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 her cushions--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
nice-mannered 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 scrutinised,
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 £2,125 (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 is looking. Dark-blue, I see, like Jane. That is
the sort of car I love. 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 liver. Then
why should you...?
Well, here we are, and very comfortable too. But why does 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 to-day. 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---- Hallo, they have
come back--the two nice herrings. 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!