Читать книгу The Moon Endureth - John Buchan - Страница 9

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My wife was at Kissengen, and I was dining with the Caerlaverocks en garçon. When I have not to wait upon the adornment of the female person I am a man of punctual habits, and I reached the house as the hall clock chimed the quarter-past. My poor friend, Tommy Deloraine, arrived along with me, and we ascended the staircase together. I call him “my poor friend,” for at the moment Tommy was under the weather. He had the misfortune to be a marquis, and a very rich one, and at the same time to be in love with Claudia Barriton. Neither circumstance was in itself an evil, but the combination made for tragedy. For Tommy’s twenty-five years of healthy manhood, his cleanly-made up-standing figure, his fresh countenance and cheerful laugh, were of no avail in the lady’s eyes when set against the fact that he was an idle peer. Miss Claudia was a charming girl, with a notable bee in her bonnet. She was burdened with the cares of the State, and had no patience with any one who took them lightly. To her mind the social fabric was rotten beyond repair, and her purpose was frankly destructive. I remember some of her phrases: “A bold and generous policy of social amelioration”; “The development of a civic conscience”; “A strong hand to lop off decaying branches from the trunk of the State.” I have no fault to find with her creed, but I objected to its practical working when it took the shape of an inhuman hostility to that devout lover, Tommy Deloraine. She had refused him, I believe, three times, with every circumstance of scorn. The first time she had analysed his character, and described him as a bundle of attractive weaknesses. “The only forces I recognise are those of intellect and conscience,” she had said, “and you have neither.” The second time—it was after he had been to Canada on the staff—she spoke of the irreconcilability of their political ideals. “You are an Imperialist,” she said, “and believe in an empire of conquest for the benefit of the few. I want a little island with a rich life for all.” Tommy declared that he would become a Doukhobor to please her, but she said something about the inability of Ethiopians to change their skin. The third time she hinted vaguely that there was “another.” The star of Abinger Vennard was now blazing in the firmament, and she had conceived a platonic admiration for him. The truth is that Miss Claudia, with all her cleverness, was very young and—dare I say it?—rather silly.

Caerlaverock was stroking his beard, his legs astraddle on the hearthrug, with something appallingly viceregal in his air, when Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Cargill were announced. The Home Secretary was a joy to behold. He had the face of an elderly and pious bookmaker, and a voice in which lurked the indescribable Scotch quality of “unction.” When he was talking you had only to shut your eyes to imagine yourself in some lowland kirk on a hot Sabbath morning. He had been a distinguished advocate before he left the law for politics, and had swayed juries of his countrymen at his will. The man was extraordinarily efficient on a platform. There were unplumbed depths of emotion in his eye, a juicy sentiment in his voice, an overpowering tenderness in his manner, which gave to politics the glamour of a revival meeting. He wallowed in obvious pathos, and his hearers, often unwillingly, wallowed with him. I have never listened to any orator at once so offensive and so horribly effective. There was no appeal too base for him, and none too august: by some subtle alchemy he blended the arts of the prophet and the fishwife. He had discovered a new kind of language. Instead of “the hungry millions,” or “the toilers,” or any of the numerous synonyms for our masters, he invented the phrase, “Goad’s people.” “I shall never rest,” so ran his great declaration, “till Goad’s green fields and Goad’s clear waters are free to Goad’s people.” I remember how on this occasion he pressed my hand with his famous cordiality, looked gravely and earnestly into my face, and then gazed sternly into vacancy. It was a fine picture of genius descending for a moment from its hill-top to show how close it was to poor humanity.

Then came Lord Mulross, a respectable troglodytic peer, who represented the one sluggish element in a swiftly progressing Government. He was an oldish man with bushy whiskers and a reputed mastery of the French tongue. A Whig, who had never changed his creed one iota, he was highly valued by the country as a sober element in the nation’s councils, and endured by the Cabinet as necessary ballast. He did not conceal his dislike for certain of his colleagues, notably Mr. Vennard and Mr. Cargill.

