Mr. Britling Sees It Through . Герберт Уэллс

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      "Please," said Herr Heinrich.

      Mr. Britling assumed an attentive expression.

      "Will not this generally affect European politics?"

      "I don't know. Perhaps it will."

      "It says in the paper that Serbia has sent those bombs to Sarajevo."

      "It's like another world," said Mr. Britling, over his paper. "Assassination as a political method. Can you imagine anything of the sort happening nowadays west of the Adriatic? Imagine some one assassinating the American Vice-President, and the bombs being at once ascribed to the arsenal at Toronto!.. We take our politics more sadly in the West… Won't you have another egg, Direck?"

      "Please! Might this not lead to a war?"

      "I don't think so. Austria may threaten Serbia, but she doesn't want to provoke a conflict with Russia. It would be going too near the powder magazine. But it's all an extraordinary business."

      "But if she did?" Herr Heinrich persisted.

      "She won't… Some years ago I used to believe in the inevitable European war," Mr. Britling explained to Mr. Direck, "but it's been threatened so long that at last I've lost all belief in it. The Powers wrangle and threaten. They're far too cautious and civilised to let the guns go off. If there was going to be a war it would have happened two years ago when the Balkan League fell upon Turkey. Or when Bulgaria attacked Serbia…"

      Herr Heinrich reflected, and received these conclusions with an expression of respectful edification.

      "I am naturally anxious," he said, "because I am taking tickets for my holidays at an Esperanto Conference at Boulogne."

      § 7

      "There is only one way to master such a thing as driving an automobile," said Mr. Britling outside his front door, as he took his place in the driver's seat, "and that is to resolve that from the first you will take no risks. Be slow if you like. Stop and think when you are in doubt. But do nothing rashly, permit no mistakes."

      It seemed to Mr. Direck as he took his seat beside his host that this was admirable doctrine.

      They started out of the gates with an extreme deliberation. Indeed twice they stopped dead in the act of turning into the road, and the engine had to be restarted.

      "You will laugh at me," said Mr. Britling; "but I'm resolved to have no blunders this time."

      "I don't laugh at you. It's excellent," said Mr. Direck.

      "It's the right way," said Mr. Britling. "Care – oh damn! I've stopped the engine again. Ugh! – ah! —so!– Care, I was saying – and calm."

      "Don't think I want to hurry you," said Mr. Direck. "I don't…"

      They passed through the tillage at a slow, agreeable pace, tooting loudly at every corner, and whenever a pedestrian was approached. Mr. Direck was reminded that he had still to broach the lecture project to Mr. Britling. So much had happened —

      The car halted abruptly and the engine stopped.

      "I thought that confounded hen was thinking of crossing the road," said Mr. Britling. "Instead of which she's gone through the hedge. She certainly looked this way… Perhaps I'm a little fussy this morning… I'll warm up to the work presently."

      "I'm convinced you can't be too careful," said Mr. Direck. "And this sort of thing enables one to see the country better…"

      Beyond the village Mr. Britling seemed to gather confidence. The pace quickened. But whenever other traffic or any indication of a side way appeared discretion returned. Mr. Britling stalked his sign posts, crawling towards them on the belly of the lowest gear; he drove all the morning like a man who is flushing ambuscades. And yet accident overtook him. For God demands more from us than mere righteousness.

      He cut through the hills to Market Saffron along a lane-road with which he was unfamiliar. It began to go up hill. He explained to Mr. Direck how admirably his engine would climb hills on the top gear.

      They took a curve and the hill grew steeper, and Mr. Direck opened the throttle.

      They rounded another corner, and still more steeply the hill rose before them.

      The engine began to make a chinking sound, and the car lost pace. And then Mr. Britling saw a pleading little white board with the inscription "Concealed Turning." For the moment he thought a turning might be concealed anywhere. He threw out his clutch and clapped on his brake. Then he repented of what he had done. But the engine, after three Herculean throbs, ceased to work. Mr. Britling with a convulsive clutch at his steering wheel set the electric hooter snarling, while one foot released the clutch again and the other, on the accelerator, sought in vain for help. Mr. Direck felt they were going back, back, in spite of all this vocalisation. He clutched at the emergency brake. But he was too late to avoid misfortune. With a feeling like sitting gently in butter, the car sank down sideways and stopped with two wheels in the ditch.

      Mr. Britling said they were in the ditch – said it with quite unnecessary violence…

      This time two cart horses and a retinue of five men were necessary to restore Gladys to her self-respect…

      After that they drove on to Market Saffron, and got there in time for lunch, and after lunch Mr. Direck explored the church and the churchyard and the parish register…

      After lunch Mr. Britling became more cheerful about his driving. The road from Market Saffron to Blandish, whence one turns off to Matching's Easy, is the London and Norwich high road; it is an old Roman Stane Street and very straightforward and honest in its stretches. You can see the cross roads half a mile away, and the low hedges give you no chance of a surprise. Everybody is cheered by such a road, and everybody drives more confidently and quickly, and Mr. Britling particularly was heartened by it and gradually let out Gladys from the almost excessive restriction that had hitherto marked the day. "On a road like this nothing can happen," said Mr. Britling.

      "Unless you broke an axle or burst a tyre," said Mr. Direck.

      "My man at Matching's Easy is most careful in his inspection," said Mr. Britling, putting the accelerator well down and watching the speed indicator creep from forty to forty-five. "He went over the car not a week ago. And it's not one month old – in use that is."

      Yet something did happen.

      It was as they swept by the picturesque walls under the big old trees that encircle Brandismead Park. It was nothing but a slight miscalculation of distances. Ahead of them and well to the left, rode a postman on a bicycle; towards them, with that curious effect of implacable fury peculiar to motor cycles, came a motor cyclist. First Mr. Britling thought that he would not pass between these two, then he decided that he would hurry up and do so, then he reverted to his former decision, and then it seemed to him that he was going so fast that he must inevitably run down the postman. His instinct not to do that pulled the car sharply across the path of the motor cyclist. "Oh, my God!" cried Mr. Britling. "My God!" twisted his wheel over and distributed his feet among his levers dementedly.

      He had an imperfectly formed idea of getting across right in front of the motor cyclist, and then they were going down the brief grassy slope between the road and the wall, straight at the wall, and still at a good speed. The motor cyclist smacked against something and vanished from the problem. The wall seemed to rush up at them СКАЧАТЬ