Poor Caroline Page 4

  She was absurd, of course. But so was life absurd. Basil lit a cigarette and lay blowing exquisite smoke-rings toward the ceiling, and listened. The sight of Gloria in her crepe-de-Chine chemise and scarlet kimono, so engagingly incongruous to her subject, tickled his sense of humour. He enjoyed the thought of Caroline Denton-Smyth and all her type of moralizing churchwomen finding a protagonist in his wife. He appreciated the comedy of vengeance which he could exact upon all the hours of boredom spent during his boyhood while sitting in the Rectory drawing-room,

  hearing his mother's conversation with the ladies of the Mothers' Union. He sat up and laughed at Gloria. 'Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian.' 'And then, just think how excited poor old Caroline what's-her-name would be to see an idea of hers come true. I don't suppose she's ever had many of her ideas catch on, do you? Oh, Basil, we must do it. Think of her, fluttering about her Bayswater Boarding House, collecting subscribers, or shareholders or whatever we decide to call them. The more we can make it sound commercial, the more of a novelty it'll be to them. Oh, we'll give her a run for her money before we've done with her, poor Caroline!"

  Chapter 2 : Joseph Isenbaum

  §1

  number 987 Sackville Street, London, W.1, though registered in the Street Directory as the Gentleman's Tailoring Establishment of one Augustus Mitchell, was less of a shop than a club, and less of a club than a sartorial chapel. Mr. Augustus Mitchell's clients did not enter his heavy swing-doors idly, carelessly or wantonly. They came reverently, soberly and discreetly to consult the High Priest of their temple upon matters of religious solemnity, the cut of a trouser, the width of a stripe, or a change in the shape of a collar so subtle that it would have been invisible to the untutored eye. None knew better than Mr. Mitchell the profound and mystic significance of that distance between two buttons on a waistcoat which makes all the difference between the well-groomed gentleman and the outsider.

  Mr. Joseph Isenbaum was aware of that significance, and he respected Mr. Mitchell's mastery of it. There were several things about Mr. Mitchell which he did not respect, but this knowledge of detail was impressive. Mr. Isenbaum was a ritualist by racial tradition. He knew what it meant to tithe anise and cummin, and to broaden or narrow the phylacteries. A Jew by birth, name and temperament, an exporter of agricultural implements by profession, a free-thinker by religion, a family man by accident, and a connoisseur by inclination, he regarded his visits to Mr. Mitchell's shop as unpleasant but sacred obligations.

  For Mr. Isenbaum cherished a wistful and often misplaced devotion to the Best. He maintained that a man's possessions should be Few but Good, that his habits should be Restrained but Splendid, and that his associations should be Eclectic but Intimate. Unhappily his worship was hampered by his limitations of taste and judgment. In pursuit of the Rare and Beautiful, he had filled his house at Richmond with a catholic collection of monstrosities, picked up at auction sales all over London and the Home Counties. Though he went to Mitchell's for his clothes, the eccentricity of his figure prevented even that master from fulfilling his highest possibilities. Though he belonged to two tolerable clubs, the dissonance of his name, and a certain hesitation and obsequiousness of manner, prevented him from forming those few but choice friendships which he desired. His desire for a son involved him in a disastrous sequence of five daughters, at the end of which had come at long last his beloved, his Benjamin.

  Benjamin Isenbaum. Benjamin Isenbaum. As Mr. Isenbaum sat on one September afternoon in Augustus Mitchell's shop, he repeated the name over and over to himself as though it were a painful yet exciting charm. Whenever Joseph had nothing else of special moment to think about, his thoughts turned to his son. Yet always the contemplation hurt as well as comforted. For Joseph had inflicted upon this splendid son, this lamb without spot or blemish, this glorious boy, an intolerable burden. Benjamin Isenbaum. Benjamin Isenbaum. What could a man do in the world with a name like that?

  Joseph had originally intended, if ever he had a son, to change his own name to Bauminster and to call the boy William or Richard. He had discussed the matter with his wife, who was content to acquiesce in all his decisions. As a free-thinker and modernist, he was bound by no tie of piety or interest to Judaism.

  But when it came to the point of taking out letters patent, the delicacy of spirit which was with him a motive stronger even than his paternal love, frustrated him. Three weeks before the birth of the boy, he heard an ex-Jew, Ferguson, whose father had been called Abrams, talking to a group of men about his recently acquired membership of a coveted club. 'Thank God,' cried Abrams-Ferguson. 'You can eat without meeting any Jews there!'

  Joseph saw the polite acquiescence of the Gentile listeners. His pride and his hunger for perfection combined in revolt against both the meanness which inspired Ferguson and the scorn which greeted him. He made a vow to the God in whom he professed enlightened disbelief that if he had a son he would call him Benjamin, and that he would remain an Isenbaum till death.

  The decision was made. The son was born. The name was given. But Joseph lived to repent daily and hourly his magnanimous gesture. The boy was everything that a boy could be. Nothing could be too good for him. Eton or Harrow, Oxford or Cambridge, the best clubs, the best companionship, the best profession. The Bar and then Parliament? Harley Street? A Professorial Chair? The presidency of the Royal Academy? All these pinnacles of achievement appeared accessible to Dicky Bauminster. But to Ben Isenbaum?

