THE DIARY OF A NOBODY
PART 7
CHAPTER XX
Dinner at Franching’s to meet Mr.
Hardfur Huttle.
May
10.—Received a letter from Mr. Franching, of Peckham, asking us to dine with
him to-night, at seven o’clock, to meet Mr. Hardfur Huttle, a very clever
writer for the American papers. Franching apologised for the short
notice; but said he had at the last moment been disappointed of two of his
guests and regarded us as old friends who would not mind filling up the
gap. Carrie rather demurred at the invitation; but I explained to her that
Franching was very well off and influential, and we could not afford to offend
him. “And we are sure to get a good dinner and a good glass of
champagne.” “Which never agrees with you!” Carrie replied, sharply.
I regarded Carrie’s observation as unsaid. Mr. Franching asked us to wire
a reply. As he had said nothing about dress in the letter, I wired back:
“With pleasure. Is it full dress?” and by leaving out our name, just got
the message within the sixpence.
Got back
early to give time to dress, which we received a telegram instructing us to
do. I wanted Carrie to meet me at Franching’s house; but she would not do
so, so I had to go home to fetch her. What a long journey it is from
Holloway to Peckham! Why do people live such a long way off? Having
to change ’buses, I allowed plenty of time—in fact, too much; for we arrived at
twenty minutes to seven, and Franching, so the servant said, had only just gone
up to dress. However, he was down as the clock struck seven; he must have
dressed very quickly.
I must
say it was quite a distinguished party, and although we did not know anybody
personally, they all seemed to be quite swells. Franching had got a
professional waiter, and evidently spared no expense. There were flowers
on the table round some fairy-lamps and the effect, I must say, was
exquisite. The wine was good and there was plenty of champagne,
concerning which Franching said he himself, never wished to taste better.
We were ten in number, and a menû card to each. One lady said she
always preserved the menû and got the guests to write their names on the
back.
We all of
us followed her example, except Mr. Huttle, who was of course the important
guest.
The
dinner-party consisted of Mr. Franching, Mr. Hardfur Huttle, Mr. and Mrs.
Samuel Hillbutter, Mrs. Field, Mr. and Mrs. Purdick, Mr. Pratt, Mr. R. Kent,
and, last but not least, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Pooter. Franching said he
was sorry he had no lady for me to take in to dinner. I replied that I
preferred it, which I afterwards thought was a very uncomplimentary observation
to make.
I sat
next to Mrs. Field at dinner. She seemed a well-informed lady, but was
very deaf. It did not much matter, for Mr. Hardfur Huttle did all the
talking. He is a marvellously intellectual man and says things which from
other people would seem quite alarming. How I wish I could remember even
a quarter of his brilliant conversation. I made a few little reminding
notes on the menû card.
One
observation struck me as being absolutely powerful—though not to my way of
thinking of course. Mrs. Purdick happened to say “You are certainly
unorthodox, Mr. Huttle.” Mr. Huttle, with a peculiar expression (I can
see it now) said in a slow rich voice: “Mrs. Purdick, ‘orthodox’ is a
grandiloquent word implying sticking-in-the-mud. If Columbus and
Stephenson had been orthodox, there would neither have been the discovery of
America nor the steam-engine.” There was quite a silence. It
appeared to me that such teaching was absolutely dangerous, and yet I felt—in
fact we must all have felt—there was no answer to the argument. A little
later on, Mrs. Purdick, who is Franching’s sister and also acted as hostess,
rose from the table, and Mr. Huttle said: “Why, ladies, do you deprive us of
your company so soon? Why not wait while we have our cigars?”
The
effect was electrical. The ladies (including Carrie) were in no way
inclined to be deprived of Mr. Huttle’s fascinating society, and immediately
resumed their seats, amid much laughter and a little chaff. Mr. Huttle
said: “Well, that’s a real good sign; you shall not be insulted by being called
orthodox any longer.” Mrs. Purdick, who seemed to be a bright and rather
sharp woman, said: “Mr. Huttle, we will meet you half-way—that is, till you get
half-way through your cigar. That, at all events, will be the happy
medium.”
I shall
never forget the effect the words, “happy medium,” had upon him. He was
brilliant and most daring in his interpretation of the words. He
positively alarmed me. He said something like the following: “Happy
medium, indeed. Do you know ‘happy medium’ are two words which mean
‘miserable mediocrity’? I say, go first class or third; marry a duchess
or her kitchenmaid. The happy medium means respectability, and
respectability means insipidness. Does it not, Mr. Pooter?”
