The Diary of a Nobody by George Grossmith (bill gates best books txt) 📕

I unfortunately made the remark that there was something about the expression of the face that was not quite pleasing.  It looked pinched.  Mr. Finsworth sorrowfully replied: “Yes, the face was done after death—my wife’s sister.”

I felt terribly awkward and bowed apologetically, and in a whisper said I hoped I had not hurt his feelings.  We both stood looking at the picture for a few minutes in silence, when Mr. Finsworth took out a handkerchief and said: “She was sitting in our garden last summer,” and blew his nose violently.  He seemed quite affected, so I turned to look at something else and stood in front of a portrait of a jolly-looking middle-aged gentleman, with a red face and straw hat.  I said to Mr. Finsworth: “Who is this jovial-looking gentleman?  Life doesn’t seem to trouble him much.”  Mr. Finsworth said: “No, it doesn’t.  He is dead too—my brother.”

I was absolutely horrified at my own awkwardness.  Fortunately at this moment Carrie entered with Mrs. Finsworth, who had taken her upstairs to take off her bonnet and brush her skirt.  Teddy said: “Short is late,” but at that moment the gentleman referred to arrived, and I was introduced to him by Teddy, who said: “Do you know Mr. Short?”  I replied, smiling, that I had not that pleasure, but I hoped it would not be long before I knew Mr. Short.  He evidently did not see my little joke, although I repeated it twice with a little laugh.  I suddenly remembered it was Sunday, and Mr. Short was perhaps very particular.  In this I was mistaken, for he was not at all particular in several of his remarks after dinner.  In fact I was so ashamed of one of his observations that I took the opportunity to say to Mrs. Finsworth that I feared she found Mr. Short occasionally a little embarrassing.  To my surprise she said: “Oh! he is privileged you know.”  I did not know as a matter of fact, and so I bowed apologetically.  I fail to see why Mr. Short should be privileged.

Another thing that annoyed me at dinner was that the collie dog, which jumped up at Carrie, was allowed to remain under the dining-room table.  It kept growling and snapping at my boots every time I moved my foot.  Feeling nervous rather, I spoke to Mrs. Finsworth about the animal, and she remarked: “It is only his play.”  She jumped up and let in a frightfully ugly-looking spaniel called Bibbs, which had been scratching at the door.  This dog also seemed to take a fancy to my boots, and I discovered afterwards that it had licked off every bit of blacking from them.  I was positively ashamed of being seen in them.  Mrs. Finsworth, who, I must say, is not much of a Job’s comforter, said: “Oh! we are used to Bibbs doing that to our visitors.”

Mr. Finsworth had up some fine port, although I question whether it is a good thing to take on the top of beer.  It made me feel a little sleepy, while it had the effect of inducing Mr. Short to become “privileged” to rather an alarming extent.  It being cold even for April, there was a fire in the drawing-room; we sat round in easy-chairs, and Teddy and I waxed rather eloquent over the old school days, which had the effect of sending all the others to sleep.  I was delighted, as far as Mr. Short was concerned, that it did have that effect on him.

We stayed till four, and the walk home was remarkable only for the fact that several fools giggled at the unpolished state of my boots.  Polished them myself when I got home.  Went to church in the evening, and could scarcely keep awake.  I will not take port on the top of beer again.

April 29.—I am getting quite accustomed to being snubbed by Lupin, and I do not mind being sat upon by Carrie, because I think she has a certain amount of right to do so; but I do think it hard to be at once snubbed by wife, son, and both my guests.

Gowing and Cummings had dropped in during the evening, and I suddenly remembered an extraordinary dream I had a few nights ago, and I thought I would tell them about it.  I dreamt I saw some huge blocks of ice in a shop with a bright glare behind them.  I walked into the shop and the heat was overpowering.  I found that the blocks of ice were on fire.  The whole thing was so real and yet so supernatural I woke up in a cold perspiration.  Lupin in a most contemptuous manner, said: “What utter rot.”

Before I could reply, Gowing said there was nothing so completely uninteresting as other people’s dreams.

I appealed to Cummings, but he said he was bound to agree with the others and my dream was especially nonsensical.  I said: “It seemed so real to me.”  Gowing replied: “Yes, to you perhaps, but not to us.”  Whereupon they all roared.

Carrie, who had hitherto been quiet, said: “He tells me his stupid dreams every morning nearly.”  I replied: “Very well, dear, I promise you I will never tell you or anybody else another dream of mine the longest day I live.”  Lupin said: “Hear! hear!” and helped himself to another glass of beer.  The subject was fortunately changed, and Cummings read a most interesting article on the superiority of the bicycle to the horse.

CHAPTER XX

Dinner at Franching’s to meet Mr. Hardfur Huttle.

