Frampton looked at her with a kindling eye; he restrained his instinct to go for her. He heard comment of a slighting kind as the view of the Naunton fountain went down the table.
“Well, we don’t want anything like that,” was the most favourable remark which came to him.
“I want to add,” Frampton said, “that Pilbrow gave his work on that marble for love of the job. It was his first big chance to show what was in him; and luckily it led to other big chances being given to him. He has, therefore, grown to his capacity. Think how glad you would be, if you could set free another Pilbrow. It is all in that one phrase: ‘Setting free.’ Nations don’t alter. Men have the same kind of art power, year after year, century after century. Only in one century they will turn the power to building and decorating cathedrals, and in another to designing petrol pumps and mascots for motors. The power is there. All that is needed is a discrimination, and then a wise encouragement.”
“I don’t call it much encouragement,” Lady Susan said, “to put up a marble fountain for nothing.”
“It was just Life itself, he told me, after three years of neglect and starvation.”
“Well,” the Admiral said, “this fountain is all very well for Naunton Crucis, as they have that great spring of water there; the fountain suggests itself. I’m afraid that nothing of this kind would suit our triangle at the cross-ways. Tom here suggests a stone with the names, and some sort of flower-bed with evergreens. Does that seem a fair proposal?”
There was general approval of the stone with names and a sort of flower-bed. It would be the very thing; and in the space around it people could lay wreaths. Mr. Fence and Mr. Ock said that a plain brick plinth with marble facings was the sort of thing, surrounded by a grass plot fenced with chain swags. This was welcomed by most. The Rector asked Frampton what he, as adviser, thought of it.
Frampton said: “I have seen a great many Memorials of the kind; nobody would want to look at one of them a second time. I’m all for trying to make a Memorial here that people will come to from great distances to see. Why not have a bronze figure, or a marble upon your plinth? You know that a town in France or Italy, of half the size of this, would have a bronze or a marble, done with grace and go, too, as a matter of course. We are richer and, in many ways, wiser than any generation of Englishmen who have lived here before us. But we are leaving less to future ages than any generation. The Middle Ages built you and left you their church and chapel. The Tudors left you the Jennynges Almshouses. The Jacobeans left you Tom’s Dovecot. Charles the Second left you the Market Building. The Georgians left you the main body of your town. But what are you leaving to those who follow you, but some underground drains and overhead pylons? Here you have a chance to get busy, rout out a genius and lay great bases for posterity; yes, I say, really great. It only needs an act of will.
“Why should you not make this Memorial the very finest one in England? You come to it late. You can profit by all that have failed and all that have succeeded. You know now what to avoid, and what to better if you can. You, Admiral, you wouldn’t let your ship be beaten in any manœuvre or any point of smartness. You, Mr. Methodde, won’t let it be said that North Tatshire Memorials are better worth a visit than those in your constituency. Why not let me get busy for you and get a few designs prepared? It won’t cost you anything; it won’t commit you to anything. If you don’t like any of them, I can try again. I know that I know men who would do memorable work for you.”
He spoke to deaf ears and doubting minds. A member rose and said that most practical men had had experience of artists. He had seen some of their work, which papers who ought to have known better had cracked up. He would be sorry to see any of such work in Stubbington. It looked more like raving lunatics’ work than the work of sane men, if you asked him. He hoped that plain men in Stubbington would not be led away by talk about art into making their old town ridiculous. He had seen a so-called portrait of a lady done by one of these artists. It was said by the papers to be a piece of mordant truth, whatever that might mean. It had made him and his wife feel sick all afternoon. He hoped old Stubbington would show plain English common sense in this matter. There was a good deal of applause.
This was an opportunity for Mrs. Methodde, who rose to say her say. She had spoken a good deal, or rather, had cooed frequently. Someone had told her that her way of speaking had a caressing quality that was very persuasive. This had confirmed her in her belief that she was the one to woo an audience to vote for Methodde and English Common-sense.
“While we are all debating and declaiming,” she cooed, “might I tell the Committee of a Memorial which I saw in Normandy last summer? I was motoring with my husband, and stopped for tea at an inn at a little town; you know those charming French inns, with the faint smell of cider. It was in the Place, and just opposite was l’Église. After tea, I said to my husband, we must just look into l’Église; there may be some old stained-glass in it; so we went in. It was very damp and felt as though it wasn’t much used, but in the Lady Chapel there were two drapeaux, the tricolores, of course, and underneath, the most beautiful War Memorial I have ever seen. It was a big marble reading-desk of a dark marble. On the desk was a big marble book open. I suppose the book was as big as a big atlas. It was all white marble and made with a roll or ripple in it exactly like the roll that you see in the leaves of an open book. The leaves were inscribed in black with the names of the fallen, and all those who had been décorés were in gold. It was so simple and so dignified. It was a book of fame. I was simply struck all of a heap, I don’t mind confessing it, I couldn’t help saying: ‘There is a book who runs may read.’ I haven’t seen anything like it in any English church. But now that we are a Committee to settle what Stubbington is to have, I simply have to tell you how I felt. My husband was as much impressed as I was. I said to him this morning: ‘There is your Memorial for you.’ Only have it in the open street, not a dark chapel, and place the desk so that all who read the roll will have to kneel to do so.”
“You mean, in fact, that the Memorial should be a kind of sheltered prie dieu?” the Rector said.
“Yes. Something simple, like a church lych-gate, to screen the volume from rain or snow; then the desk inside the shelter, with a slab on which people would kneel.”
“I think Mrs. Methodde’s suggestion is the very thing we’re all groping for,” Mr. Ock said, “if I may say so.”
Mr. Quart and Mr. Tom spoke in support. The Admiral seemed perplexed. Mr. Methodde was in deep whispered discussion with Mr. Holyport, about some other matter connected with Jennynges’ Charity. The devil ever at Frampton’s elbow, now gave him a jog. It was wanton of the devil and weak of Frampton to yield to him without at least a struggle, but he was angry with Mrs. Methodde, her person, her voice, her manner, her clothes and her sense of beauty.
“Do you remember,” he asked, “if there was a marble velvet cushion under the book?”
“No, there wasn’t,” she said, “I’m sure of that. Do you recognise the place from my description? But I’m quite sure there was no cushion. A cushion would have spoiled it, I think; don’t you? It would have made it unsimple, don’t you think? And that is what I love so; simplicity.”
The devil gave Frampton another jog, to which he responded.