Читать книгу The Dawn of Reckoning - James Hilton - Страница 30

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As soon as Philip began to speak Stella thought with a sort of calm horror: Oh, Philip, Philip, this will never do...Somehow, right from his first words, she knew that he was going to fail. He was nervous, and after upsetting the ink-bottle his nervousness seemed to increase to panic. Then, also he simply had no idea how to talk to a Loamport audience. He was not speaking to them; he was lecturing, coldly, unfeelingly, as he might have done to a classroom of tired undergraduates. Oh, for some fire in his voice, something, however untrue or ridiculous, that the audience could cheer or laugh at!—She moved uneasily in her seat, every second making her feel more uncomfortable. Others round about her were moving similarly; she could feel a wave of uneasiness passing over the entire audience, not due to anything Philip was saying, but to the mere way in which he was saying it. He was—the metaphor occurred to her spontaneously—he was stroking them the wrong way. And her inmost being was crying out protestingly: Oh, Philip, why are you talking like this?—If only I were talking, I, with all my ignorance, could do far better! I would make them laugh, and then make them cry (if I could), and then make them cheer the roof off...But you, you are so cold, so distant, so austere...

He had started by a fierce shout of "Ladies and Gentlemen" that had led the audience to expect something dramatic. Yet by the end of his opening sentence his voice had sunk so low as to be scarcely audible. Then somebody had called out to him to speak up, and after that he had pitched his voice at a tone of level monotony from which he did not afterwards vary. It was terrible...Sir Charles fidgeted on the platform, staring uneasily at his hands; two or three people in the gallery walked out noisily; even the babies scattered throughout the hall seemed curiously discomfited and began to cry. Nevertheless, the prevailing mood was one of patience under difficulties; Loamport was going to give the newcomer at least fair play. But after Philip had been speaking for five minutes (quite grammatically and sensibly, but oh, how irritatingly I) Stella's unspoken prayer was merely that he should stop as soon as he could and on whatever pretext he could find.

But he did not stop. On the contrary, his voice rose a semitone, like the hum of a motor-engine when speed is accelerated. And at once, with such suddenness and unanimity that it was almost as if a signal had been given for them, interruptions began. Cries came simultaneously from the side-galleries, from the back and body of the hall, even from a few rows not far behind Stella. "Hey, mister, what part of the country do you come from?" a bass voice called out from somewhere. "Y' mother oughtn't to let ye stop out so late!" a shrill-voiced girl shouted down from the gallery, amidst the piercing laughter of her companions. "Ye'll never get in for Loamport," declared a man quite close to Stella, in a voice that was hardly unkind.

Philip at first took no notice, except perhaps to raise his voice a shade of a tone higher in the scale. But at last a group in the gallery nearest him gave a deafening and evidently preconcerted shout of "Sit down." Then, as if unable to ignore this final and most uncompromising provocation, he stopped. He was very pale. He looked fixedly at the interrupters in the gallery. "I d-don't know if those gentlemen in, the g-gallery are speaking only for themselves, or for a c-considerable section of the audience, but if the l-latter is the case I sh-shall—"

A curious thrill came over Stella. Oh, for him to stand there proud and defiant—to challenge them, as it were, to shout him down if they could!—"But if the latter is the case I shall just go on talking, whether you like it or not, till I have finished all I have to say. I'm not going to be intimidated by a handful of hooligans. I've come here to make a speech and I shall make it..." Would he talk like that!—The words rose fiercely to her lips, and she had hard work to keep herself from speaking them aloud. If only she were on the platform instead of him!

But the voice went on coldly: "I sh-shall then be obliged to b-bow to the g-general will and b-bring my remarks to an end."

A great sinking sensation enveloped her He was giving in: he was surrendering to them ignominiously. A swelling hubbub arose all over the hall; voices shouted to him to sit down, to continue, to take no notice of interruptions, to go home...

Then all at once she saw him stagger back, deathly pale, and almost fall into the arms of Sir Charles Maddison. He had fainted. They put him in a chair and gave him some water. He seemed to revive. Two of them took him by the arms and guided him slowly off the platform. All this in front of the shouting, gesticulating audience...

Sir Charles rose and held up his hand. "I am sure," he began, when the tumult was partially stilled, "I am sure we are all very sorry..."

She must go to him. She could not stop away any longer. She got up, squirmed her way out of the crowded hall, and went round to the side-door leading to the platform.