Old lamps for new

I.—The Kind Red Lioness

I will admit that my head ached and I looked tired; but I was not so depressed as all that. None the less she thought I was, and being a good soul she did what she could to help me, and since I knew her to be a good soul doing all that she could to help me, I had to acquiesce.

“Let me bring you something to cheer you up,” she said. “Of course it’s lonely staying in a country inn all by yourself. I know it must be. But I’ve got something that’ll make you laugh. I’ll fetch it in.”

I feared the worst as Mrs. Tally hastened away; and I knew the worst when she returned bearing the Visitors’ Book.

“There,” she said, “I often have a good laugh over that of an evening. Such funny bits there are in it. Some of the gentlemen we get here are such wags. Look at this”—and she placed her fat finger on a drawing of a young man in a straw hat, leaning against the bar while he blew kisses to an enormous figure behind it.

“That’s me,” she said, pointing to the enormous figure. “I remember that young gentleman so well. He came with two others, on bicycles, and they stayed from Saturday to Monday. So bright they were, and so full of jokes. See what he wrote underneath.”

I read: “Dook Snook, Lord Bob, and the Hon. Billy came and saw and were conquered—to Tally!”

“Do you see the take off in that last word?” she inquired. “Rather smart, wasn’t it? But they’re full of fun, all of them. Here’s another amusing one. I remember that gentleman too. He was always full of his jokes.”

I looked and read: “I was sent to the Red Lion by my doctor for change and rest. The waitress got the change, and the hostess the rest.”

“Isn’t that neat?” the Red Lioness inquired.

I said it was. How could I dash this enthusiast’s spirit by telling her its age?

“This is a bit of poetry,” said my hostess, proceeding to read it:—

“He was a jolly young fellow,” she added. “Fancy calling himself Bill Bailey!” and she pealed merrily. “I wonder what’s become of him; he hasn’t been here for months,” she added. “Here’s some more poetry:—

“Don’t you think it’s wonderful to be able to make up poytry like that?” Mrs. Tally continued. “I do. I’ve tried, but I never could do anything worth repeating, and as for writing in a Visitors’ Book!... Don’t you agree with me?” she asked.

“Certainly,” I said. “It’s a real gift, there’s no doubt about it. A gift.”

“Yes,” she said, “a gift. That’s what it is. Here’s another funny one.”

I read: “The Ten Thirsty Tiddlers visited the old Red Lion for the fifteenth time. Everything A1 as usual.”

“But of course,” said Mrs. Tally, “although these are amusing and make the book such good reading, it’s the serious compliments we like the best. All comic wouldn’t do at all. Some people, indeed, actually dislike it. There were two lady artists here not long ago who asked me to remove the book from the room, as it was so vulgar. Fancy that—‘remove the book!’ No, it’s the serious things that do us the most good, of course. Like this, for instance”—and Mrs. Tally pointed to the following, one after the other:—

“Well,” said Mrs. Tally, “I must go now; but I’ll leave the book with you. And there’s an earlier volume if you like to see it. It’ll cheer you wonderfully, and you’ll just die of laughing.”

The honest kindly soul! There are moments when one is more ashamed of what is called culture than any one can ever be of ignorance.

II.—A Darling of the Gods

I see by the papers, with deep concern, that my friend X has been run over by a motor-bus and killed, at the age of only thirty-eight. I wish I could find some one who helped to pick him up, just to see if he said anything about his end: because——

But I will tell you. His foible was to believe that everything that happened was for the best—for himself. Not for mankind; he had none of the great Dr. Pangloss’s satisfaction that everything that is is right, that this is the best of all possible worlds. None at all. But he was persuaded that his own fortunes were being vigilantly and tirelessly watched by tutelary powers—that he was, in short, a pet of Fate.

And in this creed he had grown very ingenious. I remember once hurrying with him to catch a train, which, he said, he must not lose at any cost. Well, after seriously injuring ourselves—or at least myself—by running with our heavy bags, we lost it.

“Never mind,” he said calmly, “I was evidently intended not to catch it.”

“Then why on earth did you drag me along at that infernal pace?” I asked.

“Oh, well,” he said, “one has to try; one does not know what the stars’ game is.”

“What do you think it is?” I inquired coldly.

“I expect the train will meet with an accident; if so, we are well out of it.”

I took the trouble to find out, when we did at last reach the London station, if that train had come safely in.

