'Ah!' breathed Mr Brindley, blowing out much air and falling like a
sack of coal into a corner seat. He was a thin man, aged about thirty,
with brown eyes, and a short blonde beard.
Conversation was at first difficult. Personally I am not a bubbling
fount of gay nothings when I find myself alone with a comparative
stranger. My drawbridge goes up as if by magic, my postern is closed,
and I peer cautiously through the narrow slits of my turret to estimate
the chances of peril. Nor was Mr Brindley offensively affable. However,
we struggled into a kind of chatter. I had come to the Five Towns, on
behalf of the British Museum, to inspect and appraise, with a view to
purchase by the nation, some huge slip-decorated dishes, excessively
curious according to photographs, which had been discovered in the
cellars of the Conservative Club at Bursley. Having shared in the
negotiations for my visit, Mr Brindley had invited me to spend the
night at his house. We were able to talk about all this. And when we
had talked about all this we were able to talk about the singular
scenery of coal dust, potsherds, flame and steam, through which the
train wound its way. It was squalid ugliness, but it was squalid
ugliness on a scale so vast and overpowering that it became sublime.
Great furnaces gleamed red in the twilight, and their fires were
reflected in horrible black canals; processions of heavy vapour drifted
in all directions across the sky, over what acres of mean and miserable
brown architecture! The air was alive with the most extraordinary,
weird, gigantic sounds. I do not think the Five Towns will ever be
described: Dante lived too soon. As for the erratic and exquisite
genius, Simon Fuge, and his odalisques reclining on silken cushions on
the enchanted bosom of a lake--I could no longer conjure them up even
faintly in my mind.
'I suppose you know Simon Fuge is dead?' I remarked, in a pause.
'No! Is he?' said Mr Brindley, with interest. 'Is it in the paper?'
He did not seem to be quite sure that it would be in the paper.
'Here it is,' said I, and I passed him the Gazette.
'Ha!' he exclaimed explosively. This 'Ha!' was entirely different from
his 'Ah!' Something shot across his eyes, something incredibly
rapid--too rapid for a wink; yet it could only be called a wink. It was
the most subtle transmission of the beyond-speech that I have ever
known any man accomplish, and it endeared Mr Brindley to me. But I knew
not its significance.
'What do they think of Fuge down here?' I asked.
'I don't expect they think of him,' said my host.
He pulled a pouch and a packet of cigarette papers from his pocket.
'Have one of mine,' I suggested, hastily producing my case.
He did not even glance at its contents.
'No, thanks,' he said curtly.