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

“Not allowed to keep pigs!” cried the Colonel in astonishment.

“By the old regulations they had to be away from the house, and we’ve got ground enough for that, though most of the cottagers hadn’t. But now they say that some people are breaking the law, and the county council are going to stop pig-keeping altogether.”

“Stupid pigs,” snorted the Colonel.

“You should not call them that,” replied Hood. “Men are lower than swine when they do not appreciate pigs. But really I don’t know what the world’s coming to. What will the next generation be like without proper pork? And, talking about the next generation, what has become of our young friend Pierce? He said he was coming down, but he can’t have come by that train.”

“I think Captain Pierce is up there, sir,” said Joan Hardy in a correct voice, as she went away.

Her tone might have indicated that the gentleman was upstairs, but she looked for a second at the blue emptiness of the sky. Long after she was gone, Owen Hood remained staring up into it, until he saw the aeroplane darting and wheeling like a bird.

“Is that Hilary Pierce up there?” he asked, “doing tricks and behaving like a madman generally. What the devil is he doing?”

“Showing off,” said the Colonel shortly, and finished his beer.

“But why would he show off to us?” asked Hood.

“He jolly well wouldn’t,” replied the Colonel. “Showing off to the girl, of course.”

“A very good girl,” said Owen Hood gravely. “If there’s anything going on, you may be sure it’s all straight and serious.”

The Colonel blinked a little. “Well, times change,” he said. “I suppose I’m old-fashioned myself; but speaking as an old Tory, I must confess he might do worse.”

“Yes,” replied Hood, “and speaking as an old Radical, I should say he could hardly do better.”

While they were speaking the aviator had eventually landed on a flat field near the hill, and was now coming towards them. Hilary Pierce looked more like a poet than a professional aviator; and though he had distinguished himself in the war, he was very probably one of those whose natural dream was of conquering the air than conquering the enemy. His yellow hair was longer and more untidy than when he was in the army; and there was a touch of something irresponsible in his blue eye. He had a fighting spirit, however, as soon became clear.

He had paused to speak to Joan Hardy by the rather ruinous pig-sty in the corner, and when he came towards the breakfast-table he seemed transfigured as with flame.

“What’s all this infernal insane nonsense?” he demanded. “Who is so damned rude to tell the Hardys they mustn’t keep pigs? Look here, the time has come when we must fight against all this sort of thing. I’m going to do something desperate.”

“You’ve done enough desperate things for this morning,” said Hood. “I advise you to take a little desperate lunch. Sit down, please, and don’t stamp about like that.”

“No, but look here – ”

Pierce was interrupted by Joan Hardy, who appeared quietly at his elbow and said quietly to the company:“There’s a gentleman here who asks if he may speak to you.”

The gentleman himself stood some little way behind and looked polite but so stiff and motionless that it almost made you nervous. He was dressed in such a complete and correct version of English holiday suit that they were quite sure he was a foreigner. But they couldn’t choose a country in Europe where the man came from. His face was very tanned. But when he spoke, they could immediately understand where he was from because of his accent.

“Very sorry to interrupt, gentlemen,” he said, “but this young lady says you know everything about this area. I’ve walked around trying to find an ancient building or two, but it seems I don’t know how to look for them. If you’d be so kind as to tell me about the main architectural styles and historic places of this region, I’d be very much obliged.”

Since they were a little slow in recovering from their first surprise, he added patiently:

“My name is Enoch B. Oates, and I’m pretty well known in Michigan, but I’ve bought a little place near here; I’ve looked about this little planet and I’ve come to think the safest and brightest place for a man with a few dollars is the place of an aristocrat in your fine old feudal landscape. So the sooner I’m introduced to the mediaeval buildings the better.”

In Hilary Pierce the astonishment had given place to an enthusiasm bordering on ecstasy.

“Mediaeval buildings! Architectural styles!” he cried out. “You’ve come to the right place, Mr. Oates. I’ll show you an ancient building, a sacred building, in an architectural style of such antiquity that you’ll want to transport it to Michigan, as they tried to do with Glastonbury Abbey [29]. You will be privileged to see an historic institution before you die or before all history is forgotten.”

He was walking towards the corner of the little kitchen-garden attached to the inn, waving his arm with wild gestures of encouragement; and the American was following him with the same stiff politeness, looking strangely like a robot.

“Look on our architectural style before it disappears,” cried Pierce dramatically, pointing to the pig-sty, which looked like a dirty combination of leaning and broken boards put together, though it was practical enough. “This, the most unmistakably historic of all mediaeval buildings, may soon be only a memory. But when this monument falls England will fall, and the world will shake.”

The American had what he himself might have described as a poker face; it was impossible to discover whether his words indicated extreme innocence or extreme irony.

“And would you say,” he asked, “that this monument is an example of the early mediaeval or Gothic architectural school?”

“I would hardly call it strictly Perpendicular,” answered Pierce, “but there is no doubt that it is Early English [30].”

“You would say it is historic, anyhow?” said Mr. Oates.

“I have every reason to believe,” affirmed Pierce solemnly, “that Gurth the Swineherd [31]made use of this building. I have no doubt that it is in fact much older. The best authorities believe that the Prodigal Son [32]stayed here for some time, and the pigs – those noble animals – gave him such excellent advice that he returned to his family. And now, Mr. Oates, they say that all this magnificent heritage should be destroyed. But it will not be. We will not so easily surrender to all the vandals and vulgar tyrants who would tear down our temples and our holy places.

The pig-sty will rise again in a magnificent resurrection – larger pig-stys, higher pig-stys will yet cover the land; the towers of more magnificent and more ideal pig-stys, in the most striking architectural styles, will again declare the victory of the holy pig over his unholy oppressors.”

“And meanwhile,” said Colonel Crane drily, “I think Mr. Oates had much better begin with the church down by the river. Very fine Norman foundations and traces of Roman brick. The priest understands his church, too, and would give Mr. Oates rather more reliable information than you do.”

A little while later, when Mr. Oates had gone on his way, the Colonel criticized his young friend.

“Bad form,” he said, “making fun of a foreigner asking for information.”

But Pierce turned on him with the same heat on his face.

“But I wasn’t making fun. I was quite serious.”

They stared at him steadily, and he laughed slightly but went on with undiminished fire.

“Symbolical perhaps but serious,” he said. “I may seem to have talked a bit wildly, but let me tell you the time has come to be wild. We’ve all been a lot too tame. I do mean, as much as I ever meant anything, to fight for the resurrection and the return of the pig; and it will yet return as a wild boar that will destroy his enemies.”