the Irishman. Destiny, says Claudia, overrated, to my mind. I don’t imagine you’re giving it a thought, right now? Well… says the Irishman. Exactly, Claudia continues, any more than I am. It’s only later on that people start preaching about destiny. Oh dear, complains Sylvia, I’m getting out of my depth. Now you people, says Claudia to the Irishman, live in stirring times. Ideologically speaking. Mind, you may feel that sort of thing is passing you by rather, right now, but believe me the consequences are far-reaching. Some might feel it’s downhill all the way thereafter. The Irishman, at this point, is beginning to look slightly alarmed. Other bystanders shift awkwardly. Oh come now, says Gordon, there’s the Enlightenment to follow. And look what that led to, says Claudia. ‘A tide in the affairs of men…’ says Gordon. Another overworked idea, says Claudia. It’s awfully hot in here, murmurs Sylvia. Anyway, it’s a thought, says Claudia to the Irishman, stay with subsistence agriculture and see what happens. Yes Ma’am, says the Irishman, a touch wearily. He turns, with some relief, to a woman who wants to know how he lights his fire without matches.
They emerge from the cabin. Sylvia takes a Kleenex from her bag and wipes her face. Claudia bears down upon the man mending a hurdle under a tree and asks him his name. Winslow, he replies, Edward Winslow. I know one of your descendants, says Claudia. Stop name-dropping, says Gordon. The young man inclines his head graciously. They’re extremely rich, says Claudia. The young man looks disapproving. He’s no more interested in prosperity than you or I, says Gordon. On the contrary, retorts Claudia, he’s very interested. Après moi le déluge is a corrupt and relatively modern notion – you were always short on historical sensitivity. And you, says Gordon, have never been interested in ideas, merely addicted to sweeping and inaccurate opinions. You have always dismissed anything that does not interest you. Ideology. Industrial history. Economics.
Economists, says Claudia to the Massachusetts sky, are academic accountants. And polemical so-called historians,begins Gordon… For goodness sake! snaps Sylvia, people are listening! No they’re not, says Claudia, our friend Mr Winslow here is safely tucked up in 1627 so a twentieth-century family discussion is outside his experience. Oh! cries Sylvia, you’re being ridiculous both of you. Her face puckers. She is, they see, about to burst into tears. I’ve had enough of this place, Sylvia cries, I’m going to have some lunch. And she hastens away up the dusty road between the log cabins, tripping once, a dark patch of sweat across the back of her dress, her hair in a mess.
Oh dear, says Claudia.
Gordon says, Well, you were pushing it a bit, weren’t you? He watches the stumbling figure of his wife, thinks of going after her, decides that she will pull herself together better on her own, knows that is not what he should have decided. Sorry about that, says Claudia to Mr Winslow, genially. You’re welcome, ma’am, says Mr Winslow. Claudia frowns; I’m not sure about that for contemporary speech – I think you may be anticipating a bit. The young man, at this point, betrays a trace of irritation. Excuse me, he begins, but we all take an intensive course in… Claudia, says Gordon, taking her arm, enough is enough.
I’m just getting into my stride, says Claudia, allowing herself, nevertheless, to be led away. I know, says Gordon, that’s the trouble. I said this place sounded promising, says Claudia, and it is. All the same, says Gordon, I think perhaps we’d better come down to earth.
Claudia hangs over a fenced enclosure to inspect a torpid pig, asleep in a patch of shade. Don’t you find the idea of alternative history even faintly intriguing? she asks. No, says Gordon, it’s a waste of time. I thought you were supposed to be a theorist? says Claudia, prodding the pig with a piece of stick. My
They emerge from the cabin. Sylvia takes a Kleenex from her bag and wipes her face. Claudia bears down upon the man mending a hurdle under a tree and asks him his name. Winslow, he replies, Edward Winslow. I know one of your descendants, says Claudia. Stop name-dropping, says Gordon. The young man inclines his head graciously. They’re extremely rich, says Claudia. The young man looks disapproving. He’s no more interested in prosperity than you or I, says Gordon. On the contrary, retorts Claudia, he’s very interested. Après moi le déluge is a corrupt and relatively modern notion – you were always short on historical sensitivity. And you, says Gordon, have never been interested in ideas, merely addicted to sweeping and inaccurate opinions. You have always dismissed anything that does not interest you. Ideology. Industrial history. Economics.
Economists, says Claudia to the Massachusetts sky, are academic accountants. And polemical so-called historians,begins Gordon… For goodness sake! snaps Sylvia, people are listening! No they’re not, says Claudia, our friend Mr Winslow here is safely tucked up in 1627 so a twentieth-century family discussion is outside his experience. Oh! cries Sylvia, you’re being ridiculous both of you. Her face puckers. She is, they see, about to burst into tears. I’ve had enough of this place, Sylvia cries, I’m going to have some lunch. And she hastens away up the dusty road between the log cabins, tripping once, a dark patch of sweat across the back of her dress, her hair in a mess.
Oh dear, says Claudia.
Gordon says, Well, you were pushing it a bit, weren’t you? He watches the stumbling figure of his wife, thinks of going after her, decides that she will pull herself together better on her own, knows that is not what he should have decided. Sorry about that, says Claudia to Mr Winslow, genially. You’re welcome, ma’am, says Mr Winslow. Claudia frowns; I’m not sure about that for contemporary speech – I think you may be anticipating a bit. The young man, at this point, betrays a trace of irritation. Excuse me, he begins, but we all take an intensive course in… Claudia, says Gordon, taking her arm, enough is enough.
I’m just getting into my stride, says Claudia, allowing herself, nevertheless, to be led away. I know, says Gordon, that’s the trouble. I said this place sounded promising, says Claudia, and it is. All the same, says Gordon, I think perhaps we’d better come down to earth.
Claudia hangs over a fenced enclosure to inspect a torpid pig, asleep in a patch of shade. Don’t you find the idea of alternative history even faintly intriguing? she asks. No, says Gordon, it’s a waste of time. I thought you were supposed to be a theorist? says Claudia, prodding the pig with a piece of stick. My
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