Authors: Winifred Holtby
Here in this sombre, spacious room he was surrounded by
the Best that English tailoring could offer. The bales of
cloth dripped to the floor their smooth dark drapery. The
assistants trod silently up and down the rich fawn carpet,
moving like acolytes at their priestly task. Here was taste
not to be bought with money, and dignity which was incorruptible. Yet even here were barbs to prick Joseph's sensitive conscience. There was one characteristic of Mitchell's
shop which he found almost intolerable.
Mr. Mitchell was an autocrat. He was an undiminished Paternal Despot surviving from the Victorian era. He re
fused to employ a member of a trade union; he refused to employ a professing agnostic; and he refused to call his assistants by their names. His ideal, he confided sometimes
in more favoured clients, was Anonymous Service. While at his work no man of Mitchell's save Mitchell himself, was
permitted to exercise Personality. His clients were attended not by Smith, Jones, or Robinson, but by assistants number
49, 17, or 63.
To Joseph Isenbaum this custom was odious. He knew too well the importance of a name. Every time he saw
Mitchell, he intended to revolt against the barbarous humiliation of his adult skilled, competent and dignified assistants.
But he never did.
To-day, however, as he sat brooding and dreaming, he became aware that farther down the room Mr. Mitchell
himself was talking to a client. Too unhappy to choose
autumn suitings, Joseph looked up idly, and began to watch
the comedy displayed before him. For very soon he realized
that something unusual was happening just beyond the palm
in the brown china stand, and the oval table supporting
copies of the
Spectator, Debrett, Who's Who
and the
Tailor and
Cutter.
Mr. Mitchell's client was a tall, very fair, very slender and
handsome gentleman, with a foppish, drawling, languid,
elegant manner. He was exquisitely attired, a credit,
thought Joseph, even to Mr. Mitchell's tailoring, and a
consolation for the discomforts and encountering assistants
number 17 and 63. He lounged against the long table
which served in Mitchell's for a counter, and with the point of his stick drew patterns in the nap of Mitchell's turf-like carpet. Of all odd things in the world, he was discussing
cinemas.
Joseph bent over his cloths again; but he was listening..
The elegant gentleman was talking about films, Russian
films, German films, Hollywood and English films, their actual vulgarity, their potential excellence. He talked well,
with a knowledge which seemed topical rather than profound. Could Mitchell find suitable entertainment in the
cinema for his three daughters? He could not.
'Of course, aesthetically, they are contemptible. Educa
tionally,' the client shrugged slender shoulders. 'Well, of
course, personally, I find it a little difficult to gauge the
taste of the average schoolboy. When I was at Eton . . .'
Eton. Eton. Eton, echoed Joseph's conscience. This ex
quisite creature was a product of Eton. Benjamin . . . He
missed several sentences.
'. . . from the ethical standpoint,' concluded the client.
'Oh, there you have it. There you have it, Mr. St. Denis,'
said the tailor. 'From the ethical standpoint I agree with
you. I endorse your sentiments. I uphold you. We do not
want Hollywood morals in our English Homes. As for the Empire. Look at the effect that this sort of thing must have
upon the natives. As an imperial responsibility, Mr. St.
Denis, the Government ought to take the matter in hand.
British prestige is being lowered, reduced, degraded by the
obscenities - pardon the word - the indecencies of Ameri
can actresses.'
'The Government? Hum. Now, as a Conservative,
Mitchell, I put it to you. Do you really approve of Govern
ment interference with industry?'
'Industry, sir? Industry's a different matter. This is a
question of morals.'
'Ultimately, Mitchell. Ultimately. I grant you that the
final judgment upon the cinema may be ethical. But the
immediate motive is - I put it to you - commercial.'
'What we need is a censor, Mr. St. Denis.'
'We have one. We have one, Mitchell. An entire Board
of Censors. And what do they achieve? - What is the use of
banning a few bad films? The demand is there. It will be
supplied somehow. What we want, I suggest, Mitchell, is
enterprise - competition. We want to place upon the mar
ket a film which will be worth showing.'
'Very pretty, Mr. St. Denis. Very pretty. But where is it to come from, sir? America? Can we make silk purses out
of sows' ears? England? British enterprise is dead to-day.
Dead. Killed by the Dole and Government interference.'
'Not dead, Mitchell. Not dead. Sleeping. The Sleeping
Beauty waiting for Prince Charming.'
'I dare say. I dare say. And where is he, Mr. St. Denis?
Where is he, I say?'
St. Denis laughed.
'I am a modest man,' he said. 'Far be it from me . . .'
'You, Mr. St. Denis?'
