(He flourished it magniflcently from right to left.)

  But my job don’t end there. I take under my protection and direction the purity and security of all Her Majesty’s minions; in all parts of her dominions; insist that they obey the laws of God and Man.

  The laws of God and Man (he repeated and made as if to consult a Statute; engrossed on a sheet of parchment which with great deliberation he now produced from his trouser pocket)

  Go to Church on Sunday; on Monday, nine sharp, catch the City Bus. On Tuesday it may be, attend a meeting at the Mansion House for the redemption of the sinner; at dinner on Wednesday attend another—turtle soup. Some bother it may be in Ireland; Famine. Fenians. What not. On Thursday it’s the natives of Peru require protection and correction; we give ’em what’s due. But mark you, our rule don’t end there. It’s a Christian country, our Empire; under the White Queen Victoria. Over thought and religion; drink; dress; manners; marriage too, I wield my truncheon. Prosperity and respectability always go, as we know, ’and in ’and. The ruler of an Empire must keep his eye on the cot; spy too in the kitchen; drawing-room; library; wherever one or two, me and you, come together. Purity our watchword; prosperity and respectability. If not, why, let ’em fester in . . .

  (He paused—no, he had not forgotten his words.)

  Cripplegate; St. Giles’s; Whitechapel; the Minories. Let ’em sweat at the mines; cough at the looms; rightly endure their lot. That’s the price of Empire; that’s the white man’s burden. And, I can tell you, to direct the traffic orderly, at ’Yde Park Corner, Piccadilly Circus, is a whole-time, white man’s job.

  He paused, eminent, dominant, glaring from his pedestal. A very fine figure of a man he was, everyone agreed, his truncheon extended; his waterproof pendant. It only wanted a shower of rain, a flight of pigeons round his head, and the pealing bells of St. Paul’s and the Abbey to transform him into the very spit and image of a Victorian constable; and to transport them to a foggy London afternoon, with the muffin bells ringing and the church bells pealing at the very height of Victorian prosperity.

  There was a pause. The voices of the pilgrims singing, as they wound in and out between the trees, could be heard; but the words were inaudible. The audience sat waiting.

  “Tut-tut-tut,” Mrs. Lynn Jones expostulated. “There were grand men among them . . .” Why she did not know, yet somehow she felt that a sneer had been aimed at her father; therefore at herself.

  Etty Springett tutted too. Yet, children did draw trucks in mines; there was the basement; yet Papa read Walter Scott aloud after dinner; and divorced ladies were not received at Court. How difficult to come to any conclusion! She wished they would hurry on with the next scene. She liked to leave a theatre knowing exactly what was meant. Of course this was only a village play. . . . They were setting another scene, round the red baize box. She read out from her programme:

  “The Picnic Party. About 1860. Scene: A Lake. Characters——”

  She stopped. A sheet had been spread on the Terrace. It was a lake apparently. Roughly painted ripples represented water. Those green stakes were bulrushes. Rather prettily, real swallows darted across the sheet.

  “Look, Minnie!” she exclaimed. “Those are real swallows!”

  “Hush, hush,” she was admonished. For the scene had begun. A young man in peg-top trousers and side whiskers carrying a spiked stick appeared by the lake.

  EDGAR T. . . . Let me help you, Miss Hardcastle! There!

  (He helps Miss Eleanor Hardcastle, a young lady in crinoline and mushroom hat, to the top. They stand for a moment panting slightly, looking at the view.)

  ELEANOR. How small the Church looks down among the trees!

  EDGAR. . . . So this is Wanderer’s Well, the trysting place.

  ELEANOR. . . . Please Mr. Thorold, finish what you were saying before the others come. You were saying, “Our aim in life . . .”

  EDGAR. . . . Should be to help our fellow men.

  ELEANOR (sighing deeply). How true—how profoundly true!

  EDGAR. . . . Why sigh, Miss Hardcastle?—You have nothing to reproach yourself with—you whose whole life is spent in the service of others. It was of myself that I was thinking. I am no longer young. At twenty-four the best days of life are over. My life has passed (he throws a pebble on to the lake) like a ripple in water.

  ELEANOR. Oh Mr. Thorold, you do not know me. I am not what I seem. I too——

  EDGAR. . . . Do not tell me, Miss Hardcastle—no, I cannot believe it—You have doubted?