“To the minute,” said the porter.

“There,” I said to my friend, “what do you make of that?”

“Oh,” he replied, “I daresay some one with an infectious disease had been sitting in our compartment and we should have caught it.”

What are you to do with a man who talks like that?

Your ordinary fatalist who thinks that, everything being ordained and fixed, no effort of his own can matter, is bad enough; but the fatalist who is also an optimist and secure in the knowledge of his own prosperity is worse. And yet it was rather fine too. The hardest rebuffs (as I should call them) left him smiling.

One day he lost a lot of money in an investment.

“That’s very serious,” I said.

“Not so bad as it might have been,” he replied. “It was done to teach me not to speculate. I am not naturally speculative; I was going against my genius when I did it. Now I have lost £500. But if I hadn’t I might have lost £5000 later on.”

I looked at him in amazement. A kind of inverted Christianity was at work had he only known it. But he prided himself on his paganism.

Well, now he is dead and can find no extenuating circumstances; but I have no doubt he would have explained the catastrophe perfectly, had it been anything short of fatal.

“I was getting very cheap,” he would probably have said, “and needed rest. I could not have got it naturally, being far too busy; so this accident was sent to keep me in bed for a couple of months and pull me clean round.”

But it is hard when the protective stars suffer from trop de zèle.

III.—The Nut

He seemed to be an old habitué of the music-hall, for without a programme he had known all that was coming. And then suddenly he came to his own; for, “Watch this,” he said to those of us who were near him, strangers though we were, as a new number went up; “this is good. I know a chap in this. I’ll tell you when he comes on.” We watched and waited. It was a furious knock-about sketch, the scene of which was a grocer’s shop, staffed by comic grocers. Humorist after humorist came upon the stage, fell over each other, and went through the usual antics; but there was no news of our friend’s friend, nor was the play good.

And then at last a young man representing an aristocratic customer rushed on. “That’s him,” said the man, “that’s old Charley. He’s a nut, I can tell you.” (A nut is what we used to call a “dog,” with a touch more of irresponsibility and high-spirited idiocy.)

“Isn’t he a nut?” he asked us all with a radiant sweeping glance of inquiry. How could we disappoint him? I caught myself nodding in agreement. A nut, surely. “Oh, he’s a boy, I promise you. I’ve had some rare times with old Charley,” his friend went on. “You should see him at Forest Gate on Sundays! I tell you he’s a nut.”

The nut continued to do his best to prove his character. He screwed an eyeglass in his eye, he dashed the girls under the chin, he fell over his walking-stick, he flung his tall hat on the ground. His friend was in ecstasies. “Good old Charley!” he cried again; “isn’t he a nut? By Jingo, but he’s a nut!”

I left him exulting in his intimacy with Charley, while the youths round him glowed in the glory of even the temporary acquaintance of a man who knew intimately a nut on the music-hall stage.

And, after all, that is no small thing.

IV.—The Master of the New Suburb

“The Nook.” Is Mr. Jupp in?

Mrs. Jupp. No, lady, I can’t say as he’s in just at the moment, but I daresay I could find him. He’s very likely at “The Limes,” or “Bellaggio,” or up at our other garden.

“The Nook.” I want to see him very particularly. It’s about my garden. I live at “The Nook,” you know, and I want Mr. Jupp to come to me regularly.

Mrs. Jupp. Yes, lady; but I think you’d better see Jupp yourself. I’ll go and find him if you’ll take a chair.

“The Nook.” But I could go perfectly well. Both those houses are on my way back.

Mrs. Jupp. Oh no, lady; you sit down; I’ll fetch him.

[Mrs. Jupp fetches Jupp from “The Green Man.”]

“The Nook.” Oh! Mr. Jupp, I want you to come to my garden every Friday. What do you charge for that?

Mr. Jupp. Fridays, mum, I’m engaged at “Bellyvista.”

“The Nook.” Then Wednesdays.

Mr. Jupp. Wednesdays, mum, I go to “The Red Bungalow.”

“The Nook.” All day?

Mr. Jupp. Yes, mum, all day. By rights I ought to be there all the week, there’s that work to be done.

“The Nook.” Mondays, then? Are you engaged on Mondays?

Mr. Jupp. Yes, mum; on Mondays I belongs to “Sans Souci.”

“The Nook.” But this is Monday. Why aren’t you there now?

