Гилберт Честертон - Английский с улыбкой. Охотничьи рассказы / Tales of the Long Bow
“Yes, tonight,” replied his friend. “Are you sure you won’t come with me to the Cannibal Islands?”
“I prefer my own island,” said Mr. Owen Hood.
When his friend had gone he continued to look absent-mindedly at the calm upside-down world of the green mirror of water. He did not change his position and hardly moved his head. This might be partly explained by the quiet habits of a fisherman; but to tell you the truth, it was not easy to discover whether the solitary lawyer really wanted to catch any fish. He would often carry a book by Isaac Walton in his pocket, because he had a love of the old English literature as of the old English landscape.
But the truth is that Owen Hood had not been quite candid with his friend about the spell that held him to that particular little island in the Upper Thames. If he had said (as he was quite capable of saying) that he expected to catch the whale that swallowed Jonah, or even the great sea-serpent, his expressions would have been only symbolical. But they would have been the symbol of something as unique and unattainable. For Mr. Owen Hood was really fishing for something that very few fishermen ever catch; and that was a dream of his boyhood, of something that had happened on that lonely spot long ago.
Years before, when he was a very young man, he had sat fishing on that island one evening when the twilight changed to dark. The birds were coming down to the ground and there was no noise except the quiet noises of the river. Suddenly, and without a sound, as if in a dream, a girl came out of the woods on the other side. She spoke to him across the river, asking him he hardly knew what, which he answered he hardly knew how. She was dressed in white and carried a bunch of bluebells in her hand; her golden hair was low on her forehead; she was very pale, and her eyelids moved constantly as if she were nervous. He felt stupid. But he must have managed to speak civilly, because she stayed; and he must have said something to amuse her, because she laughed. Then followed the incident he could never analyse, though he understood himself well. Making a gesture towards something, she dropped her blue flowers in the water. He didn’t know what sort of storm was in his head, but it seemed to him that legendary things were happening, as in an epic of the gods. All visible things were only small signs. Before he realized what was happening he was standing dripping on the other bank; because he had splashed in somehow and saved the bunch as if it were a drowning baby. Of all the things she said he could recall one sentence, that he repeated constantly in his mind:“You’ll catch a cold and die.”
He only caught the cold and not the death; but even the idea of death did not seem out of place somehow. The doctor, to whom he had to give some sort of explanation of his decision to dive, was very interested in the story (or the part that he heard) because he liked to write down the pedigrees of the aristocratic families and to understand the relationships of the best houses in the neighbourhood. By some complicated process of deduction he discovered that the lady must be Miss Elizabeth Seymour from Marley Court. The doctor spoke about these things with respectful admiration; he was a rising young doctor named Hunter, afterwards a neighbour of Colonel Crane.
He shared Hood’s admiration for the local landscape, and said it was so beautiful because of how the family looked after Marley Court.
“It’s land-owners like that,” he said, “who have created England. The Radicals can say whatever they want; but where would we be without the land-owners?”
“Oh, I’m all in favour of land-owners,” said Hood in a tired voice. “I like them so much I would like more of them. More and more land-owners. Hundreds and thousands of them.”
We cannot be sure that Dr. Hunter quite understood his enthusiasm, or even his meaning; but Hood had reason later to remember this little conversation; as far as he was in a mood to remember any conversations except one.
All through the years when he felt his first youth was passing, and even when he seemed to be drifting towards middle age, he haunted that valley like a ghost, waiting for something that never came again. It is by no means certain, that he even expected it to come again. Somehow it seemed too like a miracle for that. Only this place had become the temple of the miracle; and he felt that if anything ever did happen there, he must be there to see. And so it came about that he was there to see when things did happen; and rather strange things had happened before the end.
One morning he saw an extraordinary thing. That indeed would not have seemed extraordinary to most people; but it was quite apocalyptic to him. A dusty man came out of the woods carrying what looked like dusty pieces of wood, and built on the bank what turned out to be a sort of a very large wooden notice-board. The message in enormous letters said:“To Be Sold,” with remarks in smaller letters about the land and the name of the land agents. For the first time in years Owen Hood stood up in his place and left his fishing, and shouted questions across the river. The man answered with the greatest patience and good-humour; but it is probable that he went away convinced that he had been talking to a madman who escaped from a hospital.
