Coming up for Air- 第32部分

old　porteous　shies　a　bit　at　the　world　‘bloody’；　which　he　doesn’t　like；　though　of　course　it’s　part　of　his　pose　never　to　be　shocked。　he　begins　walking　up　and　down　again；　puffing　out　smoke。

‘i　see　no　reason　for　paying　any　attention　to　him。　a　mere　adventurer。　these　people　e　and　go。　ephemeral；　purely　ephemeral。’

i’m　not　certain　what　the　word　‘ephemeral’　means；　but　i　stick　to　my　point：

‘i　think　you’ve　got　it　wrong。　old　hitler’s　something　different。　so’s　joe　stalin。　they　aren’t　like　these　chaps　in　the　old　days　who　crucified　people　and　chopped　their　heads　off　and　so　forth；　just　for　the　fun　of　it。　they’re　after　something　quite　new—something　that’s　never　been　heard　of　before。’

‘my　dear　fellow！　there　is　nothing　new　under　the　sun。’

of　course　that’s　a　favourite　saying　of　old　porteous’s。　he　won’t　hear　of　the　existence　of　anything　new。　as　soon　as　you　tell　him　about　anything　that’s　happening　nowadays　he　says　that　exactly　the　same　thing　happened　in　the　reign　of　king　so…and…so。　even　if　you　bring　up　things　like　aeroplanes　he　tells　you　that　they　probably　had　them　in　crete；　or　mycenae；　or　wherever　it　was。　i　tried　to　explain　to　him　what　i’d　felt　while　the　little　bloke　was　lecturing　and　the　kind　of　vision　i’d　had　of　the　bad　time　that’s　ing；　but　he　wouldn’t　listen。　merely　repeated　that　there’s　nothing　new　under　the　sun。　finally　he　hauls　a　book　out　of　the　shelves　and　reads　me　a　passage　about　some　greek　tyrant　back　in　the　b。c。s　who　certainly　might　have　been　hitler’s　twin　brother。

the　argument　went　on　for　a　bit。　all　day　i’d　been　wanting　to　talk　to　somebody　about　this　business。　it’s　funny。　i’m　not　a　fool；　but　i’m　not　a　highbrow　either；　and　god　knows　at　normal　times　i　don’t　have　many　interests　that　you　wouldn’t　expect　a　middle…aged　seven…　pound…a…weeker　with　two　kids　to　have。　and　yet　i’ve　enough　sense　to　see　that　the　old　life　we’re　used　to　is　being　sawn　off　at　the　roots。　i　can　feel　it　happening。　i　can　see　the　war　that’s　ing　and　i　can　see　the　after…war；　the　food…queues　and　the　secret　police　and　the　loudspeakers　telling　you　what　to　think。　and　i’m　not　even　exceptional　in　this。　there　are　millions　of　others　like　me。　ordinary　chaps　that　i　meet　everywhere；　chaps　i　run　across　in　pubs；　bus　drivers；　and　travelling　salesmen　for　hardware　firms；　have　got　a　feeling　that　the　world’s　gone　wrong。　they　can　feel　things　cracking　and　collapsing　under　their　feet。　and　yet　here’s　this　learned　chap；　who’s　lived　all　his　life　with　books　and　soaked　himself　in　history　till　it’s　running　out　of　his　pores；　and　he　can’t　even　see　that　things　are　changing。　doesn’t　think　hitler　matters。　refuses　to　believe　there’s　another　war　ing。　in　any　case；　as　he　didn’t　fight　in　the　last　war；　it　doesn’t　enter　much　into　his　thoughts—he　thinks　it　was　a　poor　show　pared　with　the　siege　of　troy。　doesn’t　see　why　one　should　bother　about　the　slogans　and　the　loudspeakers　and　the　coloured　shirts。　what　intelligent　person　would　pay　any　attention　to　such　things？　he　always　says。　hitler　and　stalin　will　pass　away；　but　something　which　old　porteous　calls　‘the　eternal　verities’　won’t　pass　away。　this；　of　course；　is　simply　another　way　of　saying　that　things　will　always　go　on　exactly　as　he’s　known　them。　for　ever　and　ever；　cultivated　oxford　blokes　will　stroll　up　and　down　studies　full　of　books；　quoting　latin　tags　and　smoking　good　tobacco　out　of　jars　with　coats　of　arms　on　them。　really　it　was　no　use　talking　to　him。　i’d　have　got　more　change　out　of　the　lad　with　tow…　coloured　hair。　by　degrees　the　conversation　twisted　off；　as　it　always　does；　to　things　that　happened　b。c。　then　it　worked　round　to　poetry。　finally　old　porteous　drags　another　book　out　of　the　shelves　and　begins　reading　keat’s　‘ode　to　a　nightingale’　（or　maybe　it　was　a　skylark—i　forget）。

