Acting on Impulse

by Georgette Heyer

  “There’s rather a curious history attached to this piece,” said Haskin, picking up an old and rivetted plate. He told Diana the history, and as he was a good talker, she was interested. She became rather more enthusiastic, and ventured a guess that a certain vase on the shelf was very rare. Mr. Haskin showed her how to distinguish it from one of a later period, then proceeded to follow out Mrs. Grafton’s commands. He would have done a great deal for Mrs. Grafton.

  “You take an interest in china?”

  She hesitated.

  “N—yes,” she acknowledged.

  “I wonder if you’re interested enough to help me with a catalogue I’m making? Or would it bore you?”

  Diana thought that it was highly probable that it would, but she realised that this was a wonderful opportunity for acquiring knowledge on the subject of china.

  “I’d love to,” she said mendaciously. “But I know nothing about china. Should I be any use?”

  Mr. Haskin thought privately that so far from being useful she would be a hindrance, but he did not say this. Mrs. Grafton was smiling at him.

  “Mother,” said Diana, when they were alone. “I'm going to help Mr. Haskin to catalogue his collection.”

  “Oh, are you?” said Mrs. Grafton ingenuously. “Won’t it bore you?”

  “Yes, I think it will, but I’ve made up my mind that I haven’t been altogether fair to George. In fact, the row was a good deal my fault. And I’m not going back to him until I know something about his beastly—his china.”

  Mrs. Grafton put an arm about her waist and gave her a little squeeze.

  “I PICKED up a genuine piece of old Sèvres yesterday,” said Diana. “In a funny little shop in Soho. The man obviously didn’t know its worth. His shop was full of the most awful oddments.”

  “Was it the same man who palmed off that faked—”

  “No, it wasn't,” said Diana haughtily. “And I wish you wouldn’t keep ramming that down my throat. I know I was taken in, but it was over a month ago, when I didn’t know anything about china.”

  “You don’t know much now,” said Haskin, twinkling.

  “Anyway, I pointed the flaw out to you in that jug you wanted to buy.”

  “I should have discovered it—”

  “The point is,” said Diana triumphantly, “that I saw it first. By the way, I’m coming with you to Christie’s this afternoon. My husband’s very keen on Chinese stuff, and I’m hoping to find something really good.”

  “If it’s really good, you’ll have to pay a big price for it, young lady.”

  “What I’m looking for is—is a Ming vase,” said Diana, bending studiously over her catalogue, and fingering the jagged piece of china that hung on gold chain about her neck.

  “Lots of us are doing that,” said Haskin pessimistically. “I suppose you’re dancing, tonight, as usual?”

  “I haven’t danced more than twice since I came to town!” flamed Diana.

  “Nor you have. Gone off it?”

  “N—I’m not in the mood for it. As a matter of fact, I am going out tonight, with an old friend. To the Empress Rooms.”

  The old friend, one Stephen Markham, found Diana changed for the worse. He thought she seemed sad, and her newly-acquired habit of talking wisely, but not very learnedly, of Chinese porcelain, palled on him.

  “Look here, Di, what’s the matter with you?” he demanded at last. “I don’t know anything about the what-you-may-call-it Ming stuff, and I don’t want to. So chuck it!”

  “Ah!” said Diana. “I used to think as you do. But I assure you, Stephen, it’s a most fascinating subject. I don’t know an awful lot about it, of course—”

  “Quite enough,” said Stephen, who had known her from her babyhood, and therefore never erred on the side of politeness.

  “But my husband is a great authority on it.”

  “Oh, good lord!” groaned Stephen. He found that Diana had stiffened in every line of her body, and was staring fixedly across the hall. “What’s up?”

  “No—nothing,” said Diana relapsing.

  “Then shall we dance?”

  “No—I mean—Stephen, can we sit in the outside room? It’s so hot here.”

  “Certainly,” he answered, rather mystified. “Do you feel ill?”

  “No—thank you. Just too hot.”

  At the far end of the hall she had just seen George. George was fox-trotting with a girl she didn't know. Diana was quivering with indignation. That George—her husband—should dare to take a bare-backed creature out to dance! And what was George doing, circling round a dancing hall? He, who when she had asked him, had refused to learn to dance at all?”

