by A. A. Milne
‘What’s the joke, Dinah?’ he asked.
‘No joke, darling, Just jokes.’ She handed him his coffee.
‘I don’t know what it is about your coffee,’ he said, after drinking, ‘but it never tastes quite as good as Olivia’s.’
‘Of course it doesn’t. That’s practically what marriage means. Isn’t it, Mr. Strange?’ She looked innocently at him.
‘Marriage,’ began Brian weightily, ‘is——No, perhaps I’d better not,’ he ended regretfully.
‘You haven’t had much experience of it, perhaps,’ said George sarcastically.
Dinah flashed a message across the table. Brian shook his head vigorously, declining the opening. Dinah laughed, and George, under the impression that the joke was his, laughed too.
‘These young men,’ he explained to his niece, ‘know all about everything nowadays. The callowest young fellow can tell you what’s wrong with marriage, and how a mother ought to bring up her baby, and why a doctor doesn’t know anything about his business, and how a farm ought to be run. The fact that they’ve never been on a farm, or studied medicine, or whatever it may be, makes no difference to ’em.’
‘Mr. Strange, defend yourself,’ commanded Dinah.
‘Oh, I wasn’t speaking personally. But I dare say Strange knows the sort of young fellow I mean. There are plenty of ’em in London.’
‘Our Mr. Strange, forward.’
Brian put down his cup.
‘I will just ask one question,’ he said.
‘Will you pause for an answer?’ asked Dinah.
Brian threw her a smile, and went on: ‘Is there a single doctor or farmer or father or anything else who hesitates to give his opinion on a picture?’
‘No,’ said Dinah promptly.
‘Then, if a farmer criticizes my picture, having had no experience of painting, I don’t see why I shouldn’t criticize his farm, having had no experience of farming.’
‘Hear, hear!’
‘The two cases are utterly different,’ said George.
‘They always are,’ said Brian.
Trouble was now assured. George would explain carefully that although he couldn’t lay an egg himself (he always seemed proud of this) yet he knew a bad egg when he saw one, and was perfectly entitled—at which point Brian would interrupt to say that he knew a bad baby when he saw one, and was equally entitled—and, Dinah joining in, the three of them would skirmish from one defensive position to another, with no decisive issue other than the emergence of the obvious fact that two of them could put up a fight on almost any subject you mentioned, and that the third made no pretence to be a neutral.
But on this morning the fight was postponed. Olivia came in, and three chairs were pushed back as one, three smiling faces welcomed her. Dear Olivia!
Chapter Two
A Bit of Young Chelsea
I
Breakfast over, Brian and Dinah wandered into the garden together. As soon as they were out of sight of the house they turned to each other.
‘Oh, Dinah!’ said Brian, taking her hands.
‘Oh, Brian!’ said Dinah.
‘You do still mean it?’ he asked, looking at her wistfully.
‘Brian! Of course!’ She was in his arms.
‘You blessing.’ On a wooden bench they sat down, hand in hand. ‘You see,’ he went on, ‘I don’t suppose anybody has ever proposed before breakfast before.’
‘It’s much the best time,’ said Dinah confidently, ‘because then you know you aren’t just carried away.’
‘I was just carried away. You looked such a duck coming across the grass to me.’
‘Did you mean to tell me this morning? Was that why you got up so early? I say, weren’t you early? For you, I mean.’
‘I lay awake all night wondering.’
‘Did you? For me?’
He nodded.
‘You know, you don’t look like it, darling.’
‘That’s because I’m so happy now.’
‘So am I, Brian. What fun, what fun!’
‘Madam,’ said he solemnly, ‘this is a very serious step which we have taken.’
‘I love serious steps.’ She gave her sudden laugh. ‘Oh, Brian, aren’t things sunny and lovely now? It’s all so—so shiny.’ She tried with one brown little hand to explain what she meant. ‘You see, whatever happens, there’s always you now. . . . Brian, I expect I’m not much of a wife really, but whatever happens, better or worse, richer or poorer, I will laugh with you, Brian. I’ll never, never lose heart. And that is something, isn’t it?’
