Short Stories 1927-1956 (32 page)

Mr Smithers’s moustaches twirled like a weathercock. ‘Why, yes, sir. Just now we are up to our eyes in pianos – flooded; and if I may venture to say so, sir, Bismarck was never no friend of
mine.
All this,’ and he swept his thumb in the direction of the avenue of instruments that stretched behind them, ‘they may be Grands, but they’re most of them modern, and if you want a little something as nice to listen to as it is natty to look at, and
not
a mere menadjery fit only for an ’awl, there is a little what they call a harpsichord over yonder, sir. It’s a bijou model, de Pompadour case, hand-painted throughout – cupids and scallops and what not, all English gut, wire, metal, and jacks, and I defy any dealer in London to approximate it, sir, in what you might call pure form. No noise and all music, sir, and that
mellow
you scarcely know where to look. A lady’s instrument – a titled lady’s. And only seven hundred and seventy-seven guineas, sir, all told.’

‘Is it unique?’ Philip inquired.

‘Unique, sir? There’s not another like it in Europe.’

Philip smiled at Mr Smithers very kindly out of his blue eyes. ‘But what about America?’ he said.

The assistant curved what seemed an almost unnecessarily large hand
round his lips. ‘Between you and me, sir, if by America,’ he murmured, ‘you’re meaning the United States, why, Messrs Montferas & de Beauguyou refuse to ship in that direction. It ruins their tone. In fact, sir, they are what’s called
difficult.
They make for nobody and nowhere but as a favour; and that instrument over there was built for —!’

He whispered the sesame so low that water rustling on a pebbled beach would have conveyed to Philip tidings more intelligible. But by the look in Mr Smithers’s eye Philip guessed that the lady in question moved in a lofty, though possibly a narrow, circle.

‘Ah!’ he said; ‘then that settles it. A home away from home. Charity begins there. I shall want it tomorrow. I shall want them both tomorrow. I mean the pianos. And perhaps a more democratic instrument for the servants’ hall. But I will leave that to you.’

Mr Smithers pretended not to goggle. ‘Why, yes, sir, that can be easily arranged. In London, I
ho
– conjecture?’

‘In London,’ said Philip, ‘Grosvenor Square.’ For at that very instant, as if at the summons of a jinnee, there had wafted itself into his memory the image of a vacant and ‘highly desirable residence’ which his casual eye had glanced upon only the afternoon before, and which had proclaimed itself ‘to be let’.

‘Grosvenor Square, sir; oh yes, sir?’ Mr Smithers was ejaculating, order-book in hand. ‘I will arrange for their removal at once. The three of them – quite a nice little set, sir.’

‘Pim, Crompton, Colonel,’ chanted Philip. ‘R-O-M; deferred account;
thank
you. 4-4-4, yes, four hundred and forty-four, Grosvenor Square. I am – that is,
we
are furnishing there.’

But this gentle emphasis on the ‘we’ was so courtly in effect that it sounded more like an afterthought than a piece of information. Nevertheless it misled Mr Smithers. Intense fellow-feeling beamed from under his slightly overhung forehead. ‘And I am sure, sir, if I may make so bold, I wish you both every happiness, I am myself of a matrimonial turn. And regret it, sir?
never
!
I always say if every —’

‘That’s very kind indeed of you,’ said Philip, averting his young cheek, which having flushed had now turned a little pale. ‘And, if
I
may be so bold, I am perfectly certain Mrs Smithers is of the same way of thinking. Which is the best way to the Best Man’s Department, if I take in Portmanteaux and the Fancies on my way?’

Mr Smithers eyed him with the sublimest admiration. ‘Straight through, sir, on the left beyond them Chappels. On the same floor, but right out on the farther side of the building. As far as you can go.’

‘That is exactly what I was beginning to wonder – precisely how far I can go. This little venture of mine is a rather novel experience, and at the
moment I am uncertain of its issue. But tell me, why is it our enterprising American friends have not yet invented a
lateral
lift?’

‘Now that’s passing strange, too, sir; for I’ve often fancied it myself,’ said Mr Smithers. ‘But you see in a department like this there’s not much time for quiet thought, sir, with so much what you might call hidden din about. As a matter of fact, when I was younger, sir – and that happens to us all – I did invent a harmonium key-stifler – rubber, and pith, and wool –
so
–
and a small steel spring, quite neat and entirely unnoticeable. But the
manufacturers
wouldn’t look at it; not they!’

