They left the shop together, leaving the tailor more harassed, angry, outraged and discomforted than he had ever been since Mitchell's stood in Sackville Street. But Joseph was elated. He knew that he had done a good day's work. If a few hundred pounds invested in a wild-cat enterprise to purify the cinema could buy him the friendship of an old Etonian, the investment was as good as made.
§2
A week later, Joseph Isenbaum asked St. Denis to bring Miss Denton-Smyth to lunch with him at Boulestin's. He had devoted some thought to the details of that party. 'It's not enough for the man to be indebted to me,' he had told himself. 'He's got to like me.' He felt that the liking depended to a great extent upon the choice of a restaurant. The Savoy was too hackneyed, Claridge's no place for business, Simpson's too beef-steaky and he-mannish. He chose Boulestin's.
Sitting in the ante-room, uneasily turning over smooth new copies of the Sketch and Taller, he waited for St. Denis and the lady who had inspired his interest in the cinema. He was anxious to meet this Miss Denton-Smyth, for though still uncertain of St. Denis's honesty and intentions, Joseph felt perfect confidence in his taste. Any lady whom St. Denis brought to lunch would be worth entertaining.
Joseph tried to imagine what she would be like. He pictured her walking down the shallow rose-carpeted stairs, and pausing to look at the glass case imprisoning bags and scarves and fantastic glass beads displayed by an amusingly expensive store. Would she be young, shy, ardent, the least little trifle absurd in her fanaticism, like the charming young thing who had once tried to interest him in a dancing school? Or would she be a business woman, keen and competent as a greyhound, and unruffled as a fashion-sketch from Vogue?
She was late of course. They were both late. He imagined that St. Denis would always be a little late. Unpunctuality was the privilege of charming people. Joseph himself always
arrived everywhere a little too early, and then suffered anguish from the embarrassment of waiting.
He was perturbed to-day by other considerations. Should he offer cocktails? Or was St. Denis one of those gourmets who accuse cocktails of blasphemy against the well-trained palate? And if a cocktail, which?
He studied the little list. 'Moonshine,' 'Kingston,' 'Alexandre'? This lunch was going to cost him a pretty penny. It would be worth it, of course, if only Benjamin could go to Eton. But though aware of the advantages of extravagance, he could not refrain from reckoning his losses. His generosity and his economies were spasmodic. After a lunch at Boulestin's, he would ride for weeks in buses, and snap at his wife for buying her stockings in half-dozen pairs.
He thought he would smoke. Smoking gave a fellow self-confidence. The sight of his cigarette-case reassured him. He had exercised commendable self-control in choosing plain tortoise-shell with a gold monogram, when he might so easily have carried platinum set with diamonds. His cigarette-case, he considered, was All Right, and it was immensely important to be All Right when one was the father of a prospective Etonian.
His attention was diverted from his contemplation of Ben's future by the sight of a woman entering the restaurant. She was so remarkable a woman that Joseph stared at her with indignation. For when one has gone to all the trouble and expense of choosing to entertain acquaintances at Boulestin's, one does at least expect to be spared nuisances of that kind. Joseph wanted her to be removed immediately, not rudely of course, and not in any way that would cause discomfort to a spectator, but gently and firmly lured upstairs again, and out into the more appropriate neighbourhood of Covent Garden. Seated among the fruit boxes and orange cases of the market, she would seem almost commonplace.
But she did not appear to be abashed by her intrusion. She halted in the doorway, and fumbling among the chains and beads about her neck, found a pair of lorgnettes, clicked them open, and stood peering through them into the anteroom, turning her finger a little as she peered, so that all her chains and beads clashed softly together, like the trappings of an oriental dancer at a cheap music hall. The lorgnettes imparted to her short, plump, eccentric figure an air of comic but indomitable dignity. Her preposterous red hat, with its huge ribbon bows and sweeping pheasant's feather, bobbed triumphantly above her fizzled hair. Her green coat shone with age, but it was elaborately decorated with lumps and bands of sealskin, the fur worn to that soft ruddy opalescence which it acquires with extreme decrepitude. Her shoes-Joseph had taught himself always to look at a woman's shoes-were worse than inadequate, they were shameful.
