I Sing the Body Electric. Ray Bradbury

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СКАЧАТЬ the door a half inch open, the old man started away when Timulty cried out, “When we are ready? Jesus, God, when will we ever be readier? Out of the way, Casey!”

      And they all ran up on the porch.

      Hearing this, his Lordship turned to look at them with his bland and not-unfriendly face, the face of an old hound who has seen many foxes killed and just as many escape, who has run well, and now in late years, paced himself down to a soft, shuffling walk.

      “Scrape your feet, please, gentlemen.”

      “Scraped they are.” And everyone carefully got the snow and mud off his shoes.

      “This way,” said his Lordship, going off, his clear, pale eyes set in lines and bags and creases from too many years of drinking brandy, his cheeks bright as cherry wine. “I will get you all a drink, and we shall see what we can do about your … how did you put it … burning the Place?”

      “You’re Sweet Reason itself,” admitted Timulty, following as Lord Kilgotten led them into the library, where he poured whisky all around.

      “Gentlemen.” He let his bones sink into a wing-backed chair. “Drink.”

      “We decline,” said Casey.

      “Decline?” gasped everyone, the drinks almost in their hands.

      “This is a sober thing we are doing and we must be sober for it,” said Casey, flinching from their gaze.

      “Who do we listen to?” asked Riordan. “His Lordship or Casey?”

      For answer all the men downed their drinks and fell to coughing and gasping. Courage showed immediately in a red color through their faces, which they turned so that Casey could see the difference. Casey drank his, to catch up.

      Meanwhile, the old man sipped his whisky, and something about his calm and easy way of drinking put them far out in Dublin Bay and sank them again. Until Casey said, “Your Honor, you’ve heard of the Troubles? I mean not just the Kaiser’s war going on across the sea, but our own very great Troubles and the Rebellion that has reached even this far, to our town, our pub, and now, your Place?”

      “An alarming amount of evidence convinces me this is an unhappy time,” said his Lordship. “I suppose what must be must be. I know you all. You have worked for me. I think I have paid you rather well on occasion.”

      “There’s no doubt of that, your Lordship.” Casey took a step forward. “It’s just, ‘the old order changeth,’ and we have heard of the great houses out near Tara and the great manors beyond Killashandra going up in flames to celebrate freedom and—”

      “Whose freedom?” asked the old man, mildly. “Mine? From the burden of caring for this house which my wife and I rattle around in like dice in a cup or—well, get on. When would you like to burn the Place?”

      “If it isn’t too much trouble, sir,” said Timulty, “now.”

      The old man seemed to sink deeper into his chair.

      “Oh, dear,” he said.

      “Of course,” said Nolan quickly, “if it’s inconvenient, we could come back later—”

      “Later! What kind of talk is that?” asked Casey.

      “I’m terribly sorry,” said the old man. “Please allow me to explain. Lady Kilgotten is asleep now, we have guests coming to take us into Dublin for the opening of a play by Synge—”

      “That’s a damn fine writer,” said Riordan.

      “Saw one of his plays a year ago,” said Nolan, “and—”

      “Stand off!” said Casey.

      The men stood back. His Lordship went on with his frail moth voice, “We have a dinner planned back here at midnight for ten people. I don’t suppose—you could give us until tomorrow night to get ready?”

      “No,” said Casey.

      “Hold on,” said everyone else.

      “Burning,” said Timulty, “is one thing, but tickets is another. I mean, the theater is there, and a dire waste not to see the play, and all that food set up, it might as well be eaten. And all the guests coming. It would be hard to notify them ahead.”

      “Exactly what I was thinking,” said his Lordship.

      “Yes, I know!” shouted Casey, shutting his eyes, running his hands over his cheeks and jaw and mouth and clenching his fists and turning around in frustration. “But you don’t put off burnings, you don’t reschedule them like tea parties, dammit, you do them!”

      “You do if you remember to bring the matches,” said Riordan under his breath.

      Casey whirled and looked as if he might hit Riordan, but the impact of the truth slowed him down.

      “On top of which,” said Nolan, “the Missus above is a fine lady and needs a last night of entertainment and rest.”

      “Very kind of you.” His Lordship refilled the man’s glass.

      “Let’s take a vote,” said Nolan.

      “Hell.” Casey scowled around. “I see the vote counted already. Tomorrow night will do, dammit.”

      “Bless you,” said old Lord Kilgotten. “There will be cold cuts laid out in the kitchen, you might check in there first, you shall probably be hungry, for it will be heavy work. Shall we say eight o’clock tomorrow night? By then I shall have Lady Kilgotten safely to a hotel in Dublin. I should not want her knowing until later that her home no longer exists.”

      “God, you’re a Christian,” muttered Riordan.

      “Well, let us not brood on it,” said the old man. “I consider it past already, and I never think of the past. Gentlemen.”

      He arose. And, like a blind old sheepherder-saint, he wandered out into the hall with the flock straying and ambling and softly colliding after.

      Half down the hall, almost to the door, Lord Kilgotten saw something from the corner of his blear eye and stopped. He turned back and stood brooding before a large portrait of an Italian nobleman.

      The more he looked the more his eyes began to tic and his mouth to work over a nameless thing.

      Finally Nolan said, “Your Lordship, what is it?”

      “I was just thinking,” said the Lord, at last, “you love Ireland, do you not?”

      My God, yes! said everyone. Need he ask?

      “Even as do I,” said the old man gently. “And do you love all that is in it, in the land, in her heritage?”

      That too, said all, went without saying!

      “I worry then,” said the Lord, “about things like this. This portrait is by Van Dyck. It is very old and very fine and very important and very expensive. СКАЧАТЬ