by (epub)
“Yes,” says Julian, “you’re very sleepy. You’re very sleepy, and now . . . you are . . .”
“But there are other people than my kings and queens? Yes . . . Mother said . . . beggars . . . beggars . . . there was a beggar . . .” And he falls asleep.
Julian closes the door and locks it, and runs downstairs. And on the landing he finds a man standing there with a box under his arm.
“What do you want?” asks Julian quickly.
“I am the tailor,” says the man. And he doesn’t remove his hat or even bother to take the cigarette out of his mouth while he speaks. A cigarette in the middle of his mouth: and it doesn’t move, even when he talks. But he’s quite an ordinary-looking man with a square face. “Your dress clothes, Mr. Spencer. I am the tailor you ordered them from, and that’s why I brought them along, if you please.”
“Of course,” says Spencer, “just come in.” And he opens the door to the living-room.
“After you,” says the tailor, and closes the door behind him.
While Julian Spencer quickly takes his coat off, the tailor unties the packet, but he doesn’t look at it: he looks all the time, with a very strange and intense look, at Julian. And he doesn’t even take the cigarette out of his mouth, so there is a tiny thin curly cloud of smoke going up from it.
Finally, the knot is undone, and out he takes a tail-coat. The tail-coat has no sleeves, and the silk lapels are not quite finished. A tail-coat in the making. “I’m sure it will fit,” says the tailor, “because:
“The Sixty Shilling Tailors never let you down,
We are so famous, well-known all over Town.
And in the Provinces they speak of us.
The Sixty Shilling Tailors always work to order,
And what you order fits you like a glove.”
Julian Spencer turns round. He sees the half-finished tail-coat held up before his eyes, and the tailor looks at him silently, cigarette in the middle of his mouth.
Julian is at first speechless: “What?” he says, “It isn’t ready yet? Ha!” he laughs, “you made a mistake!” And, slightly nervous: “Of course this isn’t my tail-coat. It’s just a mistake? You must go back and fetch it at once. I’m late already.”
“I am sorry,” says the tailor, “it’s your tail-coat all right, and this is the first fitting. There’s no mistake.”
“My God,” says Julian, and getting quite loud: “You told me yesterday I could have it to-night. You promised it.”
Whereupon the tailor starts in his strange singsong:
“The Sixty Shilling Tailors never make a promise.
And that is why they never let you down.
The Sixty Shilling Tailors cater for ex-royalties,
And all the most distinguished men in town.
Since 1875
Since 1875
18, Tottenham Court Road,
London, W.C.
Jodhpurs a speciality.
So it can’t be a mistake,” he concludes. And looking at Spencer, who is completely crushed, he says: “It won’t be but an hour, Sir Julian, before it’s finished. I’m only a plain tailor, and my real name is Jonathan Plumridge, but I do know how you feel about it. But look,” he says, “it’s quite easy. You just slip it on, and the sleeves—you see? Just a few stitches. I personally think it fits you like a glove.” And violently he bursts into his sing-song again:
“The Sixty Shilling Tailors never let you down.”
But Julian interrupts him: “Don’t you start all over again. I know your policy by heart by now.”
“But you haven’t heard this one. This is doubtless the best line of what I have to say—it’s the climax.
“The Sixty Shilling Tailors manufacture faces
To suit the wearer of the suits they make. . . .”
“Rubbish!” says Julian. “Come on, finish! I shall be late—what’s the time? All this silly talk just drives one insane.”
“So it does, so it does,” says the tailor, trying to navigate a thread through the eye of a needle. “One more stitch—so—that’s done. And now we shall select with great speed a face to suit the tail-coat. How about this?” he says, and dips and dives into the open box. “It’s for special occasions. Mr. Spencer. I say, you might as well look at this face. You can’t wear your own to-night. It’s weary, it’s tired, it’s worried——”
“Leave me alone,” says Julian, who is looking for his overcoat.
But the tailor shouts: “You must look, Mr. Julian Spencer, and what’s more you must select one of these faces and wear it. We won’t have any of our suits spoiled by your face. This will suit you. Stand still, Mr. Spencer, or I shall force you. . . .” And, lowering his voice: “I’m only a plain tailor, Jonathan Plumridge, my name, if you please. . . .” And shouting again: “Now look in the mirror! It’s the face of a man who means well, who is successful, who loves his fellow-citizens, who is good and religious, and has nothing to hide like you have.”