It was quite hideous that she should be there, destroying the muted perfection of that subterranean refuge from distressing things. Her poverty, her oddity, her jaunty air of unintimidated resolution were abominable.
Joseph was a soft-hearted man. He did not wish to be reminded of the poverty and loneliness of odd old ladies when about to enjoy himself at a good restaurant. Supposing St. Denis came in and saw her there? Joseph shuddered, and tried to turn his mind to the anticipation of crépes de Volailles.
But through the open door he saw now, coming down the staircase, a pair of elegant feet with immaculate spats, followed by beautifully pressed trousers, followed by a lounge suit of Mitchell's most perfect cut, followed by the thin, pale, handsome, supercilious face of Basil St. Denis. Horrors! St. Denis would see the old hag in the doorway. There was no remedy for this nightmare situation.
He did see her. St. Denis paused and looked at the woman. The woman turned and looked at St. Denis. Then she let her lorgnettes fall and held out her hand with a little cry of pleasure.
'Oh, I didn't see you and I knew I was late, and though I know it's silly, I always say to myself now has he been run over by a bus, or have I come to the wrong restaurant?'
'You've come to the right restaurant, and I was not run over by a bus, and here is our host waiting for us. Mr. Isenbaum, may I introduce the honorary secretary of the Christian Cinema Company, Miss Caroline Denton-Smyth?'
Joseph gasped; Joseph stared. With a terrific effort he tried to pull himself together and to assume the careless courtesy of an Etonian's father. He heard his treacherous voice stammering:
'Pleased to meet you, Miss Denton-Smyth.'
After that there was nothing for it but a cocktail.
If Miss Denton-Smyth looked strange in the restaurant, she made it quite clear by her manner that she felt quite at home there. She settled herself at the little painted table, and talked to the waiter with smiling familiarity. She would certainly have a cocktail. If Alexandres really had whipped cream in them, she would have an Alexandre. She adored whipped cream. She adored those very curious paintings on the wall. A little Bohemian perhaps; but then it was nice, once in a way, to be Bohemian. And now that she was connected with the cinema trade it was important to get to know all sorts and conditions of men - and women. She caught sight of a lovely blonde, trim as a magpie in black and white, dazzling an enamoured stock-broker at a corner table - 'Men and women,' repeated Miss Denton-Smyth, sipping her Alexandre with satisfaction.
Joseph watched her, fascinated. He noticed that St. Denis took her entirely for granted, treated her as though her oddity were an asset, or, even more subtly, as though she were not odd at all. And following St. Denis, attempting to imitate St. Denis's delicacy of feeling, Joseph found himself regarding Miss Denton-Smyth with acquiescence. For though she was shabby, pretentious and a little absurd, she was not insignificant. Seen more closely, her shabbiness wore an air of picturesque and debonair eccentricity.
She was a little woman, short, plump and animated as a kitten. Beneath her hat bubbled and curled the dyed and frizzled fringe that almost hid her lively arched brown eyebrows. Her eyes were large, handsome, brown and romantic as a spaniel's. She might have been any age between forty-five and seventy. There was youth in her eyes, in her vitality, in her soft, eager hurrying voice and merry laugh; there was youth in her girlish skirt and sturdy legs; but her skin was old. Her round brown face was wrinkled as a walnut; her neck was old, and her busy restless hands were knotted with rheumatism.
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St. Denis let her talk. It amused Joseph to watch how he prompted her with casual questions, as though her flow of discursive, excited, emphatic conversation gave him exquisite entertainment. Joseph could not keep up with her at all.
He heard her say, 'And so, you see, if we can really buy the rights for six months of the Tona Perfecta, we shall soon raise the capital for manufacture.'
He gathered that the Tona Perfecta was some newly invented talking film.
