Читать книгу Mr American - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 7

Mr Franklin travelled down to London on the Monday afternoon; noting that the railway company hedged its bets by giving the journey time as “from four to five and a half hours” he armed himself with every paper and periodical that the head porter could find and walked the short distance to Lime Street with his luggage borne behind him on the hotel barrow. Here he resisted the offer of a five-guinea book of rail tickets for 1000 miles-worth of first-class travel, buying only a single, and found himself an empty carriage, rather dusty and redolent of stale cigar smoke and Victorian grandeur.

For the first few miles there was nothing to see except the smoke-grimed roofs of Liverpool under heavy rain; Mr Franklin wondered why so much downpour didn’t have the effect of cleaning the city, and concluded that the rain was probably as dirty as the buildings. He turned at last to his newspapers, and settled himself comfortably to discover what England, the great mother of Empire, was concerning herself with that week-end; it seemed to him essential, if he was to accustom himself to his new surroundings.

The news was mixed and, to him, confusing. Mr Cody had crashed his aeroplane at Doncaster on Saturday and had emerged from the wreckage congratulating himself on his amazing good luck; further evidence of the flying mania was contained in a report of a race at Clapton Ladies Swimming Club, in which the fair competitors had taken the water equipped with model flying machines. There were columns about the Budget which had been introduced months before, but was still exciting heated debate, although it was all Greek to Mr Franklin – he noted a prominent advertisement on a facing page strongly recommending him to write to an insurance company for advice on how to provide against Mr Lloyd George’s new death duties. Jack Johnson, the highly unpopular black boxing champion, who had recently delighted the sporting public by his failure to defeat a rising young British heavyweight named Victor McLaglen, had somewhat restored his laurels by knocking out the formidable Stanley Ketchell in nine rounds; a French scientist, M. Flammarion, was proposing to harness the internal heat of the earth as a source of energy, Mr Bernard Shaw had made a witty speech on photography as an art form, and a Plymouth Rock hen had had its broken leg set at the London Hospital.

On the lighter side, questions had been asked in the House of Commons about the forcible feeding of suffragettes; the German army were reported to be buying flying torpedoes from Sweden, and El Roghi, a pretender to the Moroccan throne, had been exhibited in an iron cage at Fez and subsequently executed. Spain was at war with the Riffians.

Having brought himself abreast of current events, Mr Franklin studied the advertising pages. Here he was invited to subscribe to Cuban Telephones, Val d’Or Rubber, and Brazilian Railways; his custom was also solicited for Mexican Hair Renewer, Poudre d’Amour, Dr Deimel’s celebrated porous undergarments, and the new chocolate “massolettes” costing a penny-farthing each and containing “ten million beneficent microbes” guaranteed to kill all pernicious germs and ensure perfect health if taken twice daily.

For his intellectual nourishment he was offered H. G. Wells” latest novel, Anna Veronica, E. Phillips Oppenheim’s Mr Marx’s Secret and a sensational new work entitled All At Sea: a novel of Life and Love on a Liner, by none other than Lily Langtry, whose outstanding attractions, displayed in an accompanying photograph, suggested to Mr Franklin that she was liable to outsell Mr Wells and Mr Oppenheim on appearance alone, whatever her prose was like. Her most serious competitor was obviously the Countess of Cardigan, whose Recollections promised a feast of scandal and included (according to the reviewer) “at least two stories which should not have been printed”.

Mr Franklin betrayed his sad literary taste by laying the reviews aside unfinished, and taking up a recent back number of The Strand which the porter had particularly recommended, since it contained a new story by Conan Doyle which he judged would be to Mr Franklin’s taste. And it might have been, for it was a spirited piece about a young prize-fighter hired by a vengeful beauty to beat up her brute of a husband, the Lord of Falconbridge, but the train had now left the grubby environs of Liverpool, and Mr Franklin was more interested in his first view of the English countryside. A glance at Baedeker informed him that he was passing through that fertile country famous for Cheshire cheese, and that the Welsh hills might be seen to the right, and like any dutiful tourist he sat looking out on the green fields and neat hedgerows, thinking how small and tidy and well-ordered they looked, like a little model toyland that a giant might have laid out for his children to play with.

