Mr. Britling Sees It Through (9 page)

Mr. Britling seemed to have finished, and then just as Mr. Direck was planning a way of getting the talk back by way of Teddy to Miss Corner, he snuggled more deeply into his chair, reflected and broke out again.

“This contrast between Heinrich's carefulness and Teddy's easygoingness, come to look at it, is I suppose one of the most fundamental in the world. It reaches to everything. It mixes up with education, statecraft, morals. Will you make or will you take? Those are the two extreme courses in all such things. I suppose the answer of wisdom to that is, like all wise answers, a compromise. I suppose one must accept and then make all one can of it. … Have you talked at all to my eldest son?”

“He's a very interesting young man indeed,” said Mr. Direck. “I should venture to say there's a very great deal in him. I was most impressed by the few words I had with him.”

“There, for example, is one of my perplexities,” said Mr. Britling.

Mr. Direck waited for some further light on this sudden transition.

“Ah! your troubles in life haven't begun yet. Wait till you're a father. That cuts to the bone. You have the most delicate thing in
the world in hand, a young kindred mind. You feel responsible for it, you know you are responsible for it; and you lose touch with it. You can't get at it. Nowadays we've lost the old tradition of fatherhood by divine right—and we haven't got a new one. I've tried not to be a cramping ruler, a director, a domestic tyrant to that lad—and in effect it's meant his going his own way. … I don't dominate. I hoped to advise. But you see he loves my respect and good opinion. Too much. When things go well I know of them. When the world goes dark for him, then he keeps his trouble from Just when I would so eagerly go into it with him. … There's something the matter now, something—it may be grave. I feel he wants to tell me. And there it is!—it seems I am the last person to whom he can humiliate himself by a confession of blundering, or weakness. … Something I should just laugh at and say, ‘That's in the blood of all of us, dear Spit of myself. Let's see what's to be done.' …”

He paused and then went on, finding in the unfamiliarity and transitoriness of his visitor a freedom he might have failed to find with a close friend.

“I am frightened at times at all I don't know about in that boy's mind. I know nothing of his religiosities. He's my son and he must have religiosities. I know nothing of his ideas or of his knowledge about sex and all that side of life. I do not know of the things he finds beautiful. I can guess at times, that's all; when he betrays himself. … You see, you don't know really what love is until you have children. One doesn't love women. Indeed you don't! One gives and gets; it's a trade. One may have tremendous excitements and expectations and overwhelming desires. That's all very well in its way. But the love of children is an exquisite tenderness: it rends the heart. It's a thing of God. And I lie awake at nights and stretch out my hands in
the darkness to this lad—who will never know—until his sons come in their time. …”

He made one of his quick turns again.

“And that's where our English way makes for distresses. Mr. Prussian respects and fears his father; respects authorities, attends, obeys and—
his father has a hold upon him
. But I said to myself at the outset, ‘No, whatever happens, I will not usurp the place of God. I will not be the Priest-Patriarch of my children. They shall grow and I will grow beside them, helping but not cramping or overshadowing.' They grow more. But they blunder more. Life ceases to be a discipline and becomes an experiment. …”

“That's very true,” said Mr. Direck, to whom it seemed the time was ripe to say something. “This is the problem of America perhaps even more than of England. Though I have not had the parental experience you have undergone. … I can see very clearly that a son is a very serious proposition.”