'Yes, Mr. Johnson met him, and of course although he is perhaps a rather rough diamond, I always say he has a heart of gold, and then these Canadians are somehow so winning, and Mr. St. Denis went with Johnson to the laboratory, didn't you, Mr. St. Denis? It's out at Annerley, you know, in a really extraordinary place, although he is undoubtedly a genius.'
Joseph's mind leapt panting after her eager affirmations, but he was handicapped by the necessity of instructing the waiter, of choosing wines, and of paying attention to his other guest. He could not follow her.
'And so I've written of course to my Yorkshire relatives and told them that as an investment which will really bring them both financial and moral satisfaction, of course, the Christian Cinema Company is unequalled. Only, of course, we must have offices, and I have seen exactly what we want in Victoria Street, because though Mr. Johnson has very kindly lent us his just until we get somewhere of our own, I always say that one little corner of your own is better than a palace of someone else's.'
Whatever else might fail, thought Joseph, the crepes de Volailles at least fulfilled their purpose. They were perfect; they were marvellous; they were so unequivocally The Best of their kind that they set at rest all his natural impulses of uneasiness.
Miss Denton-Smyth also found them admirable. 'Of course, I always say that the Good Lord wouldn't have given us stomachs if he had not meant us to enjoy our food. Of course, I belong to temperance organizations because I think that one ought to encourage all good work, but I'm very glad that we haven't had prohibition yet in England. I always think that the miracle of Cana, if you know what I mean, is somehow so stimulating.'
Clearly she had been stimulated by something; but whether by the wine, by the food, by the suave leisureliness of the restaurant, or by her own vitality, Joseph did not know. St. Denis talked little, and ate almost as little as he talked. But his manner assumed that Joseph was as much interested in Miss Denton-Smyth as he was, and that the Christian Cinema Company was a rather complicated personal joke which they would share between them. Before they left the restaurant, Joseph knew that he was committed to a preliminary investment of five hundred pounds to enable the Christian Cinema Company to establish its offices in Victoria Street, to negotiate for the rights of producing Tona Perfecta Films, and to open its propaganda campaign for the purification of the British cinema.
§3
Towards the end of November, 1928, Joseph Isenbaum sat at the Board table of the Christian Cinema Company Limited in Victoria Street reckoning his gains and losses. The gains were substantial, for St. Denis had at last promised him an introduction to the house-master of his old house at Eton, and had manifested adequate interest in little Benjamin. Moreover, St. Denis himself was an agreeable fellow. He would make no fuss if, after Benjamin was safely entered for Eton, Joseph quietly withdrew from his directorship.
For Joseph had no intention of letting this business cost him very much more. Already, one way and another, he had spent upon it six hundred and thirty-seven pounds, twelve shillings and eightpence, and while he was prepared to spend far more for Benjamin's sake, he had no wish to throw away his money. Five hundred pounds he had subscribed to the company, one hundred and six pounds he had spent at Mitchell's, unobtrusively clearing St. Denis's account and restoring his diminished credit. The rest had gone on luncheons, drinks and taxis. It was enough.
The company, of course, was in itself a farce. The honorary secretary saw herself as an alluring combination of Sir Oswald Stoll and Josephine Butler, a great financial power whose influence purified British entertainments. She wanted to be rich as much as anyone; but from practical experience she knew that it was far easier to distribute uplift than dividends among mankind. It was easier to Do Good than to Make Money. Joseph's five hundred pounds and the small investments of the other directors had evaporated upon office equipment, printing and advertisement, and although public opinion might have derived education from the result, the company had certainly derived no substantial pecuniary benefit.
Still, there it was, and there was the Board assembled at five o'clock in the afternoon, waiting to begin a meeting. St. Denis sat at the head of the table, acting his part as chairman with ironic exaggeration. One of the amusements of a business career lay in the opportunity for dressing-up. St. Denis as the Complete Business Man, in a morning coat and striped trousers, his sleek fair hair brushed back, and a gardenia in his buttonhole, was a glorious sight.