  “I want to go home!” said Diana suddenly. “This sort of thing has got to be stopped!”

  “Look here. Di, what are you driving at?” demanded her aggrieved partner. “What sort of thing—and why?”

  “Nothing. I spoke without thinking. I’m awfully sorry, Stephen, but I don’t think I feel like dancing tonight. Anyway, not here.”

  “Why ever didn’t you say so before?” said Stephen, relieved. “Of course, we’ll go somewhere else.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw George laugh at something his partner had said. She rose quickly.

  “I’ve changed my mind. We’ll stay here. Come on, let’s dance!”

  “You’re mad,” Stephen told her, but he led her out on to the floor.

  Then Diana began to flirt with him, much to his surprise. Her eyes and her cheeks were bright; to all outward appearances she was enjoying herself to the top of her bent.

  George saw her, and observed her gaiety. He tried to catch her eye—and failed. He didn’t know who her partner was, but he thought him an objectionable-looking fellow. He further thought that it would improve his appearance if someone were to hit him exceedingly hard between the eyes.

  “I’m going to put a stop to this!” he said savagely.

  The dancing instructress was bewildered. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Sorry. I wasn’t speaking to you. Would you say that I could dance yet?”

  “Oh, you’re greatly improved!” she said. “Of course, you still want polish. Another six lessons ought to—”

  “I’ll let you know about it,” he promised. “Er—I’ve just seen someone I know. Do you mind if I—?”

  “Oh, not at all!” she shrugged. “As it happens, I’m engaged for the next dance.”

  But when George, having deposited her outside, returned to the hall, Di and her partner were nowhere to be seen. She had fled, dragging Stephen with her.

  “This,” said George, “is the limit.”

  HE was staying at his club, so it did not take him long next morning to reach Mrs. Grafton’s flat. Mrs. Grafton received him with customary placidity.

  “Ah, good morning, George! Dear me, how cross you look!”

  “I want to see my wife,” said George.

  “You're just too late,” answered Mrs. Grafton. “She’s gone.”

  “Gone!” he almost shouted. “Where?”

  “Don’t roar, George!” she reproved him. “She has gone to Mr. Haskin’s. She—er—does some work for him.”

  “Oh, does she?” said George. “Is he a loutish-looking ass with horrible black hair, and a nose that—”

  “Good gracious me, no! He’s as old as I am. Older.”

  “Oh!” said George, rather appeased. “Where does he live? I insist on seeing my wife at once!”

  “My dear boy, you needn't keep on saying ‘my wife’ like that. I’m perfectly aware of your relationship. Mr. Haskin lives in Bolton Gardens. No. 6.”

  “Thanks,” said George, and walked to the door.

  Mrs. Grafton went back to her household accounts with a wise smile on her lips.

  Haskin had left the library to fetch a magnifying glass when George entered the house.

  “I want to see Mrs. Doone, please,” said George of the man-servant.

  “Yes, sir.” James was accustom
ed to a constant stream of curio hunters. “She’s in the library, sir.”

  “Thanks,” said George.

  Diana, in a large blue overall, was standing with her back to the door, carefully wiping the dust from a gracefully-shaped vase. She heard George’s footstep, and spoke without turning her head.

  “I don’t care what you say about the ridiculous cheapness,” she declared. “It is not a fake. Come here and look at these marks! If that isn’t genuine Ming—! Besides, look at the colouring! It’s the green, yellow, and aubergine of the Ming pottery. And you can just see here, on the bottom, a faint—”

  “Diana!” gasped her husband. “Diana!”

  Diana nearly dropped the vase. It almost slipped from her hands, but she managed to rescue it. For a moment, she forgot all else in her annoyance at nearly letting fall her treasure.

  “Really, George, don’t you know better than to startle anyone who’s holding a priceless Ming vase? A nice thing it would have been if I’d dropped it. These pieces are unbelievably brittle!” She remembered the happenings of last night, and set the vase down. “George, who was that creature?” she demanded, paying no heed to his dazed expression.

  George as suddenly remembered the reason of his visit.

