"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-manoeuvre 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 _blase_. 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.