When Miss Barriton arrived with her stepmother the party was almost complete. She entered with an air of apologising for her prettiness. Her manner with old men was delightful, and I watched with interest the unbending of Caerlaverock and the simplifying of Mr. Cargill in her presence. Deloraine, who was talking feverishly to Mrs. Cargill, started as if to go and greet her, thought better of it, and continued his conversation. The lady swept the room with her eye, but did not acknowledge his presence. She floated off with Mr. Cargill to a window-corner, and metaphorically sat at his feet. I saw Deloraine saying things behind his moustache, while he listened to Mrs. Cargill’s new cure for dyspepsia.

Last of all, twenty minutes late, came Abinger Vennard. He made a fine stage entrance, walking swiftly with a lowering brow to his hostess, and then glaring fiercely round the room as if to challenge criticism. I have heard Deloraine, in a moment of irritation, describe him as a “Pre-Raphaelite attorney,” but there could be no denying his good looks. He had a bad, loose figure, and a quantity of studiously neglected hair, but his face was the face of a young Greek. A certain kind of political success gives a man the manners of an actor, and both Vennard and Cargill bristled with self-consciousness. You could see it in the way they patted their hair, squared their shoulders, and shifted their feet to positions loved by sculptors.

“Well, Vennard, what’s the news from the House?” Caerlaverock asked.

“Simpson is talking,” said Vennard wearily. “He attacks me, of course. He says he has lived forty years in India—as if that mattered! When will people recognise that the truths of democratic policy are independent of time and space? Liberalism is a category, an eternal mode of thought, which cannot be overthrown by any trivial happenings. I am sick of the word ‘facts.’ I long for truths.”

Miss Barriton’s eyes brightened, and Cargill said, “Excellent.” Lord Mulross, who was a little deaf, and in any case did not understand the language, said loudly to my aunt that he wished there was a close time for legislation. “The open season for grouse should be the close season for politicians.”

And then we went down to dinner.

Miss Barriton sat on my left hand, between Deloraine and me, and it was clear she was discontented with her position. Her eyes wandered down the table to Vennard, who had taken in an American duchess, and seemed to be amused at her prattle. She looked with disfavour at Deloraine, and turned to me as the lesser of two evils.

I was tactless enough to say that I thought there was a good deal in Lord Mulross’s view.

“Oh, how can you?” she cried. “Is there a close season for the wants of the people? It sounds to me perfectly horrible the way you talk of government, as if it were a game for idle men of the upper classes. I want professional politicians, men who give their whole heart and soul to the service of the State. I know the kind of member you and Lord Deloraine like—a rich young man who eats and drinks too much, and thinks the real business of life is killing little birds. He travels abroad and shoots some big game, and then comes home and vapours about the Empire. He knows nothing about realities, and will go down before the men who take the world seriously.”

I am afraid I laughed, but Deloraine, who had been listening, was in no mood to be amused.

“I don’t think you are quite fair to us, Miss Claudia,” he said slowly. “We take things seriously enough, the things we know about. We can’t be expected to know about everything, and the misfortune is that the things I care about don’t interest you. But they are important enough for all that.”

“Hush,” said the lady rudely. “I want to hear what Mr. Vennard is saying.”

Mr. Vennard was addressing the dinner-table as if it were a large public meeting. It was a habit he had, for he had no mind to confine the pearls of his wisdom to his immediate neighbours. His words were directed to Caerlaverock at the far end.

“In my opinion this craze for the scientific stand-point is not merely overdone—it is radically vicious. Human destinies cannot be treated as if they were inert objects under the microscope. The cold-blooded logical way of treating a problem is in almost every case the wrong way. Heart and imagination to me are more vital than intellect. I have the courage to be illogical, to defy facts for the sake of an ideal, in the certainty that in time facts will fall into conformity. My Creed may be put in the words of Newman’s favourite quotation: Non in dialectica complacuit Deo salvum facere populum suum—Not in cold logic is it God’s will that His people should find salvation.”

“It is profoundly true,” sighed Mr. Cargill, and Miss Claudia’s beaming eyes proved her assent.