Whether he enjoyed the prospect it would have been difficult for an onlooker to say, for he sat impassively surveying it, with his eyes far away, the dark face reflected in the carriage window, and did not even stir for the best part of an hour, when the spires of Lichfield came into view. The birthplace of Dr Johnson, the scene (at the George Hotel) of the “Beaux’ Stratagem”, according to Baedeker, but any philosophic reflections which this information might have inspired were interrupted by the arrival in his carriage, when the train had halted, of a beautifully-dressed old gentleman with a glossy top hat, an impressive white moustache spreading over his claret-enriched cheeks, and a copy of The Times in his hand.

He greeted Mr Franklin with a resounding “Good afternoon to you”, spread an enormous white handkerchief on the opposite corner seat, and carefully lowered himself on to it, remarking:

“The condition of modern trains is absolutely damnable. Dust an inch thick, haven’t been cleaned since the Jubilee by the look of them, might as well travel in a coal-cart. I should have gone on the Midland, but there isn’t a dam’ thing to choose between ’em, I dare say. Why the devil can’t they have de luxe trains, like the Continentals, eh? No wonder traffic’s falling off – but it’s all of a piece, of course. Everything’s running down, as I expect you’ve noticed.”

Gathering that a reply was called for, Mr Franklin considered his informant steadily and confessed that he was not in a position to make comparisons, since he was new to the country.

“Indeed?” said the old gentleman, and gave him back an equally steady stare. “An American. I see.” He considered this. “Well, filthy as they are, I suppose our trains could be worse. No doubt the French railways aren’t a whit better, if one comes right down to it, which I for one have no intention of ever doing. I’ve no experience of your American system, of course, but I believe it’s quite extensive.”

Mr Franklin, watching the platforms slide by as the train pulled out, said he believed it was, and the old gentleman shook out his Times and remarked that he didn’t suppose railways would last much longer anyway, what with these damned motor cars, to say nothing of aeroplanes; one thing was certain, that the combination of infernal machines would certainly mean the end of decent horsemanship, and did Mr Franklin ride? Mr Franklin admitted that he did.

“Hunt?” inquired the old gentleman, hopefully.

“Occasionally.”

“Where, would you tell me?”

“Colorado, mostly.”

The old gentleman looked doubtful. “Didn’t know they had hounds there.” He frowned. “What d’you hunt?”

“Bear,” said Mr Franklin, and after a look of surprise the old gentleman laughed heartily and said, of course, he meant game, big game. Well, that was another matter; he had done something in the bear line himself, in India, and enjoyed it, in moderation, not like these damned Germans, who according to the shooting correspondent of The Field were going off to Spitzbergen and Greenland and slaughtering every bear in sight, which was just about what you would expect.

“If you’re hoping to shoot in England, I’m afraid you won’t find much sport, though,” he went on. “Bad year for grouse, you know. Too few birds. Nesting badly, as they’re bound to, of course, considering the way they’re over-driven. No one seems to know how to look after a moor these days; like everything else, going to the dogs. Sport especially – why, in my young days, if anyone had suggested to me that an American polo team – yes, sir, your own Yankee riders – could come over here and open our eyes to the game, well, I should have laughed at him. But that’s what they’ve done, sir – saw it myself, at Hurlingham. It’s this new technique – meeting the ball. Magnificent! Changed the whole game. Well, you remember what it used to be – when the ball was coming at your goal, what did you do, eh?”

Mr Franklin considered this gravely, but the question was fortunately rhetorical.

“You swung round, sir,” cried the old gentleman, “and you hit an orthodox back-hander. But not your fellows – no, they come to meet the ball, head-on, and damn the risk of missing at the gallop! Splendid! Mind you, there were those who didn’t care for it, thought it too chancy – but that’s our trouble. Hide-bound. Timorous. I was all for it, myself. If we won’t change, won’t show some enterprise, where shall we be? Polo’s no different from anything else, I’d have thought. But we seem to have lost the spirit, you see.” He sighed, shaking his head, and since Mr Franklin offered no consolation, the old gentleman presently retired into his paper, leaving the American to continue gazing out of the window at the rainy green country speeding past.

He was not allowed to continue his silent contemplation for long, however; the old gentleman discovered a news item about the defence budget, and drew Mr Franklin’s attention to the deplorable fact that the British Army seemed to be non-existent and was receiving only £27 million for maintenance against £38 million that the Germans were spending.

