Poor Caroline (7 page)

Here in this sombre, spacious room he was surrounded by
the Best that English tailoring could offer. The bales of
cloth dripped to the floor their smooth dark drapery. The
assistants trod silently up and down the rich fawn carpet,
moving like acolytes at their priestly task. Here was taste
not to be bought with money, and dignity which was incorruptible. Yet even here were barbs to prick Joseph's sensitive conscience. There was one characteristic of Mitchell's
shop which he found almost intolerable.

Mr. Mitchell was an autocrat. He was an undiminished Paternal Despot surviving from the Victorian era. He re
fused to employ a member of a trade union; he refused to employ a professing agnostic; and he refused to call his assistants by their names. His ideal, he confided sometimes
in more favoured clients, was Anonymous Service. While at his work no man of Mitchell's save Mitchell himself, was
permitted to exercise Personality. His clients were attended not by Smith, Jones, or Robinson, but by assistants number
49, 17, or 63.

To Joseph Isenbaum this custom was odious. He knew too well the importance of a name. Every time he saw
Mitchell, he intended to revolt against the barbarous humiliation of his adult skilled, competent and dignified assistants.
But he never did.

To-day, however, as he sat brooding and dreaming, he became aware that farther down the room Mr. Mitchell
himself was talking to a client. Too unhappy to choose
autumn suitings, Joseph looked up idly, and began to watch
the comedy displayed before him. For very soon he realized
that something unusual was happening just beyond the palm
in the brown china stand, and the oval table supporting
copies of the
Spectator, Debrett, Who's Who
and the
Tailor and
Cutter.

Mr. Mitchell's client was a tall, very fair, very slender and
handsome gentleman, with a foppish, drawling, languid,
elegant manner. He was exquisitely attired, a credit,
thought Joseph, even to Mr. Mitchell's tailoring, and a
consolation for the discomforts and encountering assistants
number 17 and 63. He lounged against the long table
which served in Mitchell's for a counter, and with the point of his stick drew patterns in the nap of Mitchell's turf-like carpet. Of all odd things in the world, he was discussing
cinemas.

Joseph bent over his cloths again; but he was listening..
The elegant gentleman was talking about films, Russian
films, German films, Hollywood and English films, their actual vulgarity, their potential excellence. He talked well,
with a knowledge which seemed topical rather than profound. Could Mitchell find suitable entertainment in the
cinema for his three daughters? He could not.

'Of course, aesthetically, they are contemptible. Educa
tionally,' the client shrugged slender shoulders. 'Well, of
course, personally, I find it a little difficult to gauge the
taste of the average schoolboy. When I was at Eton . . .'

Eton. Eton. Eton, echoed Joseph's conscience. This ex
quisite creature was a product of Eton. Benjamin . . . He
missed several sentences.

'. . . from the ethical standpoint,' concluded the client.

'Oh, there you have it. There you have it, Mr. St. Denis,'
said the tailor. 'From the ethical standpoint I agree with
you. I endorse your sentiments. I uphold you. We do not
want Hollywood morals in our English Homes. As for the Empire. Look at the effect that this sort of thing must have
upon the natives. As an imperial responsibility, Mr. St.
Denis, the Government ought to take the matter in hand.
British prestige is being lowered, reduced, degraded by the
obscenities - pardon the word - the indecencies of Ameri
can actresses.'

'The Government? Hum. Now, as a Conservative,
Mitchell, I put it to you. Do you really approve of Govern
ment interference with industry?'

'Industry, sir? Industry's a different matter. This is a
question of morals.'

'Ultimately, Mitchell. Ultimately. I grant you that the
final judgment upon the cinema may be ethical. But the
immediate motive is - I put it to you - commercial.'

'What we need is a censor, Mr. St. Denis.'

'We have one. We have one, Mitchell. An entire Board
of Censors. And what do they achieve? - What is the use of
banning a few bad films? The demand is there. It will be
supplied somehow. What we want, I suggest, Mitchell, is
enterprise - competition. We want to place upon the mar
ket a film which will be worth showing.'

'Very pretty, Mr. St. Denis. Very pretty. But where is it to come from, sir? America? Can we make silk purses out
of sows' ears? England? British enterprise is dead to-day.
Dead. Killed by the Dole and Government interference.'

'Not dead, Mitchell. Not dead. Sleeping. The Sleeping
Beauty waiting for Prince Charming.'

'I dare say. I dare say. And where is he, Mr. St. Denis?
Where is he, I say?'

St. Denis laughed.

'I am a modest man,' he said. 'Far be it from me . . .'

'You, Mr. St. Denis?'

'Well, Mitchell. And why not? Don't you think it about
time that I did something to justify my
existence?'

And then it seemed to Joseph as though he were watching a very intricate and expert duel, which
proceeded according
to the ritual of all good sword-play. The elegant client
called St. Denis was clearly determined to interest Mr.
Mitchell in some scheme for the formation of a company to reform the British cinema. Nor did the interest appear to be purely impersonal. Joseph had himself an hereditary under
standing of finesse. He understood why Mr. St. Denis
pressed so lightly, so ironically, the claims of his cinema
company. He understood the heavier retreats and defences
of the tailor.

The tailor, of course, was in the superior position. He
only had to listen and deny. St. Denis had to do more than
that. It became evident to Joseph, watching, that St. Denis,
like many other exquisite young men, was in financial diffi
culties. In short, he could not pay his tailor's bill. He
sought instead to prolong his credit by dazzling Mr. Mitchell
with the prospects of a new cinema company of which he
was, it seemed, to be the chairman of the directing board.

'So suitable, don't you think, Mitchell, being a rector's
son?' murmured Mr. St. Denis.

A rector's son who had been to Eton, noted the father of
Ben Isenbaum.