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’ won’t pass away。 this； of course； is simply another way of saying that things will always go on exactly as he’s known them。 for ever and ever； cultivated oxford blokes will stroll up and down studies full of books； quoting latin tags and smoking good tobacco out of jars with coats of arms on them。 really it was no use talking to him。 i’d have got more change out of the lad with tow… coloured hair。 by degrees the conversation twisted off； as it always does； to things that happened b。c。 then it worked round to poetry。 finally old porteous drags another book out of the shelves and begins reading keat’s ‘ode to a nightingale’ （or maybe it was a skylark—i forget）。
so far as i’m concerned a little poetry goes a long way。 but it’s a curious fact that i rather like hearing old porteous reading it aloud。 there’s no question that he reads well。 he’s got the habit； of course—used to reading to classes of boys。 he’ll lean up against something in his lounging way； with his pipe between his teeth and little jets of smoke ing out； and his voice goes kind of solemn and rises and falls with the line。 you can see that it moves him in some way。 i don’t know what poetry is or what it’s supposed to do。 i imagine it has a kind of nervous effect on some people like music has on others。 when he’s reading i don’t actually listen； that’s to say i don’t take in the words； but sometimes the sound of it brings a kind of peaceful feeling into my mind。 on the whole i like it。 but somehow tonight it didn’t work。 it was as if a cold draught had blown into the room。 i just felt that this was all bunk。 poetry！ what is it？ just a voice； a bit of an eddy in the air。 and gosh！ what use would that be against machine…guns？
i watched him leaning up against the bookshelf。 funny； these public…school chaps。 schoolboys all their days。 whole life revolving round the old school and their bits of latin and greek and poetry。 and suddenly i remembered that almost the first time i was here with porteous he’d read me the very same poem。 read it in just the same way； and his voice quivered when he got to the same bit—the bit about magic casements； or something。 and a curious thought struck me。 he’s dead。 he’s a ghost。 all people like that are dead。
it struck me that perhaps a lot of the people you see walking about are dead。 we say that a man’s dead when his heart stops and not before。 it seems a bit arbitrary。 after all； parts of your body don’t stop working—hair goes on growing for years； for instance。 perhaps a man really dies when his brain stops； when he loses the power to take in a new idea。 old porteous is like that。 wonderfully learned； wonderfully good taste—but he’s not capable of change。 just says the same things and thinks the same thoughts over and over again。 there are a lot of people like that。 dead minds； stopped inside。 just keep moving backwards and forwards on the same little track； getting fainter all the time； like ghosts。
old porteous’s mind； i thought； probably stopped working at about the time of the russo…japanese war。 and it’s a ghastly thing that nearly all the decent people； the people who don’t want to go round smashing faces in with spanners； are like that。 they’re decent； but their minds have stopped。 they can’t defend themselves against what’s ing to them； because they can’t see it； even when it’s under their noses。 they think that england will never change and that england’s the whole world。 can’t grasp that it’s just a left… over； a tiny corner that the bombs happen to have missed。 but what about the new kind of men from eastern europe； the streamlined men who think in slogans and talk in bullets？ they’re on our track。 not long before they catch up with us。 no marquess of queensbury rules for those boys。 and all the decent people are paralysed。 dead men and live gorillas。 doesn’t seem to be anything between。
i cleared out about half an hour later； having pletely failed to convince old porteous that hitler matters。 i was still thinking the same thoughts as i walked home through the shivery streets。 the trains had stopped running。 the house was all dark and hilda was asleep。 i dropped my false teeth into the glass of water in the bathroom； got into my pyjamas； and prised hilda over to the other side of the bed。 she rolled over without waking； and the kind of hump between her shoulders was towards me。 it’s funny； the tremendous gloom that sometimes gets hold of you late at night。 at that moment the destiny of europe seemed to me more important than the rent and the kids’ school…bills and the work i’d have to do tomorrow。 for anyone who has to earn his living such thoughts are just plain foolishness。 but they didn’t move out of my mind。 still the vision of the coloured shirts and the machine…guns rattling。 the last thing i remember wondering before i fell asleep was why the hell a chap like me should care。
。。。！
PART Ⅲ…2
小=＿说。网
the primroses had started。 i suppose it was some time in march。
i’d driven through westerham and was making for pudley。 i’d got to do an assessment of an ironmonger’s shop； and then； if i could get hold of him； to interview a life…insurance case who was wavering in the balance。 his name had been sent in by our local agent； but at the last moment he’d taken fright and begun to doubt whether he could afford it。 i’m pretty good at talking people round。 it’s being fat that does it。 it puts people in a cheery kind of mood； makes ‘em feel that signing a cheque is almost a pleasure。 of course there are different ways of tackling different people。 with some it’s better to lay all the stress on the bonuses； others you can scare in a subtle way with hints about what’ll happen to their wives if they die uninsured。
the old car switchbacked up and down the curly little hills。 and by god； what a day！ you know the kind of day that generally es some time in march when winter suddenly seems to give up fighting。 for days past we’d been having the kind of beastly weather that people call ‘bright’ weather； when the sky’s a cold hard blue and the wind scrapes you like a blunt razor…blade。 then suddenly the wind had dropped and the sun got a ch