That was the beginning of what was for Owen Hood a nightmare. The change came slowly, year after year, but it seemed to him that he was helpless and paralysed, exactly like a man is paralysed in an actual nightmare. He laughed with an almost horrible laughter to think that a man in a modern society is supposed to be master of his fate and free to follow his pleasures; when he had not power to prevent the daylight he looks on from being darkened, or the air he breathes from being turned to poison, or the silence that is his full possession from being shaken with the cacophony of hell. There was something, he thought grimly, in Dr. Hunter’s simple admiration for agricultural aristocracy. There was something in quite primitive and even barbarous aristocracy. Feudal lords fought every day of the week; they put collars round the necks of some serfs; they occasionally hanged a few of them by the neck. But they did not wage war day and night against the five senses of man.
There had appeared first on the river-bank small wooden buildings, for workmen who seemed to be occupied in putting up bigger wooden buildings. To the last moment, when the factory was finished, it was not easy for the traditional eye to see what was temporary and what was permanent.
It did not look as if any of it could be permanent. Anyway the structure grew and grew until there stood on the river bank a great black block of buildings with a tall brick factory chimney, from which a stream of smoke rose into the silent sky. A heap of some sort of rubbish lay on the bank of the river; and an iron piece, red with rust, fell on the spot where the girl stood when she brought bluebells out of the wood.
He did not leave his island. He loved the country and he loved to sit still, but he was not the son of an old revolutionary for nothing. It was not for nothing that his father had called him Robert Owen or that his friends had sometimes called him Robin Hood. Sometimes, indeed, he felt so sad that he was almost thinking about suicide, but more often he marched up and down like a soldier, happy to see the tall wild-flowers waving on the banks like flags so close to what he hated, and muttering, “Hang out the banners on the outward wall.”[17] He had already, when the land of Marley Court was divided for building, taken some steps to establish himself on the island. He had built a sort of hut there, in which it was possible to picnic for long periods.
One morning when dawn was still bright behind the dark factory something like a growing ribbon of a different colour and material crept out upon the satin water of the river. It was a thin ribbon of some liquid that did not mix with the water, but lay on top of it wavering like a worm. Owen Hood watched it as a man watches a snake. It looked like a snake, with mixed colours not without some beauty. But to him it was a very symbolic snake; like the snake that destroyed Eden. A few days afterward there were ten snakes covering the surface; little oily rivers that moved on the river but did not mix with it. Later there came darker liquids with no pretensions to beauty, black and brown flakes of grease that floated heavily.
It was highly characteristic of Hood that until the last moment he was unsure what the factory was for. So he didn’t know what kind of chemicals were flowing into the river. He saw that they were mostly of the oily sort and floated on the water in flakes and lumps. A big part of it was something like petrol, which was used perhaps not for power but as material. He had heard a rumour in the village that the factory produced some kind of hair-dye. It smelled rather like a soap factory. As far as he understood, the factory’s product was a combination of hair-dye and soap, some kind of new and very hygienic cosmetics. These things had become even more fashionable since Professor Hake had written his book proving that cosmetics were of all things the most hygienic. And Hood had seen many of the fields of his childhood now decorated with large notice-boards with a phrase “Why Grow Old?” and a portrait of a young woman grinning in a strange manner. The name on the notices was Bliss, and he understood that it all was connected with the great factory.
He decided to learn a little more than this. He began to make inquiries and complaints, and participated in a correspondence which ended in an actual interview with some of the most important people involved in this matter. The correspondence had gone on for a long time before it even came near to anything as natural as that. Indeed, the correspondence for a long time was entirely on his side. The big businesses are not businesslike at all – just like the Government departments. They are not any more effective and their manners are much worse. But in the end he had his interview, and with a sense of bitter amusement he came face to face with four people who he wanted to meet.
One was Sir Samuel Bliss. He was a small, quick man like a ferret, with grey beard and hair, and active or even nervous movements. The second was his manager, Mr. Low, a strong, dark man with a thick nose and thick rings, who stared at strangers with a curious heavy suspicion. It is believed that he expected to be attacked. The third man was a surprise, because he was no other than his old friend Dr. Horace Hunter, as healthy and cheerful as ever, but even better dressed (now he had a great official appointment as medical inspector of the sanitary conditions of the district). But the fourth man was the greatest surprise of all. Their conference was honoured by so great a figure in the scientific world as Professor Hake himself, who had revolutionized the modern mind with his new discoveries about the importance of hair-dye for a healthy lifestyle. When Hood realized who he was, a light of understanding came upon his long face.