  “Who was that poisonous man?” he retorted, bringing his fist down on the table so that the china on it jumped.

  “George!” shrieked his wife. “Mind! There’s a priceless bowl on that table!”

  “I don’t care a curse for the beastly bowl!” he barked, forgetting his collector’s instincts in husbandly indignation. “Who was that man?”

  “Who was that girl?”

  “Which girl? Don’t evade the point.”

  “I’m not! The—the female you were dancing with! Look out, you’ll knock that pedestal over if you’re not careful!”

  “Damn the pedestal! Are you taking about my dancing instructress?”

  “Your—what?” cried Diana, stepping back a pace. “That fair, blue-eyed minx?”

  “I don’t know whether she’s got blue eyes, but if you mean the girl I was dancing with last night, she’s the girl who’s teaching me to dance. Who was your partner?”

  “Why, only old Stephen!”

  “Only Stephen—!” George had often heard of him. “As far as I could see you were flirting with him.”

  “Well, that was only because—never mind. You needn’t get excited, because Stephen didn’t like it a bit. George, take care! That bowl will be—”

  George had skirted the table, and taken her into his arms.

  “What’s a porcelain bowl to you, you darling?” he asked, hugging her.

  “Why, George, don’t you see? It’s a M—”

  “Yes, I do see. Oh, Diana, you adorable little witch, have you been studying china all this while?

  Diana snuggled closer.

  “Well, you learned to dance,” she explained. “And, oh, George, it was all my fault, but I’m awfully sorry, and I’ve found another Ming vase—not quite as good as the other, I’m afraid—in the most unlikely spot! And, oh, George, were you at the sale where they had those beautiful—”

  “Kiss me,” he ordered.

  “Diana, do you know that tricky new step where you take two chassée steps forward, then cross over, and chassée three steps sideways, and—”

  “No, teach it me!” begged Diana, slipping out of his arms. “Two forward—I suppose it’s backwards for me? Oh, bother! There’s no room! George, do look at my vase! It’s for you, but Uncle John’s suspicious about it. But comparing it with this little piece—” She lifted the piece of china that hung on her long gold chain.

  George took it in his hand.

  “Diana, this isn’t—?”

  “Yes, it is. To—to remind me of what temper can do.”

  “Feel in my breast pocket,” he said. She thrust her hand in. Her fingers encountered a broken piece of china.

  “George! You didn’t—?”

  “Yes, I did. Same idea. A reminder. All that remains of the Ming Vase.”

  Diana flung her arms about his neck.

  “Ahem!” coughed Haskin, from the doorway.

  THE END

  READING “WHOSE FAULT WAS IT?”

  Am I the only one weirded out that the hero’s name in this story is “George”?

  I’m not, right?

  Because, as mentioned elsewhere, Georgette Heyer’s father, too, was called George – she was named for him, of course – and if there is anything ickier than making your father the romantic hero of your narrative, I do not know what it is.

  Unless, of course, your story is not so much a romance as it is an observation on the manifold unexpected trials of married life, and you have taken your parents as your subject. In which case, you’d think she might have tried to disguise it better. Sylvia and Diana are pretty obvious analogues, too: Sylvia’s etymology leading directly from Silvanus, the Roman god of the forest, and Diana, of course, being the Roman goddess of the moon and, tellingly, the hunt. Coincidence? I doubt it.

  It’s interesting that for someone so notoriously private in her later life, Georgette Heyer was quite indiscreet as a young writer.

  Her four contemporary novels – the much-aforementioned Instead of the Thorn (1923), Helen (1928), Pastel (1929) and Barren Corn (1930) – were vehemently withdrawn from publication by Heyer in the 1930s (alongside The Great Roxhythe and, oh the injustice! Simon the Coldheart), and while their relative quality has often been cited as the reason for this decision, it has been more convincingly speculated that it is those novels’ revealingly autobiographical natures that may have given Heyer cause.