'Well, Mitchell. And why not? Don't you think it about
time that I did something to justify my
existence?'
And then it seemed to Joseph as though he were watching a very intricate and expert duel, which
proceeded according
to the ritual of all good sword-play. The elegant client
called St. Denis was clearly determined to interest Mr.
Mitchell in some scheme for the formation of a company to reform the British cinema. Nor did the interest appear to be purely impersonal. Joseph had himself an hereditary under
standing of finesse. He understood why Mr. St. Denis
pressed so lightly, so ironically, the claims of his cinema
company. He understood the heavier retreats and defences
of the tailor.
The tailor, of course, was in the superior position. He
only had to listen and deny. St. Denis had to do more than
that. It became evident to Joseph, watching, that St. Denis,
like many other exquisite young men, was in financial diffi
culties. In short, he could not pay his tailor's bill. He
sought instead to prolong his credit by dazzling Mr. Mitchell
with the prospects of a new cinema company of which he
was, it seemed, to be the chairman of the directing board.
'So suitable, don't you think, Mitchell, being a rector's
son?' murmured Mr. St. Denis.
A rector's son who had been to Eton, noted the father of
Ben Isenbaum.
But the rector's son who had been to Eton was not by any
means winning his match. For all his light fencing, his
delicate thrusts and agile ripostes, he was being beaten back
by the slow pomposity of the Christian tailor.
Joseph's imagination warmed towards the conquered.
His love of elegance endeared St. Denis to him. His roman
tic heart softened to this rector's son who wore his clothes so
admirably. His alert sense of business observed that here
was an Etonian in a difficulty. Of all things in the world
that Joseph needed at that moment was an opportunity for
placing an Etonian under an obligation to him.
Still, the opportunity had not yet arisen. St. Denis broke
off, raised his eyebrows, and turned to go. He was defeated,
but he was unbroken. He strolled three paces down the
room, then turned.
'Oh, by the way, Mitchell. I told Hollway that I wanted
that suit by Friday.
'
'Hollway, sir?'
'Hollway. That fellow you call 17. My dear Mitchell,
you surely don't expect me to adopt your degrading practice of calling your assistants by numbers as though they were Dartmoor convicts, do you?'
'Degrading, sir? Ah, hardly that, I think, surely. Our
ideal is one of impersonal service - impersonal anonymity,
sir. Look at the Gothic cathedrals. We do not know who
built them. Look at
The Times
newspaper.'
'Yes. Look at it. Damn dull, my dear Mitchell. Damn dull. In any case, these numbers confuse me. They are
worse than the streets in New York. In future, please, when
I am here, kindly call your assistants by their proper
names.'
'Splendid, splendid, splendid!' applauded Joseph's heart.
His tongue was silent, but he rose to his feet in an impulsive
tribute of gratitude and admiration.
Then St. Denis saw him.
'I'm afraid that I've kept you too long from your other
customers,' said he. 'This gentleman.'
'Not at all. Not at all,' cried Joseph, perspiring but com
posed. 'I was only looking through some patterns.'
He swallowed hard. What St. Denis, insolvent but in
domitable, had done, that Isenbaum, solvent as he was, could do. 'I gave my selections to your assistant, Griffin.'
'Griffin?' Mr. Mitchell flushed. St. Denis was an old customer. He was a relative of Lord Herringdale. He was privileged. But Isenbaum, the fat, stinking little Jew, Isen
baum had defied the Rubric, and blasphemed the Holy of
Holies. Mr. Mitchell grew calm with fury. 'You mean my
assistant, 17?'
'I mean your man here, Griffin,' repeated Joseph, flushed
but resolute. 'I agree with this gentleman, Mr. Mitchell. I
prefer to call your assistants by their proper names.'
'Admirable,' smiled St. Denis. 'You see, Mitchell, I have
a fellow protestant.'
If fury could destroy long-set tradition, if rage could master business advantage, if a life-time of discipline had not
overlain Mr. Mitchell's passions, he would then have
ordered both his customers from his shop. Had Isenbaum
been alone, he would have done it. But St. Denis was St. Denis. He did not pay his bills, but he was well connected. One never knew how far the repercussions of insulting Lord
Herringdale's kinsman might resound through the small
world of quality. Mr. Mitchell tightened his lips and bowed in silence.
But as he bowed, he conceived another and more subtle
means of vengeance. Mitchell's was a club, over which he had hitherto presided with inimitable discretion. Never had
he affected an introduction which cast the least shadow of
embarrassment on either of the parties. Now he remembered that the Herringdales hated Jews; and he suspected
that St. Denis borrowed money from all men of sub
stance. The pair were well matched to inconvenience each
other.