Mr. Britling Sees It Through (43 page)

It was entirely against his habits of mind to hide anything—more particularly an entanglement with a difficult
proposition—but he perceived quite clearly that neither Cecily nor Mr. Britling was really to be trusted to listen calmly to what, under happier circumstances, might be a profoundly interesting moral complication. Yet it was not in his nature to conceal; it was in his nature to state.

And Cecily made things much more difficult. She was pitiless with him. She kept him aloof. “How can I let you make love to me,” she said, “when our Englishmen are all going to the war, when Teddy is a prisoner and Hugh is in the trenches. If I were a man——!”

She couldn't be induced to see any case for America. England was fighting for freedom, and America ought to be beside her. “All the world ought to unite against this German wickedness,” she said.

“I'm doing all I can to help in Belgium,” he protested. “Aren't I working? We've fed four million people.”

He had backbone, and he would not let her, he was resolved, bully him into a falsehood about his country. America was aloof. She was right to be aloof. … At the same time, Cecily's reproaches were unendurable. And he could feel he was drifting apart from her. …

He
couldn't make America go to war.

In the quiet of his London hotel he thought it all out. He sat at a writing-table making notes of a perfectly lucid statement of the reasonable, balanced liberal American opinion. An instinct of caution determined him to test it first on Mr. Britling.

But Mr. Britling realised his worst expectations. He was beyond listening.

“I've not heard from my boy for more than three weeks,” said Mr. Britling in the place of any salutation. “This morning makes three-and-twenty days without a letter.”

It seemed to Mr. Direck that Mr. Britling had suddenly grown ten years older. His face was more deeply lined; the colour and texture of his complexion had gone grey. He moved restlessly and badly; his nerves were manifestly unstrung.

“It's intolerable that one should be subjected to this ghastly suspense. The boy isn't three hundred miles away.”

Mr. Direck made obvious inquiries.

“Always before he's written—generally once a fortnight.”

They talked of Hugh for a time, but Mr. Britling was fitful and irritable and quite prepared to hold Mr. Direck accountable for the laxity of the War Office, the treachery of Bulgaria, the ambiguity of Roumania or any other barb that chanced to be sticking into his sensibilities. They lunched precariously. Then they went into the study to smoke.

There Mr. Direck was unfortunate enough to notice a copy of that innocent American publication
The New Republic
, lying close to two or three numbers of
The Fatherland
, a pro-German periodical which at that time inflicted itself upon English writers with the utmost determination. Mr. Direck remarked that
The New Republic
was an interesting effort on the part of
“la Jeunesse Américaine
.” Mr. Britling regarded the interesting effort with a jaded, unloving eye.

“You Americans,” he said, “are the most extraordinary people in the world.”

“Our conditions are exceptional,” said Mr. Direck.

“You think they are,” said Mr. Britling, and paused, and then began to deliver his soul about America in a discourse of accumulating bitterness. At first he reasoned and explained, but as he went on he lost self-control; he became dogmatic, he became denunciatory, he became abusive. He identified Mr. Direck more and more with his subject; he thrust the uncivil
“You” more and more directly at him. He let his cigar go out, and flung it impatiently into the fire. As though America was responsible for its going out. …

Like many Britons Mr. Britling had that touch of patriotic feeling towards America which takes the form of impatient criticism. No one in Britain ever calls an American a foreigner. To see faults in Germany or Spain is to tap boundless fountains of charity; but the faults of America rankle in an English mind almost as much as the faults of England. Mr. Britling could explain away the faults of England readily enough; our Hanoverian monarchy, our Established Church and its deadening effect on education, our imperial obligations and the strain they made upon our supplies of administrative talent were all very serviceable for that purpose. But there in America was the old race, without Crown or Church or international embarrassment, and it was still falling short of splendour. His speech to Mr. Direck had the rancour of a family quarrel. Let me only give a few sentences that were to stick in Mr. Direck's memory.

“You think you are out of it for good and all. So did we think. We were as smug as you are when France went down in '71. … Yours is only one further degree of insularity. You think this vacuous aloofness of yours is some sort of moral superiority. So did we, so did we. …

“It won't last you ten years if we go down. …

“Do you think that our disaster will leave the Atlantic for you? Do you fancy there is any Freedom of the Seas possible beyond such freedom as we maintain, except the freedom to attack you? For forty years the British fleet has guarded all America from European attack. Your Monroe Doctrine skulks behind it now. …

“I'm sick of this high thin talk of yours about the war. … You are a nation of ungenerous onlookers—watching us throttle or be throttled. You gamble on our winning. And we shall win; we shall win. And you will profit. And when we have won a victory only one shade less terrible than defeat, then you think you will come in and tinker with our peace. Bleed us a little more to please your hyphenated patriots. …”

He came to his last shaft. “You talk of your New Ideals of Peace. You say that you are too proud to fight. But your business men in New York give the show away. There's a little printed card now in half the offices in New York that tells of the real pacificism of America. They're busy, you know. Trade's real good. And so as not to interrupt it they stick up this card: ‘Nix on the war!' Think of it!—‘Nix on the war!' Here is the whole fate of mankind at stake, and America's contribution is a little grumbling when the Germans sank the
Lusitania
, and no end of grumbling when we hold up a ship or two and some fool of a harbour-master makes an overcharge. Otherwise—‘Nix on the war!' …

“Well, let it be Nix on the war! Don't come here and talk to me! You who were searching registers a year ago to find your Essex kin. Let it be Nix! Explanations! What do I want with explanations? And”—he mocked his guest's accent and his guest's mode of thought—“dif'cult prap'sitions.”

