The Gale of the World (14 page)

“It's for Shaw's ‘Pygmalion'—we're doing it at school. I put it on because it was all I could find, and I must say goodnight to Capella.”

“You're Liza, of course, in the play?”

“Yes.”

“Why aren't you at school?”

“She's a day girl at Lynmouth.” said Molly. “The school isn't back in Cheltenham yet—the Americans took over all the buildings during the war. Now Roger my sweet, trot up to bed, and Cousin Hugh will come and say goodnight, then I'll tuck you up. And no more heavy reading at night, Miranda.”

There was a bump on the hall door, a series of bleats. “That's Capella, I haven't said good night to her.”

“What's the heavy reading?” asked Riversmill.

“Schopenhauer. I'll just say good night to Capella,” replied Miranda, coming down the stairs.

“Schopenhauer? Ye Gods, what's-the new generation coming to, Molly?”

The hall door opened, a white goat with a red collar bounded into the room. Miranda said, “Schopenhauer sees the world as Idea, and life as ceaseless conflict and strife,” as she stroked her pet.

“All artists see the world as Idea,” replied Riversmill, while the goat lay down with the cats before the hearth. Miranda said, “He says the life-urge of nature is intrinsically cruel and
destructive
, and it is necessary to attain pure knowledge by standing to it in relation to dialogue. Mummy, may Capella have an orange? A blood orange, if there's one left.”

“Golly,” said Riversmill. “Do
you
understand that jargon?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Put it in simple language.”

“I can illustrate it better by saying that I read a chapter of Schopenhauer, then a chapter of
The
Water
Wanderer
. Both stand up to each other.” She looked at Phillip, who felt her beauty upon him.

“Of course I know Phillip's book, but I can't see its relationship to philosophy,” said Riversmill.

“O please shut up, Anda!” said the boy. “I want to talk to Cousin Hugh about his Bentley.”

“Come on upstairs with me, Roger, and I'll tell you all about it.”

Molly gave her daughter an orange. The girl rolled it over the floor, cats and goat sprang up, and slithered about on the polished parquet. The goat picked it up in its mouth and brought the orange to Miranda.

“The goat retrieves!” cried Riversmill. “Well I'm damned!”

“Capella likes cricket, Cousin Phillip,” said Miranda. “So do all the other goats—the young ones, I mean.”

“Goats, like all animals, have a sense of fun.”

“Darling, we can't have Capella in here,” said Molly. With the orange in its mouth, the goat was led to the door and put outside.

“I'm still in the dark,” complained Riversmill.

“You're in good company then, with your friend Moses,” said Mrs. Riversmill.

This was a needling reference to her husband's everlasting tirade against the iniquity of art-dealers.

“Who asked you to speak? Go on, Miranda. Tell me why Phillip's book is philosophical.”

Miranda continued softly, “In
The
Water
Wanderer
Cousin Phillip puts his own subjectivity upon Lutra, the otter. But to become whole one must pass through nature fully aware, then one can perceive an aspect of eternity, as Richard Jefferies did in
The
Story
of
My
Heart
. That way he by-passed the unreal self which is only identifiable by dialogue—”

“What's this confounded ‘dialogue', Miranda?”

“Argument.”

“There you are, you argue from your unreal self, Riversmill,” remarked the painter's wife.

“I'm not arguing, you fathead! Go on, Miranda.”

“Well, by passing beyond subjectivism, man gains the essential relationship between the totality of the world and the whole
being
.”

“Beats me,” said Riversmill.

“In accepting the world as it is, he accepts himself as he is,” said Phillip. “He becomes calm—a spiritual being—an artist in action.”

“Bravo!” cried Riversmill. “If Phillip edited Bradshaw's
Railway
Guide, he'd make it interesting.”

“Miranda cleared the way,” said Phillip. “I've never read a word of Schopenhauer.”

“That's dialogue,” said Molly, putting an arm round her daughter. She said to Riversmill, “Anda's won an Exhibition at Oxford, haven't you, my cygnet?”, as she kissed her before standing back to admire the happy girl.

