подарки.

8

Because I used the long bow – игра слов; long bow – длинный английский лук, которым, согласно балладам, пользовались Робин Гуд и его товарищи; одновременно с этим, Худ имеет в виду свою медлительность (ср. русскую поговорку «долго запрягает»).

9

To hit the bull’s eye – англ. поговорка:«попасть в глаз быка», т. е. попасть в яблочко, попасть в десятку.

10

The boar’s head – кабанья голова, традиционное рождественское угощение в Британии.

11

Made a rash vow – дал поспешный обет.

12

Holy Grail – Святой Грааль, в поисках которого рыцари короля Артура совершили множество славных подвигов.

13

To let grass grow under your feet – английская поговорка, по значению сходная с «ждать у моря погоды».

14

Крейн здесь модифицирует предыдущую поговорку. Ivy – плющ, растение, которое ассоциируется со старыми зданиями, за которыми не ухаживают.

15

A rolling stone gathers no moss – английская пословица:«Кому на месте не сидится, тот добра не наживёт» (дословно:«Катящийся камень мха не собирает»).

16

‘Resurgam’ – «Воскреснет» (лат.).

17

Hang out the banners on the outward wall – “Знамена водрузить на внешних стенах”. Шекспир, «Макбет», акт 5, сцена 5 (пер. М. Лозинского).

18

Hydraulics – гидравлика, acoustics – акустика.

19

Henry the Third – английский король Генрих III (правил в 1216–1272 гг.).

20

Richard the Second – английский король Ричард II (правил в 1377–1399 гг.)

21

And when you see the abomination of desolation sitting in the Holy of Holies – «Итак, когда увидите мерзость запустения, стоящую на святом месте…» Библейская цитата:«Итак, когда увидите мерзость запустения, реченную через пророка Даниила, стоящую на святом месте, – читающий да разумеет, тогда находящиеся в Иудее да бегут в горы…» (Евангелие от Матфея 24:15–16)

22

By George… – «Клянусь святым Георгием!», распространённое восклицание в Англии.

23

Ещё одна английская поговорка. To have a bee in your bonnet – быть одержимым навязчивой идеей.

24

National Extravagance – расточительные расходы.

25

The Tiber – Тибр, река, на которой стоит город Рим. По легенде, на берегу Тибра волчица нашла и выкормила будущих основателей города братьев Ромула и Рема.

26

Landscape-painting in water-colour – пейзажная акварель, чрезвычайно популярный в Великобритании вид изобразительного искусства.

27

‘Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song’ – «Милая Темза, теки тихо, пока я не окончу мою песнь» – рефрен стихотворения Эдмунда Спенсера (ок. 1552–1599) «Проталамион» («Свадебная песнь»).

28

“Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day / Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. / I must be gone and live, or stay and die.” – отрывок из знаменитой сцены прощания в саду:«Светильник ночи / Сгорел дотла. В горах родился день / И тянется на цыпочках к вершинам. / Мне надо удалиться, чтобы жить, / Или остаться и проститься с жизнью». Шекспир, «Ромео и Джульетта», акт 3, сцена 5 (пер. Б. Пастернака).

29

Glastonbury Abbey – Аббатство Гластонбери, руины средневекового монастыря в Юго-Западной Англии.

30

Early English – относящийся к англо-саксонскому периоду в истории Англии (VI–XI вв).

31

Gurth the Swineherd – Гурт Свинопас, персонаж романа Вальтера Скотта «Айвенго» (1819 г.), действие которого происходит в XII в.

32

Prodigal Son – блудный сын из евангельской притчи (Ев. от Луки 15:11–32).

33

Pillar of salt – соляной столб, в который, согласно книге Бытия, превратилась жена Лота, нарушившая приказание не оборачиваться на горящий Содом.

34

Pug – мопс.

35

When pigs fly – английская поговорка, обозначающая нечто невозможное:«когда рак на горе свистнет».

36

The labours of Hercules – 12 подвигов Геракла.

37

Calydonian Boar – Калидонский вепрь, на которого охотились герои древнегреческих легенд.

Content

Гилберт Кит Честертон
Английский с улыбкой:Охотничьи рассказы = Tales of the Long Bow

Chapter I. The unpresentable appearance of colonel crane

Chapter II. The improbable success of mr. Owen hood

Chapter III. The unobtrusive traffic of captain pierce

Словарь

Примечания