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It is difficult to disentangle now what I understood at this time
and what I have since come to understand； but it seems to me that
even in those childish days I was acutely aware of an invading and
growing disorder。 The serene rhythms of the old established
agriculture； I see now； were everywhere being replaced by
cultivation under notice and snatch crops； hedges ceased to be
repaired； and were replaced by cheap iron railings or chunks of
corrugated iron； more and more hoardings sprang up； and contributed
more and more to the nomad tribes of filthy paper scraps that flew
before the wind and overspread the country。 The outskirts of
Bromstead were a maze of exploitation roads that led nowhere； that
ended in tarred fences studded with nails （I don't remember barbed
wire in those days； I think the Zeitgeist did not produce that until
later）； and in trespass boards that used vehement language。 Broken
glass； tin cans； and ashes and paper abounded。 Cheap glass； cheap
tin； abundant fuel； and a free untaxed Press had rushed upon a world
quite unprepared to dispose of these blessings when the fulness of
enjoyment was past。
I suppose one might have persuaded oneself that all this was but the
replacement of an ancient tranquillity； or at least an ancient
balance； by a new order。 Only to my eyes； quickened by my father's
intimations； it was manifestly no order at all。 It was a multitude
of incoordinated fresh starts； each more sweeping and destructive
than the last； and none of them ever really worked out to a ripe and
satisfactory completion。 Each left a legacy of products； houses；
humanity； or what not； in its wake。 It was a sort of progress that
had bolted； it was change out of hand； and going at an unprecedented
pace nowhere in particular。
No； the Victorian epoch was not the dawn of a new era； it was a
hasty； trial experiment； a gigantic experiment of the most slovenly
and wasteful kind。 I suppose it was necessary； I suppose all things
are necessary。 I suppose that before men will discipline themselves
to learn and plan； they must first see in a hundred convincing forms
the folly and muddle that come from headlong； aimless and haphazard
methods。 The nineteenth century was an age of demonstrations； some
of them very impressive demonstrations； of the powers that have come
to mankind； but of permanent achievement； what will our descendants
cherish？ It is hard to estimate what grains of precious metal may
not be found in a mud torrent of human production on so large a
scale； but will any one； a hundred years from now； consent to live
in the houses the Victorians built； travel by their roads or
railways； value the furnishings they made to live among or esteem；
except for curious or historical reasons； their prevalent art and
the clipped and limited literature that satisfied their souls？
That age which bore me was indeed a world full of restricted and
undisciplined people； overtaken by power； by possessions and great
new freedoms； and unable to make any civilised use of them whatever；
stricken now by this idea and now by that； tempted first by one
possession and then another to ill…considered attempts； it was my
father's exploitahon of his villa gardens on the wholesale level。
The whole of Bromstead as I remember it； and as I saw it lastit is
a year ago nowis a dull useless boiling…up of human activities； an
immense clustering of futilities。 It is as unfinished as ever； the
builders' roads still run out and end in mid…field in their old
fashion； the various enterprises jumble in the same hopeless
contradiction； if anything intensified。 Pretentious villas jostle
slums； and public…house and tin tabernacle glower at one another
across the cat…haunted lot that intervenes。 Roper's meadows are now
quite frankly a slum； back doors and sculleries gape towards the
railway； their yards are hung with tattered washing unashamed； and
there seem to be more boards by the railway every time I pass；
advertising pills and pickles； tonics and condiments； and suchlike
solicitudes of a people with no natural health nor appetite left in
them。 。 。 。
Well； we have to do better。 Failure is not failure nor waste wasted
if it sweeps away illusion and lights the road to a plan。
6
Chaotic indiscipline； ill…adjusted effort； spasmodic aims； these
give the quality of all my Bromstead memories。 The crowning one of
them all rises to desolating tragedy。 I remember now the wan spring
sunshine of that Sunday morning； the stiff feeling of best clothes
and aggressive cleanliness and formality； when I and my mother
returned from church to find my father dead。 He had been pruning
the grape vine。 He had never had a ladder long enough to reach the
sill of the third…floor windowsat house…painting times he had
borrowed one from the plumber who mixed his paintand he had in his
own happy…go…lucky way contrived a combination of the garden fruit
ladder with a battered kitchen table that served all sorts of odd
purposes in an outhouse。 He had stayed up this arrangement by means
of the garden roller； and the roller had at the critical moment
rolled。 He was lying close by the garden door with his head queerly
bent back against a broken and twisted rainwater pipe； an expression
of pacific contentment on his face； a bamboo curtain rod with a
tableknife tied to end of it； still gripped in his hand。 We had
been rapping for some time at the front door unable to make him
hear； and then we came round by the door in the side trellis into
the garden and so discovered him。
〃Arthur！〃 I remember my mother crying with the strangest break in
her voice； 〃What are you doing there？ Arthur！ AndSUNDAY！〃
I was coming behind her； musing remotely； when the quality of her
voice roused me。 She stood as if she could not go near him。 He had
always puzzled her so； he and his ways； and this seemed only another
enigma。 Then the truth dawned on her； she shrieked as if afraid of
him； ran a dozen steps back towards the trellis door and stopped and
clasped her ineffectual gloved hands； leaving me staring blankly；
too astonished for feeling； at the carelessly flung limbs。
The same idea came to me also。 I ran to her。 〃Mother！〃 I cried；
pale to the depths of my spirit； 〃IS HE DEAD？〃
I had been thinking two minutes before of the cold fruit pie that
glorified our Sunday dinner…table； and how I might perhaps get into
the tree at the end of the garden to read in the afternoon。 Now an
immense fact had come down like a curtain and blotted out all my
childish world。 My father was lying dead before my eyes。 。 。 。 I
perceived that my mother was helpless and that things must he done。
〃Mother！〃 I said； 〃we must get Doctor Beaseley；and carry him
indoors。〃
CHAPTER THE THIRD
SCHOLASTIC
1
My formal education began in a small preparatory school in
Bromstead。 I went there as a day boy。 The charge for my
instruction was mainly set off by the periodic visits of my father
with a large bag of battered fossils to lecture to us upon geology。
I was one of those fortunate youngsters who take readily to school
work； I had a good memory； versatile interests and a considerable
appetite for commendation； and when I was barely twelve I got a
scholarship at the City Merchants School and was entrusted with a
scholar's railway season ticket to Victoria。 After my father's
death a large and very animated and solidly built uncle in tweeds
from Staffordshire； Uncle Minter； my mother's sister's husband； with
a remarkable accent and remarkable vowel sounds； who had plunged
into the Bromstead home once or twice for the night but who was
otherwise unknown to me； came on the scene； sold off the three gaunt
houses with the utmost gusto； invested the proceeds and my father's
life insuran