Personal Pleasures (21 page)

And here it comes again, the sun's day, the Lord's day, merry and free and holy and bland. Hey! what comes here along, with bell-chiming and ringing? 'Tis Sunday a-coming. … Hey! there again, how the bells they shake it! Come, come, ladies, come ladies out. …

Yes, that is all very well: but how am I to walk out, when my shoes that I forgot to fetch yesterday are still at the cobbler's, and the cobbler has shut his shop? And how shall I be happy staying in, when the book I meant to read is still in the library, and the library presents a shuttered face? Further, my wireless accumulator has run out, and I shall not hear Kreisler to-night, for those who keep accumulators have shut them behind locked doors and gone holidaying. I am frustrate, cribbed and baulked, to make an English holiday.

Very good, then, very well; by all means attend to everyone else in the shop before me, though I was waiting here before any of them. There is such a thing as fair turns, as serving people in the order in which they come, but you do not seem to bother about that here. That old lady, that young man, both were after me, but you go up to each in turn, you say, “What may I do for you?” and they, being deficient in sense of honour and fair play, both hasten to tell you, instead of saying, “It is not yet my turn. You must serve that woman over there first.” Very good; I will make no movement to call attention to myself; I will stand here waiting, while you attend to these interlopers, and then to others who have pushed in even since they did. I suppose that in time someone will think of inquiring of me my pleasure, instead of hastening by with half questioning glances which I refuse to meet. I will not, even by a look, convey that I demand to be served; I coldly stand and wait: I have taken umbrage. I am wrapped in silence, an umbrageous mantle; I am shadowed about and umbraged with my pride; I have taken pet. I have joined the great company of the umbraged of all time. How they hover and shadow umbrageously around! Monarchs and subjects, priests,
physicians, lovers, authors, actors, heroes, prophets and gods, all cloaked in dudgeon, uttering high, cold words of proud offence, or else, wordless, wreaking deeds of vengeful ire. Kings, queens, emperors, outraged beyond mercy, exclaiming, “Who will rid me of this traitor?” “Little man, little man. …” “Fling him to the fishes!” Offended gods and goddesses jealous of their honour and their rights; Apollo flaying upstart rival musical performers, Achelous the river god transforming into islands the naiads who omitted him from a party, Latona and her archer twins potting at the insolently excessive progeny of Niobe, Diana enstagging Actæon for this ill-judged bagniospection, Zeus and Hera each so unflaggingly alert for slights, so ingeniously efficient in avenging them, Jehovah, so easily provoked to wrath, so apt to turn his face from his Israelites, so quick to send them plagues. The umbrage of deities has been, very naturally, fruitful and well gratified, above that of others. But by no means contemptible has been that of authors, of actors, of prima donnas, and leading men; of John Milton, Alexander Pope, Lady Mary Montague, Dean Swift, Lord Byron, Samuel Coleridge, Andrew Marvell, Ben Jonson, and, for that matter, practically all who have lived by the pen. With what gusto have these beaten their pens into swords, envenomed them, and plunged them into the quivering breasts of rivals, calumniators, mockers, and reviewers. How their turbulent and impassioned phrases beat about me, darkening the air like eagles' wings! Could I but utter some of them, how those who
pass me by in neglect would start and pale and fly to do my bidding. Then there are too the huge grievances of parents, more particularly against daughters; the Capulets, Lear, Egeus, Squire Western, and the rest, all loud with vexation, disappointment and threats. “Full of vexation come I, with complaints” … that has been the burden of parental life down the ages. A thousand umbrages wing and buzz about me like exultant wasps. Doctors, hearing that rivals have been called in, and refusing in their turn to come when implored. “Certainly not: I hear that you have Dr. Blank now. … ” Slighted lovers, slighting back, avenging neglect with cold pride. And, hovering and looming, a huge and purple cloud, the tremendous umbrage of Churchmen down the ages. A thunderous cloud, out of which come forth mighty claps and darting fires that play about the heads of heretics and disputants, striking upstart dogmatists to annihilation, sending empassioned eristics and direful fulminations over sea and land. The terrific voices of offended clergymen quiver and vibrate in the air about me. How they would strike these oblivious so-called salesmen to nothingness, could the salesmen but hear what I hear!

So, compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, luxuriantly umbraged, I stand and wait for the moment when one of these minions will turn to me at last with “What may I do for you?” I shall not immediately tell them what they may do for me; I shall tell them first what they have already done to me; how they have kept me waiting long past my turn,
kept me for ten full minutes out of my busy life; how this is the last visit I shall pay them; how, the next time that I require a new fountain pen, I shall seek it elsewhere; how no flourishing commerce can be built up on a foundation of injustice, on a system of breaking the law of Fair Turns; how I did, indeed, half an hour ago, wish to purchase a pen, but, during the hour that has elapsed since then, I have lost the desire, I no longer require a pen, or anything but a couch on which to repose after my two hours' waiting; how, when my friends ask me where they shall buy pens, I shall reply, “Anywhere but at Messrs. Penley & Ink-man's, for there they do not attend to you, but keep you waiting from three to six, and then they shut and you have to go away unserved”; how …

“What can I show you, madam?”

“Oh, is it you at last? Fountain pens, please. I have been waiting … ”

“Certainly, madam. What make of pen do you require?”

They will never know, it seems, of my umbrage.

Yes, the time has come. The two low gears make a noise like the large cats at the Zoo at lunch-time, and even top is like the large cats purring
after
lunch, or like an aeroplane zooming just overhead. I must have a car which makes noises like small cats purring in their sleep, or, at worst, like an aeroplane a thousand feet up. Besides, the thing takes so long to pick up speed. And it groans. And drinks petrol like a fish. And it can't get up Primrose Hill on second now. And … but what I mean to say is, it's eight years old, and has had its day, and I am looking about for another. Still, did you say? Yes, I always look about for another.

Do you like the Garnet ten-four? The Grasshopper, you know. It is roomy, accelerates from standing like an arrow from the bow, and climbs like a cat. Only sixty; but one seldom really wants to do more than that, I find. And thirty-five to the gallon, they say; I dare say actually thirty. The only question is, how well it holds the road. I must say, I incline to the Grasshopper. A green one, should you say? Or a red? Or beige? Of course black or navy is less
noticeable
. What I mean is, supposing a policeman saw a lot of cars all speeding, he might pick out the brightest coloured for
an example. And a bright colour shows up more in the night, if it is left in the street without lights, or over time in a park. Black or navy melts into the night. But then beige melts into the day better, I suppose. And green into the parks, supposing one were doing rather over twenty there. Not red, I think; that does not seem to melt into anything. Into an accident, you say? Pray do not let us talk like that; I do not have accidents.

See, here is a Rapide 1933–cost £350, and offered for eighty. Yet it is exactly like new, the advertisement says. Super-clean, absolutely indistinguishable from new. Mileage nominal. Then why, I wonder. … Oh, I see, it says why—owner giving up driving. I suppose he has had his licence suspended. Perhaps he is in prison. I wonder what the accident was, and how much the Rapide was damaged. They put them together again so strangely sometimes. Some friends of mine bought a car which had been in collision, and its back axle had been put in again upside down. I might go and look at the Rapide's inside. Outside, it sounds charming—splendid condition, red leather upholstery, long wheel base, everything de luxe, silent engine, super appearance. What a delightful car. One wonders why the owner so seldom used it, in two years—why, I mean, he only did a nominal number of miles. No, he does not say how many; the number is nominal, like other numbers, but he seems to have forgotten its name.

Then here is a Daimler which cost approximately
£1,285 in 1932. Approximately. One would think one would remember spending such a sum as that. I suppose he put it out of his mind at once, not caring to dwell on it, and now has mislaid both the bill and his pass-book. Perhaps actually it did not cost quite so much. Anyhow it is in super condition, like the Rapide, and he will take £275, though there is absolutely no depreciation. A fluid fly-wheel, too; and fitted with smart owner-driver … dear me, how odd. Well, anyhow one cannot buy a Daimler, of course, though one likes to toy with the idea.