  ELEANOR. Thank Heaven not that, not that . . . But safe and sheltered as I am, always at home, protected as you see me, as you think me. 0 what am I saying? But yes, I will speak the truth, before Mama comes. I too have longed to convert the heathen!

  EDGAR. . . . Miss Hardcastle . . . Eleanor . . . You tempt me! Dare I ask you? No—so young, so fair, so innocent. Think, I implore you, before you answer.

  ELEANOR——I have thought—on my knees!

  EDGAR (taking a ring from his pocket). Then. . . . My mother with her last breath charged me to give this ring only to one to whom a lifetime in the African desert among the heathens would be——

  ELEANOR (taking the ring). Perfect happiness! But hist! (She slips the ring into her pocket.) Here’s Mama! (They start asunder.)

  (Enter Mrs. Hardcastle, a stout lady in black bombazine, upon a donkey, escorted by an elderly gentleman in a deer-stalker’s cap.)

  MRS. H. . . . So you stole a march upon us, young people. There was a time, Sir John, when you and I were always first on top, Now . . .

  (He helps her to alight. Children, young men, young women, some carrying hampers, others butterfly nets, others spy-glasses, others tin botanical cases, arrive. A rug is thrown by the lake and Mrs. H. and Sir John seat themselves on camp stools.)

  MRS. H. . . . Now who’ll fill the kettles? Who’ll gather the sticks? Alfred (to a small boy), don’t run about chasing butterflies or you’ll make yourself sick . . . Sir John and I will unpack the hampers, here where the grass is burnt, where we had the picnic last year.

  (The young people scatter off in different directions.

  Mrs. H. and Sir John begin to unpack the hamper.)

  MRS. H. . . . Last year poor dear Mr. Beach was with us. It was a blessed release. (She takes out a black-bordered handkerchief and wipes her eyes.) Every year one of us is missing. That’s the ham . . . That’s the grouse . . . There in that packet are the game pasties . . . (She spreads the eatables on the grass.) As I was saying poor dear Mr. Beach . . . I do hope the cream hasn’t curdled. Mr. Hardcastle is bringing the claret. I always leave that to him. Only when Mr. Hardcastle gets talking with Mr. Pigott about the Romans . . . last year they quite came to words. . . . But it’s nice for gentlemen to have a hobby, though they do gather the dust—those skulls and things. . . . But I was saying—— poor dear Mr. Beach. . . . I wanted to ask you (she drops her voice) as a friend of the family, about the new clergyman—they can’t hear us, can they? No, they’re picking up sticks. . . . Last year, such a disappointment. Just got the things out . . . down came the rain. But I wanted to ask you, about the new clergyman, the one who’s come in place of dear Mr. Beach. I’m told the name’s Sibthorp. To be sure, I hope I’m right, for I had a cousin who married a girl of that name, and as a friend of the family, we don’t stand on ceremony . . . And when one has daughters—I’m sure I quite envy you, with only one daughter, Sir John, and I have four! So I was asking you to tell me in confidence, about this young—if that’s-his-name—Sibthorp, for I must tell you the day before yesterday our Mrs. Potts happened to say, as she passed the Rectory, bringing our laundry, they were unpacking the furniture; and what did she see on top of the wardrobe? A tea cosy! But of course she might be mistaken . . . But it occurred to me to ask you, as a friend of the family, in confidence, has Mr. Sibthorp a wife?

  Here a chorus composed of villagers in Victorian mantles, side whiskers and top hats sang in concert:

  O has Mr. Sibthorp a wife? 0 has Mr. Sibthorp a wife? That is the hornet, the bee in the bonnet, the screw in the cork and the drill; that whirling and twirling are for ever unfurling the folds of the motherly heart; for a mother must ask, if daughters she has, begot in the feathery billowy fourposter family bed, O did he unpack, with his prayer book and bands; his gown and his cane; his rod and his line; and the family album and gun; did he also display the connubial respectable tea-table token, a cosy with honeysuckle embossed. Has Mr. Sibthorp a wife? O has Mr. Sibthorp a wife?

  While the chorus was sung, the picnickers assembled. Corks popped. Grouse, ham, chickens were sliced. Lips munched. Glasses were drained. Nothing was heard but the chump of jaws and the chink of glasses.

