APRIL 20. Cummings called, hobbling in with a stick, saying he had been on his back for a week. It appears he was trying to shut his bedroom door, which is situated just at the top of the staircase, and unknown to him a piece of cork the dog had been playing with had got between the door, and prevented it shutting; and in pulling the door hard, to give it an extra slam, the handle came off in his hands, and he fell backwards downstairs.
On hearing this, Lupin suddenly jumped up from the couch and rushed out of the room sideways. Cummings looked very indignant, and remarked it was very poor fun a man nearly breaking his back; and though I had my suspicions that Lupin was laughing, I assured Cummings that he had only run out to open the door to a friend he expected. Cummings said this was the second time he had been laid up, and we had never sent to inquire. I said I knew nothing about it. Cummings said: ‘It was mentioned in the Bicycle News.’
APRIL 22. I have of late frequently noticed Carrie rubbing her nails a good deal with an instrument, and on asking her what she was doing, she replied: ‘Oh, I’m going in for manicuring. It’s all the fashion now.’ I said: ‘I suppose Mrs James introduced that into your head.’ Carrie laughingly replied: ‘Yes; but everyone does it now.’
I wish Mrs James wouldn’t come to the house. Whenever she does she always introduces some new-fangled rubbish into Carrie’s head. One of these days I feel sure I shall tell her she’s not welcome. I am sure it was Mrs James who put Carrie up to writing on dark slate-coloured paper with white ink. Nonsense!
APRIL 23. Received a letter from Mrs Lupkin, of Southend, telling us the train to come by on Saturday, and hoping we would keep our promise to stay with her. The letter concluded: ‘You must come and stay at our house; we shall charge you half what you will have to pay at the Royal, and the view is every bit as good.’ Looking at the address at the top of the note-paper, I found it was: ‘Lupkin’s Family and Commercial Hotel’.
I wrote a note, saying we were compelled to ‘decline her kind invitation’. Carrie thought this very satirical, and to the point.
By-the-by, I will never choose another cloth pattern at night. I ordered a new suit of dittos for the garden at Edwards’, and chose the pattern by gaslight, and they seemed to be a quiet pepper-and-salt mixture with white stripes down. They came home this morning, and, to my horror, I found it was quite a flash-looking suit. There was a lot of green with bright yellow-coloured stripes.
I tried on the coat, and was annoyed to find Carrie giggling. She said: ‘What mixture did you say you asked for?’
I said: ‘A quiet pepper-and-salt.’
Carrie said: ‘Well, it looks more like mustard, if you want to know the truth.’
Meet Teddy Finsworth, an old
schoolfellow. We have a pleasant
and quiet dinner at his uncle’s, marred
only by a few awkward mistakes on
my part respecting Mr Finsworth’s
pictures. A discussion
on dreams.
Chapter XIX
APRIL 27. Kept a little later than usual at the office, and as I was hurrying along a man stopped me, saying: ‘Hulloh! That’s a face I know.’ I replied politely: ‘Very likely; lots of people know me, although I may not know them.’ He replied: ‘But you know me – Teddy Finsworth.’ So it was. He was at the same school with me. I had not seen him for years and years. No wonder I did not know him! At school he was at least a head taller than I was; now I am at least a head taller than he is, and he has a thick beard, almost grey. He insisted on my having a glass of wine (a thing I never do), and told me he lived at Middlesboro’, where he was Deputy Town Clerk, a position which was as high as the Town Clerk of London – in fact, higher. He added that he was staying for a few days in London, with his uncle, Mr Edgar Paul Finsworth (of Finsworth and Pultwell). He said he was sure his uncle would be only too pleased to see me, and he had a nice house, Watney Lodge, only a few minutes’ walk from Muswell Hill Station. I gave him our address, and we parted.
In the evening, to my surprise, he called with a very nice letter from Mr Finsworth, saying if we (including Carrie) would dine with them tomorrow (Sunday), at two o’clock, he would be delighted. Carrie did not like to go; but Teddy Finsworth pressed us so much we consented. Carrie sent Sarah round to the butcher’s and countermanded our half-leg of mutton, which we had ordered for tomorrow.
