Meet Mr. Mulliner by P. G. Wodehouse
" Yes ? " said Mr. Briggs, touching the bell.
*' With bevelled edges. It must be pub-Hshed, of course, bound in limp leather, preferably of a violet shade, in a limited edition, confined to one hundred and five copies. Each of these copies I will sign "
" You rang, sir ? " said the butler, appearing in the doorway.
Mr. Briggs nodded curtly.
" Bewstridge," said he, " throw Mr. Lancelot out."
" Very good, sir."
" And see," added Mr. Briggs, superintending the subsequent proceedings from his Hbrary window, " that he never darkens my
doors again. When you have finished, Bew-stridge, ring up my lawyers on the telephone. I wish to alter my will."
Youth is a resilient period. With all his worldly prospects swept away and a large bruise on his person which made it uncomfortable for him to assume a sitting posture, you might have supposed that the return of Lancelot MuUiner from Putney would have resembled that of the late Napoleon from Moscow. Such, however, was not the case. What, Lancelot asked himself as he rode back to civilisation on top of an omnibus, did money matter ? Love, true love, was aU. He would go to Lord Biddlecombe and tell him so in a few neatly-chosen words. And his lordship, moved by his eloquence, would doubtless drop a well-bred tear and at once see that the arrangements for his wedding to Angela—for such, he had learned, was her name—were hastened along with all possible speed. So uphfted was he by this picture that he began to sing, and would have continued for the remainder of the journey had not the conductor in a rather brusque manner ordered him to desist. He was obliged to
content himself until the bus reached Hyde Park Corner by singing in dumb show.
The Earl of Biddlecombe's town residence was in Berkeley Square. Lancelot rang the bell and a massive butler appeared.
" No hawkers, street criers, or circulars,"
said the butler.
" I wish to see Lord Biddlecombe."
** Is his lordship expecting you ? "
" Yes," said Lancelot, feeUng sure that the girl would have spoken to her father over the morning toast and marmalade of a possible visit from him.
A voice made itself heard through an open door on the left of the long hall.
" Fotheringay."
" Your lordship ? "
" Is that the feUer ? "
" Yes, your lordship."
" Then bung him in, Fotheringay."
" Very good, your lordship."
Lancelot found himself in a small, comfortably-furnished room, confronting a dignified-looking old man with a patrician nose and small side-whiskers, who looked like something that long ago had come out of an egg.
'* Afternoon," said this individual.
" Good afternoon, Lord Biddlecombe," said Lancelot.
" Now, about these trousers."
" I beg your pardon ? "
"These trousers," said the other, extending a shapely leg. " Do they fit ? Aren't they a bit baggy round the ankles ? Won't they jeopardise my social prestige if I am seen in them in the Park ? "
Lancelot was charmed with his affabiUty. It gave him the feeling of having been made one of the family straight av/ay.
" You really want my opinion ? "
*' I do. I want your candid opinion as a God-fearing man and a member of a West-end tailoring firm."
" But Lm not."
" Not a God-fearing man ? "
"Not a member of a West-end tailoring firm."
" Come, come," said his lordship, testily. " You represent Gusset and Mainprice, of Cork Street."
" No, I don't."
" Then who the devil are you ? "
" My name is Mulliner."
Lord Biddlecombe rang the bell furiously.
" Fotheringay ! "
" Your lordship ? "
" You told me this man was the feller I was expecting from Gusset and Mainprice."
" He certainly led me to suppose so, your lordship."
" Well, he isn't. His name is Mulliner. And—this is the point, Fotheringay. This is the core and centre of the thing—what the blazes does he want ? "
" I could not say, your lordship."
" I came here. Lord Biddlecombe," said Lancelot, " to ask your consent to my immediate marriage with your daughter."
" My daughter ? "
" Your daughter."
" Which daughter ? "
" Angela."
" My daughter Angela ? "
" Yes."
" You want to marry my daughter Angela ? "
" I do."
