The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley

by L. P. Hartley

  ‘Do you really want to see it?’ he asked them.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ they cried, all looking towards him.

  ‘But I must warn you,’ he added, ‘that it may be more than you bargain for.’

  Mrs. Marling looked up from the chair in which, when Mr. Blandfoot showed signs of coming to heel, she had seated herself.

  ‘Will it be like the head of Medusa? Will it turn us to stone?’

  ‘I don’t know what it will turn you into,’ he said, looking round him reflectively.

  They all smiled delightedly at each other.

  ‘Nothing worse than donkeys?’ suggested someone facetiously.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mr. Blandfoot, ‘how bad you can be.’

  ‘And after to-night,’ asked one of the guests, ‘everyone will be able to see it—it will be hung up in your house?’

  Mr. Blandfoot thought a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This is a private view, and I doubt if I shall show the picture again. You might not even want to see it a second time.’

  There was a pause. Mrs. Marling stirred in her chair.

  ‘Would you like me to send someone to fetch it?’

  Everyone hung on Mr. Blandfoot’s lips.

  ‘No, thank you, I have it on me, here.’

  ‘Dear me, how the man does tease us,’ said a woman’s voice.

  ‘Come on, Blandfoot,’ said a man from among the company. ‘You can’t get us more excited than we are now. You’ll miss your market if you keep us on tenterhooks any longer.’

  ‘He’s forgotten it, and doesn’t dare say so.’

  ‘Blandfoot, we shall skin you alive if you disappoint us. Alice has all the engines of Oriental torture in the hall being heated ready for you, so hurry up!’

  ‘I tell you what,’ said Mr. Blandfoot, ‘if you skin me alive you can have the picture to keep. There’s an offer.’

  Mrs. Marling rose from her chair. ‘Mr. Blandfoot, I don’t think you really want to show us the picture. Keep it for another time. It’s late now, and we don’t want to worry you,’ She glanced at the clock.

  Mr. Blandfoot pulled something slowly out of his pocket. Every eye was focused upon his waistcoat, and when the object turned out to be in truth his watch, there was a general sigh, half of relief, half of disappointment.

  ‘No, no,’ he said, ignoring what was perhaps the most palpable hint Mrs. Marling had ever given in her life.

  ‘Believe me, there’s plenty of time. Only I should be much obliged if you would send and ask if my car is standing at the door.’

  ‘I’m afraid all the servants have gone to bed,’ said Mrs. Marling.

  The silence that followed this pronouncement was broken by Mrs. Pepperthwaite’s thin piping voice:

  ‘There must be someone about to give us back our hats and coats.’

  Mrs. Marling looked straight in front of her; and a man at the back of the room said in a good natured voice: ‘All right, Blandfoot, I’ll go and look.’

  When he had gone the murmur of conversation began again, though Mr. Blandfoot and Mrs. Marling, at their posts on the hearth-rug, contributed nothing to it.

  The man returned with a beaming smile, as though he had smoothed away every difficulty. ‘The Rover? Yes, it’s there all right. Now, Blandfoot. Out with the Murillo.’

  Mrs. Marling and Mr. Blandfoot gave each other a long stare. Then Mrs. Marling spoke.

  ‘I don’t think we should find the picture very interesting. I hope, Mr. Blandfoot, you’ll respect my wishes and not show it to us now.’

  Instantly the room was alive with voices raised in protest. ‘Really, Alice, you mustn’t spoil the fun.’ ‘Oh, do let us see it, just for a moment! What harm can it do? It’s only a picture.’

  The various intonations of appeal and persuasion and protest united made quite a hubbub. Some rose to their feet and made oratorical gestures; some whispered fiercely into the ears of their neighbours, with heavy emphasis on single words; some studied the ceiling as though dissociating themselves from what was going on round them. Each, after speaking, looked as though no one on earth could challenge the reasonableness of his or her remarks. Mr. Blandfoot glanced from Mrs. Marling to the rebels, and back to Mrs. Marling again. His look spoke volumes. She turned to her unruly guests and said:

  ‘In that case you must excuse me if I leave you.

  In the silence that followed she was preparing to depart when Mr. Blandfoot cried:

  ‘Stop! You wanted to see it, and by God you shall!’

