Читать книгу A Lodge in the Wilderness - John Buchan - Страница 6

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MORNING at Musuru came as a surprise to those who remembered the hot noontide of the previous day. For the air was as bitter as an English winter, and, looking from the windows, they saw the valleys filled with cold mist and the lawns whitened with hoar-frost. The result was that all the women breakfasted in their rooms. And of the men, only Hugh, Astbury, and Mr Wakefield appeared in the dining-room, where a roaring wood-fire gave the early risers a sense of comfort to temper their consciousness of virtue. That consciousness, however, was rudely disturbed by the discovery that Graham and Considine had breakfasted at least two hours before and had gone out heroically into the chilly morning.

Mr Wakefield stood warming his back at the fire, in the attitude of a Master of Hounds before a hunt breakfast. He had arrayed himself in Harris tweeds, and his legs were clothed with new buckskin gaiters. Hugh and Astbury, who knew something of the Musuru climate, had put on thinner shooting suits.

The elder man helped himself to mealie-meal porridge and cream. "We had an interesting talk last night, and I hope during our visit we may reach some valuable conclusions. But I foresee trouble ahead unless we can keep Lord Appin away from Hegel and put a stop to Carey's infernal mysticism. In my opinion, also, there are too many women for a really helpful discussion. We must, above all things, be practical. Now, I have here a kind of syllabus which Carey gave me last night—a list of the subjects we are to consider, and the order we are to take them in. To-night we are to begin with contemporary English politics and the present position of parties. Well, at any rate, that is relevant, if dull. Then we go on to the constitutional apparatus of Empire, the question of our tropical possessions, the economic and administrative problems. All these are very much to the point. But I notice at the end the sinister announcement that the concluding days are to be spent in talking about the ethical basis of Empire, and its relation to intellectual and aesthetic progress. That means, I fear, more of the unpromising mysticism of which we had a taste last night. We must keep Imperialism out of the clouds, or how on earth is it to commend itself to business men? I speak from a wide knowledge of the Colonies, and I assure you that what they want is a business proposition. We have, of course, our own ideals, but they are framed in a different language from yours, and I need hardly tell you that a common ideal, held with a difference, has proved in the past the most potent of disruptive forces. Let every man add his own poetry to the facts, but for Heaven's sake let us get the facts agreed upon first."

Mr Wakefield's eloquence was checked by his appetite, and by Hugh's warning that the word "Empire" was tabooed in the daytime. "Carey and I agreed," said he, "that we should degenerate into a debating society and get bored to death with each other unless we placed strict limits to our enthusiasm. So our discussions will not begin till dinner-tune. Before that we are at liberty to think as much as we please, but we must not talk about it. The resources of this place are limitless. We can shoot and fish and ride and walk; there is an excellent library; the finest scenery in the world is at our door. In the daytime we are flaneurs, without a thought except how to amuse ourselves. In the evening we can devote ourselves to your 'business proposition.'"

Mr Wakefield acquiesced a little reluctantly, and, having finished breakfast, ensconced himself in the library with a box of cigars and a French novel. Astbury went off to do some writing, and Hugh devoted an hour to his neglected correspondence. Meanwhile the mist was clearing, the sun had come out and burned up the rime, and, as he looked from the window, he saw a pale blue sky, which promised heat, and all the mystery of bright colour which a tropical morning displays. So, after going to his room for a book, he found a long wicker-chair on the verandah, and, lighting a pipe, settled himself for a peaceful forenoon.

He found it hard to read, however. The wide landscape shimmering below him, the calling of strange birds, the wafts of strange scents from the garden distracted his thoughts. By-and-by a trim white figure in a large sun-hat came along, and he said good-morning to Lady Flora.

The girl refused a chair, and seated herself on the parapet of the verandah.

"I am all alone, so I must come and talk to you, Mr Somerville. Aunt Susan and Lady Amysfort and Mrs Yorke are not down yet. Charlotte Wilbraham has taken Lord Launceston for a walk, Lady Lucy and Mr Lowenstein are talking business, Marjory and Mr Astbury are talking politics, and Barbara Deloraine is looking at a big botany book with pictures. I found Colonel Alastair and Sir Edward in the stables skinning beasts, and they were so covered with blood and the place smelt so horribly that I could not stay. Lady Warcliff is writing hundreds of letters about some of her emigration societies. I am sure she fusses far too much about her work. She behaves always like a weary Atlas holding up a world which doesn't in the least want to be held up. Last of all, I found Lord Appin deep in a big German book, but he told me to be a good girl and run away. So you are my only refuge. Tell me what you are reading in that little book with so many pencil markings in it."