  “They did eat,” Mrs. Lynn Jones whispered to Mrs. Springett. “That’s true. More than was good for them, I dare say.”

  MR. HARDCASTLE . . . (brushing flakes of meat from his whiskers). Now . . .

  “Now what?” whispered Mrs. Springett, anticipating further travesty.

  Now that we have gratified the inner man, let us gratify the desire of the spirit. I call upon one of the young ladies for a song.

  CHORUS OF YOUNG LADIES . . . O not me . . . not me . . . I really couldn’t . . . No, you cruel thing, you know I’ve lost my voice . . . I can’t sing without the instrument . . . etc., etc.

  CHORUS OF YOUNG MEN. O bosh! Let’s have “The Last Rose of Summer.” Let’s have “I Never Loved a Dear Gazelle.”

  MRS. H. (authoritatively). Eleanor and Mildred will now sing “Td be a Butterfly.”

  (Eleanor and Mildred rise obediently and sing a duet: “I’d be a Butterfly.”)

  MRS. H. Thank you very much, my dears. And now gentlemen, Our Country!

  (Arthur and Edgar sing “Rule, Britannia.”)

  MRS. H. . . . Thank you very much. Mr. Hardcastle—

  MR. HARDCASTLE (rising to his feet, clasping his fossil). Let us pray.

  (The whole company rise to their feet.)

  “This is too much, too much,” Mrs. Springett protested.

  MR. H. . . . Almighty God, giver of all good things, we thank Thee: for our food and drink; for the beauties of Nature; for the understanding with which Thou hast enlightened us (he fumbled with his fossil). And for thy great gift of Peace. Grant us to be thy servants on earth; grant us to spread the light of thy . . .

  Here the hindquarters of the donkey, represented by Albert the idiot, became active. Intentional was it, or accidental? “Look at the donkey! Look at the donkey!” A titter drowned Mr. Hardcastle’s prayer, and then he was heard saying:

  . . . a happy homecoming with bodies refreshed by thy bounty, and minds inspired by thy wisdom. Amen.

  Holding his fossil in front of him, Mr. Hardcastle marched off. The donkey was captured; hampers were loaded; and forming into a procession, the picnickers began to disappear over the hill.

  EDGAR (winding up the procession with Eleanor). To convert the heathen!

  ELEANOR. To help our fellow men!

  (The actors disappeared into the bushes.)

  BUDGE. . . . It’s time, gentlemen, time ladies, time to pack up and be gone. From where I stand, truncheon in hand, guarding respectability, and prosperity, and the purity of Victoria’s land, I see before me—(he pointed: there was Pointz Hall; the rooks cawing; the smoke rising)—

  ’Ome, Sweet ’Ome.

  The gramophone took up the strain: Through pleasures and palaces, etc. There’s no place like Home.

  BUDGE. . . . Home, gentlemen; home, ladies, it’s time to pack up and go home. Don’t I see the fire (he pointed: one window blazed red) blazing ever higher? In kitchen; and nursery; drawing-room and library? That’s the fire of ’Ome. And see! Our Jane has brought the tea. Now children where’s the toys? Mama, your knitting, quick. For here (he swept his truncheon at Cobbet of Cobbs Corner) comes the bread-winner, home from the city, home from the counter, home from the shop. “Mama, a cup o’ tea.” “Children, gather round my knee. I will read aloud. Which shall it be? Sindbad the sailor? Or some simple tale from the Scriptures? And show you the pictures? What none of ’em? Then out with the bricks. Let’s build: A conservatory? A laboratory? A mechanics’ institute? Or shall it be a tower; with our flag on top; where our widowed Queen, after tea, calls the Royal orphans round her knee? For it’s ’Ome, ladies, ’Ome, gentlemen. Be it never so humble, there’s no place like ’Ome.”

  The gramophone warbled Home, Sweet Home, and Budge, swaying slightly, descended from his box and followed the procession off the stage.

  There was an interval.

  “Oh but it was beautiful,” Mrs. Lynn Jones protested. Home she meant; the lamplit room; the ruby curtains; and Papa reading aloud.

  They were rolling up the lake and uprooting the bulrushes. Real swallows were skimming over real grass. But she still saw the home.

  “It was . . .” she repeated, referring to the home.