" Oh ? Well, be that as it may," said Lord Biddlecombe, " can I interest you in an ingenious little combination mousetrap and pencil-sharpener ? "
Lancelot was for a moment a little taken aback by the question. Then, remembering what Angela had said of the state of the family finances, he recovered his poise. He thought no worse of this Grecian-beaked old man for ekeing out a slender income by acting as agent for the curious httle object which he was now holding out to him. Many of the aristocracy, he was aware, had been forced into similar commercial enterprises by recent legislation of a harsh and Sociahstic trend.
" I should like it above all things," he said, courteously. " I was thinking only this morning that it was just what I needed."
" Highly educational. Not a toy. Fotheringay, book one Mouso-Penso."
" Very good, your lordship."
" Are you troubled at all with headaches, Mr. Mulhner ? "
" Very seldom."
" Then what you want is Clark's Cure for Corns. Shall we say one of the large bottles ? "
" Certainly."
" Then that—with a year's subscription to ' Our Tots '—will come to precisely one
pound three shillings and sixpence. Thank you. Will there be anything further ? "
" No, thank you. Now, touching the matter of "
<(
You wouldn't care for a scarf-pin ? Any ties, collars, shirts ? No ? Then goodbye, Mr. Mulliner."
" But "
" Fotheringay," said Lord Biddlecombe, *' throw Mr, Mulliner out."
As Lancelot scrambled to his feet from the hard pavement of Berkeley Square, he was conscious of a rush of violent anger which deprived him momentarily of speech. He stood there, glaring at the house from which he had been ejected, his face working hideously. So absorbed was he that it was some time before he became aware that somebody was plucking at his coat-sleeve.
" Pardon me, sir."
Lancelot looked round. A stout smoothfaced man with horn-rimmed spectacles was standing beside him.
" If you could spare me a moment "
Lancelot shook him off impatiently. He had no desire at a time like this to chatter with strangers. The man was babbhng
something, but the words made no impression upon his mind. With a savage scowl, Lancelot snatched the fellow's umbrella from him and, poising it for an instant, flung it with a sure aim through Lord Biddle-combe's study window. Then, striding away, he made for Berkeley Street. Glancing over his shoulder as he turned the corner, he saw that Fotheringay, the butler, had come out of the house and was standing over the spectacled man with a certain quiet menace in his demeanour. He was rolling up his sleeves, and his fingers were twitching a little.
Lancelot dismissed the man from his thoughts. His whole mind now was concentrated on the coming interview with Angela. For he had decided that the only thing to do was to seek her out at her club, where she would doubtless be spending the afternoon, and plead with her to follow the dictates of her heart and, abandoning parents and wealthy suitors, comxC with her true mate to a life of honest poverty sweetened by love and vers libre.
Arriving at the Junior Lipstick, he inquired for her, and the hall-porter dis-
patched a boy in buttons to fetch her from the biUiard-room, where she was referee-ing the finals of the Debutantes' Shove-Ha'penny Tournament. And presently his heart leaped as he saw her coming towards him, looking more like a vision of Springtime than anything human and earth
" Hullo, laddie ! " she said. '' You here ? Wliat's on the mind besides hair ? Talk quick. I've only got a minute."
** Angela," said Lancelot, " I have to report a slight hitch in the programme which I sketched out at our last meeting. I have just been to see my uncle and he has washed his hands of me and cut me out of his will."
" Nothing doing in that quarter, you mean ? " said the girl, chewing her lower hp thoughtfully.
" Nothing. But what of it ? What matters it so long as we have each other ? Money is dross. Love is everything. Yes, love indeed is hght from heaven, a spark of that immortal fire with angels shared, by Allah given to Hft from earth our low desire.
Give me to live with Love alone, and let the world go dine and dress. If Hfe's a flower, I choose my own. 'Tis Love in Idleness. When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts the mind! Come, Angela, let us read together in a book more moving than the Koran, more eloquent than Shakespeare, the book of books, the crown of all hterature— Bradshaw's Railway Guide. We will turn up a page and you shall put your finger down, and wherever it rests there we will go, to five for ever with our happiness. Oh, Angela, let us "
" Sorry," said the girl. " Purvis wins. The race goes by the form-book after all. There was a time when I thought you might be going to crowd him on the rails and get I your nose first under the wire with a quick * last-minute dash, but apparently it is not to be. Deepest sympathy, old crocus, but that's that."