Mr. Jupp. I am, mum. This is my tea-time.

“The Nook.” Couldn’t you give me your tea-times? You shall have tea—anything you like—in the garden, and if you gave me that hour every evening all through the week I daresay it would do.

Mr. Jupp. What, mum, work all through my tea-time!

“The Nook.” I should pay you for it, of course. And really you’re much better without tea. You’ll enjoy your supper all the more, you know. Wouldn’t he, Mrs. Jupp?

Mrs. Jupp. Oh! I never interfere with Jupp’s affairs. Jupp must answer for himself.

“The Nook.” Well, then, Mr. Jupp, couldn’t you give me an hour in the early morning before you start at the other houses?

Mr. Jupp. What about my own garden, mum? When am I going to do that?

“The Nook.” Of course I should pay you well for coming then.

Mr. Jupp. What were you thinking of giving, mum?

“The Nook.” Well, I would give you eightpence an hour—that’s four shillings a week. Will you come? Are there no other gardeners here?

Mr. Jupp. No, mum, no one; and even if there was, he wouldn’t be any use. He wouldn’t understand the soil. It’s very curious soil about here.

“The Nook.” Well, will you come?

Mr. Jupp. I’ll let you know, mum. I’ll think about it and let you know. There’s so many after me I have to be careful, mum. But I’ll let you know.

“The Nook.” Can’t you decide now? I’ll give you tenpence an hour.

Mr. Jupp. I’ll let you know, mum.

[Exit “The Nook”; enter “La Hacienda.”]

“La Hacienda.” Is Mr. Jupp in?

Mrs. Jupp. No, sir. I can’t say he’s in just at the moment, but he’s not far away.

“La Hacienda.” Where do you think he is?

Mrs. Jupp. Well, he might be at “Sans Souci,” and he might be at “Bellyvista,” or up at our other garden, perhaps. You see, being the only gardener about here, he’s so much in request. If you’ll take a seat I’ll fetch him.

[She fetches Jupp from “The Green Man.”]

“La Hacienda.” Mr. Jupp, I want to arrange with you about my garden. What day will suit you best?

Mr. Jupp. I don’t know, sir, as I’ve got any day.

“La Hacienda.” You don’t mean to say you’re full up? The whole week?

Mr. Jupp. I might be able to squeeze in an hour here and there. Suppose—I only say suppose, mind—I was to come for an hour every morning before I started in regular at my day’s work, wherever it might be—at “The Nook,” or “Bellyvista,” or “Sans Souci,” or “The Red Bungalow,” or “The Corner House,” or wherever it was? Although, of course, I ought to be in my own garden then, as the missus here well knows. What would it be worth your while to give me?

“La Hacienda.” For an hour every morning early?

Mr. Jupp. Yes, sir, time I ought to be giving to my own garden.

“La Hacienda.” Well, as it’s important, and you seem to be the only jobbing gardener about here——

Mr. Jupp. No, sir, there’s no other, and even if there was, he wouldn’t be any good. He wouldn’t understand the soil. It’s very curious soil about here. It’s a matter of a lifetime to learn it.

“La Hacienda.” Well, I wouldn’t mind as much as a shilling an hour, at any rate at first. Would that do?

Mr. Jupp. Well, I’ll think about it, and let you know, sir. I can’t decide anything till I’ve seen the gentleman at “The Trossachs.” He has the first claim on any of my spare time, such as it is; but I’ll let you know.

[Exit “La Hacienda”; enter “The Cedars,” on a similar errand.]

V.—The Second Fiddle

“He is tall and thin; a Jew, of course. They are always Jews. He has a large hook nose such as I detest and a black moustache. He dresses very carefully, but it is cheap stuff; still, it looks smart, and women are so foolish. His hair is not long, for he wishes to be thought a man of the world as well as a musician. But I must confess he plays well, so far as technique goes, though he never feels it.

“His eyes are fat, and he has learned to roll them and close them rapturously, and lift his eyebrows, and now and then he sways his head and seems to be in a dream of beauty. That’s all trick, and very likely he practises it before the glass, for he has no music in his soul really, and he is always scheming. Even while his eyes appear to be closed in ecstasy he is looking under the lids at the women to see which is the best worth cultivating.