“The old system of life was organisation. That is where Germany is still the most ancient of European states. It's a reversion to a tribal cult. It's atavistic. … To organise or discipline, or mould characters or press authority, is to assume that you have reached finality in your general philosophy. It implies an assured end. Heinrich has his assured end, his philological professorship or thereabouts as a part of the Germanic machine. And that too has its assured end in German national assertion. Here, we have none of those convictions. We know we haven't finality, and so we are open and apologetic and receptive, rather than wilful. … You see all organisation, with its implication of finality, is death. We feel that. The Germans don't. What you organise you kill. Organised morals or organised religion or organised thought are dead morals and dead religion and dead
thought. Yet some organisation you must have. Organisation is like killing cattle. If you do not kill some the herd is just waste. But you mustn't kill all or you kill the herd. The unkilled cattle are the herd, the continuation; the unorganised side of life is the real life. The reality of life is adventure, not performance. What isn't adventure isn't life. What can be ruled about can be machined. But priests and schoolmasters and bureaucrats get hold of life and try to make it
all
rules,
all
etiquette and regulation and correctitude. … And parents and the love of parents make for the same thing. It is all very well to experiment for oneself, but when one sees these dear things of one's own, so young and inexperienced and so capable of every sort of gallant foolishness, walking along the narrow plank, going down into dark jungles, ah! then it makes one want to wrap them in laws and foresight and fence them about with ‘Verboten' boards in all the conceivable aspects. …”

“In America of course we do set a certain store upon youthful self-reliance,” said Mr. Direck.

“As we do here. It's in your blood and our blood. It's the instinct of the English and the Irish anyhow to suspect government and take the risks of the chancy way. … And manifestly the Russians, if you read their novelists, have the same twist in them. … When we get this young Prussian here, he's a marvel to us. He really believes in Law. He
likes
to obey. That seems a sort of joke to us. It's curious how foreign these Germans are—to all the rest of the world. Because of their docility. Scratch the Russian and you get the Tartar. Educate the Russian or the American or the Englishman or the Irishman or Frenchman or any real northern European except the German, and you get the Anarchist, that is to say the man who dreams of order without organisation—of something beyond organisation. …

“It's one o'clock,” said Mr. Britling abruptly, perceiving a shade of fatigue upon the face of his hearer and realising that his thoughts had taken him too far, “and Sunday. Let's go to bed.”

§ 11

For a time Mr. Direck could not sleep. His mind had been too excited by this incessant day with all its novelties and all its provocations to comparison. The whole complicated spectacle grouped itself, with a naturalness and a complete want of logic that all who have been young will understand, about Cecily Corner.

She had to be in the picture, and so she came in as though she were the central figure, as though she were the quintessential England. There she was, the type, the blood, the likeness, of no end of Massachusetts families, the very same stuff indeed, and yet she was different. …

For a time his thoughts hovered ineffectively about certain details of her ear and cheek, and one may doubt if his interest in these things was entirely international.

Then he found himself under way with an exposition of certain points to Mr. Britling. In the security of his bed he could imagine that he was talking very slowly and carefully while Mr. Britling listened; already he was more than halfway to dreamland or he could not have supposed anything so incredible.

“There's a curious sort of difference,” he was saying. “It is difficult to define, but on the whole I might express it by saying that such a gathering as this if it was in America would be drawn with harder lines, would show its bones more and have everything more emphatic. And just to take
one illustrative point: in America in such a gathering as this there would be bound to be several jokes going on as it were, running jokes and running criticisms, from day to day and from week to week. … There would be jokes about your writing and your influence and jokes about Miss Corner's advanced reading. … You see, in America we pay much more attention to personal character. Here people, I notice, are not talked to about their personal characters at all, and many of them do not seem to be aware and do not seem to mind what personal characters they have. …

“And another thing I find noteworthy is the way in which what I might call mature people seem to go on having a good time instead of standing by and applauding the young people having a good time. … And the young people do not seem to have set out to have a good time at all. … Now in America, a charming girl like Miss Corner would be distinctly more aware of herself and her vitality than she is here, distinctly more. Her peculiarly charming side-long look, if I might make so free with her—would have been called attention to. It's a perfectly beautiful look, the sort of look some great artist would have loved to make immortal. It's a look I shall find it hard to forget. … But she doesn't seem to be aware in the least of it. In America she would be aware of it. She would be distinctly aware of it. She would have been
made
aware of it. She would have been advised of it. It would be looked for and she would know it was looked for. She would
give
it as a singer gives her most popular song. Mamie Nelson, for example, used to give a peculiar little throw back of the chin and a laugh. … It was talked about. People came to see it. …

“Of course Mamie Nelson was a very brilliant girl indeed. I suppose in England you would say we spoiled her. I suppose we did spoil her. …”

It came into Mr. Direck's head that for a whole day he had scarcely given a thought to Mamie Nelson. And now he was thinking of her—calmly. Why shouldn't one think of Mamie Nelson calmly?