Let us turn to the Austins and Morrises. The year really does not seem to matter, since they are all indistinguishable from brand new in every way. I wonder how many miles and years it does take to make a car distinguishable from brand new. How different they are from people! Here is an Austin Seven De Luxe Sun Saloon, 1931, for £
10
. Now I call that cheap. Oh, I see, it says “down.” There would be a little more payment to follow. … Well, never mind, I do not want an Austin Seven, it is quite too small. What about the 1933 Morris Ten? I always say, you know where you are with a Morris. But wait, here is a Moonbeam 1928, deposit
£
3. Luxury riding, for small outlay. Looks like 1933. …

Well, really, it is all almost too confusing. Do you think perhaps I had better go on with the old car for the present? After all, when I have bought a new one, I shall not be able to talk about all the others so well,
shall I? As it is, I seem to possess them all, which is delightful.

The only drawback is that I get given so many cards with the names of car salesmen on them, and these gentlemen are all so kind in taking me out for runs and writing to me that I hate the thought of disappointing any of them. Yet on the whole I think I had better disappoint them all, and go on as I am. After all, you know where you are with your old car.

Yes, I had a marvellous time. I went first to … But I will get my picture postcards; I can explain it all better with them. No, indeed, no bother at all; no, really, I should like to—that is, if you would care to see them—or even if you would not. See, here they are. Yes, they
are
a great many; yes, everywhere I went I got some; they make a complete picture diary of the trip. Look, this is the Acropolis … but that is too soon, they are in the wrong order; Marseille comes first; see, here is Marseille; I have six of Marseille. That one is the Rue Cannebière; and there we have the Château d'If. That is the old port, and … dear me, this is Progreso, Yucatan, and must have got into the wrong set, for that was quite another trip. Yes, I must show you my Mexican postcards too; no, really, no trouble at all, I like it; but we'll do the Greek trip first. There is Marseille harbour, which we saw, of course, as we steamed away. Our next stop was Genoa; that one is the west porch of the Duomo; here is a close-up of one of the lions. This is the south aisle, and … Oh, must you really? I'm so sorry. It is quite early still, and we've only got to Genoa. There is all Greece to come; we had the most marvellous adventures there. I must tell you all about it next time. Well, if you really must go. … It has been delightful to see you. I like to tell you about
Abroad, for I know you understand. I remember all those postcards you showed me of Malta last year … or was it Portugal? … Yes; well, now it's my turn, is it not?

My turn. Yes, and I intend to take it. I hold them with my skinny hand, “There was a ship,” quoth I. The dinner guests they beat their breasts, yet cannot choose but hear. They listen like a three years' child; the mariner has his will. And that is really all the mariner can expect, in view of the strong travel-tale-resistance that flourishes in most modern human beings. It occurs to few travellers, as it occurred to Æneas, to be actually requested to describe their trip. Dido, with charming feminine and queenly courtesy, said to her just-arrived guest after supper, “Now relate to us your wanderings from their first beginnings”; whereupon they all settled down to it, every tongue was still, every ear attentive, and Æneas, reposing upon his couch, began the tale of his long ramble, enabled by his hostess's courtesy to preface it by saying that it was the last subject he desired to dwell on, it being so sad and himself so sleepy, but that, since she longed to hear of it, he would oblige her. He was allowed to proceed uninterrupted with a travelogue which must have taken quite three hours. Odysseus took similar advantage of the kindly invitation of King Alcinous, on his visit to Scheria. Few of us meet with such good fortune; in fact, but for our picture postcards, we should find ourselves hard put to it to get any way at all without interruption, without the travels of other people breaking
roughly in. The Wedding Guest was, one imagines, very young, and had not yet travelled himself, or one cannot but think that he would have put up a more efficient travel-tale-resistance than he did. Most returned travellers seek in vain their Desdemona, who shall seriously incline to hear of antres vast and deserts idle, and of the cannibals that each other eat, the Anthropophagi, and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. These last peculiar people have usually had but a poor reception; practically all travellers have told of them, but the diffidence with which both the ancients, and such bold enlarging Elizabethans as Sir Walter Raleigh, put them forward (he wished he had brought one home with him, to put the matter out of doubt) seems to indicate that those reporting them were, except by the credulent Desdemona, found on the far side of the line which divides liars from mere bores. For one has to be on one's guard; one must not try one's audience too far. An air of elegant reticence is often advisable; a touch of Herodotean scepticism; and Raleigh's lofty, “And if to speak of them were not tedious and vulgar …” will sound the right note of sophisticated deprecation of our own adventures, and is a good preliminary to speaking of them just the same.