On his left sat Hugh Macafee, inventor of the Tona Perfecta Talking Film, a gauche, raw-boned, sullen young Scot, his gaunt face thrust down on to his roughened fists, his badly fitting Norfolk jacket hunched up round his ears. Macafee had a grievance, and Joseph Isenbaum was not at all sure that in Macafee's place he would not have had a grievance too. For the other directors might find the company one incident among many in their lives, but the Tona Perfecta Film meant everything to Macafee. He had worked for it and starved for it and dreamed of it, and had, Joseph considered, a right to sell it in the best market. If he were wise, he would break away from Johnson's clutches and get clear of the company. Once or twice Joseph had been tempted to tell him so. But after all, was it his business? He was a director of the company. The Tona Perfecta was its sole substantial asset. What right had he to play a double game with Macafee? Far better leave well alone. After all, even Macafee was not a child.
He turned from Macafee to John Fry Fox Guerdon, the Quaker director, an unhappy, timid, middle-aged bachelor, with a long egg-shaped head, very bald and highly polished. A semicircle of white hair fringed his oval skull; small surprised tufts of white hair jutted from his eyes and eyebrows. He twitched his long nose and blinked disconsolately through his gold-rimmed eyeglasses, alarmed at every manifestation of activity on the part of his fellow-directors, ill at ease in the proximity of Johnson, and obviously only remaining upon the Board because his family tradition impelled him to good works, and St. Denis had persuaded him that this was a noble cause.
Poor Guerdon, thought Joseph, forced by his principles to associate with a brigand like Johnson. For if ever villainy was writ large upon a man's countenance, that man was Clifton Roderick Johnson, 'of Toronto and Hollywood' according to his own account, of Birmingham and Chicago still more probably, thought Joseph, a huge, hulking, clumsy, disreputable, oratorical creature, who had just missed being superbly handsome and obviously gave himself the benefit of the doubt. Johnson affected a picturesque and conspicuous style of dress and manner. His decorative blue shirts with open necks, his broad-brimmed black hats, huge flapping cloaks and free dramatic gestures, made his appearance remarkable in any company. Tall and finely proportioned, his otherwise impressive figure was spoiled by the ugly forward thrust of his head and neck. His black brows almost met above dark flashing eyes, which were unfortunately disfigured by a slight cast. His really handsome profile was marred when he smiled and showed his big, yellow neglected teeth. He was as dirty as St. Denis was fastidious, forgot to shave after a night's drinking, and would appear at a lunch at the Cafe Royal with his shoe-laces undone. In moments of excitement he had been known to roll down a woollen sock and expose on a hairy ankle the scars left by a bear's claws during a rough encounter in the Rockies. He gave acquaintances to understand that on less accessible parts of his person were even better scars. He was a clever, bragging, untidy, talkative, malicious, romantic fellow, with the face of an artistic scavenger and the amatory impulses of a tom-cat. The thought of his concern for the purity of the cinema was sufficient to afford St. Denis adequate enterta
inment for a year.
On the other side of Johnson was Joseph's seat, and between Joseph and the chairman sat the honorary secretary of the company, Miss Denton-Smyth. It was she who had arranged the austere but imposing furniture of the office, she who had laid before each director a sheet of pink virgin blotting-paper, a writing-block, and sharpened pencil. It was she who had written in the large leather-bound book the minutes of the previous Board meetings; she who sent out the circulars, drafted the prospectuses, soothed Macafee's impatience and curbed Johnson's eloquence. For all the ironic insinuations of St. Denis, Joseph knew that Miss Denton-Smyth was the Christian Cinema Company. It had come into being at her word. It existed upon her labour. It aspired toward her ideals.
'What a woman,' thought Joseph Isenbaum. 'What a woman!'
As Joseph watched her open her correspondence file, smooth the papers neatly in front of her, and beam round the table at her Board until her eyes came to rest with adoring solicitude upon her chairman, Joseph thought, 'Almighty God, the woman's fallen in love with St. Denis.' But later, when she went through her correspondence, spoke of the growing public interest in the enterprise, displayed the company seal that had just arrived at the office, and described the interview which she had had with the Rector of Mayfair, Joseph thought instead, 'The woman's fallen in love with the Company!'
Poor Caroline Page 5