  Torn between obstinacy and compunction, his father laboured to undo the harm of his rash oath.

  He endeavoured to enter Benjamin for one of the big public schools. But he learned by bitter experience that the son of Joseph Isenbaum, exporter of agricultural implements, might knock in vain at the gates of Eton or Harrow unless he could go sponsored by some more welcome visitant. House-masters wrote politely to say that they had no vacancies. Non-committal replies left Joseph sick with apprehension. Fear lest he should have ruined his son's chances lay like a weight of indigestion across his chest.

  But if he could secure a letter of introduction from an Etonian, a Bishop or a Peer, or even a plain gentleman of good standing, then the situation would be changed.

  Among his acquaintances were men who had been to public schools, but not one of them, Joseph felt, was the right man for his purpose.

  He was thinking of his need when he sat in Augustus Mitchell's show-room, handling patterns of gent's autumn suitings.

  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 refused 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. Educationally,' 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 exquisite 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 American actresses.'

  'The Government? Hum. Now, as a Conservative, Mitchell, I put it to you. Do you really approve of Government 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 market 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 understanding 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 difficulties. 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.

  But the rector's son who had been to Eton was not by any means winning his match. For all his light fencing, his delicate thrusts and agile ripostes, he was being beaten back by the slow pomposity of the Christian tailor.

  Joseph's imagination warmed towards the conquered. His love of elegance endeared St. Denis to him. His romantic heart softened to this rector's son who wore his clothes so admirably. His alert sense of business observed that here was an Etonian in a difficulty. Of all things in the world that Joseph needed at that moment was an opportunity for placing an Etonian under an obligation to him.

  Still, the opportunity had not yet arisen. St. Denis broke off, raised his eyebrows, and turned to go. He was defeated, but he was unbroken. He strolled three paces down the room, then turned.

  'Oh, by the way, Mitchell. I told Hollway that I wanted that suit by Friday.'

  'Hollway, sir?'

  'Hollway. That fellow you call 17. My dear Mitchell, you surely don't expect me to adopt your degrading practice of calling your assistants by numbers as though they were Dartmoor convicts, do you?'

  'Degrading, sir? Ah, hardly that, I think, surely. Our ideal is one of impersonal service - impersonal anonymity, sir. Look at the Gothic cathedrals. We do not know who built them. Look at The Times newspaper.'

  'Yes. Look at it. Damn dull, my dear Mitchell. Damn dull. In any case, these numbers confuse me. They are worse than the streets in New York. In future, please, when I am here, kindly call your assistants by their proper names.'

  'Splendid, splendid, splendid!' applauded Joseph's heart. His tongue was silent, but he rose to his feet in an impulsive tribute of gratitude and admiration.

  Then St. Denis saw him.

  'I'm afraid that I've kept you too long from your other customers,' said he. 'This gentleman.'

  'Not at all. Not at all,' cried Joseph, perspiring but composed. 'I was only looking through some patterns.'

  He swallowed hard. What St. Denis, insolvent but indomitable, had done, that Isenbaum, solvent as he was, could do. 'I gave my selections to your assistant, Griffin.'

  'Griffin?' Mr. Mitchell flushed. St. Denis was an old customer. He was a relative of Lord Herringdale. He was privileged. But Isenbaum, the fat, stinking little Jew, Isenbaum had defied the Rubric, and blasphemed the Holy of Holies. Mr. Mitchell grew calm with fury. 'You mean my assistant, 17?'

  'I mean your man here, Griffin,' repeated Joseph, flushed but resolute. 'I agree with this gentleman, Mr. Mitchell. I prefer to call your assistants by their proper names.'

  'Admirable,' smiled St. Denis. 'You see, Mitchell, I have a fellow protestant.'

  If fury could destroy long-set tradition, if rage could master business advantage, if a life-time of discipline had not overlain Mr. Mitchell's passions, he would then have ordered both his customers from his shop. Had Isenbaum been alone, he would have done it. But St. Denis was St. Denis. He did not pay his bills, but he was well connected. One never knew how far the repercussions of insulting Lord Herringdale's kinsman might resound through the small world of quality. Mr. Mitchell tightened his lips and bowed in silence.

  But as he bowed, he conceived another and more subtle means of vengeance. Mitchell's was a club, over which he had hitherto presided with inimitable discretion. Never had he affected an introduction which cast the least shadow of embarrassment on either of the parties. Now he remembered that the Herringdales hated Jews; and he suspected that St. Denis borrowed money from all men of substance. The pair were well matched to inconvenience each other.

  'Ah,' said he. 'I believe that you do not know Mr. Isenbaum, Mr. St.
Denis? Mr. St. Denis, Mr. Isenbaum.'

  Mitchell had made one miscalculation. Of all his clients there was none who appreciated better than Basil St. Denis the fine shades of etiquette at Mitchell's. He knew that Augustus Mitchell did not introduce his Jews. He knew that Mitchell sought to make himself unpleasant. He quietly spiked the tailor's guns.

  'Ah, Isenbaum, we are two revolutionaries. Mitchell will have none of us. I am desolate. We must console each other. Were you going anywhere?'

  'Only eventually back to the city. But not in any hurry,' smiled Joseph nervously.

  'Then come and have a drink first,' said Basil, as though Joseph Isenbaum were the one man in all London whom he had hoped to meet.