John Galsworthy - The Island Pharisees

No one who knew Mr. Paramor connected him with snobbery, but there had been an “Ah! that ‘s right; this is due to us” tone about the saying.

Shelton hunted for the name of Baltimore: “Charles Penguin, fifth Baron Baltimore. Issue: Alice, b. 184-, m. 186-Algernon Dennant, Esq., of Holm Oaks, Cross Eaton, Oxfordshire.” He put down the Peerage and took up the ‘Landed Gentry’. “Dennant, Algernon Cuffe, eldest son of the late Algernon Cuffe Dennant, Esq., J. P., and Irene, 2nd daur. of the Honble. Philip and Lady Lillian March Mallow; ed. Eton and Ch. Ch., Oxford, J. P. for Oxfordshire. Residence, Holm Oaks,” etc., etc. Dropping the ‘Landed Gentry’, he took up a volume of the ‘Arabian Nights’, which some member had left reposing on the book-rest of his chair, but instead of reading he kept looking round the room. In almost every seat, reading or snoozing, were gentlemen who, in their own estimation, might have married Penguins. For the first time it struck him with what majestic leisureliness they turned the pages of their books, trifled with their teacups, or lightly snored. Yet no two were alike – a tall man-with dark moustache, thick hair, and red, smooth cheeks; another, bald, with stooping shoulders; a tremendous old buck, with a grey, pointed beard and large white waistcoat; a clean-shaven dapper man past middle age, whose face was like a bird’s; a long, sallow, misanthrope; and a sanguine creature fast asleep. Asleep or awake, reading or snoring, fat or thin, hairy or bald, the insulation of their red or pale faces was complete. They were all the creatures of good form. Staring at them or reading the Arabian Nights Shelton spent the time before dinner. He had not been long seated in the dining-room when a distant connection strolled up and took the next table.

“Ah, Shelton! Back? Somebody told me you were goin’ round the world.” He scrutinised the menu through his eyeglass. “Clear soup!.. Read Jellaby’s speech? Amusing the way he squashes all those fellows. Best man in the House, he really is.”

Shelton paused in the assimilation of asparagus; he, too, had been in the habit of admiring Jellaby, but now he wondered why. The red and shaven face beside him above a broad, pure shirt-front was swollen by good humour; his small, very usual, and hard eyes were fixed introspectively on the successful process of his eating.

“Success!” thought Shelton, suddenly enlightened – “success is what we admire in Jellaby. We all want success.. Yes,” he admitted, “a successful beast.”

“Oh!” said his neighbour, “I forgot. You’re in the other camp?”

“Not particularly. Where did you get that idea?”

His neighbour looked round negligently.

“Oh,” said he, “I somehow thought so”; and Shelton almost heard him adding, “There’s something not quite sound about you.”

“Why do you admire Jellaby?” he asked.

“Knows his own mind,” replied his neighbour; “it ‘s more than the others do.. This whitebait is n’t fit for cats! Clever fellow, Jellaby! No nonsense about him! Have you ever heard him speak? Awful good sport to watch him sittin’ on the Opposition. A poor lot they are!” and he laughed, either from appreciation of Jellaby sitting on a small minority, or from appreciation of the champagne bubbles in his glass.

“Minorities are always depressing,” said Shelton dryly.

“Eh? what?”

“I mean,” said Shelton, “it’s irritating to look at people who have n’t a chance of success – fellows who make a mess of things, fanatics, and all that.”

His neighbour turned his eyes inquisitively.

“Er – yes, quite,” said he; “don’t you take mint sauce? It’s the best part of lamb, I always think.”

The great room with its countless little tables, arranged so that every man might have the support of the gold walls to his back, began to regain its influence on Shelton. How many times had he not sat there, carefully nodding to acquaintances, happy if he got the table he was used to, a paper with the latest racing, and someone to gossip with who was not a bounder; while the sensation of having drunk enough stole over him. Happy! That is, happy as a horse is happy who never leaves his stall.

“Look at poor little Bing puffin’ about,” said his neighbour, pointing to a weazened, hunchy waiter. “His asthma’s awf’ly bad; you can hear him wheezin’ from the street.”

He seemed amused.

“There ‘s no such thing as moral asthma, I suppose?” said Shelton.

His neighbour dropped his eyeglass.

“Here, take this away; it’s overdone;” said he. “Bring me some lamb.”

Shelton pushed his table back.

“Good-night,” he said; “the Stilton’s excellent!”

His neighbour raised his brows, and dropped his eyes again upon his plate.

In the hall Shelton went from force of habit to the weighing-scales and took his weight. “Eleven stone!” he thought; “gone up!” and, clipping a cigar, he sat down in the smoking-room with a novel.

After half an hour he dropped the book. There seemed something rather fatuous about this story, for though it had a thrilling plot, and was full of well-connected people, it had apparently been contrived to throw no light on anything whatever. He looked at the author’s name; everyone was highly recommending it. He began thinking, and staring at the fire…

Looking up, he saw Antonia’s second brother, a young man in the Rifles, bending over him with sunny cheeks and lazy smile, clearly just a little drunk.

“Congratulate you, old chap! I say, what made you grow that b-b-eastly beard?”

Shelton grinned.

“Pillbottle of the Duchess!” read young Dennant, taking up the book. “You been reading that? Rippin’, is n’t it?”

“Oh, ripping!” replied Shelton.

“Rippin’ plot! When you get hold of a novel you don’t want any rot about – what d’you call it? – psychology, you want to be amused.”

“Rather!” murmured Shelton.

“That’s an awfully good bit where the President steals her diamonds There’s old Benjy! Hallo, Benjy!”

“Hallo, Bill, old man!”

This Benjy was a young, clean-shaven creature, whose face and voice and manner were a perfect blend of steel and geniality.

In addition to this young man who was so smooth and hard and cheery, a grey, short-bearded gentleman, with misanthropic eyes, called Stroud, came up; together with another man of Shelton’s age, with a moustache and a bald patch the size of a crown-piece, who might be seen in the club any night of the year when there was no racing out of reach of London.

“You know,” began young Dennant, “that this bounder” – he slapped the young man Benjy on the knee – “is going to be spliced to-morrow. Miss Casserol – you know the Casserols – Muncaster Gate.”

“By Jove!” said Shelton, delighted to be able to say something they would understand.

“Young Champion’s the best man, and I ‘m the second best. I tell you what, old chap, you ‘d better come with me and get your eye in; you won’t get such another chance of practice. Benjy ‘ll give you a card.”

“Delighted!” murmured Benjy.

“Where is it?”

“St. Briabas; two-thirty. Come and see how they do the trick. I’ll call for you at one; we’ll have some lunch and go together”; again he patted Benjy’s knee.

Shelton nodded his assent; the piquant callousness of the affair had made him shiver, and furtively he eyed the steely Benjy, whose suavity had never wavered, and who appeared to take a greater interest in some approaching race than in his coming marriage. But Shelton knew from his own sensations that this could not really be the case; it was merely a question of “good form,” the conceit of a superior breeding, the duty not to give oneself away. And when in turn he marked the eyes of Stroud fixed on Benjy, under shaggy brows, and the curious greedy glances of the racing man, he felt somehow sorry for him.