so　far　as　i’m　concerned　a　little　poetry　goes　a　long　way。　but　it’s　a　curious　fact　that　i　rather　like　hearing　old　porteous　reading　it　aloud。　there’s　no　question　that　he　reads　well。　he’s　got　the　habit；　of　course—used　to　reading　to　classes　of　boys。　he’ll　lean　up　against　something　in　his　lounging　way；　with　his　pipe　between　his　teeth　and　little　jets　of　smoke　ing　out；　and　his　voice　goes　kind　of　solemn　and　rises　and　falls　with　the　line。　you　can　see　that　it　moves　him　in　some　way。　i　don’t　know　what　poetry　is　or　what　it’s　supposed　to　do。　i　imagine　it　has　a　kind　of　nervous　effect　on　some　people　like　music　has　on　others。　when　he’s　reading　i　don’t　actually　listen；　that’s　to　say　i　don’t　take　in　the　words；　but　sometimes　the　sound　of　it　brings　a　kind　of　peaceful　feeling　into　my　mind。　on　the　whole　i　like　it。　but　somehow　tonight　it　didn’t　work。　it　was　as　if　a　cold　draught　had　blown　into　the　room。　i　just　felt　that　this　was　all　bunk。　poetry！　what　is　it？　just　a　voice；　a　bit　of　an　eddy　in　the　air。　and　gosh！　what　use　would　that　be　against　machine…guns？

i　watched　him　leaning　up　against　the　bookshelf。　funny；　these　public…school　chaps。　schoolboys　all　their　days。　whole　life　revolving　round　the　old　school　and　their　bits　of　latin　and　greek　and　poetry。　and　suddenly　i　remembered　that　almost　the　first　time　i　was　here　with　porteous　he’d　read　me　the　very　same　poem。　read　it　in　just　the　same　way；　and　his　voice　quivered　when　he　got　to　the　same　bit—the　bit　about　magic　casements；　or　something。　and　a　curious　thought　struck　me。　he’s　dead。　he’s　a　ghost。　all　people　like　that　are　dead。

it　struck　me　that　perhaps　a　lot　of　the　people　you　see　walking　about　are　dead。　we　say　that　a　man’s　dead　when　his　heart　stops　and　not　before。　it　seems　a　bit　arbitrary。　after　all；　parts　of　your　body　don’t　stop　working—hair　goes　on　growing　for　years；　for　instance。　perhaps　a　man　really　dies　when　his　brain　stops；　when　he　loses　the　power　to　take　in　a　new　idea。　old　porteous　is　like　that。　wonderfully　learned；　wonderfully　good　taste—but　he’s　not　capable　of　change。　just　says　the　same　things　and　thinks　the　same　thoughts　over　and　over　again。　there　are　a　lot　of　people　like　that。　dead　minds；　stopped　inside。　just　keep　moving　backwards　and　forwards　on　the　same　little　track；　getting　fainter　all　the　time；　like　ghosts。

