'How do, Bob?'
'How do, Bob?'
We sat down. Mr Brindley pointed to the condition of the floor.
'Cheerful, isn't it?' he observed to me, shouting above the din of
vibrating glass.
Our fellow-passengers were few and unromantic, perhaps half-a-dozen
altogether on the long, shiny, yellow seats of the car, each apparently
lost in gloomy reverie.
'It's the advertisements and notices in these cars that are the joy of
the super-man like you and me,' shouted Mr Brindley. 'Look there,
"Passengers are requested not to spit on the floor." Simply an
encouragement to lie on the seats and spit on the ceiling, isn't it?
"Wear only Noble's wonderful boots." Suppose we did! Unless they came
well up above the waist we should be prosecuted. But there's no sense
of humour in this district.'
Greengrocers' shops and public-houses were now flying past the windows
of the car. It began to climb a hill, and then halted.
'Here we are!' ejaculated Mr Brindley.
And he was out of the car almost before I had risen.
We strolled along a quiet street, and came to a large building with
many large lighted windows, evidently some result of public effort.
'What's that place?' I demanded.
'That's the Wedgwood Institution.'
'Oh! So that's the Wedgwood Institution, is it?'
'Yes. Commonly called the Wedgwood. Museum, reading-room, public
library--dirtiest books in the world, I mean physically--art school,
science school. I've never explained to you why I'm chairman of the
Management Committee, have I? Well, it's because the Institution is
meant to foster the arts, and I happen to know nothing about 'em. I
needn't tell you that architecture, literature, and music are not arts
within the meaning of the act. Not much! Like to come in and see the
museum for a minute? You'll have to see it in your official capacity
tomorrow.'
We crossed the road, and entered an imposing portico. Just as we did so
a thick stream of slouching men began to descend the steps, like a
waterfall of treacle. Mr Brindley they appeared to see, but evidently I
made no impression on their retinas. They bore down the steps, hands
deep in pockets, sweeping over me like Fate. Even when I bounced off
one of them to a lower step, he showed by no sign that the fact of my
existence had reached his consciousness--simply bore irresistibly
downwards. The crowd was absolutely silent. At last I gained the
entrance hall.
'It's closing-time for the reading room,' said Mr Brindley.
'I'm glad I survived it,' I said.
'The truth is,' said he, 'that people who can't look after themselves
don't flourish in these latitudes. But you'll be acclimatized by
tomorrow. See that?'
He pointed to an alabaster tablet on which was engraved a record of the
historical certainty that Mr Gladstone opened the Institution in 1868,
also an extract from the speech which he delivered on that occasion.
'What do you THINK of Gladstone down here?' I demanded.
'In my official capacity I think that these deathless words are the
last utterance of wisdom on the subject of the influence of the liberal
arts on life. And I should advise you, in your official capacity, to
think the same, unless you happen to have a fancy for having your teeth
knocked down your throat.'
'I see,' I said, not sure how to take him.
'Lest you should go away with the idea that you have been visiting a
rude and barbaric people, I'd better explain that that was a joke. As a
matter of fact, we're rather enlightened here. The only man who stands
a chance of getting his teeth knocked down his throat here is the
ingenious person who started the celebrated legend of the man-and-dog
fight at Hanbridge. It's a long time ago, a very long time ago; but his
grey hairs won't save him from horrible tortures if we catch him. We
don't mind being called immoral, we're above a bit flattered when
London newspapers come out with shocking details of debauchery in the
Five Towns, but we pride ourselves on our manners. I say, Aked!' His
voice rose commandingly, threateningly, to an old bent, spectacled man
who was ascending a broad white staircase in front of us.
'Sir!' The man turned.
'Don't turn the lights out yet in the museum.'
'No, sir! Are you coming up?' The accents were slow and tremulous.
'Yes. I have a gentleman here from the British Museum who wants to look
round.'
The oldish man came deliberately down the steps, and approached us.
Then his gaze, beginning at my waist, gradually rose to my hat.
'From the British Museum?' he drawled. 'I'm sure I'm very glad to meet
you, sir. I'm sure it's a very great honour.'
He held out a wrinkled hand, which I shook.
'Mr Aked,' said Mr Brindley, by way of introduction. 'Been caretaker
here for pretty near forty years.'
'Ever since it opened, sir,' said Aked.
We went up the white stone stairway, rather a grandiose construction
for a little industrial town. It divided itself into doubling curving
flights at the first landing, and its walls were covered with pictures
and designs. The museum itself, a series of three communicating rooms,
was about as large as a pocket-handkerchief.
'Quite small,' I said.
I gave my impression candidly, because I had already judged Mr Brindley
to be the rare and precious individual who is worthy of the high honour
of frankness.
'Do you think so?' he demanded quickly. I had shocked him, that was
clear. His tone was unmistakable; it indicated an instinctive,
involuntary protest. But he recovered himself in a flash. 'That's
jealousy,' he laughed. 'All you British Museum people are the same.'
Then he added, with an unsuccessful attempt to convince me that he
meant what he was saying: 'Of course it is small. It's nothing, simply
nothing.'
Yes, I had unwittingly found the joint in the armour of this
extraordinary Midland personage. With all his irony, with all his
violent humour, with all his just and unprejudiced perceptions, he had
a tenderness for the Institution of which he was the dictator. He loved
it. He could laugh like a god at everything in the Five Towns except
this one thing. He would try to force himself to regard even this with
the same lofty detachment, but he could not do it naturally.