Mr. Britling Sees It Through (2 page)

Mr. Direck had read a very great deal of all this expressed opiniativeness of Mr. Britling: he found it entertaining and stimulating stuff, and it was with genuine enthusiasm that he had come over to encounter the man himself. On his way across the Atlantic and during the intervening days, he had rehearsed this meeting in varying keys, but always on the supposition that Mr. Britling was a large, quiet, thoughtful sort of man, a man who would, as it were, sit in attentive rows like a public meeting and listen. So Mr. Direck had prepared quite a number of pleasant and attractive openings, and now he felt was the moment for some one of these various simple, memorable utterances. But in none of these forecasts had he reckoned with either the spontaneous activities of Mr. Britling or with the station-master of Matching's Easy. Oblivious of any conversational necessities between Mr. Direck and Mr. Britling, this official now took charge of Mr. Direck's gripsack, and, falling into line with the two gentlemen as they walked towards the exit gate, resumed what was evidently an interrupted discourse upon sweet peas, originally addressed to Mr. Britling.

He was a small, elderly man with a determined-looking face and a sea voice, and it was clear he over-estimated the distance of his hearers.

“Mr. Darling what's head gardener up at Claverings, 'e can't get sweet peas like that, try
'ow
'e will. Tried everything 'e 'as.
Sand ballast, 'e's tried. Seeds same as me. 'E came along 'ere only the other day, 'e did, and 'e says to me, 'e says, ‘darned 'f I can see why a station-master should beat a professional gardener at 'is own game,' 'e says, ‘but you do. And in your orf time, too, so's to speak,' 'e says. ‘I've tried sile,' 'e says——”

“Your first visit to England?” asked Mr. Britling of his guest.

“Absolutely,” said Mr. Direck.

“I says to 'im, ‘there's one thing you 'aven't tried,' I says,” the station-master continued, raising his voice by a Herculean feat still higher.

“I've got a little car outside here,” said Mr. Britling. I'm a couple of miles from the station.”

“I says to 'im, I says, ‘'ave you tried the vibration of the trains?' I says. ‘That's what you 'aven't tried, Mr. Darling. That's what you
can't
try,' I says. ‘But you rest assured that that's the secret of my sweet peas,' I says, ‘nothing less and nothing more than the vibration of the trains.' ”

Mr. Direck's mind was a little confused by the double nature of the conversation and by the fact that Mr. Britling spoke of a car when he meant an automobile. He handed his ticket mechanically to the station-master, who continued to repeat and endorse his anecdote at the top of his voice as Mr. Britling disposed himself and his guest in the automobile.

“You know you 'aven't 'urt that mud-guard, sir, not the slightest bit that matters,” shouted the station-master. “I've been a looking at it—er. It's my fence that's suffered most. And that's only strained the post a lil' bit. Shall I put your bag in behind, sir?”

Mr. Direck assented, and then, after a momentary hesitation, rewarded the station-master's services. “Ready?” asked Mr. Britling.

“That's all right, sir,” the station-master reverberated. With a rather wide curve Mr. Britling steered his way out of the station into the highroad.

§ 4

And now it seemed was the time for Mr. Direck to make his meditated speeches. But an unexpected complication was to defeat this intention. Mr. Direck perceived almost at once that Mr. Britling was probably driving an automobile for the first or second or at the extremest the third time in his life.

The thing became evident when he struggled to get into the high gear—an attempt that stopped the engine, and it was even more startingly so when Mr. Britling narrowly missed a collision with a baker's cart at a corner. “I pressed the accelerator,” he explained afterwards, “instead of the brake. One does at first. I missed him by less than a foot.” The estimate was a generous one. And after that Mr. Direck became too anxious not to distract his host's thoughts to persist with his conversational openings. An attentive silence came upon both gentlemen that was broken presently by a sudden outcry from Mr. Britling and a great noise of tormented gears. “Damn!” cried Mr. Britling, and “How the
devil?
”

Mr. Direck perceived that his host was trying to turn the car into a very beautiful gateway, with gate-houses on either side. Then it was manifest that Mr. Britling had abandoned this idea, and then they came to a stop a dozen yards or so along the main road. “Missed it,” said Mr. Britling, and took his hands off the steering-wheel and blew stormily, and then whispered some bars of a fretful air and became still.