Riversmill was admiring her, too. “Look at that figure under the gown! By God, I'd like to paint you as you are now, young woman.”

“You're a horse painter!” cried Mrs. Riversmill.

“What are you going to read in college?' asked ‘Buster',
coming
down the open stairs. “Philosophy?”

“Modern history. Cousin Hugh. The last fifty years, from the late Victorians to the Edwardian and Georgian periods—from nineteen hundred to nineteen forty-five—the beginning and the end of the British conspiracy to destroy Germany.”

After hesitation, Phillip looked at her and said, “That's the period to be covered by my novel series.”

“I know,” replied Miranda, as quietly. “That's why I've just chosen it.”

“How did you know?”

“Because it is your life.”

In the silence which followed, ‘Buster' took from his pocket the book he had been reading when Phillip had first seen him in the Medicean.

“I wonder, Molly, if I may read you something from this book? It has a bearing on what has been said, I think.”

“Who wrote it?” asked Riversmill.

“I'll leave you to guess.”

“Come round the hearth, everybody,” said Molly.

They sat down on the floor, the three children staring into beechwood flames.

“I may as well start here. I quote—‘Nature works always to higher forms on earth. If one purpose of life in this world be individual development with a view to immortality, or successive incarnations directed to the same purpose, the most effective
process
of that individual development in this life is clearly the service of God's purpose in this world as revealed by nature: which is the evolution to higher forms on earth'.”

“You're right!” cried Riversmill. “And the present anti-life craze is served by formless daubers exploited by the art dealers' rackets to feather their own nests!”

“Hold your hobby-horse!” demanded his wife.

“And you hold yours! Go on, ‘Buster'.”

‘Buster' smiled at Mrs. Riversmill, as much as to say, These temperamental artists.

“‘It is by service that man both develops his own character and aids this purpose of God. No conflict exists between individual development and service of humanity: that was the error of the brilliant Nietzsche in posing a conflict between the character of his higher type of man and the interests of the people. On the contrary, the type beyond his Will to Power, which is the Will
to Achievement, finds his self-development under the impulse of the derided compassion in his long striving to lift all earthly existence to a higher level, at which the attainment of a higher form is possible. In this sense, the purpose of life is not self-development,
in
vacuo
, but the development of self in
Achievement
, as an artist in action and life, who creates, also, for humanity. The proud words, ‘I serve', are to such a man also the highest expression of self-development'.”

“Bravo!” cried Riversmill. “‘The hero of Norfolk' wrote that!” “No, ‘The hero of Brixton',” replied Phillip.

‘Buster' said, “Roger, I feel I've left you entirely out in the cold.”

“No, go on, Cousin Hugh, I like it. Honestly, I do. I like what you write!”

‘Buster' smiled as he turned pages. “This is at the end of the book, wherein the whole Idea is worked out—the analysis of failure through European conflict—the failure both of Fascism and of its opponent, Financial Democracy. This is how the book ends:—‘So, we approach the conclusion of a practical creed, which is, at once, a creed of dynamic action, summoned into existence by the urgent necessity of a great and decisive epoch; a creed of science which is based on the observed operation of a higher purpose on earth, as revealed by modern knowledge in an intelligible pattern—'”

“Space ships!” cried Roger, from the top of the stairs.

“Well, yes; but first the space ships of the mind, Roger. This, you see, is a sort of blue print. To continue—‘and the creed of a spiritual movement, which is derived from the accumulated culture and original faith of Europe. Our creed is both a religion and a science, the final synthesis: nothing less can meet the challenge of the greatest age within known time'.

“‘Our task is to preserve and to build. If the Fatherland of Europe is lost, all is lost. That home of the soul of man must be saved by any sacrifice. First, the world of the spirit must unite to resist that final doom of material victory. But, beyond lies the grave duty imposed by the new Science.'”

“I want to be a new scientist,” said Roger.

“Well, it will be up to you to become one of the new men, Roger,” said ‘Buster', with quiet patience.

“Roger darling, it's past your bed-time,” said Molly.