old　porteous’s　mind；　i　thought；　probably　stopped　working　at　about　the　time　of　the　russo…japanese　war。　and　it’s　a　ghastly　thing　that　nearly　all　the　decent　people；　the　people　who　don’t　want　to　go　round　smashing　faces　in　with　spanners；　are　like　that。　they’re　decent；　but　their　minds　have　stopped。　they　can’t　defend　themselves　against　what’s　ing　to　them；　because　they　can’t　see　it；　even　when　it’s　under　their　noses。　they　think　that　england　will　never　change　and　that　england’s　the　whole　world。　can’t　grasp　that　it’s　just　a　left…　over；　a　tiny　corner　that　the　bombs　happen　to　have　missed。　but　what　about　the　new　kind　of　men　from　eastern　europe；　the　streamlined　men　who　think　in　slogans　and　talk　in　bullets？　they’re　on　our　track。　not　long　before　they　catch　up　with　us。　no　marquess　of　queensbury　rules　for　those　boys。　and　all　the　decent　people　are　paralysed。　dead　men　and　live　gorillas。　doesn’t　seem　to　be　anything　between。

i　cleared　out　about　half　an　hour　later；　having　pletely　failed　to　convince　old　porteous　that　hitler　matters。　i　was　still　thinking　the　same　thoughts　as　i　walked　home　through　the　shivery　streets。　the　trains　had　stopped　running。　the　house　was　all　dark　and　hilda　was　asleep。　i　dropped　my　false　teeth　into　the　glass　of　water　in　the　bathroom；　got　into　my　pyjamas；　and　prised　hilda　over　to　the　other　side　of　the　bed。　she　rolled　over　without　waking；　and　the　kind　of　hump　between　her　shoulders　was　towards　me。　it’s　funny；　the　tremendous　gloom　that　sometimes　gets　hold　of　you　late　at　night。　at　that　moment　the　destiny　of　europe　seemed　to　me　more　important　than　the　rent　and　the　kids’　school…bills　and　the　work　i’d　have　to　do　tomorrow。　for　anyone　who　has　to　earn　his　living　such　thoughts　are　just　plain　foolishness。　but　they　didn’t　move　out　of　my　mind。　still　the　vision　of　the　coloured　shirts　and　the　machine…guns　rattling。　the　last　thing　i　remember　wondering　before　i　fell　asleep　was　why　the　hell　a　chap　like　me　should　care。

。。。！



PART　Ⅲ…2

　小=＿说。网
the　primroses　had　started。　i　suppose　it　was　some　time　in　march。

i’d　driven　through　westerham　and　was　making　for　pudley。　i’d　got　to　do　an　assessment　of　an　ironmonger’s　shop；　and　then；　if　i　could　get　hold　of　him；　to　interview　a　life…insurance　case　who　was　wavering　in　the　balance。　his　name　had　been　sent　in　by　our　local　agent；　but　at　the　last　moment　he’d　taken　fright　and　begun　to　doubt　whether　he　could　afford　it。　i’m　pretty　good　at　talking　people　round。　it’s　being　fat　that　does　it。　it　puts　people　in　a　cheery　kind　of　mood；　makes　‘em　feel　that　signing　a　cheque　is　almost　a　pleasure。　of　course　there　are　different　ways　of　tackling　different　people。　with　some　it’s　better　to　lay　all　the　stress　on　the　bonuses；　others　you　can　scare　in　a　subtle　way　with　hints　about　what’ll　happen　to　their　wives　if　they　die　uninsured。

the　old　car　switchbacked　up　and　down　the　curly　little　hills。　and　by　god；　what　a　day！　you　know　the　kind　of　day　that　generally　es　some　time　in　march　when　winter　suddenly　seems　to　give　up　fighting。　for　days　past　we’d　been　having　the　kind　of　beastly　weather　that　people　call　‘bright’　weather；　when　the　sky’s　a　cold　hard　blue　and　the　wind　scrapes　you　like　a　blunt　razor…blade。　then　suddenly　the　wind