APRIL 28, SUNDAY We found Watney Lodge farther off than we anticipated, and only arrived as the clock struck two, both feeling hot and uncomfortable. To make matters worse, a large collie dog pounced forward to receive us. He barked loudly and jumped up at Carrie, covering her light skirt, which she was wearing for the first time, with mud. Teddy Finsworth came out and drove the dog off and apologized. We were shown into the drawing-room, which was beautifully decorated. It was full of knick-knacks, and some plates hung up on the wall. There were several little wooden milk-stools with paintings on them; also a white wooden banjo, painted by one of Mr Paul Finsworth’s nieces – a cousin of Teddy’s.
Mr Paul Finsworth seemed quite a distinguished-looking elderly gentleman, and was most gallant to Carrie. There were a great many water-colours hanging on the walls, mostly different views of India, which were very bright. Mr Finsworth said they were painted by ‘Simpz’, and added that he was no judge of pictures himself but had been informed on good authority that they were worth some hundreds of pounds, although he had only paid a few shillings apiece for them, frames included, at a sale in the neighbourhood.
There was also a large picture in a very handsome frame, done in coloured crayons. It looked like a religious subject. I was very much struck with the lace collar, it looked so real, but I unfortunately made the remark that there was something about the expression of the face that was not quite pleasing. It looked pinched. Mr Finsworth sorrowfully replied: ‘Yes, the face was done after death – my wife’s sister.’
I felt terribly awkward and bowed apologetically, and in a whisper said I hoped I had not hurt his feelings. We both stood looking at the picture for a few minutes in silence, when Mr Finsworth took out a handkerchief and said: ‘She was sitting in our garden last summer,’ and blew his nose violently. He seemed quite affected, so I turned to look at something else and stood in front of a portrait of a jolly-looking middle-aged gentleman, with a red face and straw hat. I said to Mr Finsworth: ‘Who is this jovial-looking gentleman? Life doesn’t seem to trouble him much.’ Mr Finsworth said: ‘No, it doesn’t. He is dead too – my brother.’
I was absolutely horrified at my own awkwardness. Fortunately at this moment Carrie entered with Mrs Finsworth, who had taken her upstairs to take off her bonnet and brush her skirt. Teddy said: ‘Short is late,’ but at that moment the gentleman referred to arrived, and I was introduced to him by Teddy, who said: ‘Do you know Mr Short?’ I replied, smiling, that I had not that pleasure, but I hoped it would not be long before I knew Mr Short. He evidently did not see my little joke, although I repeated it twice with a little laugh. I suddenly remembered it was Sunday, and Mr Short was perhaps very particular.
He is dead too
In this I was mistaken, for he was not at all particular in several of his remarks after dinner. In fact I was so ashamed of one of his observations that I took the opportunity to say to Mrs Finsworth that I feared she found Mr Short occasionally a little embarrassing.
To my surprise she said: ‘Oh! he is privileged you know.’ I did not know as a matter of fact, and so I bowed apologetically. I fail to see why Mr Short should be privileged.
Another thing that annoyed me at dinner was that the collie dog, which jumped up at Carrie, was allowed to remain under the dining-room table. It kept growling and snapping at my boots every time I moved my foot. Feeling nervous rather, I spoke to Mrs Finsworth about the animal, and she remarked: ‘It is only his play.’ She jumped up and let in a frightfully ugly-looking spaniel called Bibbs, which had been scratching at the door. This dog also seemed to take a fancy to my boots, and I discovered afterwards tha
t it had licked off every bit of blacking from them. I was positively ashamed of being seen in them. Mrs Finsworth, who, I must say, is not much of a Job’s comforter, said: ‘Oh! we are used to Bibbs doing that to our visitors.’
Mr Finsworth had up some fine port, although I question whether it is a good thing to take on the top of beer. It made me feel a little sleepy, while it had the effect of inducing Mr Short to become ‘privileged’ to rather an alarming extent. It being cold even for April, there was a fire in the drawing-room; we sat around in easy chairs, and Teddy and I waxed rather eloquent over the old school days, which had the effect of sending all the others to sleep. I was delighted, as far as Mr Short was concerned, that it did have that effect on him.