‘I don’t believe,’ said Philip, folding up his bill, ‘they ever look at
anything
. Not closely, you know. But if ever I do buy a harmonium,’ he put his head a little on one side and again smiled at Mr Smithers, ‘I shall insist on the stifler. I suppose,’ he added reflectively, ‘you haven’t by any chance a nice pedigree Amati, or Stradivarius in stock? I have a little weakness for fiddles.’

Mr Smithers, leaning heavily on the counter on both his thumbs, smiled, but at the same time almost imperceptibly shook his head.

‘I fancied it was unlikely,’ said Philip. ‘What’s that over there; in the glass case, I mean?’

‘That, sir?’ said Mr Smithers, twinkling up, ‘in that glass case there? That’s a harp, sir. And a lovely little piece
that
is. Child’s size, sir. What they call minnychoore, and well over a century old, but still as sweet as a canary. It was made, so they say, for Mozart, the composer, sir, as you might be aware, in 1760, and up in the top corner is scratched the letters A.W. No doubt of it, sir – A.W. I’ve seen a picture of the mite myself playing like an angel in his nightcap, and not a day over seven; you’d hardly believe it, and his parents coming in at the door. Surprising. Then Schumann,
he
had it, sir – I mean the harp; and Schumann, though I don’t know how he could
dissuade
himself to part with it,
he
passed it on to Brahms, another composer – and very much thought of even though a bit nearer
our
day. But you’ll find it all neatly set out on the brass label at the foot. It’s all there, sir. There’s many a custo —’

‘Indeed!’ said Philip, ‘Brahms, Schumann, Mozart, what raptures we are recalling! And here it rests at last. The knacker’s yard. How very, very sad. Why, of course, Mr Smithers, we must have that sent on too – and packed very, very carefully. Is the glass case extra?’

Mr Smithers gulped. ‘I am exceedingly sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘exceedingly sorry, but it’s not for sale; I mean –
except
the case.’

‘Not for sale,’ retorted Philip impulsively. ‘But what is the use, Mr Smithers, of a mercenary institution like this unless everything in it is for sale? You cannot mean for raw advertisement?’

Mr Smithers was covered with confusion. ‘I am sure, sir,’ he said, ‘that
the directors would do their utmost to consider your wishes. They would be very happy to do so. But if you will excuse my mentioning it, I should myself very much miss that harp. I have been in this department thirteen years now … My little boy … It is the only thing…’

It was Philip’s turn to be all in confusion. ‘Good gracious me, I quite understand,’ he said; ‘not another word, Mr Smithers. I wouldn’t
think
of pressing the point. Nonetheless I can assure you that even if it
had
been for sale I should always have welcomed you whenever you cared to come to Grosvenor Square and take another look at it. And, of course, your little boy too –
all
your little boys.’

Mr Smithers appeared to be lost in gratitude. ‘If only,’ he began, a light that never was on sea or land in his eye – but words failed him.

At the other end of the ‘Chappels’ Philip again encountered the walker, Mr Jackson, still looking as much like a self-possessed bridegroom as it is possible for a high collar and a barber to achieve.

‘I see,’ said Philip, ‘you exhibit specimens of the tuberphone (and, by the way, I would suggest “
a
”
instead of “er”) – the tubaphone, the clog-box, and the Bombaboo, iniquities at the same time negroid and old-fashioned, but though in a recent visit to Budapest I found even the charming little linden-shaded shops – along the Uffelgang, you know, not, of course, a fashionable part of the city – crammed with models of the “Haba-Stein”, a microtonic instrument with five keyboards and Hindu effects, intended, of course for the polytonal decompositions of the “Nothing-but-Music” school –
most
interesting; I see
no
trace of it here. I am not a
neotero-maniac
, but still, we must keep abreast, we must keep abreast!’

He waved a not unfriendly glove over his head, smiled and went on.

Mr Smithers had also watched the slim grey young figure until it had turned the corner and was out of sight. He then had a word with his ‘floor chief’.

‘Pim, eh, Crompton,’ said Mr Jackson, squinting morosely, at his
underling’s
open order-book. ‘“Setting up house”? Then I suppose the old gent must have sent in his checks. Not that I’m surprised this nephew of his hasn’t bought his black yet. Close-fisted, purple-nosed, peppery old —! There won’t be many to cry their eyes out over
his
arums and gardenias.’

