George Grossmith - The Diary of a Nobody

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Weedon Grossmith's 1892 book presents the details of English suburban life through the anxious and accident-prone character of Charles Porter. Porter's diary chronicles his daily routine, which includes small parties, minor embarrassments, home improvements, and his relationship with a troublesome son. The small minded but essentially decent suburban world he inhabits is both hilarious and painfully familiar. This edition features Weedon Grossmith's illustrations and an introduction which discusses the story's social context.

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I replied: ‘Mr Perkupp, I will work day and night to serve you!’

Mr Perkupp said: ‘I know you will. Now, what I should like you to do is this. You yourself might write to Mr Crowbillon – you must not, of course, lead him to suppose I know anything about your doing so – and explain to him that your son was only taken on as a clerk – quite an inexperienced one in fact – out of the respect the firm had for you, Mr Pooter. This is, of course, a fact. I don’t suggest that you should speak in too strong terms of your son’s conduct; but I may add, that had he been a son of mine, I should have condemned his interference with no measured terms. That I leave to you. I think the result will be that Mr Crowbillon will see the force of the foolish step he has taken, and our firm will neither suffer in dignity nor in pocket.’

I could not help thinking what a noble gentleman Mr Perkupp is. His manners and his way of speaking seem to almost thrill one with respect.

I said: ‘Would you like to see the letter before I send it?’

Mr Perkupp said: ‘Oh no! I had better not. I am supposed to know nothing about it, and I have every confidence in you. You must write the letter carefully. We are not very busy; you had better take the morning tomorrow, or the whole day if you like. I shall be here myself all day tomorrow, in fact all the week, in case Mr Crowbillon should call.’

I went home a little more cheerful, but I left word with Sarah that I could not see either Gowing or Cummings, nor in fact anybody, if they called in the evening. Lupin came into the parlour for a moment with a new hat on, and asked my opinion of it. I said I was not in the mood to judge of hats, and I did not think he was in a position to buy a new one. Lupin replied carelessly: ‘I didn’t buy it; it was a present.’

I have such terrible suspicions of Lupin now that I scarcely like to ask him questions, as I dread the answers so. He, however, saved me the trouble.

He said: ‘I met a friend, an old friend, that I did not quite think a friend at the time, but it’s all right. As he wisely said, “all is fair in love and war”, and there was no reason why we should not be friends still. He’s a jolly good, all-round sort of fellow, and a very different stamp from that inflated fool of a Perkupp.’

I said; ‘Hush, Lupin! Do not pray add insult to injury.’

Lupin said: ‘What do you mean by injury? I repeat, I have done no injury. Crowbillon is simply tired of a stagnant stick-in-the-mud firm, and made the change on his own account. I simply recommended the new firm as a matter of biz – good old biz!’

I said quietly: ‘I don’t understand your slang, and at my time of life have no desire to learn it; so, Lupin, my boy, let us change the subject. I will, if it please you, try and be interested in your new hat adventure.’

Lupin said: ‘Oh! there’s nothing much about it, except I have not once seen him since his marriage, and he said he was very pleased to see me, and hoped we should be friends. I stood a drink to cement the friendship, and he stood me a new hat – one of his own.’

I said rather wearily: ‘But you have not told me your old friend’s name?’

Lupin said, with affected carelessness: ‘Oh! didn’t I? Well, I will. It was Murray Posh .’

MAY 14. Lupin came down late, and seeing me at home all the morning, asked the reason of it. Carrie and I both agreed it was better to say nothing to him about the letter I was writing, so I evaded the question.

Lupin went out, saying he was going to lunch with Murray Posh in the City. I said I hoped Mr Posh would provide him with a berth. Lupin went out laughing, saying: ‘I don’t mind wearing Posh’s one-priced hats, but I am not going to sell them.’ Poor boy, I fear he is perfectly hopeless.

It took me nearly the whole day to write to Mr Crowbillon. Once or twice I asked Carrie for suggestions; and although it seems ungrateful, her suggestions were none of them to the point, while one or two were absolutely idiotic. Of course I did not tell her so. I got the letter off, and took it down to the office for Mr Perkupp to see, but he again repeated that he could trust me.

Gowing called in the evening, and I was obliged to tell him about Lupin and Mr Perkupp; and, to my surprise, he was quite inclined to side with Lupin. Carrie joined in, and said she thought I was taking much too melancholy a view of it. Gowing produced a pint sample-bottle of Madeira, which had been given him, which he said would get rid of the blues. I dare say it would have done so if there had been more of it; but as Gowing helped himself to three glasses, it did not leave much for Carrie and me to get rid of the blues with.

MAY 15. A day of great anxiety, for I expected every moment a letter from Mr Crowbillon. Two letters came in the evening – one for me, with ‘Crowbillon Hall’ printed in large gold-and-red letters on the back of the envelope; the other for Lupin, which I felt inclined to open and read, as it had ‘Gylterson, Sons, and Co Limited’, which was the recommended firm. I trembled as I opened Mr Crowbillon’s letter. I wrote him sixteen pages, closely written; he wrote me less than sixteen lines.

His letter was: ‘Sir, – I totally disagree with you. Your son, in the course of five minutes’ conversation, displayed more intelligence than your firm has done during the last five years. – Yours faithfully, Gilbert E. Gillam O. Crowbillon.’

What am I to do? Here is a letter that I dare not show to Mr Perkupp, and would not show to Lupin for anything. The crisis had yet to come; for Lupin arrived, and, opening his letter, showed a cheque for £25 as a commission for the recommendation of Mr Crowbillon, whose custom to Mr Perkupp is evidently lost for ever. Cummings and Gowing both called, and both took Lupin’s part. Cummings went so far as to say that Lupin would make a name yet. I suppose I was melancholy, for I could only ask: ‘Yes, but what sort of a name?’

MAY 16. I told Mr Perkupp the contents of the letter in a modified form, but Mr Perkupp said: ‘Pray don’t discuss the matter; it is at an end. Your son will bring his punishment upon himself.’ I went home in the evening, thinking of the hopeless future of Lupin. I found him in most extravagant spirits and in evening dress. He threw a letter on the table for me to read.

To my amazement, I read that Gylterson and Sons had absolutely engaged Lupin at a salary of £200 a year, with other advantages. I read the letter through three times and thought it must have been for me. But there it was – Lupin Pooter – plain enough. I was silent. Lupin said: ‘What price Perkupp now? You take my tip, Guv. – “off” with Perkupp and freeze on to Gylterson, the firm of the future! Perkupp’s firm? The stagnant dummies have been standing still for years, and now are moving back. I want to go on . In fact I must go off, as I am dining with the Murray Poshes tonight.’

In the exuberance of his spirits he hit his hat with his stick, gave a loud war ‘Whoo-oop,’ jumped over a chair, and took the liberty of rumpling my hair all over my forehead, and bounced out of the room, giving me no chance of reminding him of his age and the respect which was due to his parent. Gowing and Cummings came in the evening, and positively cheered me up with congratulations respecting Lupin.

Gowing said: ‘I always said he would get on, and, take my word, he has more in his head than we three put together.’

Carrie said: ‘He is a second Hardfur Huttle.’

Master Percy Edgar Smith James. Mrs James (of Sutton) visits us again and introduces ‘spiritual séances ’.

Chapter XXII

MAY 26. SUNDAY. We went to Sutton after dinner to have meat-tea with Mr and Mrs James. I had no appetite, having dined well at two, and the entire evening was spoiled by little Percy – their only son – who seems to me to be an utterly spoiled child.

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