Гилберт Честертон - Английский с улыбкой. Охотничьи рассказы / Tales of the Long Bow

In the central committee-room they actually came face to face for a moment with the candidate, who came in very hot and breathless with a silk hat on the back of his head. He probably had forgotten about it, because he did not take it off. She was a little ashamed of thinking about such little things, but she came to the conclusion that she would not like to have a husband going to Parliament.

“We’ve talked to all those people on Cold Road,” said Dr. Hunter. “We will not get any votes in The Hole and those dirty streets, so we shouldn’t waste time on them.”

“Well, we’ve had a very good meeting in the Masonic Hall,” said the agent cheerfully. “Sir Samuel Bliss spoke, and really he managed all right. He told some stories, you know, and they listened to him.”

“And now,” said Owen Hood, slapping his hands together in a cheerful manner, “what about this torchlight procession?”

“This what procession?” asked the agent.

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Hood sternly, “that preparations are not complete for the torchlight procession of Dr. Hunter? That you are going to let this night of triumph pass without making a hundred fires to light the road of the conqueror? Do you realize that the hearts of a whole people have spontaneously moved and chosen him? That the suffering poor whispered at night ‘Vote for Hunter’ long before his party made him a candidate? Do you not want the poor people make torches from their last cheap bits of furniture to do him honour? Why, from this chair alone – ” He took the chair on which Hunter had sat before that and began to break it enthusiastically. They stopped him in this; but he actually persuaded the company to follow his idea at the last possible moment.

In the evening he had actually organized his torchlight procession, escorting the triumphant Hunter, covered with blue ribbons, to the river. It looked as if the doctor was going to be baptized like a new Christian or killed like a witch.

Hood was holding his bright torch close to the Hunter’s astonished face. Then he climbed on some pile of rubbish on the bank of the river and spoke to the crowd for the last time.

“Dear citizens, we meet upon the shore of the Thames, the Thames which is to Englishmen as important as the Tiber ever was to Romans [25]. We meet in a valley which English poets love as much as English birds. We don’t have any other kind of art that is as native to our island as our old national tradition of landscape-painting in water-colour [26]. And the most elegant and delicate water-colour paintings are dedicated to these holy waters. One of the best of old English poets repeated in his poetic meditations the single line, ‘Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song.’ [27]

“There have been rumours that someone wants to bring trouble to these waters; but now we can be calm, because we have heard promises. People who are now as famous as our national poets and painters have promised that the stream is still as clear and pure and beautiful as in the old days. We all know the wonderful work that Mr. Bulton has done on filters. Dr. Hunter supports Mr. Bulton. I mean, Mr. Bulton supports Dr. Hunter. I may also mention no less a man than Mr. Low. Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song.

“But then, we all support Dr. Hunter. I myself have always found him quite supportable; sorry, I should say quite satisfactory. He is truly a progressive, and nothing gives me greater pleasure than to watch him move forward. All of his patients in this locality will be very happy when he goes to the higher world of Westminster. I hope you understand what I mean. Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song.

“My only purpose tonight is to express that solidarity. Maybe there have been times when I had a different position then Dr. Hunter; but I am glad to say that all that has ended, and I have now nothing except for the most friendly feelings towards him. I will not say why, but I have a lot to say. As a symbol of this reconciliation I now solemnly throw away this torch. As this fire dies in the cool crystal waters of that sacred river, so will all such conflicts disappear in the pool of universal peace.”

Before anybody knew what he was doing, he raised his torch above his head and sent it flying like a meteor out into the dark water of the river.

The next moment a short, loud cry was heard, and every face in that crowd was staring at the river. You could see that all the faces were staring, because they were all lit up by a wide pale unnatural flame that rose up from the surface of the stream; a flame that the crowd watched as it would have watched a comet in the sky.

“There,” cried Owen Hood, turning suddenly to the girl and catching her arm, as if demanding congratulations. “Old Crane’s prophecy did not come true!”

“Who on Earth is Old Crane?” she asked, “and what prophesy did he say?”

“Only an old friend,” said Hood, “only an old friend of mine. It’s what he said that’s so important. He didn’t like my quiet way of sitting with books and fishing, and he said, while standing on that same island, ‘You may know a lot; but I don’t think you’ll ever set the Thames on fire. I’ll eat my hat if you do.’”

But the readers already know the story of how Old Crane ate his hat. And if they want to know any more about Mr. Crane or Mr. Hood, they must prepare themselves for reading the story of The Unobtrusive Traffic of Captain Pierce.

People who know the stories about Colonel Crane and Mr. Owen Hood, the lawyer, may or may not be interested to know that they had an early lunch of eggs and bacon and beer at the inn called the Blue Boar, which stands at the turn of a road in the Western part of England.

Crane was fond of good cooking; and the cooking in that lonely inn was better than in a fashionable restaurant. Hood was fond of the legends and less-known aspects of the English countryside. Both had a healthy admiration for beauty, in ladies as well as landscapes; although (or more probably because) both were quite romantically attached to the wives they had married under rather romantic circumstances.

And the girl who served them, the daughter of the innkeeper, was herself a very beautiful thing to look at; she was of a slim and quiet sort with a head that moved like a brown bird, brightly and usually unexpectedly. Her manners were full of unconscious dignity, because her father, old John Hardy, was the type of old innkeeper who had the status, if not of a gentleman, at least of an independent man. He was not without education and talents; a gray-haired man with a clever, stubborn face.

There was little sound in the valley or the sky; the notes of birds fell only from time to time; only a distant aeroplane passed and re-passed, leaving a trail of faint thunder. The two men at lunch paid no more attention to it than if it had been a buzzing fly; but the way the girl looked at it every few minutes might have suggested that she was at least conscious of the fly. She looked at it, when no one was looking at her; the rest of the time, she tried to look indifferent to it.

“Good bacon you get here,” remarked Colonel Crane.

“The best in England, and in the matter of breakfast England is the Earthly Paradise,” replied Hood readily. “I can’t think why we should boast of the British Empire when we have bacon and eggs to boast of. It was bacon and eggs that gave all that morning glory to the English poets; only a man who had a breakfast like this who could rise with that giant gesture:‘Night’s candles are burnt out; and jocund day…’ [28]”

Then, noticing the girl within earshot, he added:“We are saying how good your bacon is, Miss Hardy.”

“It is supposed to be very good,” she said with legitimate pride, “but I am afraid you won’t get much more of it. People aren’t going to be allowed to keep pigs much longer.”