“Oh Mummy, this is part of my education, really it is!”

“Well, try to listen, darling, while Cousin Hugh reads to us.”

“‘It is not only to build a world worthy of the new genius of man's mind, and secure from present menace. It is to evoke from the womb of the future a race of men fit to live in that new age. We must deliberately accelerate evolution: it is no longer a matter of volition but of necessity. Is it a sin to strive in union with the revealed purpose of God? Is it a crime to hasten the coming in time of the force which in the long slow term of unassisted nature, may come too late? We go with nature: but we aid her: is that not nearer the purpose of God than the instinct to frustrate instead of to fulfil? Is not the hastening of our labouring nature the purpose for which this great efflorescence in man's intelligence has been allowed to him? How wonderfully the means has coincided with the necessity. Will man now use it? A new dynamism in the will to higher forms is the hard and practical requirement of an age which commands him to rise higher or to sink for ever. He can no longer stand still: he must transcend himself; this deed will
contain
both the glory of sacrifice and the triumph of fulfilment. It is the age of decision in which the long striving of the European soul will reach to fulfilment, or plunge to final death. Great it is to live in this moment of Fate, because it means this generation is summoned to greatness in the service of high purpose. From the dust we rise to see a vision that came not before. All things are now possible; and all will be achieved by the final order of the European.'”

*

‘Buster' closed the book.

“Cousin Phillip wrote it,” said Miranda.

“No,” replied ‘Buster'. “As Phillip inferred, it was written in Brixton prison by the Englishman most despised and hated in England during the war, Hereward Birkin.”

“If you lend me your copy, I'll review it in
The
New
Horizon
‚” said Phillip. “Just before I came here, Wallington Christie gave the magazine to me, and I'm going to edit it.”

“Bravo!” cried Riversmill. “Hereward Birkin is a great man. I heard him speak once at the Corn Hall in Fenton just before the war. Phillip was there—weren't you? Birkin was all for developing the Empire then, and creating the Welfare State people are now talking about. Indeed, he had the same ideas soon after the
Armistice
of nineteen eighteen. And Phillip has had the guts to stick to him all through, like Kurvenal to Tristan.”

“Who's Tristan?” asked the boy.

“The hero of a Cornish legend,” said Miranda.

“A man in whom an immovable sense of honour was struck by the irresistible forde of a love potion,” said Phillip, keeping his eyes from Miranda, while feeling her spirit upon him.

“Sir Hereward Birkin,” Phillip went on, “was released from prison only when he was seen to be dying. And if Ernest Bevin had had his way, he—Bevin—would have brought down the Government by calling out the Trades Union, and getting rid of Churchill. It was Winston, you see, who insisted that Birkin be let out of prison, where he had been held during three and a half years without charge, and without trial. He was released while Churchill was in the United States. Attlee sent Winston a signal.”

“Good for Winston!” cried Riversmill. “When I was president of the Painters Guild, Winston was my guest at the inaugural
banquet
. We had a long talk.”

“Yes, and you got drunk, you idiot,” remarked the painter's wife. “You tried to drag Winston into agreeing with your tirade against Picasso! But Winston had far too much sense to be dragged into anything by a screeching old jay like yourself!”

“Who asked you to speak?” the painter yelled.

“Who asked
you
to speak for Winston, you mean! Go on, ‘Buster', don't let Riversmill drag you into an argument.” She looked at her husband. “If it hadn't been for me looking after your money, you'd have been in the gutter by now, you mouldy old dog-fox!”

At this Riversmill pointed his nose at the ceiling and let out a prolonged high-pitched scream, as of a vixen calling a dog-fox under the moon. Everyone laughed. Peace was restored.

“Talking about goats, Molly,” said Mrs. Riversmill, “What are you going to do with the Brockholes herd? You surely can't keep them all here.”

“Perry wrote the other day and said he'd offered them to the Devon County Council. Peregrine”, she went on, turning to Phillip, “is my husband, at present in Kenya, shooting big game. The goats used to live in the park at Brockholes, but now the place is sold, we've no scope for them.”