He got up and stood irresolute. He knew he was being preposterously unfair to America, and outrageously uncivil to a trusting guest; he knew he had no business now to end the talk in this violent fashion. But it was an enormous relief. And to mend matters——

No
! He was glad he' d said these things. …

He swung a shoulder to Mr. Direck, and walked out of the room. …

Mr. Direck heard him cross the hall and slam the door of the little parlour. …

Mr. Direck had been stirred deeply by the tragic indignation of this explosion, and the ring of torment in Mr. Britling's voice. He had stood up also, but he did not follow his host.

“It's his boy,” said Mr. Direck at last, confidentially to the writing-desk. “How can one argue with him? It's just hell for him. …”

§ 20

Mr. Direck took his leave of Mrs. Britling, and went very slowly towards the little cottage. But he did not go to the cottage. He felt he would only find another soul in torment there.

“What's the good of hanging round talking?” said Mr. Direck.

He stopped at the stile in the lane, and sat thinking deeply. “Only one thing will convince her,” he said.

He held out his fingers. “First this,” he whispered, “and then that. Yes.”

He went on as far as the bend from which one sees the cottage, and stood for a little time regarding it.

He returned still more sorrowfully to the junction, and with every step he took it seemed to him that he would rather see Cecily angry and insulting than not see her at all.

At the post-office he stopped and wrote a letter-card.

“Dear Cissie,” he wrote. “I came down today to see you—and thought better of it. I'm going right off to find out about Teddy. Somehow I'll get that settled. I'll fly around and do that somehow if I have to go up to the German front to do it. And when I've got that settled I've got something else in my mind—well, it will wipe out all this little trouble
that's got so big between us about neutrality. And I love you dearly, Cissie.”

That was all the card would hold.

§ 21

And then as if it were something that every one in the Dower House had been waiting for, came the message that Hugh had been killed.

The telegram was brought up by a girl in a pinafore instead of the boy of the old dispensation, for boys now were doing the work of youths, and youths the work of the men who had gone to the war.

Mr. Britling was standing at the front door; he had been surveying the late October foliage, touched by the warm light of the afternoon, when the messenger appeared. He opened the telegram, hoping as he had hoped when he opened any telegram since Hugh had gone to the front that it would not contain the exact words he read; that it would say wounded, that at the worst it would say “missing,” that perhaps it might even tell of some pleasant surprise, a brief return to home such as the last letter had foreshadowed. He read the final, unqualified statement, the terse regrets. He stood quite still for a moment or so, staring at the words. …

It was a mile and a quarter from the post-office to the Dower House, and it was always his custom to give telegraphmessengers who came to his house twopence, and he wanted very much to get rid of the telegraph girl, who stood expectantly before him holding her red bicycle. He felt now very sick and strained; he had a conviction that if he did not by an effort maintain his bearing cool and dry he would howl aloud. He
felt in his pocket for money; there were some coppers and a shilling. He pulled it all out together and stared at it.

He had an absurd conviction that this ought to be a sixpenny telegram. The thing worried him. He wanted to give the brat sixpence, and he had only threepence and a shilling, and he didn't know what to do and his brain couldn't think. It would be a shocking thing to give her a shilling, and he couldn't somehow give just coppers for so important a thing as Hugh's death. Then all this problem vanished and he handed the child the shilling. She stared at him, inquiring, incredulous. “Is there a reply, sir, please?”

“No,” he said, “that's for you. All of it. … This is a peculiar sort of telegram. … It's news of importance. …”

As he said this he met her eyes, and had a sudden persuasion that she knew exactly what it was the telegram had told him, and that she was shocked at this gala-like treatment of such terrible news. He hesitated, feeling that he had to say something else, that he was socially inadequate, and then he decided that at any cost he must get his face away from her staring eyes. She made no movement to turn away. She seemed to be taking him in, recording him, for repetition, greedily, with every fibre of her being.

He stepped past her into the garden, and instantly forgot about her existence. …

§ 22

He had been thinking of this possibility for the last few weeks almost continuously, and yet now that it had come to him he felt that he had never thought about it before, that he must go off alone by himself to envisage this monstrous and terrible fact, without distraction or interruption.

He saw his wife coming down the alley between the roses.

He was wrenched by emotions as odd and unaccountable as the emotions of adolescence. He had exactly the same feeling now that he had had when in his boyhood some unpleasant admission had to be made to his parents. He felt he could not go through a scene with her yet, that he could not endure the task of telling her, of being observed. He turned abruptly to his left. He walked away as if he had not seen her, across his lawn towards the little summer-house upon a knoll that commanded the high-road. She called to him, but he did not answer. …

He would not look towards her, but for a time all his senses were alert to hear whether she followed him. Safe in the summer-house he could glance back.

It was all right. She was going into the house.

He drew the telegram from his pocket again furtively, almost guiltily, and reread it. He turned it over and read it again. …

Killed
.

Then his own voice, hoarse and strange to his ears, spoke his thought.

“My God! how unutterably silly. … Why did I let him go? Why did I let him go?”

§ 23

Mrs. Britling did not learn of the blow that had struck them until after dinner that night. She was so accustomed to ignore his incomprehensible moods that she did not perceive that there was anything tragic about him until they sat at table together. He seemed heavy and sulky and disposed to avoid her, but that sort of moodiness was nothing very strange to her. She knew that things that seemed to her utterly trivial, the reading of
political speeches in
The Times
, little comments on life made in the most casual way, mere movements, could so avert him. She had cultivated a certain disregard of such fitful darknesses. But at the dinner-table she looked up, and was stabbed to the heart to see a haggard white face and eyes of deep despair regarding her ambiguously.

“Hugh!” she said, and then with a chill intimation,
“What is it?
”

They looked at each other. His face softened and winced.

“My Hugh,” he whispered, and neither spoke for some seconds.

“Killed
,” he said, and suddenly stood up whimpering, and fumbled with his pocket.