We stayed till four, and the walk home was remarkable only for the fact that several fools giggled at the unpolished state of my boots. Polished them myself when I got home. Went to church in the evening, and could scarcely keep awake. I will not take port on top of beer again.
APRIL 29. I am getting quite accustomed to being snubbed by Lupin, and I do not mind being sat upon by Carrie, because I think she has a certain amount of right to do so; but I do think it hard to be at once snubbed by wife, son, and both my guests.
Gowing and Cummings had dropped in during the evening, and I suddenly remembered an extraordinary dream I had a few nights ago, and I thought I would tell them about it. I dreamt I saw some huge blocks of ice in a shop with a bright glare behind them. I walked into the shop and the heat was overpowering. I found that the blocks of ice were on fire. The whole thing was so real and yet so supernatural I woke up in a cold perspiration. Lupin, in a most contemptuous manner, said: ‘What utter rot!’
Before I could reply, Gowing said there was nothing so completely uninteresting as other people’s dreams.
I appealed to Cummings, but he said he was bound to agree with the others, and my dream was especially nonsensical. I said: ‘It seemed so real to me.’ Gowing replied: ‘Yes, to you, perhaps, but not to us.’ Whereupon they all roared.
Carrie, who had hitherto been quiet, said: ‘He tells me his stupid dreams every morning nearly.’ I replied: ‘Very well, dear, I promise you I will never tell you or anyone else another dream of mine the longest day I live.’ Lupin said: ‘Hear! hear!’ and helped himself to another glass of beer. The subject was fortunately changed, and Cummings read a most interesting article on the superiority of the bicycle to the horse.
Dinner at Franching’s to meet
Mr Hardfur Huttle.
Chapter XX
MAY 10. Received a letter from Mr Franching, of Peckham, asking us to dine with him tonight, at seven o’clock, to meet Mr Hardfur Huttle, a very clever writer for the American papers. Franching apologized for the short notice; but said he had at the last moment been disappointed of two of his guests and regarded us as old friends who would not mind filling up the gap. Carrie rather demurred at the invitation; but I explained to her that Franching was very well off and influential, and we could not afford to offend him. ‘And we are sure to get a good dinner and a good glass of champagne.’ ‘Which never agrees with you!’ Carrie replied sharply. I regarded Carrie’s observation as unsaid. Mr Franching asked us to wire a reply. As he had said nothing about dress in the letter, I wired back: ‘With pleasure. Is it full dress?’ and by leaving out our name, just got the message within the sixpence.
Got back early to give time to dress, which we received a telegram instructing us to do. I wanted Carrie to meet me at Franching’s house; but she would not do so, so I had to go home to fetch her. What a long journey it is from Holloway to Peckham! Why do people live such a long way off? Having to change ’buses, I allowed plenty of time – in fact, too much; for we arrived at twenty minutes to seven, and Franching, so the servant said, had only just gone up to dress. However, he was down as the clock struck seven; he must have dressed very quickly.
I must say it was quite a distinguished party, and although we did not know anybody personally, they all seemed to be quite swells. Franching had got a professional waiter, and evidently spared no expense. There were flowers on the table round some fairy-lamps, and the effect, I must say, was exquisite. The wine was good and there was plenty of champagne, concerning which Franching said he, himself, never wished to taste better. We were ten in number, and a menu card to each. One lady said she always preserved the menu and got the guests to write their names on the back.
We all of us followed her example, except Mr Huttle, who was of course the important guest.
The dinner-party consisted of Mr Franching, Mr Hardfur Huttle, Mr and Mrs Samuel Hillbutter, Mrs Field, Mr and Mrs Purdick, Mr Pratt, Mr R. Kent, and, last, but not least, Mr and Mrs Charles Pooter. Franching said he was sorry he had no lady for me to take in to dinner. I replied that I preferred it, which I afterwards thought was a very uncomplimentary observation to make.
I sat next to Mrs Field at dinner. She seemed a well-informed lady, but was very deaf. It did not much matter, for Mr Hardfur Huttle did all the talking. He is a marvellously intellectual man and says things which from other people would seem quite alarming. How I wish I could remember even a quarter of his brilliant conversation. I made a few little reminding notes on the menu card.
