Tono Bungay

But now that I resume the main line of my story it may be well to describe the personal appearance of my uncle as I remember him during those magnificent years that followed his passage from trade to finance.  The little man plumped up very considerably during the creation of the Tono-Bungay property, but with the increasing excitements that followed that first flotation came dyspepsia and a certain flabbiness and falling away.  His abdomen—­if the reader will pardon my taking his features in the order of their value—­had at first a nice full roundness, but afterwards it lost tone without, however, losing size.  He always went as though he was proud of it and would make as much of it as possible.  To the last his movements remained quick and sudden, his short firm legs, as he walked, seemed to twinkle rather than display the scissors-stride of common humanity, and he never seemed to have knees, but instead, a dispersed flexibility of limb.

There was, I seem to remember, a secular intensification of his features; his nose developed character, became aggressive, stuck out at the world more and more; the obliquity of his mouth, I think, increased.  From the face that returns to my memory projects a long cigar that is sometimes cocked jauntily up from the higher corner, that sometimes droops from the lower;—­it was as eloquent as a dog’s tail, and he removed it only for the more emphatic modes of speech.  He assumed a broad black ribbon for his glasses, and wore them more and more askew as time went on.  His hair seemed to stiffen with success, but towards the climax it thinned greatly over the crown, and he brushed it hard back over his ears where, however, it stuck out fiercely.  It always stuck out fiercely over his forehead, up and forward.

He adopted an urban style of dressing with the onset of Tono-Bungay and rarely abandoned it.  He preferred silk hats with ample rich brims, often a trifle large for him by modern ideas, and he wore them at various angles to his axis; his taste in trouserings was towards fairly emphatic stripes and his trouser cut was neat; he liked his frock-coat long and full, although that seemed to shorten him.  He displayed a number of valuable rings, and I remember one upon his left little finger with a large red stone bearing Gnostic symbols.  “Clever chaps, those Gnostics, George,” he told me.  “Means a lot.  Lucky!” He never had any but a black mohair watch-chair.  In the country he affected grey and a large grey cloth top-hat, except when motoring; then he would have a brown deer-stalker cap and a fur suit of esquimaux cut with a sort of boot-end to the trousers.  Of an evening he would wear white waistcoats and plain gold studs.  He hated diamonds.  “Flashy,” he said they were.  “Might as well wear—­an income tax-receipt.  All very well for Park Lane.  Unsold stock.  Not my style.  Sober financier, George.”

So much for his visible presence.  For a time it was very familiar to the world, for at the crest of the boom he allowed quite a number of photographs and at least one pencil sketch to be published in the sixpenny papers.

His voice declined during those years from his early tenor to a flat rich quality of sound that my knowledge of music is inadequate to describe.  His Zzz-ing inrush of air became less frequent as he ripened, but returned in moments of excitement.  Throughout his career, in spite of his increasing and at last astounding opulence, his more intimate habits remained as simple as they had been at Wimblehurst.  He would never avail himself of the services of a valet; at the very climax of his greatness his trousers were folded by a housemaid and his shoulders brushed as he left his house or hotel.  He became wary about breakfast as life advanced, and at one time talked much of Dr. Haig and uric acid.  But for other meals he remained reasonably omnivorous.  He was something of a gastronome, and would eat anything he particularly liked in an audible manner, and perspire upon his forehead.  He was a studiously moderate drinker—­except when the spirit of some public banquet or some great occasion caught him and bore him beyond his wariness—­there he would, as it were, drink inadvertently and become flushed and talkative—­about everything but his business projects.

To make the portrait complete one wants to convey an effect of sudden, quick bursts of movement like the jumps of a Chinese-cracker to indicate that his pose whatever it is, has been preceded and will be followed by a rush.  If I were painting him, I should certainly give him for a background that distressed, uneasy sky that was popular in the eighteenth century, and at a convenient distance a throbbing motor-car, very big and contemporary, a secretary hurrying with papers, and an alert chauffeur.

Such was the figure that created and directed the great property of Tono-Bungay, and from the successful reconstruction of that company passed on to a slow crescendo of magnificent creations and promotions until the whole world of investors marveled.  I have already I think, mentioned how, long before we offered Tono Bungay to the public, we took over the English agency of certain American specialties.  To this was presently added our exploitation of Moggs’ Domestic Soap, and so he took up the Domestic Convenience Campaign that, coupled with his equatorial rotundity and a certain resolute convexity in his bearings won my uncle his Napoleonic title.