I was so
taken aback by being personally appealed to, that I could only bow
apologetically, and say I feared I was not competent to offer an opinion.
Carrie was about to say something; but she was interrupted, for which I was
rather pleased, for she is not clever at argument, and one has to be extra
clever to discuss a subject with a man like Mr. Huttle.
He
continued, with an amazing eloquence that made his unwelcome opinions
positively convincing: “The happy medium is nothing more or less than a vulgar
half-measure. A man who loves champagne and, finding a pint too little,
fears to face a whole bottle and has recourse to an imperial pint, will never
build a Brooklyn Bridge or an Eiffel Tower. No, he is half-hearted, he is
a half-measure—respectable—in fact, a happy medium, and will spend the rest of
his days in a suburban villa with a stucco-column portico, resembling a
four-post bedstead.”
We all
laughed.
“That
sort of thing,” continued Mr. Huttle, “belongs to a soft man, with a soft beard
with a soft head, with a made tie that hooks on.”
This
seemed rather personal and twice I caught myself looking in the glass of the
cheffonière; for I had on a tie that hooked on—and why not? If
these remarks were not personal they were rather careless, and so were some of
his subsequent observations, which must have made both Mr. Franching and his
guests rather uncomfortable. I don’t think Mr. Huttle meant to be
personal, for he added; “We don’t know that class here in this country: but we
do in America, and I’ve no use for them.”
Franching
several times suggested that the wine should be passed round the table, which
Mr. Huttle did not heed; but continued as if he were giving a lecture:
“What we
want in America is your homes. We live on wheels. Your simple,
quiet life and home, Mr. Franching, are charming. No display, no
pretension! You make no difference in your dinner, I dare say, when you
sit down by yourself and when you invite us. You have your own personal
attendant—no hired waiter to breathe on the back of your head.”
I saw
Franching palpably wince at this.
Mr.
Huttle continued: “Just a small dinner with a few good things, such as you have
this evening. You don’t insult your guests by sending to the grocer
for champagne at six shillings a bottle.”
I could
not help thinking of “Jackson Frères” at three-and-six!
“In
fact,” said Mr. Huttle, “a man is little less than a murderer who does.
That is the province of the milksop, who wastes his evening at home playing
dominoes with his wife. I’ve heard of these people. We don’t want
them at this table. Our party is well selected. We’ve no use for
deaf old women, who cannot follow intellectual conversation.”
All our
eyes were turned to Mrs. Field, who fortunately, being deaf, did not hear his
remarks; but continued smiling approval.
“We have
no representative at Mr. Franching’s table,” said Mr. Huttle, “of the
unenlightened frivolous matron, who goes to a second class dance at Bayswater
and fancies she is in Society. Society does not know her; it has no use
for her.”
Mr.
Huttle paused for a moment and the opportunity was afforded for the ladies to
rise. I asked Mr. Franching quietly to excuse me, as I did not wish to
miss the last train, which we very nearly did, by-the-by, through Carrie having
mislaid the little cloth cricket-cap which she wears when we go out.
It was
very late when Carrie and I got home; but on entering the sitting-room I said:
“Carrie, what do you think of Mr. Hardfur Huttle?” She simply answered:
“How like Lupin!” The same idea occurred to me in the train. The
comparison kept me awake half the night. Mr. Huttle was, of course, an
older and more influential man; but he was like Lupin, and it made me
think how dangerous Lupin would be if he were older and more influential.
I feel proud to think Lupin does resemble Mr. Huttle in some ways.
Lupin, like Mr. Huttle, has original and sometimes wonderful ideas; but it is
those ideas that are so dangerous. They make men extremely rich or
extremely poor. They make or break men. I always feel people are
happier who live a simple unsophisticated life. I believe I am
happy because I am not ambitious. Somehow I feel that Lupin, since he has
been with Mr. Perkupp, has become content to settle down and follow the
footsteps of his father. This is a comfort.
CHAPTER XXI
Lupin is discharged. We are
in great trouble. Lupin gets engaged elsewhere at a handsome salary.
May 13.—A
terrible misfortune has happened: Lupin is discharged from Mr. Perkupp’s
office; and I scarcely know how I am writing my diary. I was away from
office last Sat., the first time I have been absent through illness for twenty
years. I believe I was poisoned by some lobster. Mr. Perkupp was
also absent, as Fate would have it; and our most valued customer, Mr.
Crowbillon, went to the office in a rage, and withdrew his custom. My boy
Lupin not only had the assurance to receive him, but recommended him the firm
of Gylterson, Sons and Co. Limited. In my own humble judgment, and though
I have to say it against my own son, this seems an act of treachery.
