In short, they were intelligent, and completely fatalistic.
After these quiet talks, Michael understood, much better than before, the profession of politics. He was greatly attracted by the member of the Government; his personality was modest, his manner pleasant, he had Departmental ideas, and was doing his best with his own job according to those ideas; if he had others he kept them to himself. He seemed to admire Fleur, and he listened better than the other two. He said, too, some things they hadn’t. ‘Of course, what we’re able to do may be found so inadequate that there’ll be a great journalistic outcry, and under cover of it we may bring in some sweeping measures that people will swallow before they know what they’re in for.’
‘The Press,’ said Michael; ‘I don’t see them helping.’
‘Well! It’s the only voice there is. If you could get fast hold of the vociferous papers, you might even put Foggartism over. What you’re really up against is the slow town growth of the last hundred and fifty years, an ingrained state of mind which can only see England in terms of industrialism and the carrying trade. And in the town-mind, of course, hope springs eternal. They don’t like calamity talk. Some genuinely think we can go on indefinitely on the old lines, and get more and more prosperous into the bargain. Personally, I don’t. It’s possible that much of what old Foggart advocates may be adopted bit by bit, even child emigration, from sheer practical necessity; but it won’t be called Foggartism. Inventor’s luck! He’ll get no credit for being the first to see it. And,’ added the Minister gloomily, ‘by the time it’s adopted, it’ll probably be too late.’
Receiving the same day a request for an interview from a Press syndicate whose representative would come down to suit his convenience, Michael made the appointment, and prepared an elaborate exposition of his faith. The representative, however, turned out to be a camera, and a photograph entitled: ‘The Member for mid-Bucks expounding Foggartism to our Representative,’ became the only record of it. The camera was active. It took a family group in front of the porch: ‘Right to left, Mr Michael Mont, M.P., Lady Mont, Mrs Michael Mont, Sir Lawrence Mont, Bt.’ It took Fleur: ‘Mrs Michael Mont, with Kit and Dandie.’ It took the Jacobean wing. It took the Minister, with his pipe, ‘enjoying a Christmas rest’. It took a corner of the walled garden: ‘In the grounds’. It then had lunch. After lunch it took the whole house-party: ‘At Sir Lawrence Mont’s, Lippinghall Manor, Bucks’; with the Minister on Lady Mont’s right and the Minister’s wife on Sir Lawrence’s left. This photograph would have turned out better if the Dandie, inadvertently left out, had not made a sudden onslaught on the camera legs. It took a photograph of Fleur alone: ‘Mrs Michael Mont – a charming young Society hostess.’ It understood that Michael was making an interesting practical experiment – could it take Foggartism in action? Michael grinned and said: ‘Yes, if it would take a walk, too.’
They departed for the coppice. The colony was in its normal state – Boddick, with two of the contractor’s men cheering him on, was working at the construction of the incubator-house; Swain, smoking a cigarette, was reading the Daily Mail; Bergfeld was sitting with his head in his hands, and Mrs Bergfeld was washing up.
The camera took three photographs. Michael, who had noted that Bergfeld had begun shaking, suggested to the camera that it would miss its train. It at once took a final photograph of Michael in front of the hut, two cups of tea at the Manor, and its departure.
As Michael was going upstairs that night, the butler came to him.
‘The man Boddick’s in the pantry, Mr Michael; I’m afraid something’s happened, sir.’
‘Oh!’ said Michael blankly.
Where Michael had spent many happy hours, when he was young, was Boddick, his pale face running with sweat, and his dark eyes very alive.
‘The German’s gone, sir.’
‘Gone?’
‘Hanged hisself. The woman’s in an awful state. I cut him down and sent Swain to the village.’
‘Good God! Hanged! But why?’
‘He’s been very funny these last three days; and that camera upset him properly. Will you come, sir?’
They set out with a lantern, Boddick telling his tale.
‘As soon as ever you was gone this afternoon he started to shake and carry on about having been made game of. I told ‘im not to be a fool, and went out to get on with it. But when I came in to tea, he was still shakin’, and talkin’ about his honour and his savin’s; Swain had got fed up and was jeerin’ at him, and Mrs Bergfeld was as white as a ghost in the corner. I told Swain to shut his head; and Fritz simmered down after a bit, and sat humped up as he does for hours together. Mrs Bergfeld got our tea. I had some chores to finish, so I went out after. When I come in at seven, they was at it again hammer and tongs, and Mrs Bergfeld cryin’ fit to bust her heart. “Can’t you see,” I said, “how you’re upsettin’ your wife?” “Henry Boddick,” he said, “I’ve nothing against you, you’ve always been decent to me. But this Swain,” he said, “‘is name is Swine!” and he took up the bread-knife. I got it away from him, and spoke him calm. “Ah!” he said, “but you’ve no pride.” Swain was lookin’ at him with that sort o’ droop in his mouth he’s got. “Pride,” he says, “you silly blighter, what call ‘ave you to ‘ave any pride?” Well, I see that while we was there he wasn’t goin’ to get any better, so I took Swain off for a glass at the pub. When we came back at ten o’clock, Swain went straight to bed, and I went into the mess-room, where I found his wife alone. “Has he gone to bed?” I said. “No,” she said, “he’s gone out to cool his head. Oh! Henry Boddick,” she said, “I don’t know what to do with him!” We sat there a bit, she tellin’ me about ‘im brooding, and all that – nice woman she is, too; till suddenly she said: “Henry Boddick,” she said, “I’m frightened. Why don’t he come?” We went out to look for him, and where d’you think he was, sir? You know that big tree we’re just goin’ to have down? There’s a ladder against it, and the guidin’ rope all fixed. He’d climbed up that ladder in the moonlight, put the rope round his neck, and jumped off; and there he was, six feet from the ground, dead as a duck. I roused up Swain, and we got him in, and – Well, we ‘ad a proper time! Poor woman, I’m sorry for her, sir – though really I think it’s just as well he’s gone – he couldn’t get upsides with it, anyhow. That camera chap would have given something for a shot at what we saw there in the moonlight.’