The last time I was at Olympia--as everybody says at the door--it was
a Horse Show. But this time it is much the same. There they stand in
their stalls, the dear, magnificent, patient creatures, with their
glossy coats and their beautiful curves, their sensitive radiators
sniffing for something over the velvet ropes. Panting, I know they are,
to be out in the open again; and yet I fancy they enjoy it all in a
way. It would be ungrateful if they did not; for, after all, the whole
thing has been arranged for them. The whole idea of the Show is to let
the motors inspect the bloaters--and not what you think. (You don’t
know what bloaters are? Well, I can’t explain without being rude.)
All the year round they can study _ad nauseam_ their own individual
bloaters; but this is the only occasion on which they have the whole
world of bloaters paraded in front of them for inspection. Now only
can they compare notes and exchange grievances.
And how closely they study the parade. Here is a pretty limousine, a
blonde; see how she watches the two huge exhibits in front of her. They
are very new bloaters, and one of them--oh, horror!--one of them is
going to buy. He has never bought before; she knows his sort. He will
drive her to death; he may even drive her himself; he will stroke her
lovely coat in a familiar, proprietary fashion; he will show her off
unceasingly to other bloaters till she is hot all over and the water
boils in her radiator. He will hold forth with a horrible intimacy
and a yet more horrible ignorance on the most private secrets of her
inner life. Not one throb of her young cylinders will be sacred, yet
never will he understand her as she would like to be understood. He
will mess her with his muddy boots; He will scratch her paint; he will
drop tobacco-ash all over the cushions--though not from pipes; cigars
only....
There--he has bought her. It is a tragedy. Let us move on.
Here is a little _coupé_--a smart young creature with a nice blue coat,
fond of town, I should say, but quite at home in the country. She also
is inspecting two bloaters. But these two are very shy. In fact, they
are not really bloaters at all; they are rather a pair of nicemannered
fresh herrings, not long mated. The male had something to do with that
war, I should think; the _coupé_ would help him a good deal. The lady
likes her because she is dark-blue. The other one likes her because of
something to do with her works; but he is very reverent and tactful
about it. He seems to know that he is being scrutinized, for he is
nervous, and scarcely dares to speak about her to the groom in the
top-hat. He will drive her himself; he will look after her himself; he
will know all about her, all about her moods and fancies and secret
failings; he will humour and coax her, and she will serve him very
nobly.
Already, you see, they have given her a name--“Jane,” I think they
said; they will creep off into the country with her when the summer
comes, all by themselves; they will plunge into the middle of thick
forests and sit down happily in the shade at midday and look at her;
and she will love them.
But the question is---- Ah, they are shaking their heads; they are
edging away. She is too much. They look back sadly as they go. Another
tragedy....
Now I am going to be a bloater myself. Here is a jolly one, though
her stable-name is much too long. She is a Saloon-de-Luxe and she
only costs £2125 (why 5, I wonder--why not 6?). I can run to that,
_surely_. At any rate I can climb up and sit down on her cushions;
none of the grooms are looking. Dark blue, I see, like Jane. That is
the sort of car I prefer. I am like the lady herring; I don’t approve
of all this talk about the _insides_ of things; it seems to me to be
rather indecent--unless, of course, you do it very nicely, like that
young herring. When you go and look at a horse you don’t ask how its
sweetbread is arranged, or what is the principle of its lever. Then why
should you...?
Well, here we are, and very comfortable too. But why do none of these
cars have any means of communication between the owner and the man
next to the chauffeur? There is always a telephone to the chauffeur,
but none to the overflow guest on the box. So that when the host sees
an old manor-house which he thinks the guest hasn’t noticed he has to
hammer on the glass and do semaphore; and the guest thinks he is being
asked if he is warm enough.
Otherwise, though, this is a nice car. It is very cosy in here. Dark,
and quiet, and warm. I could go to sleep in here.
* * * * *
What? What’s that? No, I don’t really want to buy it, thank you. I just
wanted to see if it was a good sleeping car. As a matter of fact I
think it is. But I don’t like the colour. And what I really want is a
_cabriolet_. Good afternoon. thank you....
A pleasant gentleman, that. I wish I could have bought the saloon. She
would have liked me. So would he, I expect.
Well, we had better go home. I shan’t buy any more cars today. And
we won’t go up to the gallery; there is nothing but oleo-plugs and
graphite-grease up there. That sort of thing spoils the romance.
Ah, here is dear Jane again! What a pity it was-- Hullo, they have come
back--that nice young couple. They are bargaining--they are beating
him down. No, he is beating them up. Go on--go on. Yes, you can run to
that--_of course_ you can. Sell those oil shares. Look at her--_look_
at her! You can’t leave her here for one of the bloaters. He wavers; he
consults. “Such a lovely colour.” Ah, that’s done it! He has decided.
He has bought. She has bought. They have bought. Hurrah!