Lancelot staggered. j
" You mean you intend to marry this Purvis ? "
" Pop in about a month from now at St. George's, Hanover Square, and see for yourself."
" You would allow this man to buy you with his gold ? "
" Don't overlook his diamonds." *' Does love count for nothing ? Surely you love me ? "
" Of course I do, my desert king. When you do that flat-footed Black Bottom step with the sort of wiggly twiggle at the end, I feel as if I were eating plovers' eggs in a new dress to the accompaniment of heavenly music." She sighed. "Yes, I love you, Lancelot. And women are not hke men. They do not love hghtly. When a woman gives her heart, it is for ever. The years will pass, and you will turn to another. But I shall not forget. However, as you
haven't a bob in the world " She
beckoned to the hall-porter. "Margerison." " Your ladyship ? " " Is it raining ? " *' No, your ladyship." ** Are the front steps clean ? " " Yes, your ladyship." " Then throw Mr. MulHner out." Lancelot leaned against the raihngs of the Junior Lipstick, and looked out through a black mist upon a world that heaved and
rocked and seemed on the point of disintegrating into ruin and chaos. And a lot he would care, he told himself bitterly, if it did. If Seamore Place from the west and Charles Street from the east had taken a running jump and landed on the back of his neck, it would have added little or nothing to the turmoil of his mind. In fact, he would rather have preferred it.
Fury, as it had done on the pavement of Berkeley Square, robbed him of speech. But his hands, his shoulders, his brows, his lips, his nose, and even his eyelashes seemed to be charged with a silent eloquence. He twitched his eyebrows in agony. He twiddled his fingers in despair. Nothing was left now, he felt, as he shifted the lobe of his left ear in a nor'-nor'-easterly direction, but suicide. Yes, he told himself, tightening and relaxing the muscles of his cheeks, all that remained now was death.
But, even as he reached this awful decision, a kindly voice spoke in his ear.
" Oh, come now, I wouldn't say that," said the kindly voice.
And Lancelot, turning, perceived the
smooth-faced man who had tried to engage him in conversation in Berkeley Square.
" Say, Hsten," said the smooth-faced man, sympathy in each lens of his horn-rimmed spectacles. ** Tempests may lower and a strong man stand face to face with his soul, but hope, like a healing herb, will show the silver lining where beckons joy and life and happiness."
Lancelot eyed him haughtily.
" I am not aware " he began.
" Say, listen," said the other, laying a soothing hand on his shoulder. " I know just what has happened. Mammon has conquered Cupid, and once more youth has had to learn the old, old lesson that though the face be fair the heart may be cold and callous."
'' What ? "
The smooth-faced man raised his hand.
" That afternoon. Her apartment. ' No. It can never be. I shall wed a wealthier wooer.' "
Lancelot's fury began to dissolve into awe. There seemed something uncanny in the way this total stranger had diagnosed the situation. He stared at him, bewildered.
" How did you know ? " he gasped.
" You told me."
"I?"
" Your face did. I could read every word. I've been watching you for the last two minutes, and, say, boy, it was a wow ! "
" Who are you ? " asked Lancelot.
The smooth-faced man produced from his waistcoat pocket a fountain-pen, two cigars, a packet of chewing-gum, a small button bearing the legend, " Boost for Holtywood," and a visiting-card—in the order named. Replacing the other articles, he handed the card to Lancelot.
" I'm Isadore Zinzinheimer, kid," he said. " I represent the Bigger, Better, and Brighter Motion-Picture Company of Hollywood, Cal., incorporated last July for sixteen hundred miUion dollars. And if you're thinking of asking me what I want, I want you. Yes, sir ! Say, listen. A fellow that can register the way you can is needed in my business ; and, if you think money can stop me getting him, name the biggest salary you can think of and hear me laugh. Boy, I use bank-notes for summer underclothing, and I don't care how bad you've got the gimme's if only
you'll sign on the dotted line. Say, listen. A bozo that with a mere twitch of the upper lip can make it plain to one and all that he loves a haughty aristocrat and that she has given him the air because his rich uncle, who is a pickle manufacturer living in Putney, won't have anything more to do with him, is required out at Hollywood by the next boat if the movies are ever to become an educational force in the truest and deepest sense of the words."
