The Complete Short Stories of Evelyn Waugh - Evelyn Waugh [94]
Mrs. Hornbeam set their simple meal of milk, raisins, and raw turnip; Mr. Hornbeam turned away from his elm platter. “There is no place for the Artist in the Modern World,” he said. “We ask nothing of their brutish civilization except to be left alone, to be given one little corner of land, an inch or two of sky where we can live at peace and occupy ourselves with making seemly and beautiful things. You wouldn’t think it was too much to ask. We give them the entire globe for their machines. But it is not enough. They have to hunt us out and harry us. They know that as long as there is one spot of loveliness and decency left it is a standing reproach to them.”
It was growing dark; Mrs. Hornbeam struck a flint and lit the rush lights. She wandered to the harp and plucked a few poignant notes. “Perhaps Mr. Metcalfe will stop it,” she said.
“That we should be dependent for the essentials of life upon a vulgarian like that. . . .”
It was in this mood that he received an invitation from Mr. Metcalfe to confer with his neighbours at Much Malcock House on the following afternoon.
The choice of meeting place had been a delicate one, for Lady Peabury was loth to abdicate her position of general leadership or to appear as leader in this particular matter; on the other hand, it touched her too closely for her to be able to ignore it. Accordingly the invitations were issued by Mr. Metcalfe, who thereby accepted responsibility for the agenda, while the presence of the meeting in her morning room gave something of the atmosphere of a Cabinet meeting at the Palace.
Opinion had hardened during the day and there was general agreement with Colonel Hodge’s judgment: “Metcalfe has got us into this hole by not buying the field in the first place; it’s up to him to get us out of it.” Though nothing as uncompromising as this was said in front of Mr. Metcalfe, he could feel it in the air. He was the last to arrive. Lady Peabury’s welcome to her guests had been lukewarm. “It is very kind of you to come. I really cannot think that it is necessary, but Mr. Metcalfe particularly wished it. I suppose he intends telling us what he is going to do.” To Mr. Metcalfe she said, “We are full of curiosity.”
“Sorry to be late. I’ve had a day of it, I can tell you. Been to all the local offices, got on to all the Societies, and I may as well tell you at once, there’s nothing doing from that end. We are not even scheduled as a rural area.”
“No,” said Colonel Hodge, “I saw to that. Halves the potential value of one’s property.”
“Schedules,” moaned Mr. Hornbeam, “that is what we have become. We must be scheduled to lead a free life.”
“. . . And so,” persisted Mr. Metcalfe, in his boardroom manner, “we are left to find the solution ourselves. Now this young man has no particular reason, I imagine, for preferring this district above any other in the country. The building has not yet begun; he has no commitments. I cannot help feeling that if he were tactfully approached and offered a reasonable profit on the transaction, he might be induced to re-sell.”
“I am sure,” said Lady Peabury, “we shall all owe a deep debt of gratitude to Mr. Metcalfe.”
“Very public spirited of you,” said Colonel Hodge.
“Profits, the cancer of the age . . .”
“I am perfectly willing,” said Mr. Metcalfe, “to bear my share of the burden. . . .” At the word “share” his hearers stiffened perceptibly. “My suggestion is that we make a common fund proportionate