The moment of destiny, though I did not know it, had arrived. The entrée course had begun, and of the two entrées one was the famous Caerlaverock curry. Now on a hot July evening in London there are more attractive foods than curry seven times heated, more Indico. I doubt if any guest would have touched it, had not our host in his viceregal voice called the attention of the three ministers to its merits, while explaining that under doctor’s orders he was compelled to refrain for a season. The result was that Mulross, Cargill, and Vennard alone of the men partook of it. Miss Claudia, alone of the women, followed suit in the fervour of her hero-worship. She ate a mouthful, and then drank rapidly two glasses of water.

My narrative of the events which followed is based rather on what I should have seen than on what I saw. I had not the key, and missed much which otherwise would have been plain to me. For example, if I had known the secret, I must have seen Miss Claudia’s gaze cease to rest upon Vennard and the adoration die out of her eyes. I must have noticed her face soften to the unhappy Deloraine. As it was, I did not remark her behaviour, till I heard her say to her neighbour—

“Can’t you get hold of Mr. Vennard and forcibly cut his hair?”

Deloraine looked round with a start. Miss Barriton’s tone was intimate and her face friendly.

“Some people think it picturesque,” he said in serious bewilderment.

“Oh, yes, picturesque—like a hair-dresser’s young man!” she shrugged her shoulders. “He looks as if he had never been out of doors in his life.”

Now, whatever the faults of Tommy’s appearance, he had a wholesome sunburnt face, and he knew it. This speech of Miss Barriton’s cheered him enormously, for he argued that if she had fallen out of love with Vennard’s looks she might fall in love with his own. Being a philosopher in his way, he was content to take what the gods gave, and ask for no explanations.

I do not know how their conversation prospered, for my attention was distracted by the extraordinary behaviour of the Home Secretary. Mr. Cargill had made himself notorious by his treatment of “political” prisoners. It was sufficient in his eyes for a criminal to confess to political convictions to secure the most lenient treatment and a speedy release. The Irish patriot who cracked skulls in the Scotland Division of Liverpool, the Suffragist who broke windows and the noses of the police, the Social Democrat whose antipathy to the Tsar revealed itself in assaults upon the Russian Embassy, the “hunger-marchers” who had designs on the British Museum,—all were sure of respectful and tender handling. He had announced more than once, amid tumultuous cheering, that he would never be the means of branding earnestness, however mistaken, with the badge of the felon.

He was talking I recall, to Lady Lavinia Dobson, renowned in two hemispheres for her advocacy of women’s rights. And this was what I heard him say. His face had grown suddenly flushed and his eye bright, so that he looked liker than ever to a bookmaker who had had a good meeting. “No, no, my dear lady, I have been a lawyer, and it is my duty in office to see that the law, the palladium of British liberties is kept sacrosanct. The law is no respecter of persons, and I intend that it shall be no respecter of creeds. If men or women break the laws, to jail they shall go, though their intentions were those of the Apostle Paul. We don’t punish them for being Socialists or Suffragists, but for breaking the peace. Why, goodness me, if we didn’t, we should have every malefactor in Britain claiming preferential treatment because he was a Christian Scientist or a Pentecostal Dancer.”

“Mr. Cargill, do you realise what you are saying?” said Lady Lavinia with a scared face.

“Of course I do. I am a lawyer, and may be presumed to know the law. If any other doctrine were admitted, the Empire would burst up in a fortnight.”

“That I should live to hear you name that accursed name!” cried the outraged lady. “You are denying your gods, Mr. Cargill. You are forgetting the principles of a lifetime.”

Mr. Cargill was becoming excited, and exchanging his ordinary Edinburgh-English for a broader and more effective dialect.

“Tut, tut, my good wumman, I may be allowed to know my own principles best. I tell ye I’ve always maintained these views from the day when I first walked the floor of the Parliament House. Besides, even if I hadn’t, I’m surely at liberty to change if I get more light. Whoever makes a fetish of consistency is a trumpery body and little use to God or man. What ails ye at the Empire, too? Is it not better to have a big country than a kailyard, or a house in Grosvenor Square than a but-and-ben in Balham?”