  His hands flew to his collar; his pale face turned red, then purple and seemed to swell; he swayed, clutched at the mantelpiece and fell heavily on the carpet.

  The man who had gone to find the car ran forward. ‘Give him air!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll unfasten his collar.’ He wrenched at the starched linen, and at last it gave; the shirt front came open with it, disclosing a crimson stain. ‘Ah, what’s this?’ he cried. ‘Get back—it’s more serious than we thought!’ He bent over his patient, cutting him off from the view of those around. Another rending sound followed and further garments became apparent. “What is it, what is it?’ they cried. ‘Is he dying?’ ‘Tell us what the matter is.’ The man gave a laugh which sounded strangely on the ears of those who knew him well. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said; ‘it’s his picture; it’s his picture, that’s all. I think he’s coming round.’ He began to laugh uncomfortably; but he did not move; his body still screened Mr. Blandfoot’s chest from the eyes of the others. A man detached himself from the group of staring guests, walked across to the fallen man, paused, looked down and went on to the door, his expression scarcely changing. ‘Good night, good night, Alice,’ he said. ‘Thank you for a most charming evening.’ Another man left his chair, hesitated, walked rather quickly to where Blandfoot lay, and peered down at him. Then with a smile on his lips he gave the tips of his fingers to Mrs. Marling and softly went away. Two other men did the same; the rest followed the women who made a wide circuit to reach the door. ‘Good night, good night,’ they said, in lower voices; but their hostess did not answer. She looked neither at them nor at the figure on the carpet, but at the ferns in the grate; she paid no heed to Hesketh who had taken her hand; her lower lip twitched slightly and she seemed to have grown smaller. ‘Never mind, never mind,’ said the man at Mr. Blandfoot’s side. ‘Leave him to us, Mrs. Marling. Don’t you stay; he’ll be all right in a moment.’ Then she too went. Mr. Blandfoot’s face twitched. The man beside him caught Hesketh’s eye and the novelist reluctantly moved over to him. ‘He’s sweating,’ said the man; ‘better cover him up.’ He folded Mr. Blandfoot’s garments over the tattoo-marks, his whole body quivering with uncontrollable laughter, but his companion did not join in. ‘I’m glad you see something to laugh at,’ he said.

  THE PRICE OF THE ABSOLUTE

  How stealthily, like the imperceptible approaches of a painless but fatal illness, does a passion for the antique grow on one! Timothy Carswell had inherited some Oriental china, enough to dress a chimney piece and fill a corner cupboard. His friends congratulated him and he was full of the pride of possession; when that wore off he lost interest and was half inclined to agree with his maid, that ornaments so breakable ought not to be left about.

  But one day an elderly relation told him that in the time of his great-grandmother a certain plate had been used for feeding the chickens. Yes, here it was—great excitement—and as Timothy doubtless knew, was famille verte and valuable.

  When she had gone Timothy studied the plate. From a circular yellow medallion in the centre radiated branches bearing blue flowers and mauve flowers, and terra-cotta roses with leaves of two shades of green. It was the leaves that especially fascinated Timothy. The point of transition between the two greens, where they leaned towards each other, affected him almost as deeply as a change of key in Schubert. He was horrified to think of the chickens pecking at the leaves and replaced the plate on the chimneypiece with exaggerated care.

  Now the china was his chief delight, an
d though none of the other pieces gave him quite the same satisfaction as the plate, they all gave him something to read about, to discuss, and to contemplate in a dreamy mood between thought and feeling which he found extremely seductive.

  And so it was with bitter disappointment that he learned from the porter of a London museum that the ceramics department was still closed for repairs. ‘Come again in three years’ time,’ the man told him with a twinkle.

  But to Timothy even three minutes seemed too long to wait. He had come up to London to see Chinese porcelain, and Chinese porcelain he would see. A bus hove in sight, going to a region north of the Park where antique shops abounded. Timothy got in.