  “Cheap and nasty, I call it,” snapped Etty Springett, referring to the play, and shot a vicious glance at Dodge’s green trousers, yellow spotted tie, and unbuttoned waistcoat.

  But Mrs. Lynn Jones still saw the home. Was there, she mused, as Budge’s red baize pediment was rolled off, something—not impure, that wasn’t the word—but perhaps “unhygienic” about the home? Like a bit of meat gone sour, with whiskers, as the servants called it? Or why had it perished? Time went on and on like the hands of the kitchen clock. (The machine chuffed in the bushes.) If they had met with no resistance, she mused, nothing wrong, they’d still be going round and round and round. The Home would have remained; and Papa’s beard, she thought, would have grown and grown; and Mama’s knitting—what did she do with all her knitting?—Change had to come, she said to herself, or there’d have been yards and yards of Papa’s beard, of Mama’s knitting. Nowadays her son-in-law was clean shaven. Her daughter had a refrigerator. . . . Dear, how my mind wanders, she checked herself. What she meant was, change had to come, unless things were perfect; in which case she supposed they resisted Time. Heaven was changeless.

  “Were they like that?” Isa asked abruptly. She looked at Mrs. Swithin as if she had been a dinosaur or a very diminutive mammoth. Extinct she must be, since she had lived in the reign of Queen Victoria.

  Tick, tick, tick, went the machine in the bushes.

  “The Victorians,” Mrs. Swithin mused. “I don’t believe,” she said with her odd little smile, “that there ever were such people. Only you and me and William dressed differently.”

  “You don’t believe in history,” said William.

  The stage remained empty. The cows moved in the field. The shadows were deeper under the trees.

  Mrs. Swithin caressed her cross. She gazed vaguely at the view. She was off, they guessed, on a circular tour of the imagination—one-making. Sheep, cows, grass, trees, ourselves—all are one. If discordant, producing harmony—if not to us, to a gigantic ear attached to a gigantic head. And thus—she was smiling benignly—the agony of the particular sheep, cow, or human being is necessary; and so—she was beaming seraphically at the gilt vane in the distance—we reach the conclusion that all is harmony, could we hear it. And we shall. Her eyes now rested on the white summit of a cloud. Well, if the thought gave her comfort, William and Isa smiled across her, let her think it.

  Tick, tick, tick the machine reiterated.

  “D’you get her meaning?” said Mrs. Swithin alighting suddenly. “Miss La Trobe’s?”

  Isa, whose eyes had been wandering, shook her head.

  “But you might say the same of Shakespeare,” said Mrs. Swithin.

  “Shakespeare and the musical glasses!” Mrs. Manresa intervened. “Dear, what a barbarian you all make me feel!”

  She turned to Giles. She invoked his help against this attack upon the jolly human heart.

  “Tosh,” Giles muttered.

  Nothing whatever appeared on the stage.

  Darts of red and green light flashed from the rings on Mrs. Manresa’s fingers. He looked from them at Aunt Lucy. From her to William Dodge. From him to Isa. She refused to meet his eyes. And he looked down at his blood-stained tennis shoes.

  He said (without words), “I’m damnably unhappy.”

  “So am I,” Dodge echoed.

  “And I too,” Isa thought.

  They were all caught and caged; prisoners; watching a spectacle. Nothing happened. The tick of the machine was maddening.

  “On, little donkey,” Isa murmured, “crossing the desert . . . bearing your burden . . .”

  She felt Dodge’s eye upon her as her lips moved. Always some cold eye crawled over the surface like a winter blue-bottle! She flicked him off.

  “What a time they take!” she exclaimed irritably.

  “Another interval,” Dodge read out, looking at the programme.

  “And after that, what?” asked Lucy.

  “Present Time. Ourselves,” he read.

  “Let’s hope to God that’s the end,” said Giles gruffly.

  “Now you’re being naughty,” Mrs. Manresa reproved her little boy, her surly hero.

  No one moved. There they sat, facing the empty stage, the cows, the meadows and the view, while the machine ticked in the bushes.

  “What’s the object,” said Bartholomew, suddenly rousing himself, “of this entertainment?”

  “The profits,” Isa read out from her blurred carbon copy, “are to go to a fund for installing electric light in the Church.”

  “All our village festivals,” Mr. Oliver snorted turning to Mrs. Manresa, “end with a demand for money.”