“Do we go through those ancient gates?” asked Mr. Direck after a little pause.

Mr. Britling looked over his right shoulder and considered problems of curvature and distance. “I think,” he said, “I will go round outside the park. It will take us a little longer, but it will be simpler than backing and manoeuvring here now. … These electric starters are remarkably convenient things. Otherwise now I should have to get down and wind up the engine.”

After that came a corner, the rounding of which seemed to present few difficulties until suddenly Mr. Britling cried out, “Eh!
eh
! eh! Oh,
damn
!”

Then the two gentlemen were sitting side by side in a rather sloping car that had ascended the bank and buried its nose in a hedge of dog-rose and honeysuckle, from which two missel-thrushes, a blackbird and a number of sparrows had made a hurried escape. …

§ 5

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Britling without assurance, and after a little peaceful pause, “I can reverse out of this.”

He seemed to feel some explanation was due to Mr. Direck. “You see, at first—it's perfectly simple—one steers
round
a corner and then one doesn't put the wheels straight again, and so one keeps on going round—more than one meant to. It's the bicycle habit; the bicycle rights itself. One expects a car to do the same thing. It was my fault. The book explains all this question clearly, but just at the moment I forgot.”

He reflected and experimented in a way that made the engine scold and fuss. …

“You see, she won't budge for the reverse. … She's—embedded. … Do you mind getting out and turning the wheel back? Then if I reverse, perhaps we'll get a move on. …”

Mr. Direck descended, and there were considerable efforts.

“If you'd just grip the spokes. Yes, so. … One, Two, Three! … No! Well, let's just sit here until somebody comes along to help us. Oh! Somebody will come all right. Won't you get up again?”

And after a reflective moment Mr. Direck resumed his seat beside Mr. Britling. …

§ 6

The two gentlemen smiled at each other to dispel any suspicion of discontent.

“My driving leaves something to be desired,” said Mr. Britling with an air of frank impartiality. “But I have only just got this car for myself—after some years of hired cars—the sort of lazy arrangement where people supply car, driver, petrol, tires, insurance and everything at so much a month. It bored me abominably. I can't imagine now how I stood it for so long. They sent me down a succession of compact, scornful boys who used to go fast when I wanted to go slow, and slow when I wanted to go fast, and who used to take every corner on the wrong side at top speed, and charge dogs and hens for the sport of it, and all sorts of things like that. They would not even let me choose my roads. I should have got myself a car long ago, and driven it, if it wasn't for that infernal business with a handle one had to do when the engine stopped. But here, you see, is a reasonably cheap car with an electric starter—American, I need scarcely say. And here I am—going at my own pace.”

Mr. Direck glanced for a moment at the pretty disorder of the hedge in which they were embedded, and smiled and admitted that it was certainly much more agreeable.

Before he had finished saying as much, Mr. Britling was talking again.

He had a quick and rather jerky way of speaking; he seemed to fire out a thought directly it came into his mind, and he seemed to have a loaded magazine of thoughts in his head. He spoke almost exactly twice as fast as Mr. Direck, clipping his words much more, using much compacter sentences, and generally cutting his corners, and this put Mr. Direck off his game.

That rapid attack while the transatlantic interlocutor is deploying is indeed a not infrequent defect of conversations between Englishmen and Americans. It is a source of many misunderstandings. The two conceptions of conversation differ fundamentally. The English are much less disposed to listen than the Americans; they have not quite the same sense of conversational give and take, and at first they are apt to reduce their visitors to the rôle of auditors wondering when their turn will begin. Their turn never does begin. Mr. Direck, realising this only very gradually, sat deeply in his slanting seat with a half face to his celebrated host and said “Yep” and “Sure” and “That
is
so,” in the dry grave tones that he believed an Englishman would naturally expect him to use.

