Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ been difficult for an onlooker to say, for he sat impassively surveying it, with his eyes far away, the dark face reflected in the carriage window, and did not even stir for the best part of an hour, when the spires of Lichfield came into view. The birthplace of Dr Johnson, the scene (at the George Hotel) of the “Beaux’ Stratagem”, according to Baedeker, but any philosophic reflections which this information might have inspired were interrupted by the arrival in his carriage, when the train had halted, of a beautifully-dressed old gentleman with a glossy top hat, an impressive white moustache spreading over his claret-enriched cheeks, and a copy of The Times in his hand.

      He greeted Mr Franklin with a resounding “Good afternoon to you”, spread an enormous white handkerchief on the opposite corner seat, and carefully lowered himself on to it, remarking:

      “The condition of modern trains is absolutely damnable. Dust an inch thick, haven’t been cleaned since the Jubilee by the look of them, might as well travel in a coal-cart. I should have gone on the Midland, but there isn’t a dam’ thing to choose between ’em, I dare say. Why the devil can’t they have de luxe trains, like the Continentals, eh? No wonder traffic’s falling off – but it’s all of a piece, of course. Everything’s running down, as I expect you’ve noticed.”

      Gathering that a reply was called for, Mr Franklin considered his informant steadily and confessed that he was not in a position to make comparisons, since he was new to the country.

      “Indeed?” said the old gentleman, and gave him back an equally steady stare. “An American. I see.” He considered this. “Well, filthy as they are, I suppose our trains could be worse. No doubt the French railways aren’t a whit better, if one comes right down to it, which I for one have no intention of ever doing. I’ve no experience of your American system, of course, but I believe it’s quite extensive.”

      Mr Franklin, watching the platforms slide by as the train pulled out, said he believed it was, and the old gentleman shook out his Times and remarked that he didn’t suppose railways would last much longer anyway, what with these damned motor cars, to say nothing of aeroplanes; one thing was certain, that the combination of infernal machines would certainly mean the end of decent horsemanship, and did Mr Franklin ride? Mr Franklin admitted that he did.

      “Hunt?” inquired the old gentleman, hopefully.

      “Occasionally.”

      “Where, would you tell me?”

      “Colorado, mostly.”

      The old gentleman looked doubtful. “Didn’t know they had hounds there.” He frowned. “What d’you hunt?”

      “Bear,” said Mr Franklin, and after a look of surprise the old gentleman laughed heartily and said, of course, he meant game, big game. Well, that was another matter; he had done something in the bear line himself, in India, and enjoyed it, in moderation, not like these damned Germans, who according to the shooting correspondent of The Field were going off to Spitzbergen and Greenland and slaughtering every bear in sight, which was just about what you would expect.

      “If you’re hoping to shoot in England, I’m afraid you won’t find much sport, though,” he went on. “Bad year for grouse, you know. Too few birds. Nesting badly, as they’re bound to, of course, considering the way they’re over-driven. No one seems to know how to look after a moor these days; like everything else, going to the dogs. Sport especially – why, in my young days, if anyone had suggested to me that an American polo team – yes, sir, your own Yankee riders – could come over here and open our eyes to the game, well, I should have laughed at him. But that’s what they’ve done, sir – saw it myself, at Hurlingham. It’s this new technique – meeting the ball. Magnificent! Changed the whole game. Well, you remember what it used to be – when the ball was coming at your goal, what did you do, eh?”

      Mr Franklin considered this gravely, but the question was fortunately rhetorical.

      “You swung round, sir,” cried the old gentleman, “and you hit an orthodox back-hander. But not your fellows – no, they come to meet the ball, head-on, and damn the risk of missing at the gallop! Splendid! Mind you, there were those who didn’t care for it, thought it too chancy – but that’s our trouble. Hide-bound. Timorous. I was all for it, myself. If we won’t change, won’t show some enterprise, where shall we be? Polo’s no different from anything else, I’d have thought. But we seem to have lost the spirit, you see.” He sighed, shaking his head, and since Mr Franklin offered no consolation, the old gentleman presently retired into his paper, leaving the American to continue gazing out of the window at the rainy green country speeding past.

      He was not allowed to continue his silent contemplation for long, however; the old gentleman discovered a news item about the defence budget, and drew Mr Franklin’s attention to the deplorable fact that the British Army seemed to be non-existent and was receiving only £27 million for maintenance against £38 million that the Germans were spending.

      “And already they spend half as much on their navy as we do ourselves – depend upon it, they’re greedy for empire, and we’ll find ourselves face to face with them before very long. It’s this damned Liberal Government – I take it you don’t have a Liberal Party in America? Well, you can thank God for it. I must say your chap Roosevelt seems quite admirable – I’d love to see Asquith at the head of the Rough Riders, I don’t think!” The old gentleman laughed derisively. “Fool seems to think it will be time enough to arm when we have the Kaiser at our throats! Immortal ass! But what can anyone look for in a party that seems bent on our ruin, helping the blasted Socialists to get on their feet – they’ll find that that’s a plant they’ve nourished to their own undoing, one of these fine days, let me tell you. In the meantime, they curry favour with the masses with their old age pensions, and use the country’s parlous lack of defence as an excuse for bleeding us dry. But of course you know about the Budget …”

      If Mr Franklin had been wise he would have said, untruthfully, yes, that he knew all about the Budget, but since he kept a polite silence his indignant informant took the opportunity to dilate on the iniquities of Mr Lloyd George, the Liberal Chancellor, who, aided and abetted by “young Churchill”, of whom the old gentleman had expected better things, was proposing to increase death duties by one-third, raise income tax to one shilling and twopence in the pound, tax undeveloped land and unearned increases in land values, and generally subject the country to a flood of legislation which any right-thinking person could see was downright communistic.

      “The Lords will throw it out, I imagine – which is what the little snake is after, of course. He wants them to provoke a crisis, and break ’em. God knows where it will end – in the ruin of the property-owning class, undoubtedly, and then heaven help us. You don’t have a House of Lords in America. Well, you may be right; ours have their hearts in the right place, but they’re damned short of intelligence. No match for the Welsh Wizard, anyway.” And the old gentleman retired glumly to his paper, emerging only once more to remark on the controversy about the North Pole; personally he doubted whether either Dr Cook or Commander Peary had reached it, and much good it would do anyone if they had. Thereafter he fell asleep, snoring peacefully in his corner with the fine white moustache fluttering gently with his breathing; Mr Franklin, absorbed in his own thoughts, continued to gaze out silently on the passing scene, watching the shadows of the trees lengthening in the hazy October afternoon.

      It was dark when they reached London at last, after the full five-and-a-half hours conceded by the railway company, the train clanking slowly through mile after mile of suburbs with their yellow-flaring windows, of dark deserted warehouses and factories, of long wet streets with their flickering lights, of black roofs and viaducts – that same prospect which another newly-arrived American, Henry James, had found so ugly but delightful a generation before. Possibly Mr Franklin was СКАЧАТЬ