“And already they spend half as much on their navy as we do ourselves – depend upon it, they’re greedy for empire, and we’ll find ourselves face to face with them before very long. It’s this damned Liberal Government – I take it you don’t have a Liberal Party in America? Well, you can thank God for it. I must say your chap Roosevelt seems quite admirable – I’d love to see Asquith at the head of the Rough Riders, I don’t think!” The old gentleman laughed derisively. “Fool seems to think it will be time enough to arm when we have the Kaiser at our throats! Immortal ass! But what can anyone look for in a party that seems bent on our ruin, helping the blasted Socialists to get on their feet – they’ll find that that’s a plant they’ve nourished to their own undoing, one of these fine days, let me tell you. In the meantime, they curry favour with the masses with their old age pensions, and use the country’s parlous lack of defence as an excuse for bleeding us dry. But of course you know about the Budget …”

If Mr Franklin had been wise he would have said, untruthfully, yes, that he knew all about the Budget, but since he kept a polite silence his indignant informant took the opportunity to dilate on the iniquities of Mr Lloyd George, the Liberal Chancellor, who, aided and abetted by “young Churchill”, of whom the old gentleman had expected better things, was proposing to increase death duties by one-third, raise income tax to one shilling and twopence in the pound, tax undeveloped land and unearned increases in land values, and generally subject the country to a flood of legislation which any right-thinking person could see was downright communistic.

“The Lords will throw it out, I imagine – which is what the little snake is after, of course. He wants them to provoke a crisis, and break ’em. God knows where it will end – in the ruin of the property-owning class, undoubtedly, and then heaven help us. You don’t have a House of Lords in America. Well, you may be right; ours have their hearts in the right place, but they’re damned short of intelligence. No match for the Welsh Wizard, anyway.” And the old gentleman retired glumly to his paper, emerging only once more to remark on the controversy about the North Pole; personally he doubted whether either Dr Cook or Commander Peary had reached it, and much good it would do anyone if they had. Thereafter he fell asleep, snoring peacefully in his corner with the fine white moustache fluttering gently with his breathing; Mr Franklin, absorbed in his own thoughts, continued to gaze out silently on the passing scene, watching the shadows of the trees lengthening in the hazy October afternoon.

It was dark when they reached London at last, after the full five-and-a-half hours conceded by the railway company, the train clanking slowly through mile after mile of suburbs with their yellow-flaring windows, of dark deserted warehouses and factories, of long wet streets with their flickering lights, of black roofs and viaducts – that same prospect which another newly-arrived American, Henry James, had found so ugly but delightful a generation before. Possibly Mr Franklin was meditating that this was the greatest city that the world had ever seen, the most important capital of earth since ancient Rome, the heart of an empire dominating a quarter of the globe – fourteen miles long by ten miles wide, and housing more than seven million people, half as many again as New York: if so, he gave no sign of it, thought the old gentleman, who had wakened silently and was watching him through half-open eyes. Interesting face, for all its impassivity, purposeful and yet curiously innocent, with those steady eyes that obviously saw everything and yet gave away nothing. Difficult chap to know, probably; not over-given to opinion, but he’d speak his mind succinctly when he had to. Not a city man, obviously – Colorado, of course, he’d said as much. Tough customer? No, that wasn’t right – not with that almost gentle mouth and those long, slender hands. Not weak, though, by any means. And like Inspector Griffin and the Adelphi porter, the old gentleman wondered idly who he might be, and what brought him to England. Interesting bird.

“Give me a call if you feel like a week-end’s shooting.” As the train rolled slowly into Euston, and they gathered up their hand-luggage, the old gentleman drew a card from his waist-pocket. “Turf Club will always find me. Can’t promise you any bear or bison, but partridge is better than nothing, eh? Good evening to you.”

And to his astonishment, the old gentleman was rewarded first by a lift of the brows as Mr Franklin took the card, and then by a surprisingly bright, almost embarrassed smile.

“Thank you, sir. That’s most companionable of you.”

Extraordinary word to use, thought the old gentleman, as he left the carriage; American, of course; rather pleasant. Hadn’t exchanged cards, or even given his name. Still, Colorado … different conventions.