"Plato," said Hugh. "I am taking advantage of my idleness to renew my acquaintance with the great masters. But it's very hard to find the proper book for such a morning."

"Nearly as hard as to find the proper clothes. When my maid called me she said it was 'freezin' 'ard,' so I put on my thickest tweed skirt. When I had finished dressing I saw the sun coming out, so I put on a lighter one. And when I came downstairs and went out on the verandah and saw that it was quite summery, I had to go back and change into summer things. Two changes in a morning are really enough to upset one. I feel as if I had been inconstant."

Hugh shut his book and began to refill his pipe. "I think I'll talk to you instead of reading Plato. What would you like to talk about?"

"This place, first of all," said the girl. "Did you ever see anything to match it? I am so glad Aunt Susan brought me. I fancied we should be living in a log cabin with Kaffir servants, and I seriously thought of leaving my maid at home, as I did last year in Norway. Instead, I find the most beautiful and comfortable house I ever dreamed of. And I like the idea of our party so much. We are going to talk high politics, and I am sure we have got some very clever men to talk them. It is such a refreshing change from the ordinary 'cure.' My first two seasons I went with Mother to stupid German places, where one saw the same people who had bored one in town and talked the same foolish gossip. It is a blessing to be in a place where one can talk about better things than other people's love affairs."

Hugh laughed. "You are growing old, Lady Flora, if that topic has ceased to amuse you. Have you had a hard Season?"

"Pretty hard, and I suppose I am growing old, for people are beginning to pall on me. Three years ago, when I first came out, I was tolerant of everything and anybody. But now I seem to have too much of it all. I want a little peace to get my mind clear and to know what I like and who are my friends. Didn't some one say that the art of life was to make up your mind what you really and truly wanted? I am afraid I shall soon be that deplorable young woman, 'her name was Dull.'"

"You have been reading the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and you are afraid that you are one of the citizens of Vanity Fair?"

"I am horribly afraid. At the bottom of my heart I would really live almost anywhere else—even with the tiresome old Interpreter or the spinsters of the House Beautiful. Where do you live, Mr Somerville?"

Hugh shook his head doubtfully. "Various places up and down the Way. A good deal in the Valley of Humiliation. Now and then in Doubting Castle. But not much, I think, in Vanity Fair."

"No," said the girl, "I don't seem to have seen you about so much lately. Have you grown tired of the world?"

"I have so many things to think about nowadays. As you were saying, the secret of life is to find out what one really wants, and I have discovered that a little of Society goes a long way with me. I only liked it because of the romance which it has for us all at first. When I grew up properly and the gilt was rubbed off I found it hard and stupid: so like a wise man I seek my romance elsewhere. You are growing up, too, and finding the same thing."

Lady Flora climbed off her perch and leant over the balustrade, looking down into the infinite blue distances.

"At any rate we are both in the Delectable Mountains now," she said, "and we have the Shepherds, too, and they may teach us something. But I wish we were going to talk about a more helpful subject. Of course I believe in Imperialism, and I canvassed a great deal for cousin Charlie at the election. He was beaten, poor boy, and he said it was largely my fault, for I always agreed with anything anybody said to me. And I am much more interested in the Empire than in England, for all the nicest people I know are in Tibet, or Nigeria, or some remote place. But at the same time I can't help feeling that any politics are rather a far-away thing to me."

"And yet I don't see why they should be," said Hugh, rising and looking over the balustrade beside the girl. "We are all citizens,—I am giving you the kind of answer an elderly paternal person would give,—and we have long got over the old foolish idea that politics were only a game for men, and for a few men at that. What we are going to talk about is the whole scheme of life which a new horizon and a new civic ideal bring with them. It affects the graces as closely as the business of life, art and literature as well as economics and administration. Suppose a small tribe lived in a cave and never saw the daylight. One day the barriers at the door fall down, and they look out on a blue sky and meadows and a river, and are free to go out to them. It wouldn't be only the modes of tribal government that would be altered by the illumination."