  In Instead of the Thorn, heroine Elizabeth is a pretty conclusive case-study in asexuality (which it is indelicate to guess about, but is certainly not inconsistent with what we know about Heyer); in Helen, a would-be author of Great Novels deals with the sudden death of her beloved father and resulting writer’s block (Heyer’s own, very beloved, father died in 1926, which led to a two-years-long lull in her until-then prodigious output); in Pastel, heroine Frances loses the handsome love of her life to a fascinating rival and settles for the stolid Norman (again, not inconsistent with what we know about Heyer’s early romantic life, and her husband Ronald); and in Barren Corn we see a husband emotionally abuse and gaslight his wife over her perceived imperfections, until eventually she becomes suicidal—along with a very real hatred of Communism. (However drawn-from-life the former might be, the latter unquestionably reflects Heyer’s own political opinion.)

  So what does “Whose Fault Was It?” say about Heyer, at age twenty-one, still living at home with dear old Mummy and Daddy? (She did not, surprisingly, go in for “mater” and “pater,” no matter what her fiction might have suggested.) It could very well just be a fond dream, that her parents might have entered into each others’ interests, and would thence have been content in their home life. It could be that Heyer had heard from young married friends – the like of Joanna Cannan – about the harsh realities of being treated like a “housekeeper” by one’s husband, after the honeymoon was over. It could even be showcasing her deepest fears about marital compatibility, especially when either party is ruled by a particular passion. Like, for example, writing.

  Or, it could just be that a cigar is a cigar, that the Chinese porcelain collecting household tyrant who learns to woo his wife through ballroom dance (consider that a lifehack, fellas!) was named George because it was a super-popular name, or as a tribute to Heyer’s eldest brother, just four years her junior, whose name was also George – there were two Georges and a Georgette in that house; happily, the younger George was always known as “Boris,” his middle name, thus rendering the dinner table much less confusing – or simply because she had by then befriended one George Ronald Rougier, who would become her husband only a few years later.

  We’ll probably never know, but it is fun to guess about it, isn’t it? Especially since Georgette Heyer herself left us so comparatively little to go on. />
  One thing that is very obvious about her: she certainly understood the soul of a collector. Those of us who are captivated by anything esoteric or artistic or absurd, who search diligently for those objects of our devotion far and wide, and who proudly display our treasures while longing to share the experience, the enthusiasm, with others (especially those we love most), can only identify most strongly with George, grieve with him for his destroyed Ming – though not Ming, as it turns out – vase, and rejoice at the convert that Diana becomes when she begins to learn more about his special subject. The thrill of the chase, the joy of a bargain, it all sings in Diana’s search for a replacement vase, and as the story comes to a close we can easily see ahead to their future Saturdays, haunting estate sales and flea markets and arguing agreeably over the provenance of assorted porcelain, before heading out to a dance hall to trip the light fantastic, united at last.

  Is this what Heyer wished had happened between the real-life George and Diana (née Sylvia)? Is this story, entertaining and hysterical and ultimately charming as it is, her idealised vision of life at home?

  I like to think so. And the knowing, wise woman of the world mother archetype she gives us here – who shows shades of Lady Malmerstoke in Powder and Patch, among many others – might likewise be her idealised vision of what her “difficult” mother (which Pastel also dwells upon) might have been.

  “THE CHINESE SHAWL”

  INTRODUCTION

  Somewhat surprisingly, Heyer’s seventh short story, “The Chinese Shawl” was first published in The Quiver, in October 1923. Founded in 1861 as a religious magazine, for its first forty years The Quiver originally concentrated on articles of “a highly moral and improving nature” and was “overwhelmingly pious.” In 1909, however, a new editor was appointed. Herbert Dakin Williams reinvigorated the magazine, eschewing “goody-goodism” and “mere sentimentalism” while remaining committed to retaining the high moral ground. Through the War years, The Quiver published E.F. Benson’s novel, Michael (1915-16) and H. Rider Haggard’s When the World Shook (1918-19). In the post-War period it published Jerome K. Jerome’s Anthony Strong’nth’arm (1922-23) and Warwick Deeping’s series The Green Caravan (1926). By this time the magazine had “shifted its base from a religious to a woman’s magazine, albeit with strong moral overtones.” It was a crusading magazine, with an “Army of Helpers” who diligently raised funds for good works.