Julian Spencer battles with Jonathan Plumridge, but Plumridge is strong, and he forces him to look in the mirror, and he sees the mask: round, rosy face, parted hair, satisfied smile, and piggish nostrils.
“Now nobody,” continues Plumridge, “will know that you are cracked. That it is getting very dark up there. This man,” he shouts, “has no brother like you, because he is sane and sound.” He lowers his voice again: “Because I know the whole story. Because I am a plain tailor, and my name is Jonathan Plumridge and this will please her—her and the other woman. And to-night’s and all your future public. And they won’t see that you and your brother are one! And that”—he raises arm and forefinger high—“is of great importance. Who and what you are, and how you are up here you must never let them see in this world of make-believe.” He lowers his voice again: “And I won’t give you away even if eternal night shoots down on you. You have two shadows, Julian Spencer: one is you and one is him. Never stand in streets when the sun is shining brightly. Hide in places where the rats are gaily mating in the everlasting darkness—where your Brother Monster dreams of the late and very ugly Mrs. Spencer. Not of Doctor Finnagan, but of kings and queens and stars! Hide, you haunted customer of ours!” And he quickly changes to:
“The Sixty Shilling Tailors never let you down.
The Sixty Shilling Tailors make your face and suit to order,
And what you order fits you like a glove. . . .
All the success in the world, Mr. Spencer.” And the tailor takes his hat from the chair, and at the door: “I shall sit in the gallery to-night. I’m a great music-lover myself. My wife is coming with me. . . . Oh! You are not feeling too well, Mr. Spencer? I’m sorry. Can I get you something? Of course, I understand, it’s your first concert. Shall I get you a glass of water?”
“It’s nothing,” says Julian, “I only felt so funny quite suddenly, but it’s all right now. Thank you, I’m all right now.”
They are still tuning up, those awful instruments. The high-pitched whistle of the little flutes. . . . No doubt one can hypnotise snakes with these instruments because the sound is even more horrible than their own hisses. . . . Tuning, tuning up instruments. And the Brother upstairs. Only the shadow of the Brother moving restlessly up and down. Quietly moving. Treading from one foot to the other. Swaying. . . . And what a long shadow! Darting in and out. . . . It’s the forked tongue, you know. It’s like a flame. Suddenly it stops—stops: like the sound of the tuning up of the instruments.
The upraised hand and bâton of Sir Desmond Castle has ordered them forcefully, Napoleon-like, to stop and begin. And as the last of the applause dies away, Sir Desmond taps with his bâton again on the stand in front of him. And the first few chords of Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony ring out beautifully. How remarkable, the way this little man with his little goatee understands the handling of those battalions of musical instruments. First violin: and so many arms and bows go up in one stroke and sweep down again; and the violas farther up—those little over-stuffed violins with elab
orate bellies. And now the horns; and over there the harp, and one forgets for quite a few moments that the name of this oldish girl whose feet move up and down on the pedals might be Miss Campbell or so, or that Mr. Schafitz plays the first violin. It is just the rhythmically-breathing body of an orchestra under the spell of Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony.
The audience, spell-bound, looks at Sir Desmond Castle. In the front row, among male music-lovers like the eel-faced Sir Frank and other gentlemen of great distinction, and more or less elaborate women of different ages and décolletages—pearls and long-handled eye-glasses: Lamenta, Lady Castle.
And as the rows slope upwards, more faces, more faces, more faces. Some of them buried with great concentration and high emotional thought in long or short-fingered hands. And a few members of the so-called “Smart Set” look down on their programmes with hidden boredom. Two or three boys from Oxford, Magdalen College, very artistic and stuffy, pale-faced and worn out by their youthful problems, huddle together, cramped by non-existent emotions. And attentively follow the music with a handy pocket-score: “Schubert, my dear. . . .” And a man with a white moustache and the face of a buzzard, an unwholesome sixty-yearling, probably Chairman of a bank, his legs wide apart, sucks, thin-lipped, dry-mouthed, at the spirit of the musical masterpiece. Some sort of a physical outlet for him. And beside him his wife, a Colonel’s daughter; but she looks only at her finger-nails—this unemotional kipper. . . .
