The Flying Inn. Гилберт Кит Честертон

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СКАЧАТЬ time.' The cynical fellows are quite wrong, as they generally are. They have got hold of the exact opposite of the truth. God knows I don't set up to be good; but even a rascal sometimes has to fight the world in the same way as a saint. I think I have fought the world; _et militavi non sine_--what's the Latin for having a lark? I can't pretend to Peace and Joy, and all the rest of it, particularly in this original briar-patch. I haven't been happy, Hump, but I have had a jolly time."

      The sunset stillness settled down again, save for the cropping of the donkey in the undergrowth; and Pump said nothing sympathetically; and it was Dalroy once more who took up his parable.

      "So I think there's too much of this playing on our emotions, Hump; as this place is certainly playing the cat and banjo with mine. Damn it all, there are other things to do with the rest of one's life! I don't like all this fuss about feeling things--it only makes people miserable. In my present frame of mind I'm in favour of doing things. All of which, Hump," he said with a sudden lift of the voice that always went in him with a rushing, irrational return of merely animal spirits--"All of which I have put into a Song Against Songs, that I will now sing you."

      "I shouldn't sing it here," said Humphrey Pump, picking up his gun and putting it under his arm. "You look large in this open place; and you sound large. But I'll take you to the Hole in Heaven you've been talking about so much, and hide you as I used to hide you from that tutor--I couldn't catch his name--man who could only get drunk on Greek wine at Squire Wimpole's."

      "Hump!" cried the Captain, "I abdicate the throne of Ithaca. You are far wiser than Ulysses. Here I have had my heart torn with temptations to ten thousand things between suicide and abduction, and all by the mere sight of that hole in the heath, where we used to have picnics. And all that time I'd forgotten we used to call it the Hole in Heaven. And, by God, what a good name--in both senses."

      "I thought you'd have remembered it, Captain," said the innkeeper, "from the joke young Mr. Matthews made."

      "In the heat of some savage hand to hand struggle in Albania," said Mr. Dalroy, sadly, passing his palm across his brow, "I must have forgotten for one fatal instant the joke young Mr. Matthews made."

      "It wasn't very good," said Mr. Pump, simply. "Ah, his aunt was the one for things like that. She went too far with old Gudgeon, though."

      With these words he jumped and seemed to be swallowed up by the earth. But they had merely strolled the few yards needed to bring them to the edge of the sand-pit on the heath of which they had been speaking. And it is one of the truths concealed by Heaven from Lord Ivywood, and revealed by Heaven to Mr. Pump, that a hiding-place can be covered when you are close to it; and yet be open and visible from some spot of vantage far off. From the side by which they approached it, the sudden hollow of sand, a kind of collapsed chamber in the heath, seemed covered with a natural curve of fern and furze, and flashed out of sight like a fairy.

      "It's all right," he called out from under a floor or roof of leaves. "You'll remember it all when you get here. This is the place to sing your song, Captain. Lord bless me, Captain, don't I remember your singing that Irish song you made up at college--bellowing it like a bull of Bashan--all about hearts and sleeves or some such things--and her ladyship and the tutor never heard a breath, because that bank of sand breaks everything. It's worth knowing all this, you know. It's a pity it's not part of a young gentleman's education. Now you shall sing me the song in favour of having no feelings, or whatever you call it."

      Dalroy was staring about him at the cavern of his old picnics, so forgotten and so startlingly familiar. He seemed to have lost all thought of singing anything, and simply to be groping in the dark house of his own boyhood. There was a slight trickle from a natural spring in sandstone just under the ferns, and he remembered they used to try to boil the water in a kettle. He remembered a quarrel about who had upset the kettle which, in the morbidity of first love, had given him for days the tortures of the damned. When the energetic Pump broke once more through the rather thorny roof, on an impulse to accumulate their other eccentric possessions, Patrick remembered about a thorn in a finger, that made his heart stop with something that was pain and perfect music. When Pump returned with the rum-keg and the cheese and rolled them with a kick down the shelving sandy side of the hole, he remembered, with almost wrathful laughter, that in the old days he had rolled down that slope himself, and thought it a rather fine thing to do. He felt then as if he were rolling down a smooth side of the Matterhorn. He observed now that the height was rather less than that of the second storey of one of the stunted cottages he had noted on his return. He suddenly understood he had grown bigger; bigger in a bodily sense. He had doubts about any other.

      "The Hole in Heaven!" he said. "What a good name! What a good poet I was in those days! The Hole in Heaven. But does it let one in, or let one out?"

      In the last level shafts of the fallen sun the fantastic shadow of the long-eared quadruped, whom Pump had now tethered to a new and nearer pasture, fell across the last sunlit scrap of sand. Dalroy looked at the long exaggerated shadow of the ass; and laughed that short explosive laugh he had uttered when the doors of the harems had been closed after the Turkish war. He was normally a man much too loquacious; but he never explained those laughs.

      Humphrey Pump plunged down again into the sunken nest, and began to broach the cask of rum in his own secret style, saying-- "We can get something else somehow tomorrow. For tonight we can eat cheese and drink rum, especially as there's water on tap, so to speak. And now, Captain, sing us the Song Against Songs."

      Patrick Dalroy drank a little rum out of a small medicine glass which the generally unaccountable Mr. Pump unaccountably produced from his waistcoat pocket; but Patrick's colour had risen, his brow was almost as red as his hair; and he was evidently reluctant.

      "I don't see why I should sing all the songs," he said. "Why the divil don't you sing a song yourself? And now I come to think of it," he cried, with an accumulating brogue, not, perhaps, wholly unaffected by the rum, which he had not, in fact, drunk for years, "and now I come to think of it, what about that song of yours? All me youth's coming back in this blest and cursed place; and I remember that song of yours, that never existed nor ever will. Don't ye remember now, Humphrey Pump, that night when I sang ye no less than seventeen songs of me own composition?"

      "I remember it very well," answered the Englishman, with restraint.

      "And don't ye remember," went on the exhilarated Irishman, with solemnity, "that unless ye could produce a poetic lyric of your own, written and sung by yourself, I threatened to … "

      "To sing again," said the impenetrable Pump. "Yes, I know."

      He calmly proceeded to take out of his pockets, which were, alas, more like those of a poacher than an innkeeper, a folded and faded piece of paper.

      "I wrote it when you asked me," he said simply. "I have never tried to sing it. But I'll sing it myself, when you've sung your song, against anybody singing at all."

      "All right," cried the somewhat excited Captain, "to hear a song from you--why, I'll sing anything. This is the Song Against Songs, Hump."

      And again he let his voice out like a bellow against the evening silence.

      "The song of the sorrow of Melisande is a weary song and

      a dreary song, The glory of Mariana's grange had got into great decay, The song of the Raven Never More has never been called a cheery song, And the brightest things in Baudelaire are anything else but gay. But who will write us a riding song, Or a hunting song or a drinking song, Fit for them that arose and rode, When day and the wine were red? But bring me a quart of claret out, And I will write you a clinking song, A song of war and a song of wine, And a song to wake the dead.

      "The song СКАЧАТЬ