and circumlocutions where words used to be. With what relief did I return to this country, where a spade is still called a spade and I can use the vocabulary that I was taught to use during my admirable education. I can no longer say, ‘The kaffirs are getting out of hand’, that is true. But I can say, ‘The blacks need firm treatment.’ That’s something. I am grateful for it.’
Martha did not know what to say. She could not make out from this succession of smooth and savage sentences which side he was on. As she put it, with a straightforwardness which she imagined he would commend, ‘If you think it’s terrible, then why do you …?’
‘But I didn’t say I thought it was terrible. On the contrary,if there’s one thing my generation has learned it is that the more things change, the more they remain the same.’
Martha reached out her hand to take his glass. ‘You’re going to break it,’ she warned. He had in fact broken it - there was a mess of wet glass in his hand. He glanced at it, with raised brows, then reached for a handkerchief. Martha was looking around to see if the incident had been noticed. But everyone was listening to Mrs Brodeshaw, who was explaining how she was forming a women’s organization in preparation for the war.
A servant came forward to remove the bits of glass.
‘We old men,’ Mr Maynard said apologetically, ‘are full of unaccountable emotions.’
‘I know,’ said Martha at once. ‘You’re like my father - what upset you was the 1914 war, wasn’t it?’
He looked exceedingly uncomfortable, but assented.
‘You really seemed to think it was going to change things, didn’t you?’
‘We did attach a certain importance to it at the time.’
She heard her name called. Donovan was grinning at her with a gay spite which warned her. ‘You don’t agree, Matty dear, do you?’ he was calling down the veranda.
‘I wasn’t listening.’
Mrs Talbot came out with apologetic charm, ‘Donovan was telling us that you were a pacifist. I don’t blame you, dear, war is so utterly dreadful.’ She broke off with a confused look around her.
‘But I’m not a pacifist,’ said Martha stubbornly.
Mr Maynard broke in quickly with ‘All my generation were pacifists - until 1914.’
There was a burst of relieved laughter. Donovan looked at Martha; she looked back angrily. He turned back to Ruth with a gay shrug.
Martha saw that Mr Maynard had been protecting her. She said in a low voice, ‘I don’t see why one shouldn’t say what one thinks.’
‘Don’t you? Oh, well, I’m sorry.’
This depth of irony succeeded in making her feel very young and inadequate. It was a snub to those real feelingsshe was convinced she must share with everybody, nothing less would do! After a moment she said, ‘All the same, everyone here is planning for the war, and we don’t know yet who the war is going to be fought against.’
She had spoken rather more loudly than she had meant; the gentleman from the press had heard her. He said irritably, ‘You’d agree, I hope, that one must be prepared for a war?’ This was the substance of the leader in that morning’s News.
Mr Maynard answered for her, in a smooth voice, ‘I daresay the younger generation, who will have the privilege of being killed, are entitled to know what for?’ He had acquired another glass, and was engaged in flipping this one too with his fingernail. The journalist’s look was caught by the gesture; he watched it for a moment; then some women sitting near asked him deferentially for his opinion on the international situation. He proceeded to give it. Martha listened to his string of platitudes for a few moments, then heard Mr Maynard again: ‘Another of life’s little disillusionments: you’ll find the newspapermen are as stupid as they sound. One reads what they say, when young, with admiration for the accomplished cynicism they display; when one gets older one discovers they really mean what they write. A terrible blow it
Martha did not know what to say. She could not make out from this succession of smooth and savage sentences which side he was on. As she put it, with a straightforwardness which she imagined he would commend, ‘If you think it’s terrible, then why do you …?’
‘But I didn’t say I thought it was terrible. On the contrary,if there’s one thing my generation has learned it is that the more things change, the more they remain the same.’
Martha reached out her hand to take his glass. ‘You’re going to break it,’ she warned. He had in fact broken it - there was a mess of wet glass in his hand. He glanced at it, with raised brows, then reached for a handkerchief. Martha was looking around to see if the incident had been noticed. But everyone was listening to Mrs Brodeshaw, who was explaining how she was forming a women’s organization in preparation for the war.
A servant came forward to remove the bits of glass.
‘We old men,’ Mr Maynard said apologetically, ‘are full of unaccountable emotions.’
‘I know,’ said Martha at once. ‘You’re like my father - what upset you was the 1914 war, wasn’t it?’
He looked exceedingly uncomfortable, but assented.
‘You really seemed to think it was going to change things, didn’t you?’
‘We did attach a certain importance to it at the time.’
She heard her name called. Donovan was grinning at her with a gay spite which warned her. ‘You don’t agree, Matty dear, do you?’ he was calling down the veranda.
‘I wasn’t listening.’
Mrs Talbot came out with apologetic charm, ‘Donovan was telling us that you were a pacifist. I don’t blame you, dear, war is so utterly dreadful.’ She broke off with a confused look around her.
‘But I’m not a pacifist,’ said Martha stubbornly.
Mr Maynard broke in quickly with ‘All my generation were pacifists - until 1914.’
There was a burst of relieved laughter. Donovan looked at Martha; she looked back angrily. He turned back to Ruth with a gay shrug.
Martha saw that Mr Maynard had been protecting her. She said in a low voice, ‘I don’t see why one shouldn’t say what one thinks.’
‘Don’t you? Oh, well, I’m sorry.’
This depth of irony succeeded in making her feel very young and inadequate. It was a snub to those real feelingsshe was convinced she must share with everybody, nothing less would do! After a moment she said, ‘All the same, everyone here is planning for the war, and we don’t know yet who the war is going to be fought against.’
She had spoken rather more loudly than she had meant; the gentleman from the press had heard her. He said irritably, ‘You’d agree, I hope, that one must be prepared for a war?’ This was the substance of the leader in that morning’s News.
Mr Maynard answered for her, in a smooth voice, ‘I daresay the younger generation, who will have the privilege of being killed, are entitled to know what for?’ He had acquired another glass, and was engaged in flipping this one too with his fingernail. The journalist’s look was caught by the gesture; he watched it for a moment; then some women sitting near asked him deferentially for his opinion on the international situation. He proceeded to give it. Martha listened to his string of platitudes for a few moments, then heard Mr Maynard again: ‘Another of life’s little disillusionments: you’ll find the newspapermen are as stupid as they sound. One reads what they say, when young, with admiration for the accomplished cynicism they display; when one gets older one discovers they really mean what they write. A terrible blow it
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