Tono Bungay

So far my history of my aunt and uncle has dealt chiefly with his industrial and financial exploits.  But side by side with that history of inflation from the infinitesimal to the immense is another development, the change year by year from the shabby impecuniosity of the Camden Town lodging to the lavish munificence of the Crest Hill marble staircase and my aunt’s golden bed, the bed that was facsimiled from Fontainebleau.  And the odd thing is that as I come to this nearer part of my story I find it much more difficult to tell than the clear little perspective memories of the earlier days.  Impressions crowd upon one another and overlap one another; I was presently to fall in love again, to be seized by a passion to which I still faintly respond, a passion that still clouds my mind.  I came and went between Ealing and my aunt and uncle, and presently between Effie and clubland, and then between business and a life of research that became far more continuous, infinitely more consecutive and memorable than any of these other sets of experiences.  I didn’t witness a regular social progress therefore; my aunt and uncle went up in the world, so far as I was concerned, as if they were displayed by an early cinematograph, with little jumps and flickers.

As I recall this side of our life, the figure of my round-eyes, button-nosed, pink-and-white Aunt Susan tends always to the central position.  We drove the car and sustained the car, she sat in it with a magnificent variety of headgear poised upon her delicate neck, and always with that faint ghost of a lisp no misspelling can render—­commented on and illuminated the new aspects.

I’ve already sketched the little home behind the Wimblehurst chemist’s shop, the lodging near the Cobden statue, and the apartments in Gower Street.  Thence my aunt and uncle went into a flat in Redgauntlet Mansions.  There they lived when I married.  It was a compact flat, with very little for a woman to do in it In those days my aunt, I think, used to find the time heavy upon her hands, and so she took to books and reading, and after a time even to going to lectures in the afternoon.  I began to find unexpected books upon her table:  sociological books, travels, Shaw’s plays.  “Hullo!” I said, at the sight of some volume of the latter.

“I’m keeping a mind, George,” she explained.

“Eh?”

“Keeping a mind.  Dogs I never cared for.  It’s been a toss-up between setting up a mind and setting up a soul.  It’s jolly lucky for Him and you it’s a mind.  I’ve joined the London Library, and I’m going in for the Royal Institution and every blessed lecture that comes along next winter.  You’d better look out.”...

And I remember her coming in late one evening with a note-book in her hand.

“Where ya been, Susan?” said my uncle.

“Birkbeck—­Physiology.  I’m getting on.”  She sat down and took off her gloves.  “You’re just glass to me,” she sighed, and then in a note of grave reproach:  “You old PACKAGE!  I had no idea!  The Things you’ve kept from me!”

Presently they were setting; up the house at Beckengham, and my aunt intermitted her intellectual activities.  The house at Beckengham was something of an enterprise for them at that time, a reasonably large place by the standards of the early years of Tono-Bungay.  It was a big, rather gaunt villa, with a conservatory and a shrubbery, a tennis-lawn, a quite considerable vegetable garden, and a small disused coach-house.  I had some glimpses of the excitements of its inauguration, but not many because of the estrangement between my aunt and Marion.

My aunt went into that house with considerable zest, and my uncle distinguished himself by the thoroughness with which he did the repainting and replumbing.  He had all the drains up and most of the garden with them, and stood administrative on heaps—­administrating whisky to the workmen.  I found him there one day, most Napoleonic, on a little Elba of dirt, in an atmosphere that defies print.  He also, I remember, chose what he considered cheerful contrasts of colours for the painting of the woodwork.  This exasperated my aunt extremely—­she called him a “Pestilential old Splosher” with an unusual note of earnestness—­and he also enraged her into novelties of abuse by giving each bedroom the name of some favourite hero—­Cliff, Napoleon, Caesar, and so forth—­and having it painted on the door in gilt letters on a black label.  “Martin Luther” was kept for me.  Only her respect for domestic discipline, she said, prevented her retaliating with “Old Pondo” on the housemaid’s cupboard.

Also he went and ordered one of the completest sets of garden requisites I have ever seen—­and had them all painted a hard clear blue.  My aunt got herself large tins of a kindlier hued enamel and had everything secretly recoated, and this done, she found great joy in the garden and became an ardent rose grower and herbaceous borderer, leaving her Mind, indeed, to damp evenings and the winter months.  When I think of her at Beckenham, I always think first of her as dressed in that blue cotton stuff she affected, with her arms in huge gauntleted gardening gloves, a trowel in one hand and a small but no doubt hardy and promising annual, limp and very young-looking and sheepish, in the other.

Beckenham, in the persons of a vicar, a doctor’s wife, and a large proud lady called Hogberry, “called” on my uncle and aunt almost at once, so soon in fact as the lawn was down again, and afterwards my aunt made friends with a quiet gentlewoman next door, a propos of an overhanging cherry tree and the need of repairing the party fence.  So she resumed her place in society from which she had fallen with the disaster of Wimblehurst.  She made a partially facetious study of the etiquette of her position, had cards engraved and retaliated calls.  And then she received a card for one of Mrs. Hogberry’s At Homes, gave an old garden party herself, participated in a bazaar and sale of work, and was really becoming quite cheerfully entangled in Beckenham society when she was suddenly taken up by the roots again by my uncle and transplanted to Chiselhurst.

“Old Trek, George,” she said compactly, “Onward and Up,” when I found her superintending the loading of two big furniture vans.  “Go up and say good-bye to ‘Martin Luther,’ and then I’ll see what you can do to help me.”