‘It’s everything,’ said Brian.
She was in his arms again. But only for a moment. He stood up, a man, taking life seriously.
‘I say, you know,’ he began, ‘it’s no good funking it. We’ve got to get it over.’
‘Get what over?’
‘Telling your uncle. I suppose I ought to have told him at breakfast, only I funked it.’
Dinah began to laugh.
‘Wasn’t breakfast fun?’ she said. ‘Poor George. He hadn’t an idea. I bet Olivia knew.’
‘Do you think she did?’ said Brian eagerly.
‘Look at me, Brian.’
‘I am. I can’t do anything else.’
‘It’s wonderful to be looked at like that,’ said Dinah gently. ‘But do you think you can do it without Olivia knowing?’
He held out a hand.
‘Let’s go and tell her now.’
Dinah shook her head.
‘And let her break the news to George? It wouldn’t work. You’ll have to tell George first.’
‘But don’t you see, darling, telling George things first—you don’t mind my calling him George, now I’m going to be one of the family?’
‘Go on,’ said Dinah, all smiles.
‘Well, telling George things first is an art in itself. Heaven does not grant it to everybody. Some of us paint; others write books; a favoured few, like your Aunt Olivia, are George-tellers. And why, in this case, when you have one supreme artist in the house, you should want to give the job to an absolute amateur like myself——’
‘It’s no good, Brian. You’ll have to do it.’
‘Oh, well, he’s your guardian. It’s for you to dispose of him as you think best.’
‘I’ll come with you, if you like.’
‘No, thanks. I hate being watched when I’m making a fool of myself.’
‘Don’t let him think you’re just nobody, darling. You’re very famous, aren’t you? I do want him to understand that.’
Brian hesitated.
‘I don’t say that I’m not going to be famous,’ he said, wishing to put the case moderately, ‘but just at present——’
‘Well, you sold a picture for fifty pounds the other day.’
‘Last March. Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ He expanded his chest a little. ‘Not, of course, that money has anything to do with it.’
‘It will have with George.’
‘Oh?. . . Well, I dare say I can get it in somehow.’ He held out his hands to her. She took them and stood up. ‘Good-bye, Miss Marden. I go. Should I return, it will be as your fiancé—what a delightful word! Should I not return, think of me sometimes as one who dared all for love. Write on my tombstone, “He told George “. Pray for me on Wednesdays. Tell the little ones——Good-bye, darling.’ He took her suddenly in his arms and kissed her.
‘Oh, Brian!’
‘Now, that’s the very last one, until—until I’ve kissed George. Mr. Marden is in the library? Thank you, thank you.’
He buttoned up his coat and walked off firmly. Dinah stood watching him. What fun life was!
II
It was true that Brian had sold a picture once for fifty pounds, but he had sold it to Lewis Marshall, and the circum
stances of the sale were a comment rather upon young Marshall than upon the picture.
Nobody knew old Marshall. He was either alive or dead, had lived (or was still living) in Manchester or Bradford, had made his money in cotton or wool. An admirable man, no doubt; the backbone of England; one of our great merchantmen to whom the Empire owes so much. Peace to his ashes—if he were dead. Young Chelsea was too busy making songs and pictures, designing back-cloths for the latest Art Theatre, to be interested in old Marshall; but young Marshall was welcome. He was willing to be taught. He would exclaim, ‘By Jove! that’s good, that’s jolly good!’ when you showed him your impression of the World’s End on a Saturday night. He would say, ‘Yes, yes, I see,’ when you explained patiently to him where Tennyson fell short of Selwyn Overy’s best work, or why nobody read Lamb nowadays. You would promise to take him round to Overy’s one night, and he would reply, ‘I say, that’s awfully good of you. You’re sure he won’t mind?’ He would look at your model for the third scene in Artaxerxes, and give you in return that silent admiration which, as perhaps you had already told him, was the highest praise an artist could receive. ‘I say, that really——’ might force itself out at last, but then he would remember, and be silent again. In short, he was learning.