She was a proud imperious thing. There was something Southern in her. Very dark blue eyes she had, much darker than Miss Corner's. …

But how tortuous she had been behind that outward pride of hers! For four years she had let him think he was the only man who really mattered in the world, and all the time quite clearly and definitely she had deceived him. She had made a fool of him and she had made a fool of the others perhaps—just to have her retinue and play the queen in her world. And at last humiliation, bitter humiliation, and Mamie with her chin in the air and her bright triumphant smile looking down on him.

Hadn't he, she asked, had the privilege of loving her?

She took herself at the value they had set upon her.

Well—somehow—that wasn't right. …

All the way across the Atlantic Mr. Direck had been trying to forget her downward glance with the chin up, during that last encounter—and other aspects of the same humiliation. The years he had spent upon her! The time! Always relying upon her assurance of a special preference for him. He tried to think he was suffering from the pangs of unrequited love, and to conceal from himself just how bitterly his pride and vanity had been rent by her ultimate rejection. There had been a time when she had given him reason to laugh in his sleeve at Booth Wilmington.

Perhaps Booth Wilmington had also had reason for laughing in his sleeve. …

Had she even loved Booth Wilmington? Or had she just snatched at him? …

Wasn't he, Direck, as good a man as Booth Wilmington anyhow? …

For some moments the old sting of jealousy rankled again. He recalled the flaring rivalry that had ended in his defeat, the competition of gifts and treats. … A thing so open that all Carrierville knew of it, discussed it, took sides. … And over it all Mamie with her flashing smile had sailed like a processional goddess. …

Why, they had made jokes about him in the newspapers!

One couldn't imagine such a contest in Matching's Easy. Yet surely even in Matching's Easy there are lovers.

Is it something in the air, something in the climate that makes things harder and clearer in America? …

Cissie—why shouldn't one call her Cissie in one's private thoughts anyhow?—would never be as hard and clear as Mamie. She had English eyes—merciful eyes. …

That was the word—
merciful
!

The English light, the English air, are merciful. …

Merciful. …

They tolerate old things and slow things and imperfect apprehensions. They aren't always getting at you. …

They don't laugh at you. … At least—they laugh differently. …

Was England the tolerant country? With its kind eyes and its wary sidelong look. Toleration. In which everything mellowed and nothing was destroyed. A soft country. A country with a passion for imperfection. A padded country. …

England—all stuffed with soft feathers … under one's ear. A pillow—with soft, kind Corners. … Beautiful rounded Corners. … Dear, dear Corners. Cissie Corners. Corners. Could there be a better family?

H. G. WELLS Massachusetts—but in heaven. …

Harps playing two-steps, and kind angels wrapped in moonlight.

Very softly I and you,

One tum, two tum, three tum, too.

Off—we—go! …

§ 1

Breakfast was in the open air, and a sunny, easy-going feast. Then the small boys laid hands on Mr. Direck and showed him the pond and the boats, while Mr. Britling strolled about the lawn with Hugh, talking rather intently. And when Mr. Direck returned from the boats in a state of greatly enhanced popularity he found Mr. Britling conversing over his garden railings with what was altogether a new type of Britisher in Mr. Direck's experience. It was a tall, lean sun-bitten youngish man of forty perhaps, in brown tweeds, looking more like the Englishman of the American illustrations than anything Mr. Direck had met hitherto. Indeed he came very near to a complete realisation of that ideal except that there was a sort of intensity about him, and that his clipped moustache had the restrained stiffness of
a wiry-haired terrier. This gentleman Mr. Direck learned was Colonel Rendezvous. He spoke in clear short sentences, they had an effect of being punched out, and he was refusing to come into the garden and talk.

