IN WHICH WE JOURNEY TO THE NORTH BY NEFARIOUS MEANS, AND NAOMI AND I
STUMBLE UPON A PRECISELY SIMILAR FEELING
Naomi's old school friendship with Mrs. Farrar, who is the daughter
of the Rector of Winfield, is ripening into a new intimacy, into
which I am being drawn. Not unwillingly; for although she is rather
a slangy, frivolous young woman, she is very fresh and impulsive and
genuine, and I have long given up that wish (with which most of us
begin life) that every candidate for friendship should conform to
one's own standards.
Farrar, I confess, is not exciting; but it is not unamusing to watch
the mental and physical processes of a young man who has been brought
up never to know the meaning of hunger or thirst, except as the
prelude to their agreeable gratification, or to do a day's work
beyond fiddling with a defective motor-engine, or walking miles in
pursuit of a rubber-cored ball. He is not offensively selfish in his
idleness, and has a ready hand for subscription-hunters. In fact, he
is really very generous, although, of course, not thoughtful enough.
He distributes the kind of presents, for example, that cause servants
to give notice: silver chafing-dishes, patent foot warmers--things
like that. Generosity, however, is far from being all, and indeed it
may be and often is merely the selfish man's device to be spared
worry. It could not save Farrar from Spanton, who would say that the
Farrar lily cannot long continue to toil not, neither to spin, in a
community such as ours. Times are changing; and though I doubtless
shall see little of the social revolution, for things move slowly in
England, it will come.
Something, of course, must be done to make these young people
responsible; for nothing does it now. They are anti-social to the
roots, if they only knew it. Their one desire is to enjoy
themselves, which they do in a curious monotonous way that to the
ordinary domesticated observer seems to be singularly like
discomfort. Their first essential for enjoyment is to get away from
home as much as possible, and to reduce to a minimum the
responsibility of home. There are therefore no children, although
there is youth, vigour, and wealth. Some day they may settle down
and have perhaps two, but preferably one; but not yet. To-day they
are too keen on moving about, and Gwendolen is too keen on doing
everything that Farrar does. She is, in short, a good fellow; and
these female good fellows are becoming a danger to the State.
After much mild opposition on my part, we consented to join the
Farrars in a motor trip to Winfield. I did not want to go, for
several reasons. I like my hearth; I like my habits; I dislike
motor-cars; I dislike strange inn beds. I was not prepared for four
or five days' racing through this green England in company so limited
in imagination. But when I found that Farrar and his wife always sat
in front, I relented a little, for it would mean that Naomi and I had
the inside wholly to ourselves. I hazarded the stipulation that we
should make it a rule on desirable occasions to offer lifts on the
road; but Farrar asked me not to press it. It would not work, he
said. And I now agree with him, for, as a matter of fact, you can't
do things like that in a motor. Motors refuse to stop quickly
enough. There can be only one mind in a motor, and that is the
driver's, and the driver's is stunned or dulled by his office.
Hence, just as one always overshoots the prettiest cottages and
gardens and the most beautiful by-roads, so one has long passed the
unhappy footsore pedestrian before the impulse to pick him up can be
communicated to the man at the wheel; and of course in a motor there
is no going back.
As a matter of fact, we did chance to assist one man in this way, but
he came up to us when we were stopping for a sandwich on the
roadside. That is to say, he overtook us and caught us off our
guard: a tall lean man with a stubble on his chin and an air still
slightly rakish in spite of travel-stains and weariness. He asked
how far it was to Birmingham, and told us that he was an actor and
had heard of a travelling company with whom, before a long illness,
he had been associated, and he was walking to Birmingham hoping it
might find room for him.
Gwendolen came inside and the histrion (as I am sure he would love
best to be called) rode beside Farrar in silence. But when he said
good-bye he wrung my hand under the impression that I was the owner
of the car, and drew me aside to mention the fact that the loan of
half a crown for two days would be an incalculable boon. Poor
fellow, he looked so fragile and empty that I made the sum a good
deal larger, and pressed him not to be so hasty in returning it; and
he promised he would not.
"I could wish sometimes," he said brokenly, with his hat in his hand,
as we parted, "that the Great Prompter would ring down the curtain!"
"Hullo!" said Farrar, as I rejoined them, "been biting your ear, eh?
That's what always comes of this lift business. How much did he bite
it for?"
"Only half a crown," I said, and spent the next hour wondering why it
is that one is so terrified of letting a man of the world think one a
human being.
We reached Winfield for lunch in Canon Frome's hospitable rectory,
and at tea-time strolled over to see some friends of the Fromes named
Harberton, who live in a very charming house amid a thick shrubbery:
one of those secure and serene houses that are found only in England,
a perfect backwater in the stream of industry and ambition.
Harberton is a man of about my own age, a dilettante with literary
tastes and some reputation as the editor of Boswell. His wife is
much younger--a beautiful woman with very quick sympathies and
understanding. Not particularly clever herself, but stimulating
others to their best. She has three children, all girls, and when we
arrived the whole family was under a cedar about a tea-table. Some
white pigeons fluttered on the roof and a spaniel regained its feet
with extreme deliberateness and walked slowly to meet and investigate
us. The lawn was like velvet: too soft for any game.
Looking at it all I could not help wondering how my young friend
Spanton would snort at it. Nothing but leisure and culture here, he
would say. No progress. Dead languages, belles-lettres. Everything
that is retrograde.
And yet surely there must be, even in a new England of intense
socialistic activity, some oases such as this, where ancient peace
reigns and children are being thoughtfully brought up to be
old-fashioned--as I am sure these three little girls will be. Let
there be here and there tiny spots of ointment among the flies!
Mrs. Harberton is all right, of course: she is a mother, and an
influence; but as to how far it would be possible to defend Harberton
against the Spantons I cannot say. His class doubtless will be put
upon its trial before long, just as the Farrars will. You may be
very charming and distinguished and all that, the Spantons will say,
but what are you doing for your country and your kind? You are
living on dividends earned by other people's labour. That has got to
stop. You have got to disgorge and labour yourself. What will you
do? What could Harberton do? What could I do?
It is funny that I should thus bracket myself with Harberton, for
that night Naomi told me that he reminded her not a little of me.
"That's odd," I said, "for Mrs. Harberton reminds me rather of you."