Lady Lavinia folded her hands. “We slaughter our black fellow-citizens, we fill South Africa with yellow slaves, we crowd the Indian prisons with the noblest and most enlightened of the Indian race, and we call it Empire-building!”

“No, we don’t,” said Mr. Cargill stoutly, “we call it common-sense. That is the penal and repressive side of any great activity. D’ye mean to tell me that you never give your maid a good hearing? But would you like it to be said that you spent the whole of your days swearing at the wumman?”

“I never swore in my life,” said Lady Lavinia.

“I spoke metaphorically,” said Mr. Cargill. “If ye cannot understand a simple metaphor, ye cannot understand the rudiments of politics.”

Picture to yourself a prophet who suddenly discovers that his God is laughing at him, a devotee whose saint winks and tells him that the devotion of years has been a farce, and you will get some idea of Lady Lavinia’s frame of mind. Her sallow face flushed, her lip trembled, and she slewed round as far as her chair would permit her. Meanwhile Mr. Cargill, redder than before, went on contentedly with his dinner.

I was glad when my aunt gave the signal to rise. The atmosphere was electric, and all were conscious of it save the three Ministers, Deloraine, and Miss Claudia. Vennard seemed to be behaving very badly. He was arguing with Caerlaverock down the table, and the ex-Viceroy’s face was slowly getting purple. When the ladies had gone, we remained oblivious to wine and cigarettes, listening to this heated controversy which threatened any minute to end in a quarrel.

The subject was India, and Vennard was discussing on the follies of all Viceroys.

“Take this idiot we’ve got now,” he declared. “He expects me to be a sort of wet-nurse to the Government of India and do all their dirty work for them. They know local conditions, and they have ample powers if they would only use them, but they won’t take an atom of responsibility. How the deuce am I to decide for them, when in the nature of things I can’t be half as well informed about the facts!”

“Do you maintain,” said Caerlaverock, stuttering in his wrath, “that the British Government should divest itself of responsibility for the governement of our great Indian Dependency?”

“Not a bit,” said Vennard impatiently; “of course we are responsible, but that is all the more reason why the fellows who know the business at first hand should do their duty. If I am the head of a bank I am responsible for its policy, but that doesn’t mean that every local bank-manager should consult me about the solvency of clients I never heard of. Faversham keeps bleating to me that the state of India is dangerous. Well, for God’s sake let him suppress every native paper, shut up the schools, and send every agitator to the Andamans. I’ll back him up all right. But don’t let him ask me what to do, for I don’t know.”

“You think such a course would be popular?” asked a large, grave man, a newspaper editor.

“Of course it would,” said Vennard cheerily. “The British public hates the idea of letting India get out of hand. But they want a lead. They can’t be expected to start the show any more than I can.”

Lord Caerlaverock rose to join the ladies with an air of outraged dignity. Vennard pulled out his watch and announced that he must go back to the House.

“Do you know what I am going to do?” he asked. “I am going down to tell Simpson what I think of him. He gets up and prates of having been forty years in India. Well, I am going to tell him that it is to him and his forty-year lot that all this muddle is due. Oh, I assure you, there’s going to be a row,” said Vennard, as he struggled into his coat.

Mulross had been sitting next me, and I asked him if he was leaving town. “I wish I could,” he said, “but I fear I must stick on over the Twelth. I don’t like the way that fellow Von Kladow has been talking. He’s up to no good, and he’s going to get a flea in his ear before he is very much older.”

Cheerfully, almost hilariously the three Ministers departed, Vennard and Cargill in a hansom and Mulross on foot. I can only describe the condition of those left behind as nervous prostration. We looked furtively at each other, each afraid to hint his suspicions, but all convinced that a surprising judgment had befallen at least two members of his Majesty’s Government. For myself I put the number at three, for I did not like to hear a respected Whig Foreign Secretary talk about giving the Chancellor of a friendly but jealous Power a flea in his ear.

The only unperplexed face was Deloraine’s. He whispered to me that Miss Barriton was going on to the Alvanleys’ ball, and had warned him to be there. “She hasn’t been to a dance for months, you know,” he said. “I really think things are beginning to go a little better, old man.”