It was Poole who introduced him to young Chelsea. Poole was looking for a millionaire who wanted a theatre run for him on the best Poole lines of giving the public what it could be flattered into thinking its neighbours didn’t appreciate; at least, it came to that. On this particular evening he was looking for him at the ‘Good Intent’, which is perhaps not the best place at which to find a millionaire—even Chelsea’s idea of a millionaire, which regards him loosely as a man who has a lot of money which he doesn’t know how to spend. For this, five thousand a year is ample qualification. Marshall had just discovered Chelsea then—the material, bricks-and-mortar Chelsea—and was dining hopefully, and with the air of one committed to an adventurous career, when Poole sat down at his table.
‘Good evening,’ said Poole pleasantly, and took up the menu.
‘Good evening,’ said young Marshall, covered with confusion.
Poole realized at once the possibilities of Marshall, and hoped that he had found his man. He ordered a bottle of wine to celebrate the happy day. As he ate his soup he wondered what he should put on first.
They became quite friendly before Poole had finished his dinner. Marshall was confessing that he had never been in Chelsea before, but exhibiting with ingenuous pride a knowledge of at least six Soho restaurants. To his great delight, Poole only knew five of them, so that Marshall could tell him what a delightfully Bohemian place the sixth one was, and how you saw all sorts of people there.
Poole looked at him thoughtfully, and nodded to himself.
‘You’d better come round with me to Addington’s,’ he said.
Whatever ‘Addington’s’ might be, young Marshall was shyly excited at the possibility of it. ‘I say!’ he said eagerly. And then as Poole beckoned to the waitress, ‘No, look here, you’re dining with me’
‘It’s all right,’ said Poole, and paid both bills; ‘you can give me dinner another night. Come on round to Addington’s. You know him, don’t you?’ Poole knew everybody, and supposed that everybody else did.
‘No. Who is he? An artist?’
‘He paints. And he’s got rather a pretty wife. Everybody goes there.’
‘I say, do you think he’ll mind? I mean, your bringing along a perfect stranger.’
‘Good lord, no.’
So they walked round to Addington’s.
Nobody knew how the Addingtons’ landlord lived. It was absurd to suppose that he got any rent from the Addingtons. There was a certain amount of money available for the necessities of life—coffee, cigarettes, and peppermint creams; well, there must have been, for no tradesmen gives away these things; but the interval between Freda’s last guinea from the Stage Society and the possible chance of another one from the Pioneers was too long to allow of such luxuries as rent-paying. It was true that Tony Addington had been known to receive money for work done, but he had spent it on the materials of his craft two or three times over before he was satisfied with the result. For he had a lavish way with him. He would design a scene for your next play, if you commissioned it, at the cost of (say) twenty pounds to you and fifty pounds to himself—the landlord getting what rent he could out of the difference.
‘This way,’ said Poole, disappearing romantically into a narrow alley, and young Marshall, following him excitedly, decided to write home to his mother that night.
It was warm inside the studio. Marshall received, as they went in, a confused impression of tobacco-smoke and peppermint and stove, bright colours and people on the floor, eager talk and laughter. Poole called out, ‘Hallo, Freda!’ shook hands with somebody, who rose for that purpose, and made his usual introduction, ‘You know Marshall?’ Freda shook hands with Marshall as if she did, and said, ‘You know Pender?’ whereupon a short, plump girl smiled at him.
‘Hallo, Brian,’ said Poole. ‘I say, Freda, where are the peppermint creams?’
‘Here you are,’ said Brian, producing them from beneath several cushions.
‘Good! Have one?’ he said, turning back to Marshall, and then, his mouth full, ‘You know Strange?’
‘Hallo!’ said Brian cheerily.
