Tono Bungay

And while I neglected the development of my uncle’s finances—­and my own, in my scientific work and my absorbing conflict with the difficulties of flying,—­his schemes grew more and more expansive and hazardous, and his spending wilder and laxer.  I believe that a haunting sense of the intensifying unsoundness of his position accounts largely for his increasing irritability and his increasing secretiveness with my aunt and myself during these crowning years.  He dreaded, I think, having to explain, he feared our jests might pierce unwittingly to the truth.  Even in the privacy of his mind he would not face the truth.  He was accumulating unrealisable securities in his safes until they hung a potential avalanche over the economic world.  But his buying became a fever, and his restless desire to keep it up with himself that he was making a triumphant progress to limitless wealth gnawed deeper and deeper.  A curious feature of this time with him was his buying over and over again of similar things.  His ideas seemed to run in series.  Within a twelve-month he bought five new motor-cars, each more swift and powerful than its predecessor, and only the repeated prompt resignation of his chief chauffeur at each moment of danger, prevented his driving them himself.  He used them more and more.  He developed a passion for locomotion for its own sake.

Then he began to chafe at Lady Grove, fretted by a chance jest he had overheard at a dinner.  “This house, George,” he said.  “It’s a misfit.  There’s no elbow-room in it; it’s choked with old memories.  And I can’t stand all these damned Durgans!

“That chap in the corner, George.  No! the other corner!  The man in a cherry-coloured coat.  He watched you!  He’d look silly if I stuck a poker through his Gizzard!”

“He’d look,” I reflected, “much as he does now.  As though he was amused.”

He replaced his glasses, which had fallen at his emotion, and glared at his antagonists.  “What are they?  What are they all, the lot of ’em?  Dead as Mutton!  They just stuck in the mud.  They didn’t even rise to the Reformation.  The old out-of-date Reformation!  Move with the times!—­they moved against the times.

Just a Family of Failure,—­they never even tried!

“They’re jes’, George, exactly what I’m not.  Exactly.  It isn’t suitable….  All this living in the Past.

“And I want a bigger place too, George.  I want air and sunlight and room to move about and more service.  A house where you can get a Move on things!  Zzzz.  Why! it’s like a discord—­it jars—­even to have the telephone….  There’s nothing, nothing except the terrace, that’s worth a Rap.  It’s all dark and old and dried up and full of old-fashioned things—­musty old idees—­fitter for a silver-fish than a modern man….  I don’t know how I got here.”

He broke out into a new grievance.  “That damned vicar,” he complained, “thinks I ought to think myself lucky to get this place!  Every time I meet him I can see him think it….  One of these days, George I’ll show him what a Mod’un house is like!”

And he did.

I remember the day when he declared, as Americans say, for Crest Hill.  He had come up to see my new gas plant, for I was then only just beginning to experiment with auxiliary collapsible balloons, and all the time the shine of his glasses was wandering away to the open down beyond.  “Let’s go back to Lady Grove over the hill,” he said.  “Something I want to show you.  Something fine!”

It was an empty sunlit place that summer evening, sky and earth warm with sundown, and a pe-wit or so just accentuating the pleasant stillness that ends a long clear day.  A beautiful peace, it was, to wreck for ever.  And there was my uncle, the modern man of power, in his grey top-hat and his grey suit and his black-ribboned glasses, short, thin-legged, large-stomached, pointing and gesticulating, threatening this calm.

He began with a wave of his arm.  “That’s the place, George,” he said.  “See?”

“Eh!” I cried—­for I had been thinking of remote things.

“I got it.”

“Got what?”

“For a house!—­a Twentieth Century house!  That’s the place for it!”

One of his characteristic phrases was begotten in him.

“Four-square to the winds of heaven, George!” he said.  “Eh?  Four-square to the winds of heaven!”

“You’ll get the winds up here,” I said.

“A mammoth house it ought to be, George—­to suit these hills.”

“Quite,” I said.

“Great galleries and things—­running out there and there—­See?  I been thinking of it, George!  Looking out all this way—­across the Weald.  With its back to Lady Grove.”

“And the morning sun in its eye.”

“Like an eagle, George,—­like an eagle!”

So he broached to me what speedily became the leading occupation of his culminating years, Crest Hill.  But all the world has heard of that extravagant place which grew and changed its plans as it grew, and bubbled like a salted snail, and burgeoned and bulged and evermore grew.  I know not what delirium of pinnacles and terraces and arcades and corridors glittered at last upon the uplands of his mind; the place, for all that its expansion was terminated abruptly by our collapse, is wonderful enough as it stands,—­that empty instinctive building of a childless man.  His chief architect was a young man named Westminster, whose work he had picked out in the architecture room of the Royal Academy on account of a certain grandiose courage in it, but with him he associated from time to time a number of fellow professionals, stonemasons, sanitary engineers, painters, sculptors, scribes, metal workers, wood carvers, furniture designers, ceramic specialists, landscape gardeners, and the man who designs the arrangement and ventilation of the various new houses in the London Zoological Gardens.  In addition he had his own ideas.  The thing occupied his mind at all times, but it held it completely from Friday night to Monday morning.  He would come down to Lady Grove on Friday night in a crowded motor-car that almost dripped architects.  He didn’t, however, confine himself to architects; every one was liable to an invitation to week-end and view Crest Hill, and many an eager promoter, unaware of how Napoleonically and completely my uncle had departmentalised his mind, tried to creep up to him by way of tiles and ventilators and new electric fittings.  Always on Sunday mornings, unless the weather was vile, he would, so soon as breakfast and his secretaries were disposed of, visit the site with a considerable retinue, and alter and develop plans, making modifications, Zzzz-ing, giving immense new orders verbally—­an unsatisfactory way, as Westminster and the contractors ultimately found.