One observation struck me as being absolutely powerful – though not to my way of thinking of course. Mrs Purdick happened to say: ‘You are certainly unorthodox, Mr Huttle.’ Mr Huttle, with a peculiar expression (I can see it now) said in a slow, rich voice: ‘Mrs Purdick, “orthodox” is a grandiloquent word implying sticking-in-the-mud. If Columbus and Stephenson had been orthodox there would neither have been the discovery of America nor the steam-engine.’ There was quite a silence. It appeared tome that such teaching was absolutely dangerous, and yet I felt – in fact we must all have felt – there was no answer to the argument. A little later on Mrs Purdick, who is Franching’s sister and also acted as hostess, rose from the table, and Mr Huttle said: ‘Why, ladies, do you deprive us of your company so soon? Why not wait while we have our cigars?’
The effect was electrical. The ladies (including Carrie) were in no way inclined to be deprived of Mr Huttle’s fascinating society, and immediately resumed their seats, amid much laughter and a little chaff. Mr Huttle said: ‘Well, that’s a real good sign; you shall not be insulted by being called orthodox any longer.’ Mrs Purdick, who seemed to be a bright and rather sharp woman said,: ‘Mr Huttle, we will meet you half-way – that is, till you get half-way through your cigar. That, at all events, will be the happy medium.’
I shall never forget the effect the words, ‘happy medium’, had upon him. He was brilliant and most daring in his interpretation of the words. He positively alarmed me. He said something like the following: ‘Happy medium, indeed. Do you know “happy medium” are two
‘Orthodox’ is a grandiloquent word
words which mean “miserable mediocrity”? I say, go first class or third; marry a duchess or her kitchen-maid. The happy medium means respectability, and respectability means insipidness. Does it not, Mr Pooter?’
I was so taken aback by being personally appealed to, that I could only bow apologetically, and say I feared I was not competent to offer an opinion. Carrie was about to say something; but she was interrupted, for which I was rather pleased, for she is not clever at argument, and one has to be extra clever to discuss a subject with a man like Mr Huttle.
He continued, with an amazing eloquence that made his unwelcome opinions positively convincing: ‘The happy medium is nothing more or less than a vulgar half-measure. A man who loves champagne and, finding a pint too little, fears to face a whole bottle and has recourse to an imperial pint, will never build a Brooklyn Bridge or an Eiffel Tower. No, he is half-hearted, he is a half-measure – respectable – in fact, a happy medium, and will spend the rest of his days in a suburban villa with a stucco-column portico, resembling a four-post bedstead.’
We all laughed.
‘That sort of thing,’ continued Mr Huttle, ‘belongs to
a soft man, with a soft beard, with a soft head, with a made tie that hooks on.’
This seemed rather personal, and twice I caught myself looking in the glass of the chiffonier; for I had on a tie that hooked on – and why not? If these remarks were not personal they were rather careless, and so were some of his subsequent observations, which must have made both Mr Franching and his guests rather uncomfortable. I don’t think Mr Huttle meant to be personal, for he added: ‘We don’t know that class here in this country; but we do in America, and I’ve no use for them.’
Franching several times suggested that the wine should be passed round the table, which Mr Huttle did not heed; but continued as if he were giving a lecture:
‘What we want in America is your homes. We live on wheels. Your simple, quiet life and home, Mr Franching, are charming. No display, no pretension! You make no difference in your dinner, I dare say, when you sit down by yourself and when you invite us. You have your own personal attendant – no hired waiter to breathe on the back of your head.’
I saw Franching palpably wince at this.
Mr Huttle continued: ‘Just a small dinner with a few good things, such as you have this evening. You don’t insult your guests by sending to the grocer for champagne at six shillings a bottle.’
I could not help thinking of ‘Jackson Frères’ at three-and-six!
‘In fact,’ said Mr Huttle, ‘a man is little less than a murderer who does. That is the province of the milksop, who wastes his evening at home playing dominoes with his wife. I’ve heard of these people. We don’t want them at this table. Our party is well selected. We’ve no use for deaf old women, who cannot follow intellectual conversation.’
All our eyes were turned to Mrs Field, who fortunately, being deaf, did not hear his remarks; but continued smiling approval.
George Grossmith Page 13