It was easily the best evening young Marshall had yet had in London. They were so friendly; they took him so much for granted. The way they talked of money fascinated while it frightened him. They didn’t seem to think it mattered. How different from the men he had known in Manchester! He would certainly write to his mother when he got back to the ‘Savoy’ that night. And to think that he had nearly gone to that Gaiety piece again. What he might have missed!
He sat uncomfortably on the divan, drinking his coffee, and smoking a pipe if they didn’t mind; listening in bewilderment to their conversation (what a lot of people he didn’t know!), but nodding occasionally to show he was not being left out of it; and feeling more earnestly every minute that these were the people who really lived, and that he with his money—no, not even his own money, his father’s money—was of no account in the world that mattered. And Ruth Pender liked him for his fresh round face, and asked him to pass the cigarettes. A great evening.
It was getting on for midnight when he realized that even his despised wealth had its privilege. Addington, a dark gipsy-looking little man, was showing Poole his latest picture, and Poole was saying that it wasn’t bad.
‘It’s more than not bad—for Tony, I mean,’ said Brian. ‘It’s about the best thing he’s done.’ He turned to the perspiring Marshall. ‘Don’t you agree?’
‘It’s awfully good,’ said young Marshall fervently.
‘I’ll hang it up in my theatre, if you like to give it to me,’ said Poole seriously. ‘It would be a good advertisement for you.’
‘Thanks, but I shall be dead by then.’
‘I say,’ burst in young Marshall, suddenly inspired, ‘I like it awfully. Could I—could I buy it?’
There was an awkward silence. Poole mentally decided to start with a Shakespeare revival. He had been right; this was his man. The others looked at the stranger with amazement. He was not one of them; he was one of those odd people with money.
‘Do you really like it?’ said Addington. ‘I mean, as much as that?’
‘Rather! What are they—I mean, how much——’
‘You don’t paint or do anything yourself?’
‘Only spend money,’ said Marshall, with his shy laugh. ‘You see, my father——’
Well, of course, you can have it if you like. If you really want it.’
‘Thanks awfully. It’s awfully decent of you. If I can have it for fifty pounds——’
Brian began a long whistle of amazement, but managed to change it into the beginning of a t
une of his own composition. He took Freda on one side.
‘I say, where did Poole find him?’ he whispered. Freda shook her head.
‘Look here, be a sport, Freda, and tell him that I paint, too. Tell him that I paint much better than Tony. Explain to him that I’m just beginning where Tony leaves off. Fifty pounds! Good lord! Freda, you can’t keep a man like that private. You must distribute him. I bet Poole has a first cut.’
And Freda was a sport. Half an hour later they were in Brian’s studio; and young Marshall, who thought that all pictures by living painters were the same price, was offering fifty pounds for ‘The World’s End: Saturday Night.’
‘And worth it,’ said Poole, who had a great admiration for Brian.
Marshall agreed fervently.
III
George was reading The Times in the library. To a patriotic Englishman the papers were distressing reading in these days. There was so much unrest, so much discontent. Why couldn’t people settle down happily, as George had done, into that state of life to which it had pleased God to call them? Strikes! Class set against class! Did George feel any grievance against the labourer working in his fields? No! Then why should the labourer feel any grievance against George? Was not George friendly, affable, to the porters who touched their hats to him at the stations; did he not return their salutes with a nod and a greeting? Certainly he did. Then why should these agitators stir them up against him, who had never done them any wrong? The world was topsy-turvy these days. Everybody thought himself as good as the next man. Look at that fellow Strange!
The library at Marden House saw a good deal of George in this mood. On the shelves round the room masterpieces of every age offered themselves to him, but a healthy man has little time to fritter away on reading, other than his daily duty to The Times and his weekly duty to Punch and The Field. Novels were for invalids, poetry for young girls. Thank God he was still fit, and wanted nothing to send him to sleep at nights. No signs of gout yet, either. Poor Uncle John! What a time Aunt Julia had had with him.