Джон Голсуорси - The Silver Spoon

“Ah! and have you been long married?”

“Four years.”

At this moment the royal lady saw some one else she wished to speak to, and was compelled to break off the conversation, which she did very graciously, leaving Fleur with the feeling that she had been disappointed with the rate of production.

In the cab trailing its way home through the foggy night, she felt warm and excited, and as if Michael wasn’t.

“What’s the matter, Michael?”

His hand came down on her knee at once.

“Sorry, old thing! Only, really—when you think of it—eh?”

“Of what? You were quite a li—object of interest.”

“The whole thing’s a game. Anything for novelty!”

“The Princess was very nice about you.”

“Ah! Poor thing! But I suppose you get used to anything!”

Fleur laughed. Michael went on:

“Any new idea gets seized and talked out of existence. It never gets farther than the brain, and the brain gets bored; and there it is, already a back number!”

“That can’t be true, Michael. What about Free Trade, or Woman Suffrage?”

Michael squeezed her knee. “All the women say to me: ‘But how interesting, Mr. Mont; I think it’s most thrilling!’ And the men say: ‘Good stunt, Mont! But not practical politics, of course.’ And I’ve only one answer: ‘Things as big got done in the war.’ By George, it’s foggy!”

They were going, indeed, at a snail’s pace, and through the windows could see nothing but the faint glow of the street-lamps emerging slowly, high up, one by one. Michael let down a window, and leaned out.

“Where are we?”

“Gawd knows, sir.”

Michael coughed, put up the window again, and resumed his clutch of Fleur.

“By the way, Wastwater asked me if I’d read ‘Canthar.’ He says there’s a snorting cut-up of it in The Protagonist. It’ll have the usual effect—send sales up.”

“They say it’s very clever.”

“Horribly out of drawing—not fit for children, and tells adults nothing they don’t know. I don’t see how it can be justified.”

“Genius, my dear. If it’s attacked, it’ll be defended.”

“Sib Swan won’t have it—he says it’s muck.”

“Oh! yes; but Sib’s getting a back number.”

“That’s very true,” said Michael, thoughtfully. “By Jove! how fast things move, except in politics, and fog.”

Their cab had come to a standstill. Michael let down the window again.

“I’m fair lost, sir,” said the driver’s hoarse voice. “Ought to be near the Embankment, but for the life of me I can’t find the turning.” Michael buttoned his coat, put up the window again, and got out on the near side.

The night was smothered, alive only with the continual hootings of creeping cars. The black vapour, acrid and cold, surged into Michael’s lungs.

“I’ll walk beside you; we’re against the curb; creep on till we strike the river, or a bobby.”

The cab crept on, and Michael walked beside it, feeling with his foot for the curb.

The refined voice of an invisible man said: “This is sanguinary!”

“It is,” said Michael. “Where are we?”

“In the twentieth century, and the heart of civilisation.”

Michael laughed, and regretted it; the fog tasted of filth.

“Think of the police!” said the voice, “having to be out in this all night!”

“Splendid force, the police!” replied Michael. “Where are you, sir?”

“Here, sir. Where are you?”

It was the exact position. The blurred moon of a lamp glowed suddenly above Michael’s head. The cab ceased to move.

“If I could only smell the ‘Ouses of Parliament,” said the cabman. “They’ll be ‘avin’ supper there be now.”

“Listen!” said Michael—Big Ben was striking. “That was to our left.”

“At our back,” said the cabman.

“Can’t be, or we should be in the river; unless you’ve turned right round!”

“Gawd knows where I’ve turned,” said the cabman, sneezing. “Never saw such a night!”

“There’s only one thing for it—drive on until we hit something. Gently does it.”

The cabman started the cab, and Michael, with his hand on it, continued to feel for the curb with his foot.

“Steady!” he said, suddenly. “Car in front.” There was a slight bump.

“Nah then!” said a voice. “Where yer comin’? Cawn’t yer see?”

Michael moved up alongside of what seemed to be another taxi.

“Comin’ along at that pice!” said its driver; “and full moon, too!”

“Awfully sorry,” said Michael. “No harm done. You got any sense of direction left?”

“The pubs are all closed—worse luck! There’s a bloomin’ car in front o’ me that I’ve hit three times. Can’t make any impression on it. The driver’s dead, I think. Would yer go and look, Guv’nor?”

Michael moved towards the loom in front. But at that moment it gave way to the more universal blackness. He ran four steps to hail the driver, stumbled off the curb, fell, picked himself up and spun round. He moved along the curb to his right, felt he was going wrong, stopped, and called: “Hallo!” A faint “Hallo!” replied from—where? He moved what he thought was back, and called again. No answer! Fleur would be frightened! He shouted. Half a dozen faint hallos replied to him; and someone at his elbow said: “Don’t cher know where y’are?”

“No; do you?”

“What do you think? Lost anything?”

“Yes; my cab.”

“Left anything in it?”

“My wife.”

“Lawd! You won’t get ‘er back to-night.” A hoarse laugh, ghostly and obscene, floated by. A bit of darkness loomed for a moment, and faded out. Michael stood still. ‘Keep your head!’ he thought. ‘Here’s the curb—either they’re in front, or they’re behind; or else I’ve turned a corner.’ He stepped forward along the curb. Nothing! He stepped back. Nothing! “What the blazes have I done?” he muttered: “or have they moved on?” Sweat poured down him in spite of the cold. Fleur would be really scared! And the words of his election address sprang from his lips. “Chiefly by the elimination of smoke!”

“Ah!” said a voice, “got a cigarette, Guv’nor?”

“I’ll give you all I’ve got and half a crown, if you’ll find a cab close by with a lady in it. What street’s this?”

“Don’t arst me! The streets ‘ave gone mad, I think.”

“Listen!” said Michael sharply.

“That’s right, ‘Some one callin’ so sweet.’”

“Hallo!” cried Michael. “Fleur!”

“Here! Here!”

It sounded to his right, to his left, behind him, in front. Then came the steady blowing of a cab’s horn.

“Now we’ve got ’em,” said the bit of darkness. “This way, Guv’nor, step slow, and mind my corns!”

Michael yielded to a tugging at his coat.

“It’s like No–Man’s Land in a smoke barrage!” said his guide.

“You’re right. Hallo! Coming!”

The horn sounded a yard off. A voice said: “Oh! Michael!”

His face touched Fleur’s in the window of the cab.

“Just a second, darling. There you are, my friend, and thanks awfully! Hope you’ll get home!”

“I’ve ‘ad worse nights out than this. Thank you, Captain! Wish you and the lady luck.” There was a sound of feet shuffling on, and the fog sighed out: “So long!”

“All right, sir,” said the hoarse voice of Michael’s cabman. “I know where I am now. First on the left, second on the right. I’ll bump the curb till I get there. Thought you was swallered up, sir!”

Michael got into the cab, and clasped Fleur close. She uttered a long sigh, and sat quite still.

“Nothing more scaring than a fog!” he said.