“Have to do my fourteen miles before lunch,” he said. “You haven't seen Manning about, have you?”

“He isn't here,” said Mr. Britling, and it seemed to Mr. Direck that there was the faintest ambiguity in this reply.

“Have to go alone, then,” said Colonel Rendezvous. “They told me that he had started to come here.”

“I shall motor over to Bramley High Oak for your Boy Scout festival,” said Mr. Britling.

“Going to have three thousand of 'em,” said the Colonel. “Good show.”

His steely eyes seemed to search the cover of Mr. Britling's garden for the missing Manning, and then he decided to give him up. “I must be going,” he said. “So long. Come up!”

A well-disciplined dog came to heel, and the lean figure had given Mr. Direck a semi-military salutation and gone upon its way. It marched with a long elastic stride; it never looked back.

“Manning,” said Mr. Britling, “is probably hiding up in my rose-garden.”

“Curiously enough, I guessed from your manner that that might be the case,” said Mr. Direck.

“Yes. Manning is a London journalist. He has a little cottage about a mile over there”—Mr. Britling pointed vaguely—“and he comes down for the weekends. And Rendezvous has found out he isn't fit. And everybody ought to be fit. That is the beginning and end of life for Rendezvous. Fitness. An almost mineral quality, an insatiable activity of body, great mental simplicity. So he takes possession of poor old Manning and trots
him for that fourteen miles—at four miles an hour. Manning goes through all the agonies of death and damnation, he half dissolves, he pants and drags for the first eight or ten miles, and then I must admit he rather justifies Rendezvous' theory. He is to be found in the afternoon in a hammock suffering from blistered feet, but otherwise unusually well. But if he can escape it, he does. He hides.”

“But if he doesn't want to go with Colonel Rendezvous, why does he?” said Mr. Direck.

“Well, Rendezvous is accustomed to the command of men. And Manning's only way of refusing things is on printed forms. Which he doesn't bring down to Matching's Easy. Ah! behold!”

Far away across the lawn between two blue cedars there appeared a leisurely form in grey flannels and a loose tie, advancing with manifest circumspection.

“He's gone,” cried Britling.

The leisurely form, obviously amiable, obviously a little out of condition, became more confident, drew nearer.

“I'm sorry to have missed him,” he said cheerfully. “I thought he might come this way. It's going to be a very warm day indeed. Let us sit about somewhere and talk.

“Of course,” he said, turning to Direck, “Rendezvous is the life and soul of the country.”

They strolled towards a place of seats and hammocks between the big trees and the rose-garden and the talk turned for a time upon Rendezvous. “They have the tidiest garden in Essex,” said Manning. “It's not Mrs. Rendezvous' fault that it is so. Mrs. Rendezvous, as a matter of fact, has a taste for the picturesque. She just puts the things about in groups in the beds. She wants them, she says, to grow anyhow. She desires a romantic disorder. But she never gets it. When he walks down
the path all the plants dress instinctively. … And there's a tree near their gate; it used to be a willow. You can ask any old man in the village. But ever since Rendezvous took the place it's been trying to present arms. With the most extraordinary results. I was passing the other day with old Windershin. ‘You see that there old poplar,' he said. ‘It's a willow,' said I. ‘No,' he said, ‘it did used to be a willow before Colonel Rendezvous he came. But now it's a poplar,' … And by Jove, it
is
a poplar!” …

The conversation thus opened by Manning centred for a time upon Colonel Rendezvous. He was presented as a monster of energy and self-discipline; as the determined foe of every form of looseness, slackness, and easygoingness.

“He's done wonderful work for the local Boy Scout movement,” said Manning

“It's Kitchenerism,” said Britling.

“It's the army side of the efficiency stunt,” said Manning.

There followed a digression upon the Boy Scout movement, and Mr. Direck made comparisons with the propaganda of Seton Thompson in America. “Teddy Rooseveltism,” said Manning. “It's a sort of reaction against everything being too easy and too safe.”

“It's got its anti-decadent side,” said Mr. Direck.