Mr Franklin left the station in a taxi, having made his customary comparison of fares and been astonished to find that the motor was fourpence a mile cheaper than the horse. He had never, in fact, ridden in an automobile before; possibly he felt it was more in keeping with the metropolitan atmosphere. The Cockney cabby, having weighed up his fare with an expert eye, asked where he would like to go, and received the disconcerting reply: “The best hotel convenient to Chancery Lane.”

“You mean – any ’otel, sir? Well, now, there’s the Savoy, in the Strand, which is about the best in London, but just a bit farver on, there’s the noo Waldorf, which is first-class, an’ on’y arf the price. Closer to Chancery Lane, an’ all, or there’s –”

“The Waldorf,” said Mr Franklin, “will do.”

“Right you are, sir. First time in London, sir? Ah, an’ from America, very nice. Then we could go round by White’all, if you like, not far aht the way, an’ let you see a few o’ the sights …”

And taking his fare’s nod for consent, the cabby cranked his machine into life and set off, shouting above the roar of his engine and the traffic, in his role as self-appointed guide. It was, he knew, an exciting ride for a stranger, and from experience he could guess to a nicety what the American made of it. First, that the streets were the most crowded he’d ever seen in his life, with the big omnibuses, taxis and cars, the two-wheel hansoms and the growlers, and the astonishing number of cyclists, including ladies, even at this time of day, weaving expertly through the traffic in their hobble skirts and hats tied down with scarves; second, that the noise, to which the cabby added with his running fire of incomprehensible comment, was deafening; third, that the buildings seemed uncommonly close together, and the streets far too narrow for their volume of traffic. That was what they always said – so when you’d given them their fill of jammed pavements, brilliantly-lit shop fronts, cursing drivers, and honking horns, and topped it off with a mild altercation with a helmeted policeman, just for local colour – then you wheeled them suddenly into one of the great majestic squares, with its tall buildings and towering trees above the central square of green, where the couples sauntered under the strings of lights, and it was possible for the taxi to crawl slowly along the inner pavement, to give the passenger the best view of the laughing girls tripping by on the arms of their top-hatted young men, with an organ-grinder going strong on the corner, and the constant stream of pleasure-seekers round the entrances of the brilliantly-lit hotels. The cabby thanked God for London’s squares – depending what you wanted you could give ’em beautiful lamp-lit peace, with the throb of the metropolis muffled by the magnificence of the trees, or all the bustle and glitter of the richest city in the world, or the dignified quiet of the residential squares with their opulent fronts and the carriages waiting patiently and perhaps a glimpse of a liveried footman pacing swiftly with a message from one great mansion to another. Variety, that was what they wanted – provided it wasn’t raining.

This particular Yank wasn’t like some of ’em, though; the cabby was used to an incessant yammer of nasal question, with demands for Buckingham Palace, but this bloke just sat sober and quiet, taking it in – judging to a nicety, the cabby decided to limit his diversionary route to Trafalgar Square and the Embankment, after first exposing his fare to the bedlam of St Martin’s Lane, where the theatres were going in, and he could feast his eyes on everything from ladies glittering with diamonds and swathed in furs, sailing in stately fashion up the steps with their opera-cloaked escorts, to the raucous Cockney boys and girls of the gallery crowds, dressed in their raffish best, cackling like jackdaws, or the stage-door johnnies with their capes and tiles rakishly tilted, monocles a-gleam for the expensively painted and coiffured beauties sauntering in pairs – hard to tell ’em apart from the duchesses, the cabby always thought, even when they were plying their trade after the show at the Empire Promenade in Leicester Square. He said as much to Mr Franklin, who nodded gravely.

“Trafalgar Square,” said the cabby presently, and watched curiously as his fare surveyed the famous lions around the sparkling fountain and the immense pillar of Lord Nelson’s monument; oh, well, thought the cabby, you can’t please everyone, but we’ll startle even this one in a minute. Which he did by driving down Whitehall, wheeling out on to the Embankment, and stopping sharply; it was a cunning move, to confront the unwary suddenly with the magnificent sweep of Thames, and beyond it the great electric-jewelled pile of the Houses of Parliament, with the massive structure of Big Ben towering over all, framed against the glowing night sky. It never failed to win excited gasps, especially if the cabby was clever enough to time his run down Whitehall just as the chimes were beginning; well, why not, he thought; that’s England, after all, in everyone’s imagination.