This
morning I receive a letter from Perkupp, informing me that Lupin’s services are
no longer required, and an interview with me is desired at eleven
o’clock. I went down to the office with an aching heart, dreading an
interview with Mr. Perkupp, with whom I have never had a word. I saw
nothing of Lupin in the morning. He had not got up when it was time for
me to leave, and Carrie said I should do no good by disturbing him. My
mind wandered so at the office that I could not do my work properly.
As I
expected, I was sent for by Mr. Perkupp, and the following conversation ensued
as nearly as I can remember it.
Mr.
Perkupp said: “Good-morning, Mr. Pooter! This is a very serious
business. I am not referring so much to the dismissal of your son, for I
knew we should have to part sooner or later. I am the head of this
old, influential, and much-respected firm; and when I consider the time
has come to revolutionise the business, I will do it myself.”
I could
see my good master was somewhat affected, and I said: “I hope, sir, you do not
imagine that I have in any way countenanced my son’s unwarrantable
interference?” Mr. Perkupp rose from his seat and took my hand, and said:
“Mr. Pooter, I would as soon suspect myself as suspect you.” I was so
agitated that in the confusion, to show my gratitude I very nearly called him a
“grand old man.”
Fortunately
I checked myself in time, and said he was a “grand old master.” I was so
unaccountable for my actions that I sat down, leaving him standing. Of
course, I at once rose, but Mr. Perkupp bade me sit down, which I was very
pleased to do. Mr. Perkupp, resuming, said: “You will understand, Mr. Pooter,
that the high-standing nature of our firm will not admit of our bending to
anybody. If Mr. Crowbillon chooses to put his work into other hands—I may
add, less experienced hands—it is not for us to bend and beg back his
custom.” “You shall not do it, sir,” I said with
indignation. “Exactly,” replied Mr. Perkupp; “I shall not do
it. But I was thinking this, Mr. Pooter. Mr. Crowbillon is our most
valued client, and I will even confess—for I know this will not go beyond
ourselves—that we cannot afford very well to lose him, especially in these
times, which are not of the brightest. Now, I fancy you can be of
service.”
I
replied: “Mr. Perkupp, I will work day and night to serve you!”
Mr.
Perkupp said: “I know you will. Now, what I should like you to do is
this. You yourself might write to Mr. Crowbillon—you must not, of course,
lead him to suppose I know anything about your doing so—and explain to him that
your son was only taken on as a clerk—quite an inexperienced one in fact—out of
the respect the firm had for you, Mr. Pooter. This is, of course, a
fact. I don’t suggest that you should speak in too strong terms of your
own son’s conduct; but I may add, that had he been a son of mine, I should have
condemned his interference with no measured terms. That I leave to
you. I think the result will be that Mr. Crowbillon will see the force of
the foolish step he has taken, and our firm will neither suffer in dignity nor
in pocket.”
I could
not help thinking what a noble gentleman Mr. Perkupp is. His manners and
his way of speaking seem to almost thrill one with respect.
I said:
“Would you like to see the letter before I send it?”
Mr.
Perkupp said: “Oh no! I had better not. I am supposed to know
nothing about it, and I have every confidence in you. You must write the
letter carefully. We are not very busy; you had better take the morning
to-morrow, or the whole day if you like. I shall be here myself all day
to-morrow, in fact all the week, in case Mr. Crowbillon should call.”
I went
home a little more cheerful, but I left word with Sarah that I could not see
either Gowing or Cummings, nor in fact anybody, if they called in the
evening. Lupin came into the parlour for a moment with a new hat on, and
asked my opinion of it. I said I was not in the mood to judge of hats,
and I did not think he was in a position to buy a new one. Lupin replied
carelessly: “I didn’t buy it; it was a present.”
I have
such terrible suspicions of Lupin now that I scarcely like to ask him
questions, as I dread the answers so. He, however, saved me the trouble.
He said:
“I met a friend, an old friend, that I did not quite think a friend at the
time; but it’s all right. As he wisely said, ‘all is fair in love and
war,’ and there was no reason why we should not be friends still. He’s a
jolly, good, all-round sort of fellow, and a very different stamp from that
inflated fool of a Perkupp.”
I said:
“Hush, Lupin! Do not pray add insult to injury.”
Lupin
said: “What do you mean by injury? I repeat, I have done no injury.
Crowbillon is simply tired of a stagnant stick-in-the-mud firm, and made the
change on his own account. I simply recommended the new firm as a matter
of biz—good old biz!”