“If there is such a thing as decadence,” said Mr. Britling.

“If there wasn't such a thing as decadence,” said Manning, “we journalists would have had to invent it.”. …

“There is something tragic in all this—what shall I call it?—Kitchenerism,” Mr. Britling reflected. “Here you have it rushing about and keeping itself—screwed up, and trying desperately to keep the country screwed up. And all because there may be a war some day somehow with Germany. Provided Germany
is
insane. It's that war, like some sort of bee in Rendezvous' brains,
that is driving him along the road now to Market Saffron—he always keeps to the roads because they are severer—through all the dust and sunshine. When he might be here gossiping. …

“And you know, I don't see that war coming,” said Mr. Britling. “I believe Rendezvous sweats in vain. I can't believe in that war. It has held off for forty years. It may hold off for ever.”

He nodded his head towards the German tutor, who had come into view across the lawn, talking profoundly with Mr. Britling's eldest son.

“Look at that pleasant person. There he is—
echt Deutsch
—if anything ever was. Look at my son there! Do you see the two of them engaged in mortal combat? The thing's too ridiculous. The world grows sane. They may fight in the Balkans still; in many ways the Balkan States are in the very rear of civilisation; but to imagine decent countries like this or Germany going back to bloodshed! No. … When I see Rendezvous keeping it up and keeping it up, I begin to see just how poor Germany must be keeping it up. I begin to realise how sick Germany must be getting of the highroad and the dust and heat and the everlasting drill and restraint. … My heart goes out to the South Germans. Old Manning here always reminds me of Austria. Think of Germany coming like Rendezvous on a Sunday morning, and looking stiffly over Austria's fence. ‘Come for a good hard walk, man. Keep fit.' …”

“But suppose this Balkan trouble becomes acute,” said Manning.

“It hasn't; it won't. Even if it did we should keep out of it.”

“But suppose Russia grappled Austria and Germany flung herself suddenly upon France—perhaps taking Belgium on the way.”

“Oh!—we should fight. Of course we should fight. Could anyone but a congenital idiot suppose we shouldn't fight? They know we should fight. They aren't altogether idiots in Germany. But the thing's absurd. Why
should
Germany attack France? It's as if Manning here took a hatchet suddenly and assailed Edith. … It's just the dream of their military journalists. It's such schoolboy nonsense. Isn't that a beautiful pillar rose? Edith only put it in last year. … I hate all this talk of wars and rumours of wars. … It's worried all my life. And it gets worse and it gets emptier every year. …”

§ 2

Now just at that moment there was a loud report. …

But neither Mr. Britling nor Mr. Manning nor Mr. Direck was interrupted or incommoded in the slightest degree by that report. Because it was too far off over the curve of this round world to be either heard or seen at Matching's Easy. Nevertheless it was a very loud report. It occurred at an open space by a river that ran through a cramped Oriental city, a city spiked with white minarets and girt about by bare hills under a blazing afternoon sky. It came from a black parcel that the Archduke Francis Ferdinand of Austria, with great presence of mind, had just flung out from the open hood of his automobile, where, tossed from the side of the quay, it had descended a few seconds before. It exploded as it touched the cobbled road just under the front of the second vehicle in the procession, and it blew to pieces the front of the automobile and injured the aide-decamp who was in it and several of the spectators. Its thrower was immediately gripped by the bystanders. The procession stopped. There was a tremendous commotion amongst that
brightly costumed crowd, a hot excitement in vivid contrast to the Sabbath calm of Matching's Easy. …

Mr. Britling, to whom the explosion was altogether inaudible, continued his dissertation upon the common sense of the world and the practical security of our Western peace.