There he stands in my memory, the symbol of this age for me, the man of luck and advertisement, the current master of the world.  There he stands upon the great outward sweep of the terrace before the huge main entrance, a little figure, ridiculously disproportionate to that forty-foot arch, with the granite ball behind him—­the astronomical ball, brass coopered, that represented the world, with a little adjustable tube of lenses on a gun-metal arm that focussed the sun upon just that point of the earth on which it chanced to be shining vertically.  There he stands, Napoleonically grouped with his retinue men in tweeds and golfing-suits, a little solicitor, whose name I forget, in grey trousers and a black jacket, and Westminster in Jaeger underclothing, a floriferous tie, and peculiar brown cloth of his own.

The downland breeze flutters my uncle’s coat-tails, disarranges his stiff hair, and insists on the evidence of undisciplined appetites in face and form, as he points out this or that feature in the prospect to his attentive collaborator.

Below are hundreds of feet of wheeling-planks, ditches, excavations, heaps of earth, piles of garden stone from the Wealden ridges.  On either hand the walls of his irrelevant unmeaning palace rise at one time he had working in that place—­disturbing the economic balance of the whole countryside by their presence—­upwards of three thousand men….

So he poses for my picture amidst the raw beginnings that were never to be completed.  He did the strangest things about that place, things more and more detached from any conception of financial scale, things more and more apart from sober humanity.  He seemed to think himself, at last, released from any such limitations.  He moved a quite considerable hill, and nearly sixty mature trees were moved with it to open his prospect eastward, moved it about two hundred feet to the south.  At another time he caught a suggestion from some city restaurant and made a billiard-room roofed with plate glass beneath the waters of his ornamental lake.  He furnished one wing while its roof still awaited completion.  He had a swimming bath thirty feet square next to his bedroom upstairs, and to crown it all he commenced a great wall to hold all his dominions together, free from the invasion of common men.  It was a ten-foot wall, glass surmounted, and had it been completed as he intended it, it would have had a total length of nearly eleven miles.  Some of it towards the last was so dishonestly built that it collapsed within a year upon its foundations, but some miles of it still stand.  I never think of it now but what I think of the hundreds of eager little investors who followed his “star,” whose hopes and lives, whose wives’ security and children’s prospects are all mixed up beyond redemption with that flaking mortar….

It is curious how many of these modern financiers of chance and bluff have ended their careers by building.  It was not merely my uncle.  Sooner or later they all seem to bring their luck to the test of realisation, try to make their fluid opulence coagulate out as bricks and mortar, bring moonshine into relations with a weekly wages-sheet.  Then the whole fabric of confidence and imagination totters—­and down they come….

When I think of that despoiled hillside, that colossal litter of bricks and mortar, and crude roads and paths, the scaffolding and sheds, the general quality of unforeseeing outrage upon the peace of nature, I am reminded of a chat I had with the vicar one bleak day after he had witnessed a glide.  He talked to me of aeronautics as I stood in jersey and shorts beside my machine, fresh from alighting, and his cadaverous face failed to conceal a peculiar desolation that possessed him.

“Almost you convince me,” he said, coming up to me, “against my will….  A marvellous invention!  But it will take you a long time, sir, before you can emulate that perfect mechanism—­the wing of a bird.”

He looked at my sheds.

“You’ve changed the look of this valley, too,” he said.

“Temporary defilements,” I remarked, guessing what was in his mind.

“Of course.  Things come and go.  Things come and go.  But—­H’m.  I’ve just been up over the hill to look at Mr. Edward Ponderevo’s new house.  That—­that is something more permanent.  A magnificent place!—­in many ways.  Imposing.  I’ve never somehow brought myself to go that way before.  Things are greatly advanced….  We find—­the great number of strangers introduced into the villages about here by these operations, working-men chiefly, a little embarrassing.  It put us out.  They bring a new spirit into the place; betting—­ideas—­all sorts of queer notions.  Our publicans like it, of course.  And they come and sleep in one’s outhouses—­and make the place a little unsafe at nights.  The other morning I couldn’t sleep—­a slight dyspepsia—­and I looked out of the window.  I was amazed to see people going by on bicycles.  A silent procession.  I counted ninety-seven—­in the dawn.  All going up to the new road for Crest Hill.  Remarkable I thought it.  And so I’ve been up to see what they were doing.”

“They would have been more than remarkable thirty years ago,” I said.

“Yes, indeed.  Things change.  We think nothing of it now at all—­comparatively.  And that big house—­”

He raised his eyebrows.  “Really stupendous!  Stupendous.

“All the hillside—­the old turf—­cut to ribbons!”

His eye searched my face.  “We’ve grown so accustomed to look up to Lady Grove,” he said, and smiled in search of sympathy.  “It shifts our centre of gravity.”

“Things will readjust themselves,” I lied.

He snatched at the phrase.  “Of course,” he said.

“They’ll readjust themselves—­settle down again.  Must.  In the old way.  It’s bound to come right again—­a comforting thought.  Yes.  After all, Lady Grove itself had to be built once upon a time—­was—­to begin with—­artificial.”

His eye returned to my aeroplane.  He sought to dismiss his graver preoccupations.  “I should think twice,” he remarked, “before I trusted myself to that concern….  But I suppose one grows accustomed to the motion.”

He bade me good morning and went his way, bowed and thoughtful….

He had kept the truth from his mind a long time, but that morning it had forced its way to him with an aspect that brooked no denial that this time it was not just changes that were coming in his world, but that all his world lay open and defenceless, conquered and surrendered, doomed so far as he could see, root and branch, scale and form alike, to change.