"No, I suppose not. But the whole thing is still very unfamiliar to me, and I cannot understand the language you all talk in. I've never been able to follow even Lord Appin's jokes, though he's a relation, and Mr Carey speaks like a very impressive but very obscure bishop. Perhaps Lord Launceston may be simpler. He is so kind and wearied and sad, and his face is so like a Burne-Jones knight, that some day I shall certainly kiss him, if I am not too afraid of Charlotte Wilbraham."

"You would prefer that we should sit in conclave on the profound subject: How is a young lady of twenty or thereabouts, who is a little tired of being frivolous, to attain satisfaction in life? Upon my soul, I think that is a much more difficult question than the other."

"You are very tiresome, Mr Somerville," said the girl. "You think I am only a butterfly. I may be, but I can at least look beyond my cabbage-leaf, and I am very very discontented."

"Why not try good works?" Hugh asked.

"'Journeys end in mothers' meetings!' No! I've tried them in an amateur way, and the works aren't really good. You make yourself miserable, and only fuss and patronise the poor, so nobody is a penny the better."

"Well, then, there is the intellectual life?"

"I haven't the brains. It is all very well for Marjory, who has read everything, and finds life far too short for the things she burns to do. I don't live at white-heat like her. More by token," said Lady Flora, peering into the garden, "she is at this moment discoursing with Mr Astbury among the oleanders. Bareheaded too! I wonder if she knows that this is mid-day in the Tropics. She'll be cut off in the pride of her youth and beauty."

"There only remains falling in love and marrying," said Hugh solemnly.

"Oh, Mr Somerville, I never expected to hear you say anything so banal. As if any short cut to happiness lay that way! If you can't find a philosophy of life before marriage, you won't find it after. It is shirking the question, not solving it."

The girl swung round and revealed a laughing face and dancing eyes. "I am a better actress than I thought, and you were quite taken in. I am really blissfully happy, happier than I think I've ever been before. But I want to make the most of this place, so I have a scheme to offer. Why should we not have a special conference on our own account? The discussions in the evenings will be the voice of age. Let us have the voice of youth—you and me—in the mornings. I shall want to ask so many questions and have so many things explained to me. Besides, I may contribute really valuable suggestions in our tête-à-tête, which I should be much too shy to launch at the dinner-table. Shall we make it a bargain?"

As they shook hands on the compact the gong—aforetime the war-drum of a neighbouring tribe—sounded for luncheon.

Conversation at dinner was begun by a speech of some length from the Duchess of Maxton. In the afternoon she had been driven by Carey in an American buggy round a settlement of some fifty families from England. Enthusiasm was not commonly her rôle, but as a practical woman and a practical farmer she had been carried out of herself in admiration of the success of his experiment. She had tried the same thing on her husband's Suffolk estate, where it maintained a precarious life, fed by frequent doles from her own purse. Her first impression, therefore, had been that this was but another of Carey's extravagant hobbies, and she had been greatly astonished to learn that it paid him six per cent on his outlay. The vast fields of tobacco and maize, the strips of lucerne, the orchards, the plain substantial houses, the well-made roads, the schoolhouse, the buxom contentment of the women, the healthy colour of the children, and the hard well-being of the men—she did not know what the most to admire. "How do you do it?" she had inquired, and had been told simply, "Management."

"Where did you get the people from?" she asked at dinner.

"Some from my old home in Devonshire—small farmers who could not make a living in England, young shepherds who wanted to be on their own, and a younger son or two who were not above labouring with their hands. But I wanted all sorts; so you will find South Africans and New Zealanders and Canadians in the settlement. I made a point of having none but men who had got the love of the soil in them. I don't think of the place as an emigration experiment. I wanted my estate farmed to the best purposes, and I hunted about for the best tenants. It is true that in time all will own their own farms, but even as freeholders they will still be in a real sense my own people."

"The danger I foresee in all such work," said Mr Wakefield, who found Lady Flora and Lady Amysfort, his two neighbours, a little inattentive to his conversation,—"the danger is that too much depends upon the will of a single man. One man like you, Carey, is a godsend; a hundred would be a calamity. For, when all is said and done, you are feudalists and aristocrats at heart. Now I maintain that the basis of empire is a democratic one—that is to say, empire as understood in the free Colonies, which are its real support. Africa, if I may say so, has been too much monopolised by 'men of destiny'—Rhodes, for example, and yourself. In Canada, in New Zealand, in Australia, you are inconceivable. I appreciate your work as much as any man, but I feel that it creates a false precedent. It is a precedent, I admit, which has small chance of being followed," he added, smiling.