“I, too, adore women, although I am afraid of them, and I am so lonely I don’t mind confessing that once I too sat before the looking-glass and tried to make languishing faces like his; but I suddenly realized what I was doing and was ready to disfigure myself for shame. Yet they are so charming, some of the women here, and it would be so delightful to play on their feelings as he can and make them open their lips just a little and look away into nothing; above all to make them want me.

“Why one man playing a piece can do that and another man playing the same piece much better with real feeling cannot is a mystery. And I would be so nice to them. They would be able to trust me. I would give them such good advice and take such care of them.

“Instead, the women who come here, many of them, come only to watch him. They make their men bring them here, and often they forget to eat. Then the men they are with are furious. I have heard them sometimes at the nearest tables to the orchestra. ‘Why can’t you let that damned fiddler alone,’ I have heard them say—every one talks the same in our restaurant—‘and pay a little attention to me?’ And then the women are cross, and the meal is ruined.

“But when he goes off—as he does after every two or three selections—to sit with a friend or receive congratulations from the visitors who call him to their tables, and I have to take his place and lead the orchestra, then the men’s faces clear again, for they know that no woman will ever look at me or forget her food when I am playing a solo, for I am short and fair. It is no use being short and fair. I can play all that he does, and I love it too, which he does not—but it is useless. No one looks at me twice. I am short and fair, and middle-aged too.

“But even when I was younger and better dressed and didn’t care I never could get women to be interested in me. It is some trick, I suppose. He takes them all in; but I could tell them some things about him if I were asked—how mean he is, how vain, how jealous, how fickle.

“He is cruel too. When our poor pianist had pneumonia through playing for him one night in a cold hall he refused to allow him any money till he was well enough to play again. Five weeks. Not a penny. And the second violin, whose place I took, was discharged only because he was applauded too much in the solos. One who really needed the post too. A poor man with a large family.

“But women don’t mind about things like that. They don’t ask a man to be kind and good, especially if he plays well. And I confess that his playing is wonderful—technically. But no heart at all.

“Notes are continually being brought to him by the waiters. Sometimes they merely ask for certain things to be played, always waltzes or love songs, and sometimes they are more personal. And while we are playing a piece which one of the pretty women has asked for he is looking at her and making his faces and closing his eyes until she feels like a queen. Isn’t it strange? They should see him when we rehearse. He doesn’t smile then. He snaps and snarls.

“‘Ah!’ say I to myself as I watch it all through my spectacles, ‘you should see his wife waiting outside the restaurant to waylay him on his way to his cards and get some money. He wanted her once, before she was tired and plain. Now he only wants new faces and new voices and new admiration.’ That’s what I am saying behind my spectacles, but no one knows it. There’s no telepathy, as you call it, in me. I am short and fair. We who are short and fair are without magnetism. All there is for us is to be true; but women don’t mind about that. They want magnetism.

“It is difficult for me, being in his employ and being so unimportant, to help much, but sometimes when I see a really nice girl—and we have a few here—losing her head I try quite hard. I try to catch her eye and indicate my real opinion of him grimacing there. Of course, I can only frown and nod. What else could I do? I couldn’t go down and speak to her; but I try very hard with my expression.

“Once when he was making love to a new bookkeeper girl I was able really to act. I told her to be careful. She was a good girl, but oh so silly, as girls can be with musicians. All musicians, that is, but me and the fat ’cellist. She replied that what I said might be true but she liked him all the same. She took people as she found them, she said, and he was always very nice and kind to her.

“‘If you want a lover,’ I said, ‘let me be your lover. I have no one to love; he has thousands.’ But she only laughed. ‘There’s some fun in taking a man from thousands,’ she said. That’s what women are. I don’t want to win a girl from thousands of men. I just want her or I don’t want her. But women—at any rate the women who come here—are different.

“Well, she wouldn’t listen, but she was a good girl, and true to me, for she didn’t tell him what I said, although I couldn’t bring myself to ask her not to. But she was honourable and didn’t tell him. And so it went on; he smiling and bowing and playing to the women all day, at lunch and dinner, and going to tea with them in between, or playing cards with his little set of friends, and at night the bookkeeper girl waiting for him. And so it went on for a month, and then he grew tired and left her, and she lost her place here; and if she has any money now it is that which I have lent her to get through her trouble with.

“So you see what sort of a man he is. But that he can play I will admit. He has a wonderful touch, and a beautiful instrument worth a great deal of money. He could earn a large salary in any orchestra in the world. But there is no heart in his playing. He does not love music as one should.”