Ha! Down he dives, and up roars the orchestra—what a man!
Farther up; quite different faces. Those people who never dress. Men and women with glasses, and all twisted up like living corkscrews. Eyes closed, ready to accept Sir Desmond Castle’s interpretation of any composer—the fans. But here and there, cold and calculating, with a terrific backbone, hard and cold, lobster-like—a few anti-Christs. They haven’t even gone to the trouble of turning down their overcoat collars, because they started to fight before the concert began. Thou shalt not bow down to any graven image—those fighters!
Swish . . . up go the bows and down fall the drumsticks, violently beating the expanded skin of the tympani. But . . . piano pianissimo . . . then beautifully ascends, Venus-like, the motif. . . .
“Quiet, please,” says the man with the face of a Thames angler, splotched glasses on his wide-nostrilled nose. And the young man, who looks like a Bolshevik, turns away from his rather unattractive, wool-clad comrade of uncertain sex.
Oh, don’t disturb. Oh, please, Mr. Schafitz . . . piano, pianissimo . . . don’t disturb this murmuring chat of two lovers . . . and Sir Desmond conveys, with the forefinger of his left hand tied to his lips, and with his curled-up body . . . piano . . . not to intrude . . . pianissimo . . . upon the secret between the second violin and the sighing horn in F-Major. Wait! he says with his eyes, off we go in a minute, but easy, easy . . . oh! what suspense . . . up flies his arm and bâton and down he dives . . . forte fortissimo . . . oh, glorioso . . . what a finish, what a finish! But wait . . . it’s not the end . . . wait . . . Ah! Ah! Ah!
“More or less adequate,” says one of the pale-faced inhabitants of Magdalen, and pulls up his trousers.
Clapping hands show the favour of the audience, but clapping hands are sometimes disturbing. Take, for instance, the man with the white moustache—the Chairman of the bank—he wasn’t really in such deep appreciation and thought, but just sleep. Don’t try to hide it, Robert. And now he gets up, thinking it’s the end, and that is why he turns to his wife: “Lettice,” he says heartily, and very refreshed. “Magnificent, the way the fellow does it. Come on, Lettice—your gloves. Let’s go.”
Whereupon the kipper, his wife, only gives him a look of disgust, and says faintly, in an unexpectedly deep voice: “It’s only the end of the first part, but you’d better go, Robert. There’s only modern music now.”
“Oh, well, then I’d better go,” he says hastily, as he is very conservative, Victorian, old-fashioned and county, you know. “I shall be at Boodles, if you want me, dear.” But his happy and relieved smile lead one to certain conclusions. Even a buzzard likes to be petted at times and there’s always a little flat off Portman Square. . . .
Applause. And applause again. And Sir Desmond feels himself forced to lift up the behinds of the whole orchestra with one wide outstretched gesture. So the applause dies down again, which proves that Sir Desmond is the only attractive man in the whole outfit. And he leaves the platform with little steps, crab-fashion, and slightly self-important sway of the body.
“Desmond, my dear, you’re wonderful to-night,” says the shrivelled-up woman with the looks of a cockatoo, and pounds and pounds of powder on her face.
Another old woman with the nose of a Pekinese is all smile and nostrils.
And the cockatoo leaps at him: “Desmond, I want you to meet——”
But he is surly and very annoyed, and brushing them both aside—“Not now, my dear, not now”—he disappears, closing the door bearing the cold sign: “Conductor and leading musicians only.”
“What’s up?” says Sir Desmond, “what’s the matter, Bosworth? Come on, man, out with it!”
And Bosworth looks at Schafitz, and Schafitz looks at Bosworth, and there are four more Bosworths or Schafitzs, and they are all very nervous and terribly upset.
“We don’t know what to do,” says Bosworth, taking his courage in both hands and making a flat-footed step forward, like the leader of a deputation. “We don’t know what to do,” he says again, but this time with more strength and confidence in himself. “I shall probably have to go out and announce it myself.” He shoves his tie into the middle of his collar. “Mr. Spencer hasn’t arrived yet. We don’t know what to do. We have telephoned every possible place where he might be. We sent to his house. . . .”