On this occasion the Professor developed an even more interesting theory. He was a big, blond man with blinking eyes and a bull neck; and doubtless there was more in him than met the eye, which is usual with great men. He spoke last, and he spoke about his theory as if it were the final truth. The manager had already stated that it was quite impossible that a large amount of petrol had escaped, because only a small amount was used in the factory. Sir Samuel had explained, in an irritated manner, that he had built several parks for the public, and that the dormitories of his work-people were decorated in the simplest and best taste, and nobody could accuse him of vandalism or not caring for beauty and all that. Then it was that Professor Hake explained the theory of the Protective Screen. Even if it were possible, he said, for some thin film of petrol to appear on the water, because it would not mix with the water, the water would actually be kept in a clearer condition. It would become a protective screen; like a plastic package upon some preserved food.
“That is a very interesting view,” remarked Hood; “I suppose you will write another book about that?”
“I think we should feel privileged,” remarked Bliss, “because we are the first people to hear of the discovery, before our expert has published it for everybody else.”
“Yes,” said Hood, “your expert is very expert, isn’t he – in writing books?”
Sir Samuel Bliss’s face became angry. “I trust,” he said, “you do not doubt that our expert is an expert.”
“I have no doubt of your expert,” answered Hood gravely. “I do not doubt either that he is expert or that he is yours.”
“Really, gentlemen,” cried Bliss in protest, “I think no one can say such things about a man in Professor Hake’s position – ”
“Not at all, not at all,” said Hood in a friendly manner, “I’m sure it’s a very comfortable position.”
The Professor blinked at him, but a light burned in the eyes under the heavy eyelids.
“If you come here talking like that – “he began, when Hood cut off his speech by speaking across him to somebody else, with a cheerful rudeness that felt like a kick.
“And what do you say, my dear doctor?” he said to Hunter. “You used to be almost as romantic as myself about the beauty of this place. Do you remember how much you admired the landlords for keeping the place quiet; and how you said the old families preserved the beauty of old England?”
There was a silence, and then the young doctor spoke.
“Well, it doesn’t mean I can’t believe in progress. That’s your problem, Hood; you don’t believe in progress. We must move with the times, and somebody always has to suffer. Besides, the river-water is not so important nowadays. Even the Thames is not so important. When we have the new law, people will have to use the Bulton Filter in any case.”
“I see,” said Hood calmly, “You first make the water dirty for money, and then you try to look good when you force people to clean it themselves.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Hunter angrily.
“Well, I was thinking at the moment,” said Hood. “I was thinking about Mr. Bulton. The man who owns the filters. I was wondering whether he might join us. We seem such a happy family party.”
“I cannot see why we should continue this impossible conversation,” said Sir Samuel.
“Don’t call the poor Professor’s theory impossible,” protested Hood. “A little unusual, perhaps. And as for the doctor’s view, surely there’s nothing impossible in that. You don’t think the chemicals will poison all the fish I catch, do you, Doctor?”
“No, of course not,” replied Hunter quickly.
“They will adapt themselves by natural selection,” said Hood dreamily. “They will develop organs suitable to an oily environment – will learn to love petrol.”
“Oh, I have no time for this nonsense,” said Hunter, and he was turning to go, when Hood stepped in front of him and looked at him very steadily.
“You mustn’t call natural selection nonsense,” he said. “I know all about that, at any rate. I can’t tell whether liquids that are spilt on the shore will fall into the river, because I don’t understand hydraulics. I don’t know whether your machinery makes a hellish noise every morning, because I’ve never studied acoustics[18]. I don’t know whether it stinks or not, because I haven’t read your expert’s book on ‘The Nose’. But I know all about adaptation to environment. I know that some of the lower organisms do really change with their changing conditions. I know there are creatures so low that they do survive by surrendering to every kind of mud; and when things are slow they are slow, and when things are fast they are fast, and when things are filthy they are filthy. Thank you for convincing me of that.”