Carey nodded and looked across the table to Lord Appin. "Mr Wakefield has brought us to the subject which we had arranged to discuss to-night. I think you will all agree that it is our first business to look at the condition of political thought in England, and incidentally at the position of political parties. England, even Mr Wakefield will admit, is still the imperial centre of gravity. Our creed is, of course, not identified with any party formula, but we Imperialists must work through existing agencies. It is most important, therefore, to know what materials we have to deal with."

"May I make a suggestion before we begin?" Mr Wakefield interrupted. "I agree with you, Carey, about the importance of the subject. But it is one which lends itself most readily to a barren speculative treatment. As ours is a practical inquiry, I suggest that we keep very close to facts and disregard what I believe is called the metaphysical basis of politics. I mean that in discussing Liberalism we should not ask ourselves what Liberalism may imply in its ultimate analysis, but merely what it means to the several millions who have voted Liberal at the polls. Otherwise we shall talk in a language which few of us can pretend to understand. We are not all philosophers like Lord Appin."

Lord Appin mildly dissented. "If I may say so, we are all philosophers, even Lady Flora, though we don't all of us know it. To be a philosopher it is not necessary that you should have formulated your creed in a system; it is sufficient if it governs your thought and conduct. I could label you all with your appropriate badges. I myself, for example, with certain private reservations, am a follower of Hegel. You, Mr Wakefield, I should class without hesitation as a disciple of the much-esteemed and lately deceased Mr Herbert Spencer. Lord Launceston, if I recall his Oxford reputation rightly, agrees with me. Our host is as fine an instance as I know of the Transcendental Idealist, though I don't suppose he has ever read a page of Fichte. Hugh, I think, is one of those peculiar people who go back to Kant and misunderstand that great man's meaning. Mrs Deloraine is a Platonist, and my sister is in her methods a crude Baconian. Even Sir Edward has a creed, and worships, with Nietzsche, the Superman. Did you ever hear his name, Teddy?"

"Yes," said that gentleman pensively; "and I once read a book of his— something about 'Zarathustra'—which my wife gave me for a birthday present. I liked it so much that I called a horse of mine after the author—won the Oaks in '99, you may remember. There was rather a muddle about it, for it was ridden by a jockey called Neish, and the sporting papers confused the two, and made him the horse and the other fellow the jockey."

"To return to what I was saying," continued Mr Wakefield with some slight asperity of tone, "I do earnestly beg of you all to keep on the hard highroad of facts. We have enough political metaphysicians in the world, and their works are to be found in the leading articles of the halfpenny Radical press. Our raison d'être is that we look more squarely at the realities of life. We have ample knowledge in our party to reconstruct the policies of the globe. For Heaven's sake let us keep off windy generalities."

Carey smiled benevolently during the interruption. "I am not a practical man. If I were, I should still be managing a little mine on the Rand. But I agree with Mr Wakefield up to a point—we must take full account of the data we have to work upon. That is why I propose that we should begin with the state of politics in England to-day. On this I have one remark to make, with which I think all will agree. The old creeds which still appear in the text-books are as dead as Julius Caesar."

The Duchess looked uneasy. Born of high Tory stock, she had married the head of a great Whig house and had zealously adopted its politics. "I do not admit that Liberalism is dead," she said. "On the contrary, it was never more alive than to-day. It has won a victory unprecedented since the date of the great Reform Bill."

"Nevertheless, Susan, I maintain that it is as dead as a door-nail. And to appease you I will add that Conservatism—for Lady Amysfort's sake I will not say Toryism—is in the same position. I propose to ask Lord Appin, who still reads the newspapers, to quote to us definitions of Liberalism, prepared both by friend and foe, and then I will ask you if the thing has not long been decently buried, though its wraith still walks the earth. Lady Amysfort will be kind enough to provide us with some account of that peculiar faith which she calls Toryism and proposes to identify with Imperialism. When we know what are the avowed creeds of the parties, we can fairly consider how much or how little of the vital spark is left in them. Then we can talk of Imperialism and those new doctrines which are its real rivals. Our country is hungering and thirsting for a living faith. We are all like sick folk by the Pool of Bethesda, waiting for the angel to descend and trouble the waters."

"I think, Francis, we might wait for the angel in the outer hall," said the voice of the Duchess. "It is very cold to-night, and that place is my ideal of comfort. Let us all go and have our coffee there and talk."