Mr Franklin did not gasp, but sat while eight o’clock struck, the great notes booming across the water like an imperial benediction; then he nodded slowly, which the cabby rightly guessed was the equivalent of three cheers followed by an ecstatic swoon. He must have been impressed, for when they got to the Waldorf he paid the cabby’s three shillings without a murmur, and even added a threepenny tip.

It was as he was turning away from the taxi that the American found himself face to face with a young woman; he stepped politely aside, she stepped with him, he moved again, raising a hand in apology, only to find her still blocking his way. Baffled, Mr Franklin stopped, and the young woman pulled what looked like a small magazine from a sheaf under her arm, and thrust it at him, announcing:

“This is a copy of the Englishwoman, the official journal of the suffragette movement. Will you please buy it, and support the cause of women’s rights?”

And while Mr Franklin still hesitated the young woman turned her head and announced loudly: “Votes for women! Support the cause of women’s suffrage! Votes for women!” Then to Mr Franklin: “Sixpence, please!”

Like her first announcement, it was a command rather than a request, and Mr Franklin paused with his hand half-way to his pocket, to study this peremptory young lady. One glance was enough to tell him that her voice was exactly in character; she was tall and commanding and entirely assured, and the hazel eyes that looked at him from beneath the brim of her stylish broad-brimmed hat were as clear and direct as his own. They were wide-set beneath a broad brow; the nose, like the face, was a shade too long for beauty, but she was undeniably handsome – really very handsome indeed, he decided, with that wide, generous mouth and perfect complexion. The expensive sealskin coat effectively concealed her figure, but Franklin could guess it was beautiful; the grace with which she moved and stood proclaimed it. He caught a drift of perfume, and possibly it was mere male susceptibility that made him not only draw a sixpence from his fob, but favour her with a longer speech than he had addressed to anyone since landing in England.

“Sixpence is a good deal of money for a paper that I never heard of. I mayn’t like it, you know; can you tell me any good reason why I should?”

He got a question back in return – plainly it was a stock one. “Do you think that you alone are entitled to the vote? Simply because you are a man? Votes for women!”

“But I’m not entitled to the vote – not in this country, at any rate. I’m tolerably certain of that.”

The young lady frowned irritably. “You’re an American,” she said, almost indignantly, and raised her voice again for the benefit of passers-by. “Our leader, Mrs Pankhurst, is in America at this moment, spreading our message among our American sisters, and among those American men who have the intelligence and decency to listen.” She turned her attention directly to Mr Franklin once more – really quite unusually handsome, he decided. “Are you one of those – or perhaps you believe that the land of the free is free for men only?”

“In my experience it’s free only to those who can afford to pay for it,” he said smiling, but the lady was not there to be amused.

“Spare us your transatlantic humour, please! Will you buy a paper or will you not? Votes for women!”

“Before such persuasive salesmanship, I reckon I can’t refuse,” he said, holding out his sixpence. “Or should it be saleswomanship? I don’–”

A presence loomed up at his elbow, heavy, whiskered, and officially bowler-hatted. In a deep patient voice it addressed the lady: “Now then, miss, please to move along. You’re annoying this gentleman …”

“Oh, but she’s not, really,” said Mr Franklin, and the lady shot him a glance before directing a withering stare at the plain-clothesman.

“I am entitled to sell our newspaper in the street, like any other vendor.” She might have been addressing a poor relation whom she disliked. “If you are a policeman, be good enough to give me your name, rank, and number, since you are not wearing a uniform.”

“Sergeant Corbett, Metropolitan Police, B Division, and I must ask you to move along at once, miss –”

“And I am not ‘miss’,” said the young woman loudly. “If you must address me by title, I am ‘my lady’.”

The illogicality of this retort from a suffragette passed Mr Franklin by for the moment, but he was naturally intrigued, not having encountered nobility before. She looked expensive, but otherwise quite normal. The policeman blinked, but made a good recovery.

“That’s as may be,” he said. “You’re not wearing a uniform either. And entitled to sell you may be, but you’re not entitled to cause an obstruction, which is what you’re doing.”

It was true; a small group had formed on the already crowded Aldwych pavement, some amused, but most of the men, Mr Franklin noted, either contemptuous or hostile. Aware of her audience, the suffragette raised her voice again.