  The inside of the shop was much larger than one would have guessed from the street. A thick carpet muffled Timothy’s tread. There was no one about, so he tip-toed up to the shelves which lined the walls and, looking at one piece after another, tried to measure in terms of feeling the attraction that each piece might have for him. Suddenly he stopped, for on a shelf above his head was a vase that arrested his attention as sharply as if it had spoken to him. Who can describe perfection? I shall not attempt to, nor even indicate the colour; for, like a pearl, the vase had its own colour, which floated on its surface more lightly than morning mist hangs on a river.

  ‘You were looking at this vase,’ said a voice at his elbow, a courteous voice but it made Timothy jump. ‘You are right to admire it: it is a unique piece.’

  The speaker was a clean-shaven man of middle height and middle age with an urbane manner and considerable presence.

  ‘It is most beautiful,’ said Timothy and was immediately abashed at having spoken to a stranger in such a heart-felt tone.

  His interlocutor turned and called into the depth of the shop: ‘Get the celadon vase down and show it to the gentleman.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Joshaghan.’

  One of several men who had suddenly appeared from nowhere brought some steps and, with an expressionless face, took down the vase and set it on a table.

  ‘Turn on the light!’ commanded the proprietor. So illuminated, the vase shone as if brightness had been poured over it. It might have been floating in its own essence, so insubstantial did it look. Through layer on layer of soft transparency you seemed to see right into the heart of the vase.

  ‘Clair-de-lune,’ said Mr. Joshaghan. ‘Ming?’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps. We do not guarantee. You like the vase, sir?’

  ‘How much is it?’ asked Timothy, absently.

  He started when he was told the sum. And yet, he thought, it might have been much more. How can you put a price on perfection? He gave the proprietor a regretful smile to indicate that the vase was not for him.

  ‘Too much, eh?’ said Mr. Joshaghan in a business-like tone. ‘Come here, Mr. Kirman, and tell this gentleman what you think about this vase.’

  Mr. Kirman, detaching himself from the little pack, came forward and looked down thoughtfully at the vase.

  ‘It is a wonderful piece, Mr. Joshaghan,’ he said. ‘In all our experience we have never had one like it. This gentleman would be well advised to buy it, if only as an investment.’

  ‘You see?’ said Mr. Joshaghan. ‘Come here, Mr. Solstice, and tell this gentleman what you think about this vase.’

  Dark-browed and aquiline like his predecessor, Mr. Solstice joined them and stared down at the vase.

  ‘It is a bargain, indeed it is, sir,’ he said earnestly. ‘You would not find a vase like this wherever you looked. It is a piece of extraordinary good fortune that we are able to offer it to you.’

  Mr. Joshaghan raised his eyebrows at Timothy and gave his hands a half-turn outwards. ‘You hear? He agrees with the other. We will ask again. Come here, Mr. Doverman, and tell this gentleman——’

  ‘No, no, please don’t bother,’ cried Timothy, forestalling almost rudely Mr. Doverman’s testimony. ‘I couldn’t possibly——’ He stopped and looked with distaste at the vase, its lustre dimmed by all the exudations of commerce that so thickly smeared it. How could he have dreamed? . . .

  Into the moody silence round the vase came the sound of the shop door opening, and a shadow moved along the carpet.

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Mr. Joshaghan. ‘What a good chance! Here is Mr. Smith of Manchester, in the nick of time. Mr. Smith, if you will be so kind, tell this gentleman what you think about this vase.’

  Sharp-featured, sandy-haired and very English-looking, Mr. Smith seemed embarrassed. He stroked his chin, cleared his throat and said with an effort, ‘Well, it speaks for itself, doesn’t it?’

  At once Timothy’s mood changed. The others had all spoken for the vase. Mr. Smith, more perceptive, had said the vase spoke for itself. It did; it needed no recommendation from anyone. It had perfection; it was perfection; the Absolute in terms of a vase. If Timothy possessed it he would have the Absolute always at his command. Had his life been a quest, it would have ended here.

  But the price was totally disproportionate to his capital, his income, his way of life and his prospects. To pay it would be a step towards madness. Worried by the pressure of the wills around him, he shook his head.

  ‘Mr.——?’ said Mr. Joshaghan softly. ‘I do not have the pleasure of knowing your name.’

  ‘Carswell,’ said Timothy.