§ 3

Lunch was an open-air feast again. Three visitors had dropped in; they had motored down from London piled up on a motor-cycle and a side-car; a brother and two sisters they seemed to be, and they had apparently reduced hilariousness to a principle. The rumours of coming hockey, that had been floating on the outskirts of Mr. Direck's consciousness ever since his arrival thickened and multiplied. … It crept into his mind that he was expected to play. …

He decided he would not play. He took various people into his confidence. He told Mr. Britling, and Mr. Britling said, “We'll make you full-back, where you'll get a hit now and then and not have very much to do. All you have to remember is to hit with the flat side of your stick and not raise it above your shoulders.” He told Teddy, and Teddy said, “I strongly advise you to dress as thinly as you can consistently with decency, and put your collar and tie in your pocket before the game begins. Hockey is properly a winter game.” He told the maiden aunt-like lady with the prominent nose, and she said almost enviously, “Every one here is asked to play except me. I assuage the perambulator. I suppose one mustn't be envious. I don't see why I shouldn't play. I'm not so old as all that.” He told Hugh, and Hugh warned him to be careful not to get hold of one of the sprung sticks. He considered whether it wouldn't
be wiser to go to his own room and lock himself in, or stroll off for a walk through Claverings Park. But then he would miss Miss Corner, who was certain, it seemed, to come up for hockey. On the other hand, if he did not miss her he might make himself ridiculous in her eyes, and efface the effect of the green silk stuff with the golden pheasants.

He determined to stay behind until she arrived, and explain to her that he was not going to play. He didn't somehow want her to think he wasn't perfectly fit to play.

Mr. Carmine arrived in an automobile with two Indians and a gentleman who had been a prospector in Alaska, the family who had danced overnight at the Dower House reappeared, and then Mrs. Teddy, very detached with a special hockey-stick, and Miss Corner wheeling the perambulator. Then came further arrivals. At the earliest opportunity Mr. Direck secured the attention of Miss Corner, and lost his interest in any one else.

“I can't play this hockey,” said Mr. Direck. “I feel strange about it. It isn't an American game. Now if it were baseball——!”

He left her to suppose him uncommonly hot stuff at baseball.

“If you're on my side,” said Cecily, “mind you pass to me.”

It became evident to Mr. Direck that he was going to play this hockey after all.

“Well,” he said, “if I've got to play hockey, I guess I've got to play hockey. But can't I just get a bit of practice somewhere before the game begins?”

So Miss Corner went off to get two sticks and a ball and came back to instruct Mr. Direck. She said he had a good eye. The two small boys scenting play in the air got sticks and joined them. The overnight visitor's wife appeared from the house in abbreviated skirts, and wearing formidable shin-guards. With her abundant fair hair, which was already breaking loose, so to
speak, to join the fray, she looked like a short stout dismounted Valkyr. Her gaze was clear and firm.

§ 4

Hockey as it was played at the Dower House at Matching's Easy before the war was a game combining danger, physical exercise and kindliness in a very high degree. Except for the infant in the perambulator and the outwardly calm but inwardly resentful aunt, who wheeled the child up and down in a position of maximum danger just behind the unnetted goal, every one was involved. Quite able-bodied people acquainted with the game played forward, the less well-informed played a defensive game behind the forward line, elderly, infirm, and bulky persons were used chiefly as obstacles in goal. Several players wore padded leg-guards, and all players were assumed to have them and expected to behave accordingly.

Proceedings began with an invidious ceremony called picking up. This was heralded by Mr. Britling, clad in the diaphanous flannels and bearing a hockey-stick, advancing with loud shouts to the centre of the hockey-field. “Pick up! Pick up!” echoed the young Britlings.

Mr. Direck became aware of a tall, drooping man with long hair and long digressive legs in still longer white flannel trousers, and a face that was somehow familiar. He was talking with affectionate intimacy to Manning, and suddenly Mr. Direck remembered that it was in Manning's weekly paper,
The Sectarian
, in which a bitter caricaturist enlivened a biting text, that he had become familiar with the features of Manning's companion. It was Raeburn, Raeburn the insidious, Raeburn the completest product of the party system. … Well, that was the
English way. “Come for the pick up!” cried the youngest Britling, seizing upon Mr. Direck's elbow. It appeared that Mr. Britling and the overnight dinner-guest—Mr. Direck never learned his name—were picking up.