“Another example of police harassment! You are interfering with a public right! I am breaking no law, and you are deliberately seeking to provoke –”

“You’re creating a public nuisance,” said the sergeant brusquely. “Now you move along, or –”

“Move me along if you dare! I will not be bullied! Votes for women!”

“Really, sergeant, I wasn’t being bothered a bit,” Mr Franklin was beginning.

“Be quiet!” snapped the young lady, and to the sergeant: “Arrest me, if I have done wrong! If the peaceful distribution of literature has become a crime in England, let us see you punish it! Votes for women! End the tyranny of forced feeding! Votes for –”

“That’ll do!” shouted the sergeant, who was plainly reluctant to try the physical conclusions which this violent female was obviously bent on provoking. “I’ll warn you just once more –”

“Freedom and equality among the sexes!” cried the lady triumphantly.

“Officer, may I say a word?” interposed Mr Franklin, and the unaccustomed accent, in the gentle drawl which Inspector Griffin had found so attractive, caused the sergeant to hesitate, and even the flashing young lady, her sheaf of papers brandished to assist denunciation, paused in full flood. “This is probably my fault,” Mr Franklin explained. “The young … her ladyship, that is, asked me to buy a paper – very civilly, I’m sure – and I asked her what it was about. She still hasn’t told me,” he went on, with a slight bow in her direction, “and I’ld like to know. Really, I would. So I just wish to say to her, with your permission, that if she would do me the honour of accompanying me into my hotel there, I’ld be charmed to continue our discussion in a less public place.”

It was not, perhaps, the happiest way of putting it, but it might have passed if the cabby, a gleeful spectator, had not supplied his own ribald interpretation, with a raucous guffaw; someone in the crowd sniggered, and a voice chortled: “I’ll bet he will, too!” The lady, either genuinely indignant, or seizing another opportunity to take offence, flushed to her handsome cheekbones; then she went pale, a look of utter scorn came into her fine eyes, and before the sergeant could interfere she had exclaimed: “You insolent blackguard!” and slapped Mr Franklin resoundingly across the face.

The onlookers gasped. “Right!” roared the sergeant, lunging ponderously. “That’s assault!” His hand went out, but before it could grip her arm his own wrist was caught in sinewy fingers.

“I’m sorry,” said Mr Franklin quietly. He inclined his head towards the lady, who was preparing to resist arrest. “I meant no offence, and I beg the lady’s pardon. She misunderstood me – but that’s a woman’s privilege, wouldn’t you say, sergeant?” He released the policeman’s hand, and smiled into her speechless glare. “You know – like hitting someone, without the risk of being hit back.” He held out the sixpence. “Now, may I buy a copy of your ladyship’s paper, please? If I can’t have the privilege of your personal explanation, I can always read about it.”

There was a pause, and someone in the crowd murmured sympathetically – though on whose behalf it was difficult to say. The sergeant hesitated. Not so, however, the militant scion of the aristocracy, who could see herself being baulked of martyrdom by this odiously placatory colonial. She drew herself up with that icy dignity which only generations of aristocratic breeding and nursery teas can produce.

“You can have the bloody lot for nothing!” she snapped, throwing the bundle of papers at him, and before the sergeant could react to this further outrage against public order, she had turned on her heel with a swirl of expensive fur and vanished into the crowd.

“Here!” exclaimed the sergeant, and half-started to follow her, but thought better of it: arresting suffragettes was no fun at the best of times, and he honestly doubted his capacity to handle that one without considerable loss of dignity and possibly some tufts of hair as well. He turned reprovingly to Mr Franklin. “That’s what you get for being tolerant! You shouldn’t encourage ’em, sir; they’re a dam’ nuisance. She’ll be smashin’ shop windows with a hammer tomorrow, like as not. Vicious little hooligans. She didn’t cut your face, sir? Some of ’em ain’t above using brass knuckles.”

Mr Franklin, who had been gazing thoughtfully along the pavement where the lady had disappeared, became aware of his questioner. “No – no, I’m fine. Curious, though.” He frowned. “I thought they liked to fight it out. She didn’t. I wonder why?”

The sergeant gave him a hard stare, shrugged, and moved off heavily along the pavement. Mr Franklin stood for a moment, sighed, shook his head, pocketed his sixpence, stooped to pick up one of the fallen papers, folded it, and walked into the Waldorf Hotel.