Lancelot stared at him. " You want me to come to Hollywood ? " " I want you, and I'm going to get you. And if you think you're going to prevent me, you're trying to stop Niagara with a tennis racket. Boy, you're great ! When you register, you register. Your face is as chatty as a board of directors. Say, listen. You know the great thing we folks in the motion-picture industry have got to contend with ? The curse of the motion-picture industry is that in every audience there are from six to seven young women with adenoids who will insist on reading out the titles as they are flashed on the screen, filhng the rest
of the customers with harsh thoughts and
F 2
dreams of murder. What we're trying to collect is stars that can register so well that titles won't be needed. And, boy, you're the king of them. I know you're feeling good and sore just now because that beazle in there spumed your honest love ; but forget it. Think of your Art. Think of your Public. Come now, what shall we say to start with ? Five thousand a week ? Ten thousand ? You call the shots, and I'll provide the blank contract and fountain-pen."
Lancelot needed no further urging. Already love had turned to hate, and he no longer wished to marry Angela. Instead, he wanted to make her burn with anguish and vain regrets ; and it seemed to him that Fate was pointing the way. Pretty silly the future Lady Angela Purvis would feel when she discovered that she had rejected the love of a man with a salary of ten thousand dollars a week. And fairly foolish her old father would feel when news reached him of the good thing he had allowed to get awa}^. And racking would be the remorse, when he returned to London as Civilised Girlhood's Sweetheart and they saw him addressing
mobs from a hotel balcony, of his Uncle Jeremiah, of Fotheringay, of Bewstridge, and of Margerison.
A Hght gleamed in Lancelot's eye, and he rolled the tip of his nose in a circ
** You consent ? " said Mr. Zinzinheimer, delighted. "'At-a-boy! Here's the pen and here's the contract."
" Gimme ! " said Lancelot.
A benevolent glow irradiated the other's spectacles.
" Came the Dawn ! " he murmured. " Came the Dawn 1 "
VI THE STORY OF WILLIAM
MISS POSTLETHWAITE, our able and vigilant barmaid, had whispered to us that the gentleman sitting over there in the comer was an American gentleman.
" Comes from America," added Miss Postlethwaite, making her meaning clearer.
" From America ? " echoed we.
" From America," said Miss Postlethwaite. " He's an American."
Mr. MulUner rose with an old-world grace. We do not often get Americans in the bar-parlour of the Anglers' Rest. WTien we do, we welcome them. We make them reaUse that Hands Across the Sea is no mere phrase.
" Good evening, sir," said Mr. MuUiner.
" I wonder if you would care to join my
friend and myself in a httle refreshment ? "
" Very kind of you, sir."
" Miss Postlethwaite, the usual. I understand you are from the other side, sir. Do you find our English country-side pleasant ? "
" DeUghtful. Though, of course, if I may say so, scarcely to be compared with the scenery of my home State."
" What State is that ? "
" California," replied the other, baring his head. " California, the Jewel State of the Union. With its azure sea, its noble hills, its eternal sunshine, and its fragrant flowers, CaUfornia stands alone. Peopled by stalwart men and womanly women ..."
*' CaUfornia would be all right," said Mr. Mulliner, " if it wasn't for the earthquakes."
Our guest started as though some venomous snake had bitten him.
** Earthquakes are absolutely unknown in California," he said, hoarsely.
" What about the one in 1906 ? "
" That was not an earthquake. It was a fire."
" An earthquake, I always understood," said Mr. MuUiner. *' My Uncle Wilham was out there during it, and many a time has he said to me, ' My boy, it was the San Francisco earthquake that won me a bride.' "
" Couldn't have been the earthquake. May have been the fire."
** Well, I will tell you the story, and you shall judge for yourself."