I said
quietly: “I don’t understand your slang, and at my time of life have no desire
to learn it; so, Lupin, my boy, let us change the subject. I will, if it
please you, try and be interested in your new hat adventure.”
Lupin
said: “Oh! there’s nothing much about it, except I have not once seen him since
his marriage, and he said he was very pleased to see me, and hoped we should be
friends. I stood a drink to cement the friendship, and he stood me a new
hat—one of his own.”
I said
rather wearily: “But you have not told me your old friend’s name?”
Lupin
said, with affected carelessness: “Oh didn’t I? Well, I will. It
was Murray Posh.”
May
14.—Lupin came down late, and seeing me at home all the morning, asked the
reason of it. Carrie and I both agreed it was better to say nothing to
him about the letter I was writing, so I evaded the question.
Lupin
went out, saying he was going to lunch with Murray Posh in the City. I
said I hoped Mr. Posh would provide him with a berth. Lupin went out
laughing, saying: “I don’t mind wearing Posh’s one-priced hats, but I am
not going to sell them.” Poor boy, I fear he is perfectly
hopeless.
It took
me nearly the whole day to write to Mr. Crowbillon. Once or twice I asked
Carrie for suggestions; and although it seems ungrateful, her suggestions were
none of them to the point, while one or two were absolutely idiotic. Of
course I did not tell her so. I got the letter off, and took it down to
the office for Mr. Perkupp to see, but he again repeated that he could trust
me.
Gowing
called in the evening, and I was obliged to tell him about Lupin and Mr.
Perkupp; and, to my surprise, he was quite inclined to side with Lupin.
Carrie joined in, and said she thought I was taking much too melancholy a view
of it. Gowing produced a pint sample-bottle of Madeira, which had been
given him, which he said would get rid of the blues. I dare say it would
have done so if there had been more of it; but as Gowing helped himself to
three glasses, it did not leave much for Carrie and me to get rid of the blues
with.
May 15.—A
day of great anxiety, for I expected every moment a letter from Mr.
Crowbillon. Two letters came in the evening—one for me, with “Crowbillon
Hall” printed in large gold-and-red letters on the back of the envelope; the
other for Lupin, which I felt inclined to open and read, as it had “Gylterson,
Sons, and Co. Limited,” which was the recommended firm. I trembled as I
opened Mr. Crowbillon’s letter. I wrote him sixteen pages, closely
written; he wrote me less than sixteen lines.
His
letter was: “Sir,—I totally disagree with you. Your son, in the course of
five minutes’ conversation, displayed more intelligence than your firm has done
during the last five years.—Yours faithfully, Gilbert E. Gillam O. Crowbillon.”
What am I
to do? Here is a letter that I dare not show to Mr. Perkupp, and would
not show to Lupin for anything. The crisis had yet to come; for Lupin
arrived, and, opening his letter, showed a cheque for £25 as a commission for
the recommendation of Mr. Crowbillon, whose custom to Mr. Perkupp is evidently
lost for ever. Cummings and Gowing both called, and both took Lupin’s
part. Cummings went so far as to say that Lupin would make a name
yet. I suppose I was melancholy, for I could only ask: “Yes, but what
sort of a name?”
May 16.—I
told Mr. Perkupp the contents of the letter in a modified form, but Mr. Perkupp
said: “Pray don’t discuss the matter; it is at an end. Your son will
bring his punishment upon himself.” I went home in the evening, thinking
of the hopeless future of Lupin. I found him in most extravagant spirits
and in evening dress. He threw a letter on the table for me to read.
To my
amazement, I read that Gylterson and Sons had absolutely engaged Lupin at a
salary of £200 a year, with other advantages. I read the letter through
three times and thought it must have been for me. But there it was—Lupin
Pooter—plain enough. I was silent. Lupin said: “What price Perkupp
now? You take my tip, Guv.—‘off’ with Perkupp and freeze on to Gylterson,
the firm of the future! Perkupp’s firm? The stagnant dummies have
been standing still for years, and now are moving back. I want to go
on. In fact I must go off, as I am dining with the Murray Poshs
to-night.”
In the
exuberance of his spirits he hit his hat with his stick, gave a loud war
“Whoo-oop,” jumped over a chair, and took the liberty of rumpling my hair all
over my forehead, and bounced out of the room, giving me no chance of reminding
him of his age and the respect which was due to his parent. Gowing and
Cummings came in the evening, and positively cheered me up with congratulations
respecting Lupin.
Gowing
said: “I always said he would get on, and, take my word, he has more in his
head than we three put together.”
Carrie
said: “He is a second Hardfur Huttle.”
To be
concluded
