Читать книгу General Impressions - Edmée Elizabeth Monica Dashwood - Страница 22

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First, and most unpleasant, General Impression that there must be a Decaying Mouse somewhere in the immediate vicinity of the discoloured and shapeless garments that lie in heaps All over the Place, or else drip dejectedly from moth-eaten clothes-hangers suspended by a sagging piece of grey tape above the counter.

The Proprietor, in a stained and mustard-coloured waistcoat, is thoughtfully, but thoroughly, making use of a Hairpin to explore his Back Teeth, and at the same time giving contemptuous attention to a client.

THE CLIENT (recklessly throwing open a large Black Bag). How much for these?

THE PROPRIETOR. Very little doing nowadays. But let's have a look.

He has a look at three old pairs of boots, two bowler hats, a pepper-and-salt suit, and a large pile of miscellaneous underwear.

THE P. (in accents of despair). There's nothing there, you know. Not a thing.

THE C. Come, come. Don't say that. It isn't as if you and me weren't old friends.

THE P. I know, I know. It isn't that I won't, but that I can't. You can see for yourself that there simply—isn't—anything—whatever—there.

They both gaze with the extreme of gloom at the multiple contents of the Black Bag, now spilling all over the counter.

THE C. (rallying). What about these Boots, now? There's always a demand for a good Boot, you know.

In order to emphasize this point, he picks up one of the Boots and poises it on the fingers of one hand, looking at it admiringly with his head on one side.

THE P. Ah, there's Boots, and Boots. Now if this had been a Hunting-Boot, I don't say——

The Boot, however, declines to transform itself into a Hunting-Boot, and the Client wisely transfers his attention to the Bowler Hats instead.

THE C. I'm not saying it to influence you in any way, ole man, but it is a Fact that Top-hats are absolutely Gone Out—absolutely—and nach'rally there's a demand for Bowlers. It follows. You know that as well as I do.

THE P. Ah, but what about Felts? Now I could get rid of any number of Felts, easy enough, but when it comes to Bowlers—well!

General Impression that Bowlers represent the lowest depths of degradation in the sartorial world.

THE P. (at last, and after much discussion). Well, for an old friend like yourself, let's say Seven Shillings and Sixpence.

Feint on the part of the Client of scooping everything back into the bag again.

THE C. I couldn't do it, ole man. I'd rather Go Elsewhere. There's Twelve Shillings here if there's a penny.

THE P. Twelve Shillings? Twelve Shillings?

THE C. (firmly). Every penny of Twelve Shillings.

They glare at one another for some moments. General Impression that a deadlock has been reached when the Proprietor suddenly thinks better of the whole thing, produces a ten-shilling note and a florin, and sweeps the black bag and all its contents beneath the counter with a single gesture of contempt.

THE C. (mysteriously, as he departs). I may be round again, in a week's time. He's off for Winter Sports, he is, and that'll mean another new outfit, I suppose.

Later in the Day. Entrance of an uncertain-looking Female, with a large cardboard box and a newspaper parcel.

THE F. Good afternoon. A—A friend of mine, who's had to go into mourning, you know, has asked me to—to dispose of a few Things for her.

THE P. (who knows all about that kind of Friend). She has, has she, miss? And what kind of Things are they?

General Impression that they are particularly mildewy, disreputable, and out-of-date kind of things, and consist mainly of old Feather Boas, well-worn Evening Dresses, and Corsets of Queen Victoria's date.

THE P. (unerringly). The Moth's been in here, miss. Still in, as like as not ... ah, I thought so. And of course the dresses—well, there, you can see for yourself. Gone under the arms, every one of them.

THE F. Of course, they've been worn—but then they're good dresses. I mean, they're from a good place. A person could easily alter them a little, to bring them up to date.... (Her voice falters into silence under the pitying Eye of the Proprietor.)

THE P. Well, miss, of course there's really nothing there that's of the slightest use, to me or anyone else, but as I don't want to disappoint a lady—What were you asking?

THE F. I'd rather you made me an offer, please.

THE P. (inexorably). What are you asking, miss?

THE F. I don't really know, I'd rather you said.

THE P. (with sudden righteous indignation). But I can't be buyer and seller both, can I?

This, of course, defeats the Uncertain Female at once. General Impression that it is only a question of time before she caves in completely and crawls out of the shop, leaving everything behind her sooner than do up her parcels again beneath the Proprietor's Eye, and with the sum of One Shilling and Sixpence in exchange—for which, in all probability, she has meekly said Thank You.

GENERAL IMPRESSION OF AN ATLANTIC LINER (FIRST DAY OUT)

First, regrettable, but quite unmistakable, General Impression that every individual passenger on board is commenting unfavourably on the appearance of every other passenger. This stage, fortunately, modifies itself after the first twenty-four hours.

A NAĎVE LADY (excitedly, to her husband). Henry, I've found out about the Purple Jersey. She's the sister of the Plus Fours, not his wife, and they're going out to visit an old mother, who's married again and lives in a town called something-or-other—quite a large place, I gather. And just fancy, the mother is seventy-three!

HENRY (of a sardonic humour). And what date is her birthday, and what did they send her for a birthday present?

Amongst the First-class Passengers, a gentleman with a Fur Coat and a cigar is looking down at the third-class passengers on the lower deck, in the company of a lady in a Fur Coat and a Rope of Pearls.

THE ROPE OF PEARLS. I never can imagine where they all come from, can you?

THE CIGAR. Never. Nor where they're all going to, don't you know.

THE ROPE OF PEARLS (tolerantly). Oh well, I daresay they have their own interests, you know. What I always say is, that it takes all sorts to make a world.

In less exalted regions, the second-and third-class passengers are remarking to one another that they really wouldn't care about travelling first, even if they could afford it, because—"My dear, look at the people. They're simply too Awful. And half those pearls aren't real, everyone wears Woolworth nowadays."

In a Four-berth Cabin.

A LADY WHO HAS HAD A PERMANENT WAVE PUT IN HER HAIR BEFORE STARTING AND IS ANXIOUS TO DRAW ATTENTION TO IT. The worst of a sea-voyage is that it's so difficult to keep tidy.

A LADY WHO HASN'T HAD A P. W. (and is conscious of being All Over the Place). You should tie your head up in a handkerchief, as I do.

THE P. W. I suppose I shall have to. That's the worst of curly hair, isn't it—the sea air, you know——

General Impression that she has drawn attention to her curls at the expense of her popularity with the other ladies, and will live to regret it.

A GENTLEMAN IN A BERET (walking briskly round the deck). I believe in exercise, you know, on board ship. The only way to keep fit. I do this round fifteen times every morning and five times every afternoon. That's the equivalent of a five-mile walk....

In the Dining Saloon.

ONE PERFECT STRANGER (to another). And is this your first time across the Atlantic?

THE OTHER P. S. I've crossed sixteen times already.

1ST P. S. (not to be outdone). Well, it's my twenty-first trip.

A LADY. Will it get much rougher than this?

HER HUSBAND. It isn't rough at all yet.

THE LADY. But is it going to be?

THE H. Well, of course, dear, the Atlantic is the Atlantic.

General Impression that this is perfectly incontrovertible, and that his wife had better resign herself to the Worst.

At a Port of Call. General Impression that we are taking on nearly a Hundred New People here, and disposition on the part of the original passengers to resent this violently, and despise and dislike the new-comers. This attitude not incompatible with a frenzied desire to see them come on board, and a general rush to the side for the purpose.

A CRITIC. My dear, I ask you, Is there a decently-dressed woman amongst them? And really, you know—children! I always think children are so out-of-place on board ship.