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

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.

‘Too much, eh?’ said Mr. Joshaghan in a business-like tone. ‘Come here, Mr. Kirman, and tell this gentleman what you think about this vase.’

Mr. Kirman, detaching himself from the little pack, came forward and looked down thoughtfully at the vase.

‘It is a wonderful piece, Mr. Joshaghan,’ he said. ‘In all our experience we have never had one like it. This gentleman would be well advised to buy it, if only as an investment.’

‘You see?’ said Mr. Joshaghan. ‘Come here, Mr. Solstice, and tell this gentleman what you think about this vase.’

Dark-browed and aquiline like his predecessor, Mr. Solstice joined them and stared down at the vase.

‘It is a bargain, indeed it is, sir,’ he said earnestly. ‘You would not find a vase like this wherever you looked. It is a piece of extraordinary good fortune that we are able to offer it to you.’

Mr. Joshaghan raised his eyebrows at Timothy and gave his hands a half-turn outwards. ‘You hear? He agrees with the other. We will ask again. Come here, Mr. Doverman, and tell this gentleman——’

‘No, no, please don’t bother,’ cried Timothy, forestalling almost rudely Mr. Doverman’s testimony. ‘I couldn’t possibly——’ He stopped and looked with distaste at the vase, its lustre dimmed by all the exudations of commerce that so thickly smeared it. How could he have dreamed? . . .

Into the moody silence round the vase came the sound of the shop door opening, and a shadow moved along the carpet.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Mr. Joshaghan. ‘What a good chance! Here is Mr. Smith of Manchester, in the nick of time. Mr. Smith, if you will be so kind, tell this gentleman what you think about this vase.’

Sharp-featured, sandy-haired and very English-looking, Mr. Smith seemed embarrassed. He stroked his chin, cleared his throat and said with an effort, ‘Well, it speaks for itself, doesn’t it?’

At once Timothy’s mood changed. The others had all spoken for the vase. Mr. Smith, more perceptive, had said the vase spoke for itself. It did; it needed no recommendation from anyone. It had perfection; it was perfection; the Absolute in terms of a vase. If Timothy possessed it he would have the Absolute always at his command. Had his life been a quest, it would have ended here.

But the price was totally disproportionate to his capital, his income, his way of life and his prospects. To pay it would be a step towards madness. Worried by the pressure of the wills around him, he shook his head.

‘Mr.——?’ said Mr. Joshaghan softly. ‘I do not have the pleasure of knowing your name.’

‘Carswell,’ said Timothy.

‘Mr. Carswell,’ said Mr. Joshaghan, as reverently as if the name was a benediction, ‘do you know that Lord Mountbatten will soon be leaving India?’

Timothy stared at him. He had been so deeply absorbed in the vase that he could not get India into focus.

‘I suppose so,’ he said, doubtfully.

‘Mr. Carswell,’ repeated Mr. Joshaghan, ‘India is a very large place.’

‘Very large,’ Timothy agreed, hoping he was not going to get drawn into a political argument.

‘What would you say was the population of India?’ Mr. Joshaghan eyed him closely.

Timothy was fond of statistics. ‘Four hundred million,’ he replied with unkind promptness. But to his surprise Mr. Joshaghan was not in the least put out.

‘Four hundred and fifteen million, to be exact,’ he said. ‘And what fraction would that be of the total population of the world?’

‘About a fifth.’

Again Mr. Joshaghan did not seem to mind having his aces trumped.

‘You are quite right, Mr. Carswell,’ he said, slowly and impressively. ‘There are two thousand million people in the world, and not one of them could make this vase!’

The onlookers stood with downcast eyes, like donors in a picture. But to Timothy they had multiplied, multiplied into the two thousand million people of the world, for whom the making of this vase must for ever remain an unattainable ideal. The poetry of the idea swept over him, loosening his heart-strings.

‘I’ll have it,’ he said.

‘I congratulate you,’ said Mr. Joshaghan.

Immediately the knot of tension broke; the cloud of witnesses, their faces indifferent now, melted away; even Mr. Joshaghan, still murmuring compliments, withdrew into his office. Timothy was left alone with his prize. How could he bear to be separated from it?

‘But there is no need,’ said Mr. Joshaghan, when consulted about payment. ‘We will gladly accept your cheque and you can take the vase away with you.’

Joy surged up in Timothy again, and he could hardly refrain from embracing Mr. Joshaghan.

‘I will arrange for it to be packed,’ said Timothy’s benefactor, pocketing his cheque and bowing himself away. ‘Meanwhile, perhaps, you would like to have another look round. We may have other vases. . .’

Timothy smiled, for of course there were no other vases in the world. But there was plenty to look at, and plenty of reason, every time he looked, to congratulate himself that bis vase was not as these.