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Updated: May 22, 2025
The war became a nightmare vision.... Section 9 In the morning Mr. Britling's face was white from his overnight brain storm, and Hugh's was fresh from wholesome sleep. They walked about the lawn, and Mr. Britling talked hopefully of the general outlook until it was time for them to start to the station....
Edith was a Bachelor of Science of London University and several things like that, and she looked upon the universe under her broad forehead and broad-waving brown hair with quiet watchful eyes that had nothing whatever to hide, a thing so incredible to Mr. Britling that he had loved and married her very largely for the serenity of her mystery.
And then Mr. Britling talked their way round a red-walled vegetable garden with an abundance of fruit trees, and through a door into a terraced square that had once been a farmyard, outside the converted barn. The barn doors had been replaced by a door-pierced window of glass, and in the middle of the square space a deep tank had been made, full of rainwater, in which Mr.
She would give them a taste of the Prussian way homoeopathic treatment. "But of course old vote-catching Asquith daren't he daren't!" Mr. Britling opened his mouth and said nothing; he was silenced. The men in khaki listened respectfully but ambiguously; one of the younger ladies it seemed was entirely of Lady Frensham's way of thinking, and anxious to show it.
Britling was forced to apprehend new aspects of the war, to think and rethink the war, to have his first conclusions checked and tested, twisted askew, replaced. His thoughts went far and wide and deeper until all his earlier writing seemed painfully shallow to him, seemed a mere automatic response of obvious comments to the stimulus of the war's surprise.
These fluctuating lapses from individuation made Mr. Britling a perplexity to many who judged only by the old personal standards.
Britling a little irritably. "They keep him in order.... "I used to be an alarmist about Germany," said Mr. Britling, "but I have come to feel more and more confidence in the sound common sense of the mass of the German population, and in the Emperor too if it comes to that.
Teddy used to be making perpetual jokes about the house and the baby and his work and Letty, and now he's made all the possible jokes. It's only now and then he gets a fresh one. It's like spring flowers and then summer. And Letty sits about and doesn't sing. They want something new to happen.... And there's Mr. and Mrs. Britling. They love each other. Much more than Mrs. Britling dreams, or Mr.
This was the leit-motif of the war as the German humorists presented it. "But," said Mr. Britling, "these things can't represent anything like the general state of mind in Germany." "They do," said his friend. "But it's blind fury at the dirt-throwing stage." "The whole of Germany is in that blind fury," said his friend.
I ascribe it to a greater humidity in the air. One is less dried and one is less braced. One is no longer pursued by a thirst, but one needs something to buck one up a little. Thank you. That is enough." Mr. Direck took his glass of whisky and soda from Mr. Britling's hand. Mr. Britling seated himself in an armchair by the fireplace and threw one leg carelessly over the arm.
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