The Major's fury clothed
and reclothed itself in words as frantically as a woman up in town
for one day's shopping tries on a succession of garments. He
reviled and railed at fate and the general scheme of things, he
pitied himself with a strong, deep pity too poignent for tears, he
condemned every one with whom he had ever come in contact to endless
and abnormal punishments. In fact, he conveyed the impression that
if a destroying angel had been lent to him for a week it would have
had very little time for private study. In the lulls of his outcry
could be heard the querulous monotone of Mrs. Hoopington and the
sharp staccato barking of the fox-terrier. Vladimir, who did not
understand a tithe of what was being said, sat fondling a cigarette
and repeating under his breath from time to time a vigorous English
adjective which he had long ago taken affectionately into his
vocabulary. His mind strayed back to the youth in the old Russian
folk-tale who shot an enchanted bird with dramatic results.
Meanwhile, the Major, roaming round the hall like an imprisoned
cyclone, had caught sight of and joyfully pounced on the telephone
apparatus, and lost no time in ringing up the hunt secretary and
announcing his resignation of the Mastership. A servant had by this
time brought his horse round to the door, and in a few seconds Mrs.
Hoopington's shrill monotone had the field to itself. But after the
Major's display her best efforts at vocal violence missed their full
effect; it was as though one had come straight out from a Wagner
opera into a rather tame thunderstorm.
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