CHAPTER XV
"THE MYSTERIOUS MR. P."
The mysterious Mr. P. was revealed to the eye of his fellow-lodger as a man of medium height, well built, almost soldierly in the carriage of his body, with a pale, colourless face, clean shaven as an actor's, his hair, though plentiful, fast turning grey. The velvet jacket which he wore, together with the studied negligence of his necktie, were distinctly marks of affectation, if Henry had an eye for such, and it is more than possible he had. Still, the general effect of Mr. P.'s appearance must have been generally favourable to the young man who rose to greet him as he entered the room. It went some way to support the romantic picture of him which Henry had sketched out in his mind, and nothing is more flattering to our self-esteem than thus to find ourselves anticipating Nature. 'Tis easily done, however, given the fact that the unknown scrapes a fiddle. Yet why should musicians proclaim their profession in their person as plainly as any stableboy his? The amateur is even more professional in his appearance than the professional himself.
As Mr. P. closed the door and advanced some steps to shake hands with the occupant of the room, his pale features were lit up by a smile that put Henry at his ease forthwith, for there had been a momentary revolt of shyness in the young man's mind after expressing his desire to meet the gentleman from upstairs. It was a worn man of the world and a very provincial young man who shook hands.
"You will pardon this late and informal visit, Mr. Charles," said Mr. Puddephatt, "but it has seemed so unneighbourly never to have met you before, and you are so much engaged, that I determined to take the first opportunity of passing an hour with you."
"I am indeed happy to meet you."
"The fact that you are a man of letters interests me greatly, for I too have dabbled a little with the pen, and Laysford is a dull place for the literary man, as everybody seems bent on money-grubbing."
"My own occupation is, I fear, not unsuited to an industrial town. Pray sit down and make yourself comfortable."
"Still, journalism is at least a province of literature," said the visitor, smiling.
He helped himself to a cigarette, and took the easy-chair Henry had moved forward to the fire.
"A sphere of influence, perhaps, if not quite a province," Henry replied, catching something of Mr. P.'s rather studied conversational manner, as he seated himself and toyed with his cigarette. "I am beginning to think that literature and journalism have less in common than I once supposed. Have you ever engaged in journalism?"
"Only slightly. I have done a little in the reviews, chiefly on musical subjects. My efforts have been in the direction of fiction."
Henry had almost remarked that the name of his fellow-lodger was not familiar to him as a writer of fiction, but congratulated himself on leaving the thought unexpressed; and since the other made no further reference to his own work, Henry fancied he might be one of the rare authors who did not care to discuss their books, and wisely refrained from inquiring too closely as to the nature of these literary efforts at which the still mysterious Mr. P. had so vaguely hinted. The latter also tacked away from the subject, and continued after a pause:
"I see you are well up-to-date, Mr. Charles, in the matter of books," his sleepy eyes brightening almost into eagerness while they scanned the heap of new novels for review lying on Henry's desk.
"That in a sense is forced on me," replied the young editor, "although my own personal taste is to blame for the extra work involved. Until I suggested it the Leader had paid practically no attention to books. You see, it sells for its market reports and local news—far more important things than literature."
"It was always the way; the arts have hung for ages on the skirts of trade."
"The result is that I have to do all our reviews myself."
"I can assure you of at least one appreciative reader who rejoiced when the Leader took on the literary touch you have given it. It is said that people get the kind of journalism they are fitted for; but for my part, I believe that the colourless writing of most provincial papers is the result of lack of taste in the journalists themselves. You don't find, for instance, that the more literary Leader is less popular than the bald and tasteless production it used to be?"
"On the contrary, I am told it is doing better," Henry replied, with a touch of self-satisfaction which might have been modified if he had inquired more closely into the cause of the increased circulation.
A series of local tragedies, and a heated controversy on the licensing question, had probably more to do with the result than all the editor's literary taste.
"You have a book here, I notice," continued Mr. Puddephatt, singling out the novel Henry had been reading, and had laid down, with the paper-knife between its pages near to the end, "in which I am not a little interested. The critics have been denouncing it so heartily that the publisher has difficulty in keeping pace with the demand."
"I'm sorry to hear it, for I mean to slate it too, and it is small consolation if that only helps to sell the thing."