  ‘Mr. Carswell,’ said Mr. Joshaghan, as reverently as if the name was a benediction, ‘do you know that Lord Mountbatten will soon be leaving India?’

  Timothy stared at him. He had been so deeply absorbed in the vase that he could not get India into focus.

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said, doubtfully.

  ‘Mr. Carswell,’ repeated Mr. Joshaghan, ‘India is a very large place.’

  ‘Very large,’ Timothy agreed, hoping he was not going to get drawn into a political argument.

  ‘What would you say was the population of India?’ Mr. Joshaghan eyed him closely.

  Timothy was fond of statistics. ‘Four hundred million,’ he replied with unkind promptness. But to his surprise Mr. Joshaghan was not in the least put out.

  ‘Four hundred and fifteen million, to be exact,’ he said. ‘And what fraction would that be of the total population of the world?’

  ‘About a fifth.’

  Again Mr. Joshaghan did not seem to mind having his aces trumped.

  ‘You are quite right, Mr. Carswell,’ he said, slowly and impressively. ‘There are two thousand million people in the world, and not one of them could make this vase!’

  The onlookers stood with downcast eyes, like donors in a picture. But to Timothy they had multiplied, multiplied into the two thousand million people of the world, for whom the making of this vase must for ever remain an unattainable ideal. The poetry of the idea swept over him, loosening his heart-strings.

  ‘I’ll have it,’ he said.

  ‘I congratulate you,’ said Mr. Joshaghan.

  Immediately the knot of tension broke; the cloud of witnesses, their faces indifferent now, melted away; even Mr. Joshaghan, still murmuring compliments, withdrew into his office. Timothy was left alone with his prize. How could he bear to be separated from it?

  ‘But there is no need,’ said Mr. Joshaghan, when consulted about payment. ‘We will gladly accept your cheque and you can take the vase away with you.’

  Joy surged up in Timothy again, and he could hardly refrain from embracing Mr. Joshaghan.

  ‘I will arrange for it to be packed,’ said Timothy’s benefactor, pocketing his cheque and bowing himself away. ‘Meanwhile, perhaps, you would like to have another look round. We may have other vases. . .’

  Timothy smiled, for of course there were no other vases in the world. But there was plenty to look at, and plenty of reason, every time he looked, to congratulate himself that bis vase was not as these.

  His mind had travelled far before the assistant returned, bearing an immense square box which he respectfully tendered to Timothy. How solid beauty was! Clasping it, almost eclipsed by it, Timothy moved towards the door. Another cu
stomer had come in; another vase was being displayed; and as Timothy passed by he heard Mr. Joshaghan say ‘There are two thousand million people in the world, Mr. Gainfoot and not one of them——’

  But Timothy did not care, for before him, like a buckler against all those millions, he was carrying the Absolute.

  A REWARDING EXPERIENCE

  Henry Tarrant had been asked to write a short story but he couldn’t think of one.

  He tried all sorts of devices. He studied the ornaments in his room (and they were many, for he was an inveterate collector); he recalled the circumstances in which he had inherited or acquired them. How many good stories had been written about objects!—The Tinder Box, Le Peau de Chagrin, The Golden Bowl. But his had nothing to tell him. They had risen above context, they were complete in themselves, they did not want to be questioned about their pasts.

  Well, what about Nature? Many admirable stories had been written about Nature. Was not the sea the chief character in most of Conrad’s novels? Did not the moors dominate The Return of the Native? Could Green Mansions have been written without trees?

  Henry Tarrant knew about Nature, of course. Nature had made discreet appearances in his novels. He knew when flowers came out; he would never have committed Emily Brontë’s blunder of making wallflowers blossom in September. But Nature had always come to him in his study. He did not have to go out in search of it, it was there when he took out his botany book. And if he wanted a more direct view he had only to go to his window, which commanded both the moors and the sea. What was Nature doing? He looked out. A September drizzle shrouded moors and sea, reducing the one to a pinkish, the other to a greyish monochrome. So much for Nature. He turned back with relief to his well-ordered room.

  The date for the delivery of the story drew nearer, but Henry was no nearer to writing it. Art had failed him, Nature had failed him; they would not dramatize themselves in his mind.