Mr. Britling, from his praise of the enterprise that has at last brought a car he could drive within his reach, went on to that favourite topic of all intelligent Englishmen, the adverse criticism of things British. He pointed out that the central position of the brake and gear levers in his automobile made it extremely easy for the American manufacturer to turn it out either as a left-handed or a right-handed car, and so adapt it either to the Continental or to the British rule of the road. No English cars were so adaptable. We British suffered much from our insular rule of the road, just as we suffered much from our
insular weights and measures. But we took a perverse pride in such disadvantages. The irruption of American cars into England was a recent phenomenon, it was another triumph for the tremendous organising ability of the American mind. They were doing with the automobiles what they had done with clocks and watches and rifles, they had standardised and machined wholesale, while the British were still making the things one by one. It was an extraordinary thing that England, which was the originator of the industrial system and the original developer of the division of labour, should have so fallen away from systematised manufacturing. He believed this was largely due to the influence of Oxford and the Established Church. …

At this point Mr. Direck was moved by an anecdote. “It will help to illustrate what you are saying, Mr. Britling, about systematic organisation if I tell you a little incident that happened to a friend of mine in Toledo, where they are setting up a big plant with a view to capturing the entire American and European market in the class of the thousand-dollar car——”

“There's no end of such little incidents,” said Mr. Britling, cutting in without apparent effort. “You see, we get it on both sides. Our manufacturer class was, of course, originally an insurgent class. It was a class of distended craftsmen. It had the craftsman's natural enterprise and natural radicalism. As soon as it prospered and sent its boys to Oxford it was lost. Our manufacturing class was assimilated in no time to the conservative classes, whose education has always had a mandarin quality—very, very little of it, and very old and choice. In America you have so far had no real conservative class at all. Fortunate continent! You cast out your Tories, and you were left with nothing but Whigs and Radicals. But our peculiar bad luck has been to get a sort of revolutionary who
is a Tory mandarin too. Ruskin and Morris, for example, were as reactionary and antiscientific as the dukes and the bishops. Machine haters. Science haters. Rule of Thumbites to the bone. So are our current Socialists. They've filled this country with the idea that the ideal automobile ought to be made entirely by the hand labour of traditional craftsmen, quite individually, out of beaten copper, wrought iron and seasoned oak. All this electric-starter business and this electric-lighting outfit I have here is perfectly hateful to the English mind. … It isn't that we are simply backward in these things, we are antagonistic. The British mind has never really tolerated electricity; at least, not that sort of electricity that runs through wires. Too slippery and glib for it. Associates it with Italians and fluency generally, with Volta, Galvani, Marconi and so on. The proper British electricity is that high-grade useless long-sparking stuff you get by turning round a glass machine; stuff we used to call frictional electricity. Keep it in Leyden jars. … At Claverings here they still refuse to have electric bells. There was a row when the Solomonsons, who were tenants here for a time, tried to put them in. …”

Mr. Direck had followed this cascade of remarks with a patient smile and a slowly nodding head. “What you say,” he said, “forms a very marked contrast indeed with the sort of thing that goes on in America. This friend of mine I was speaking of, the one who is connected with an automobile factory in Toledo——”

“Of course,” Mr. Britling burst out again, “even conservatism isn't an ultimate thing. After all, we and your enterprising friend at Toledo are very much the same blood. The conservatism, I mean, isn't racial. And our earlier energy shows it isn't in the air or in the soil. England has become unenterprising and sluggish because England has been so prosperous and comfortable. …”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Direck. “My friend of whom I was telling you was a man named Robinson, which indicates pretty clearly that he was of genuine English stock, and, if I may say so, quite of your build and complexion; racially, I should say, he was, well—very much what you are. …”

§ 7

This rally of Mr. Direck's mind was suddenly interrupted.

Mr. Britling stood up, and putting both hands to the sides of his mouth, shouted “Yi-ah! Aye-ya! Thea!” at unseen hearers.