May 10.—Received a letter from Mr. Franching, of Peckham, asking us to dine with him to-night, at seven o’clock, to meet Mr. Hardfur Huttle, a very clever writer for the American papers.  Franching apologised for the short notice; but said he had at the last moment been disappointed of two of his guests and regarded us as old friends who would not mind filling up the gap.  Carrie rather demurred at the invitation; but I explained to her that Franching was very well off and influential, and we could not afford to offend him.  “And we are sure to get a good dinner and a good glass of champagne.”  “Which never agrees with you!” Carrie replied, sharply.  I regarded Carrie’s observation as unsaid.  Mr. Franching asked us to wire a reply.  As he had said nothing about dress in the letter, I wired back: “With pleasure.  Is it full dress?” and by leaving out our name, just got the message within the sixpence.

Got back early to give time to dress, which we received a telegram instructing us to do.  I wanted Carrie to meet me at Franching’s house; but she would not do so, so I had to go home to fetch her.  What a long journey it is from Holloway to Peckham!  Why do people live such a long way off?  Having to change ’buses, I allowed plenty of time—in fact, too much; for we arrived at twenty minutes to seven, and Franching, so the servant said, had only just gone up to dress.  However, he was down as the clock struck seven; he must have dressed very quickly.

I must say it was quite a distinguished party, and although we did not know anybody personally, they all seemed to be quite swells.  Franching had got a professional waiter, and evidently spared no expense.  There were flowers on the table round some fairy-lamps and the effect, I must say, was exquisite.  The wine was good and there was plenty of champagne, concerning which Franching said he himself, never wished to taste better.  We were ten in number, and a menû card to each.  One lady said she always preserved the menû and got the guests to write their names on the back.

We all of us followed her example, except Mr. Huttle, who was of course the important guest.

The dinner-party consisted of Mr. Franching, Mr. Hardfur Huttle, Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Hillbutter, Mrs. Field, Mr. and Mrs. Purdick, Mr. Pratt, Mr. R. Kent, and, last but not least, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Pooter.  Franching said he was sorry he had no lady for me to take in to dinner.  I replied that I preferred it, which I afterwards thought was a very uncomplimentary observation to make.

I sat next to Mrs. Field at dinner.  She seemed a well-informed lady, but was very deaf.  It did not much matter, for Mr. Hardfur Huttle did all the talking.  He is a marvellously intellectual man and says things which from other people would seem quite alarming.  How I wish I could remember even a quarter of his brilliant conversation.  I made a few little reminding notes on the menû card.

One observation struck me as being absolutely powerful—though not to my way of thinking of course.  Mrs. Purdick happened to say “You are certainly unorthodox, Mr. Huttle.”  Mr. Huttle, with a peculiar expression (I can see it now) said in a slow rich voice: “Mrs. Purdick, ‘orthodox’ is a grandiloquent word implying sticking-in-the-mud.  If Columbus and Stephenson had been orthodox, there would neither have been the discovery of America nor the steam-engine.”  There was quite a silence.  It appeared to me that such teaching was absolutely dangerous, and yet I felt—in fact we must all have felt—there was no answer to the argument.  A little later on, Mrs. Purdick, who is Franching’s sister and also acted as hostess, rose from the table, and Mr. Huttle said: “Why, ladies, do you deprive us of your company so soon?  Why not wait while we have our cigars?”

The effect was electrical.  The ladies (including Carrie) were in no way inclined to be deprived of Mr. Huttle’s fascinating society, and immediately resumed their seats, amid much laughter and a little chaff.  Mr. Huttle said: “Well, that’s a real good sign; you shall not be insulted by being called orthodox any longer.”  Mrs. Purdick, who seemed to be a bright and rather sharp woman, said: “Mr. Huttle, we will meet you half-way—that is, till you get half-way through your cigar.  That, at all events, will be the happy medium.”

I shall never forget the effect the words, “happy medium,” had upon him.  He was brilliant and most daring in his interpretation of the words.  He positively alarmed me.  He said something like the following: “Happy medium, indeed.  Do you know ‘happy medium’ are two words which mean ‘miserable mediocrity’?  I say, go first class or third; marry a duchess or her kitchenmaid.  The happy medium means respectability, and respectability means insipidness.  Does it not, Mr. Pooter?”

I was so taken aback by being personally appealed to, that I could only bow apologetically, and say I feared I was not competent to offer an opinion.  Carrie was about to say something; but she was interrupted, for which I was rather pleased, for she is not clever at argument, and one has to be extra clever to discuss a subject with a man like Mr. Huttle.

He continued, with an amazing eloquence that made his unwelcome opinions positively convincing: “The happy medium is nothing more or less than a vulgar half-measure.  A man who loves champagne and, finding a pint too little, fears to face a whole bottle and has recourse to an imperial pint, will never build a Brooklyn Bridge or an Eiffel Tower.  No, he is half-hearted, he is a half-measure—respectable—in fact, a happy medium, and will spend the rest of his days in a suburban villa with a stucco-column portico, resembling a four-post bedstead.”

We all laughed.

“That sort of thing,” continued Mr. Huttle, “belongs to a soft man, with a soft beard with a soft head, with a made tie that hooks on.”

This seemed rather personal and twice I caught myself looking in the glass of the cheffonière; for I had on a tie that hooked on—and why not?  If these remarks were not personal they were rather careless, and so were some of his subsequent observations, which must have made both Mr. Franching and his guests