Leslie Hartley - The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley

‘Do you really want to see it?’ he asked them.

‘Yes, yes,’ they cried, all looking towards him.

‘But I must warn you,’ he added, ‘that it may be more than you bargain for.’

Mrs. Marling looked up from the chair in which, when Mr. Blandfoot showed signs of coming to heel, she had seated herself.

‘Will it be like the head of Medusa? Will it turn us to stone?’

‘I don’t know what it will turn you into,’ he said, looking round him reflectively.

They all smiled delightedly at each other.

‘Nothing worse than donkeys?’ suggested someone facetiously.

‘I don’t know,’ said Mr. Blandfoot, ‘how bad you can be.’

‘And after to-night,’ asked one of the guests, ‘everyone will be able to see it—it will be hung up in your house?’

Mr. Blandfoot thought a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This is a private view, and I doubt if I shall show the picture again. You might not even want to see it a second time.’

There was a pause. Mrs. Marling stirred in her chair.

‘Would you like me to send someone to fetch it?’

Everyone hung on Mr. Blandfoot’s lips.

‘No, thank you, I have it on me, here.’

‘Dear me, how the man does tease us,’ said a woman’s voice.

‘Come on, Blandfoot,’ said a man from among the company. ‘You can’t get us more excited than we are now. You’ll miss your market if you keep us on tenterhooks any longer.’

‘He’s forgotten it, and doesn’t dare say so.’

‘Blandfoot, we shall skin you alive if you disappoint us. Alice has all the engines of Oriental torture in the hall being heated ready for you, so hurry up!’

‘I tell you what,’ said Mr. Blandfoot, ‘if you skin me alive you can have the picture to keep. There’s an offer.’

Mrs. Marling rose from her chair. ‘Mr. Blandfoot, I don’t think you really want to show us the picture. Keep it for another time. It’s late now, and we don’t want to worry you,’ She glanced at the clock.

Mr. Blandfoot pulled something slowly out of his pocket. Every eye was focused upon his waistcoat, and when the object turned out to be in truth his watch, there was a general sigh, half of relief, half of disappointment.

‘No, no,’ he said, ignoring what was perhaps the most palpable hint Mrs. Marling had ever given in her life.

‘Believe me, there’s plenty of time. Only I should be much obliged if you would send and ask if my car is standing at the door.’

‘I’m afraid all the servants have gone to bed,’ said Mrs. Marling.

The silence that followed this pronouncement was broken by Mrs. Pepperthwaite’s thin piping voice:

‘There must be someone about to give us back our hats and coats.’

Mrs. Marling looked straight in front of her; and a man at the back of the room said in a good natured voice: ‘All right, Blandfoot, I’ll go and look.’

When he had gone the murmur of conversation began again, though Mr. Blandfoot and Mrs. Marling, at their posts on the hearth-rug, contributed nothing to it.

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.

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.