“Nothing,” says Schafitz, “not a trace. I knew it. I said to my wife——”
Whereupon Bosworth gives him a silencing look. “Never mind. We can’t think what’s happened to him. . . .”
Sir Desmond listens, sunk in thought, eyes glued on to the Czecho-Slovakian carpet of the No Admittance room.
“That means again,” he says, “that I—” and, interrupting himself—“where is the score? How much time have I? Jenkins, where are my glasses? Where is the score?” He shouts: “Is there no score in the house? Is Mr. Spencer’s ‘Dream of London’ Symphony a secret? Where’s the score? Thank you. And I must be alone, gentlemen.” Turning to Bosworth: “We shall just start ten minutes late, that’s all. Ten minutes.”
Ten minutes. Ten minutes. Ten, ten, ten, ten. You see, Julian, if you put your glass back and leave this pub and put your hat on straight and fix your tie, and if you don’t forget to pick up the score from the counter, then you might still have a chance to conduct your own—your first symphony. Ten minutes, no, eight minutes. And in another minute, you see, Julian, there’ll be only seven minutes, as time doesn’t stop to give you a chance to get completely soused or plain blotto.
They all look at him. The man who has the appearance of an Italian barber, and the family father, whose loving wife sits at one of the little marble-topped tables with a piece of dreary pork pie in front of her. And a taxi-driver—see? There’s a connection between him and Julian Spencer. Not only because he looks at Julian so interestedly, full of gratified smiles. Not only because the clock on his taxi is still ticking on, but also because Julian says: “Come on, we must go. I shall be late.” Julian wipes the perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief. “Do you know where we have to go?”
“Yes, sir,” says the man, “Queen’s Hall. Isn’t that what you said?”
“Right,” says Julian. “Of course it’s Queen’s Hall—why shouldn’t it be Queen’s Hall? Who said it wasn’t Queen’s Hall? Let’s go. Another brandy for me—did you hear me? I said another brandy for me. . . .”
“So I left him alone,” says the cockatoo. “I left him alone. You know, he sometimes has those moods. Oh, so sweet and intolerant. After all, quite suddenly, Desmond had t
o decide whether he would or he wouldn’t. A whole new symphony, my dear, and so modern—it’s just like Prokofieff or somebody. Just imagine. . . .”
The bell cuts the conversation short, and as everybody leaves the Ladies’ Room, Mrs. Ambrose, the attendant, starts cleaning the washstand with a used towel, humming the sweet little tune: ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do!’
The influence of modern music on Mrs. Ambrose, the lavatory attendant, is thus evinced. Suddenly she stops and turns round—Ah! A customer, with a welcome sixpence. Hooray!
The customer starts turning on the hot and cold water in the basin—Viva Naldi. She puts her little suitcase on the floor and, to the woman: “I hope I can change here?”
“Certainly, with pleasure,” says Mrs. Ambrose. “Can I be of some——?”
“Never mind, I can do it myself,” says Viva, “I’m used to quick changes.”
“On the stage?” asks Mrs. Ambrose, smiling wistfully. “My daughter’s in the profession, too. . . .”
“Really?” says Viva absent-mindedly. “They haven’t started yet?”
“No,” says the woman, “but from what I hear, Sir Desmond Castle’s had to step in—oh, these young people—unreliable, that’s what I say—just unreliable.”
“What? Mr. Spencer is not conducting? Is he . . . ?”
“Oh, you seem to know him?” says Mrs. Ambrose, smelling romance. “A friend? Your brother? Anyway,” she concludes, holding up a towel like a-trained poodle, “Sir Desmond is doing . . .”
You take a taxi for speed, but this is a slow one, like an old aunt on wheels. It just chatters along with flying mudguards. Just gossips along, trying to penetrate the dark night with two short-sighted little lanterns, blinking wistfully—oop! It stops. This was a surprise for the engine. High, shrilly, the brakes complain of physical hurt. The driver jumps down and opens the door.
“Where are you?” asks the driver. “Where are you, sir?”
But Julian jumps out on the other side and there he stands: “Can you change a pound?”