Henry turned to the table and picked up the red cloth volume. It was entitled "Ashes," the name of the writer being Adrian Grant. The eyes of his guest followed his movements, and studied his face with unusual sharpness. He made a barely concealed effort to appear only languidly interested when the editor proceeded to denounce the work in good set terms.
"I certainly shall do myself the pleasure of 'letting myself go' when I sit down to give Adrian Grant my opinion of his book."
Henry had entered fully into that most delusive joy of journalism which spurs the young, raw writer on when he imagines he has some unpalatable truths to deliver. But in this case there was a worthier impulse than the common delight of attacking an author in print. Despite the influences that seemed to have been undermining the simple religious faith Henry had brought away from his native village, there still remained in him a strong abhorrence of that paganish cynicism which, expressed in fiction, tends to drag the mind into the sunless dungeons of thought and away from the glorious light of Christian truth. This book, "Ashes," was precisely of that type. Under the guise of a story pretending to reflect the manners of the time, it discussed problems which were in no sense representative of the varied whole of life, and the discussion of which appealed mainly to the morbid taste of readers who cared not a jot for art.
"I shall be most interested to read your review," said Mr. P.; "and might I steal a march on your other readers by asking what impression 'Ashes' has made on you?"
"I can best describe it by saying it leaves a nasty taste in the mouth—clever, but not nice."
"Which might suggest that the author has succeeded in his task," rejoined the other, laughing and lighting a fresh cigarette, "since ashes have usually that effect. You know Moore's famous lines:
"'Dead Sea fruits that tempt the eye,
But turn to ashes on the lips'?"
"Yes, and I think that 'Dead Sea Fruits' would have been as good a title for the book. But happily for mankind, we are not in the habit of making excursions to the Dead Sea to taste its apples."
"There speaks hopeful youth. That is precisely what mankind is ever doing; that is the tragedy of life."
"Surely there is more beauty than ugliness in the world, and even if there were less would it not be nobler to draw man's thoughts to the beauty rather than to the ugliness?"
"Your view of art is somewhat Philistine, don't you think? The artist's business is not with morals but with truth, and truth is not always beautiful."
"But there must be a purpose behind every work of art—a moral purpose, I mean," the younger man persisted, although he was conscious he was no match in argument against the defender of "Ashes."
Henry's opinions were still in that state of flux when a young man's thoughts take on some colouring from every influence that touches them, and are only in a very minor degree the expression of his own mind.
"The only purpose the artist need avow is to express the truth as he sees it," continued Mr. Puddephatt confidently. "I shall admit that the picture set forth in this novel is ugly, but I believe it to be true. Remember, we have the butcher's shop as well as the pastrycook's in Nature, and I fancy the former is the larger establishment."
"Admitted," Henry retorted, with lessening fervour, "but are we not told that the end of art is to please?"
"Assuredly; to please what?—Our sense of the artistic. The Italians have a fine way of talking about 'beautiful ugliness,' and if the artist, working within the limits of his medium, proves to others that the thing he has produced—picture, statue, book—is in tune with Nature, let it be never so ugly, it must still please our artistic sense."
Henry found himself wandering in a cul de sac of thought. This man who opposed his mind to his could out-manœuvre him at every move. He was painfully conscious now that opinions he had thought to be his own were only unwinnowed sheaves of thought gleaned in the field of his reading. Still, he felt that with pen in hand, and no quick answer to each phrase, he could prove his case. How often does the writing man feel thus.
"But there is nothing in this book, so far as I can see," urged Henry warmly, "that tends to elevate the mind to better things. It may be true what you say of the butcher's shop, but the pastrycook's is a pleasanter place any day."
"Ah, my young friend, that way lies indigestion," the other retorted, smiling. "It is none of the artist's business to elevate; it is his function to interpret life, and you will tramp far along the dusty road of life to find anything that elevates. The fact is, when I—I mean, when Adrian Grant set himself to write that book, I believe his purpose was to attack the mawkish sentimentality of our contemporary fiction, to strike a blow at the shoddy romance which is the worst form of art. For my part, deliver me, I pray, from all writers who seek to elevate. The true watchword is 'Art for art's sake.'"
"To me it seems rather 'Art for dirt's sake,'" Henry rejoined a little savagely, and a shadow of displeasure clouded the features of his visitor at the words. "But admitting all you say, is there no Power apart from ourselves that tends to draw our thoughts, our very souls, upward?"