Mr Smithers, being a family man, felt obliged to seem to enjoy as much as possible his immediate chief’s society.

‘All I can say is,’ he ventured, ‘that young feller, and he’s a gentleman if ever there was one, is making it fly.’

He
was.
At this moment Philip was assuring Assistant No. 6
in the
Portmanteau
Department that unless the Maharaja of Jolhopolloluli’s dressing-case could be despatched next day to reach No.444 Grosvenor Square by tea-time he need not trouble. ‘A few other little things,’ he explained, ‘are
being sent at the same time.’ No.6 at once hastened to the house telephone and asked for the secretary’s office. The line was engaged.

But he need not have hesitated, for when a young man with a Pim for an uncle and of so much suavity and resource makes his wishes known, this world is amiability itself. Philip was warming up. However bland in
outward
appearance, he was by this time at a very enlivening temperature. He had tasted blood, as the saying goes; and he was beginning to see the need of setting a good example. Customers, like the coneys, are usually a feeble folk. His little sortie was turning into a crusade.

By this time he had all but finished disporting himself in the Furniture Department. ‘Three large drawing-rooms, one of them “extensive”,’ had run his rather naked catalogue, ‘a ballroom, a dining-room, a
breakfast-room
, and a little pretty dumpy all-kinds-of-angles morning-room with a Cherubini ceiling and a Venetian chimneypiece, eighteenth century, in lapis lazuli and glass. Bedrooms, let me see, say, twenty-two – just to go on with (but not in), eleven of them for personal use, and the rest, staff. That, I think, will do for the present. We face east or west as the case may be; and nothing, please, of the “decorative”, the quaint, or the latest thing out. Nothing shoddy, shapeless, or sham. I dislike the stuffy and the fussy and mere trimmings; and let the beds be
beds.
Moreover, I confess to being sadly disappointed in the old, the “antique”, furniture you have shown me. The choice is restricted, naïve and incongruous, and I have looked in vain for anything that could not be easily rivalled in the richer museums. However, let there be as many so-called antique pieces as possible, and those as antique as you can manage. Period, origin, design, harmony – please bear these in mind.’

The assistants, clustering round him, bowed.

‘If I have time I will look through the Department again on my way down. Eight hundred guineas for the cheaper of the Chippendale four-posters seems a little exorbitant; and three hundred and fifty for the William and Mary wall-glass – I fear it’s been resilvered and patched. Still, I agree you can but do your best – I say you can all of you but do your best – and I must put up with that. What I
must
insist on, however, is that everything I have
mentioned
– everything – must be in its place tomorrow afternoon – carpets and so on will, of course, precede them – by four o’clock. And let there be no trace of that indescribable odour of straw and wrappings – from Delhi, I should think – which accompanies removals. 444 Grosvenor Square. Pim – Crompton – Colonel; R-O-M. Thank you. To the left?
Thank
you.’

This
‘floor-chief’ hastened on in front of his visitor as if he were a Gehazi in attendance on a Naaman, and the young man presently found himself in a scene overwhelmingly rich with the colours, if not the perfumes, of the Orient. Here a complete quarter of an hour slid blissfully by. Mere wooden
furniture, even when adorned with gilt, lacquer, ivory, or alabaster, can be disposed of with moderate ease; and especially if the stock of the
tolerable
is quickly exhausted. But Persian, Chinese, if not Turkey, carpets are another matter.

Philip sat erect on a gimcrack gilded chair, his cane and hat in his left hand, his gloves in his right, while no less than three sturdy attendants in baize aprons at one and the same moment strewed their matchless offerings at his feet, and an infuriated and rapidly multiplying group of would-be customers in search of floorcloth, lino and coconut matting stood fuming beyond. But first come first served is a good old maxim, and even apart from it Philip was unaware of their company. He lifted not so much as an eyebrow in their direction.

In the meantime, however, the cash balance in his uncle’s bank, and much else besides, had long since as rapidly vanished as the vapour from a
locomotive
on a hot summer’s day. From the Carpet Department, vexed that time allowed him only one of London’s chief treasuries to ransack – such are the glories of Bokhara and Ispahan – he hastened down to the wine counters. Here, childishly confident in the cellarage of No.444, Philip
indulged
a pretty palate
not
inherited from his uncle: claret, Burgundy, hock, sherry, cherry brandy, green Chartreuse, and similar delicate aids to good talk and reflection. He was ingenuous but enthusiastic. Port he ignored.