The man returned with a beaming smile, as though he had smoothed away every difficulty. ‘The Rover? Yes, it’s there all right. Now, Blandfoot. Out with the Murillo.’
Mrs. Marling and Mr. Blandfoot gave each other a long stare. Then Mrs. Marling spoke.
‘I don’t think we should find the picture very interesting. I hope, Mr. Blandfoot, you’ll respect my wishes and not show it to us now.’
Instantly the room was alive with voices raised in protest. ‘Really, Alice, you mustn’t spoil the fun.’ ‘Oh, do let us see it, just for a moment! What harm can it do? It’s only a picture.’
The various intonations of appeal and persuasion and protest united made quite a hubbub. Some rose to their feet and made oratorical gestures; some whispered fiercely into the ears of their neighbours, with heavy emphasis on single words; some studied the ceiling as though dissociating themselves from what was going on round them. Each, after speaking, looked as though no one on earth could challenge the reasonableness of his or her remarks. Mr. Blandfoot glanced from Mrs. Marling to the rebels, and back to Mrs. Marling again. His look spoke volumes. She turned to her unruly guests and said:
‘In that case you must excuse me if I leave you.
In the silence that followed she was preparing to depart when Mr. Blandfoot cried:
‘Stop! You wanted to see it, and by God you shall!’
His hands flew to his collar; his pale face turned red, then purple and seemed to swell; he swayed, clutched at the mantelpiece and fell heavily on the carpet.
The man who had gone to find the car ran forward. ‘Give him air!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll unfasten his collar.’ He wrenched at the starched linen, and at last it gave; the shirt front came open with it, disclosing a crimson stain. ‘Ah, what’s this?’ he cried. ‘Get back—it’s more serious than we thought!’ He bent over his patient, cutting him off from the view of those around. Another rending sound followed and further garments became apparent. “What is it, what is it?’ they cried. ‘Is he dying?’ ‘Tell us what the matter is.’ The man gave a laugh which sounded strangely on the ears of those who knew him well. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said; ‘it’s his picture; it’s his picture, that’s all. I think he’s coming round.’ He began to laugh uncomfortably; but he did not move; his body still screened Mr. Blandfoot’s chest from the eyes of the others. A man detached himself from the group of staring guests, walked across to the fallen man, paused, looked down and went on to the door, his expression scarcely changing. ‘Good night, good night, Alice,’ he said. ‘Thank you for a most charming evening.’ Another man left his chair, hesitated, walked rather quickly to where Blandfoot lay, and peered down at him. Then with a smile on his lips he gave the tips of his fingers to Mrs. Marling and softly went away. Two other men did the same; the rest followed the women who made a wide circuit to reach the door. ‘Good night, good night,’ they said, in lower voices; but their hostess did not answer. She looked neither at them nor at the figure on the carpet, but at the ferns in the grate; she paid no heed to Hesketh who had taken her hand; her lower lip twitched slightly and she seemed to have grown smaller. ‘Never mind, never mind,’ said the man at Mr. Blandfoot’s side. ‘Leave him to us, Mrs. Marling. Don’t you stay; he’ll be all right in a moment.’ Then she too went. Mr. Blandfoot’s face twitched. The man beside him caught Hesketh’s eye and the novelist reluctantly moved over to him. ‘He’s sweating,’ said the man; ‘better cover him up.’ He folded Mr. Blandfoot’s garments over the tattoo-marks, his whole body quivering with uncontrollable laughter, but his companion did not join in. ‘I’m glad you see something to laugh at,’ he said.
THE PRICE OF THE ABSOLUTE
How stealthily, like the imperceptible approaches of a painless but fatal illness, does a passion for the antique grow on one! Timothy Carswell had inherited some Oriental china, enough to dress a chimney piece and fill a corner cupboard. His friends congratulated him and he was full of the pride of possession; when that wore off he lost interest and was half inclined to agree with his maid, that ornaments so breakable ought not to be left about.
But one day an elderly relation told him that in the time of his great-grandmother a certain plate had been used for feeding the chickens. Yes, here it was—great excitement—and as Timothy doubtless knew, was famille verte and valuable.
When she had gone Timothy studied the plate. From a circular yellow medallion in the centre radiated branches bearing blue flowers and mauve flowers, and terra-cotta roses with leaves of two shades of green. It was the leaves that especially fascinated Timothy. The point of transition between the two greens, where they leaned towards each other, affected him almost as deeply as a change of key in Schubert. He was horrified to think of the chickens pecking at the leaves and replaced the plate on the chimneypiece with exaggerated care.
Now the china was his chief delight, and though none of the other pieces gave him quite the same satisfaction as the plate, they all gave him something to read about, to discuss, and to contemplate in a dreamy mood between thought and feeling which he found extremely seductive.
And so it was with bitter disappointment that he learned from the porter of a London museum that the ceramics department was still closed for repairs. ‘Come again in three years’ time,’ the man told him with a twinkle.
But to Timothy even three minutes seemed too long to wait. He had come up to London to see Chinese porcelain, and Chinese porcelain he would see. A bus hove in sight, going to a region north of the Park where antique shops abounded. Timothy got in.
The inside of the shop was much larger than one would have guessed from the street. A thick carpet muffled Timothy’s tread. There was no one about, so he tip-toed up to the shelves which lined the walls and, looking at one piece after another, tried to measure in terms of feeling the attraction that each piece might have for him. Suddenly he stopped, for on a shelf above his head was a vase that arrested his attention as sharply as if it had spoken to him. Who can describe perfection? I shall not attempt to, nor even indicate the colour; for, like a pearl, the vase had its own colour, which floated on its surface more lightly than morning mist hangs on a river.
‘You were looking at this vase,’ said a voice at his elbow, a courteous voice but it made Timothy jump. ‘You are right to admire it: it is a unique piece.’
The speaker was a clean-shaven man of middle height and middle age with an urbane manner and considerable presence.
‘It is most beautiful,’ said Timothy and was immediately abashed at having spoken to a stranger in such a heart-felt tone.
His interlocutor turned and called into the depth of the shop: ‘Get the celadon vase down and show it to the gentleman.’
‘Yes, Mr. Joshaghan.’
One of several men who had suddenly appeared from nowhere brought some steps and, with an expressionless face, took down the vase and set it on a table.
‘Turn on the light!’ commanded the proprietor. So illuminated, the vase shone as if brightness had been poured over it. It might have been floating in its own essence, so insubstantial did it look. Through layer on layer of soft transparency you seemed to see right into the heart of the vase.
‘Clair-de-lune,’ said Mr. Joshaghan. ‘Ming?’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps. We do not guarantee. You like the vase, sir?’
‘How much is it?’ asked Timothy, absently.
He started when he was told the sum. And yet, he thought, it might have been much more. How can you put a price on perfection? He gave the proprietor a regretful smile to indicate that the vase was not for him.