"I have looked for it in vain," the other speaker replied, with a languid wave of the hand. "What about the life of our slums, for instance? Is every man and woman there a villain, a lost soul? Surely not. Yet we see every evil rampant, we see every virtue dead; vice triumphant. Who is to blame? The people: the victims? Surely not. Reason says no, a thousand times. Where is this Power you speak of when slumland exists, a horror? But in Kensington there is as little that elevates as there is in Whitechapel. The honest man loses generally in the struggle; the scoundrel flaunts himself before high heaven; he rides in mayoral furs, he swarms into Parliament, he mounts the very pulpit itself."
Henry was abashed and silent before the impassioned language of the speaker, who had suddenly flamed up and risen from his seat, pacing the room with restless strides while he declaimed and gesticulated surprisingly for one who had seemed so self-possessed, so blasé. Henry was silent because of his inability to understand the mystery of pain—a mystery to older heads than his.
"I have searched the world for a principle, for a law of life," exclaimed Mr. P., stopping suddenly and looking the journalist straight in the face, "and I have never scented one."
"We are told to love one another," said Henry, almost timidly.
"Well, do you find that principle at work? I find hate, malice, inhumanity, wherever I turn my eyes. That is what I meant by the butcher's shop. I find ministers preaching the gospel of peace and buttressing the policy of war and plunder. I find hypocrisy enthroned, honesty contemned."
"But if one believes in the Word of God, is it not better to be the honest man contemned than the throned hypocrite?"
"If we find every fact of life at cross-purpose with Scripture, what then?"
"Perhaps you don't believe in the Bible?" Henry put it thus bluntly to him.
"I prefer to say that it does not convince me. It tells, for example, of a man who was guilty of a paltry fraud in attempting to cheat a small number of his fellows; and upon whom, in the very act, sudden destruction fell. He was struck down dead, we are told. Where to-day is that Power which meted out such swift and deadly punishment? Here, in this town, men lie and cheat with impunity, and on a scale which involves hundreds of innocent victims. The Divine vengeance slumbers. God—if there is a God—sleeps; or else looks on with supreme indifference to the sufferings of His creatures."
"It is all a great mystery, I confess," returned Henry, with something very like a sigh.
The anchor of faith, which had of late been dragging, seemed almost to have slipped, and he felt himself drifting out into dark and troubled waters. This was the young man who, less than an hour ago, was vowing to trounce the author of "Ashes" for his gloomy view of life. The thought had come to him that perhaps his very faith was a mere convention of early teaching. He sat ill at ease before his visitor, whose passionate outburst had left both without further speech. It was a strange conclusion of an irresponsible gossip on the art of literature. After looking for a minute or two at Henry's book-shelves, Mr. Puddephatt said abruptly:
"I am indebted to you for a most enjoyable hour, Mr. Charles, and hope we shall see more of each other in the future."
"I hope so too," answered Henry, at a loss for words, his brain in a whirl of distracting thought.
When the mysterious Mr. P. quitted the room, Henry felt that his lightly-chosen epithet was more suitable than ever. But it was less of the man he thought, as he now unconsciously imitated him in pacing his room, than of the ideas he had enunciated; these had instantly become detached from their originator and boiled up in Henry's mind with all the lees of youthful doubts and questionings that had been lying there. The mental ferment had a harassing effect on him. Almost for the first time in his life he felt a strange desire to turn inside out his spiritual nature and find what it consisted of. And the next instant the thought was madness to him.
"I said to him that we are told to love one another," he reflected, setting his teeth defiantly. "If we did, then evil would cease out of the world. So the religion which teaches this must be right. But we don't do so—he was right there—and if our natures are not capable of this love, what profits the advice? He's no fool; but the way seems very dark. I half wish he hadn't touched the subject."
As these thoughts were coursing through Henry's mind, the strains of a 'cello, soothing and sensuous, came from the room above, adding a dramatic touch to a memorable experience, and reminding him startlingly that he had never spoken a word to Mr. P. about his music.
The lateness of the hour surprised Henry, who threw himself down in a chair and stared blankly at the dying embers in the grate, while the musician sounded with exquisite touch the closing bars of a nocturne.