When they had crossed the windy space of Saint Luke's Square and reached
the top of the Sytch Bank, Mr Orgreave stopped an instant in front of
the Sytch Pottery, and pointed to a large window at the south end that
was in process of being boarded up.
"At last!" he murmured with disgust. Then he said: "That's the most
beautiful window in Bursley, and perhaps in the Five Towns; and you see
what's happening to it."
Edwin had never heard the word `beautiful' uttered in quite that tone,
except by women, such as Auntie Hamps, about a baby or a valentine or a
sermon. But Mr Orgreave was not a woman; he was a man of the world, he
was almost _the_ man of the world; and the subject of his adjective was a
window!
"Why are they boarding it up, Mr Orgreave?" Edwin asked.
"Oh! Ancient lights! Ancient lights!"
Edwin began to snigger. He thought for an instant that Mr Orgreave was
being jocular over his head, for he could only connect the phrase
`ancient lights' with the meaner organs of a dead animal, exposed, for
example, in tripe shops. However, he saw his ineptitude almost
simultaneously with the commission of it, and smothered the snigger in
becoming gravity. It was clear that he had something to learn in the
phraseology employed by architects.
"I should think," said Mr Orgreave, "I should think they've been at law
about that window for thirty years, if not more. Well, it's over now,
seemingly." He gazed at the disappearing window. "What a shame!"
"It is," said Edwin politely.
Mr Orgreave crossed the road and then stood still to gaze at the facade
of the Sytch Pottery. It was a long two-storey building, purest
Georgian, of red brick with very elaborate stone facings which
contrasted admirably with the austere simplicity of the walls. The
porch was lofty, with a majestic flight of steps narrowing to the doors.
The ironwork of the basement railings was unusually rich and
impressive.
"Ever seen another pot-works like that?" demanded Mr Orgreave,
enthusiastically musing.
"No," said Edwin. Now that the question was put to him, he never _had_
seen another pot-works like that.
"There are one or two pretty fine works in the Five Towns," said Mr
Orgreave. "But there's nothing elsewhere to touch this. I nearly
always stop and look at it if I'm passing. Just look at the pointing!
The pointing alone--"
Edwin had to readjust his ideas. It had never occurred to him to search
for anything fine in Bursley. The fact was, he had never opened his
eyes at Bursley. Dozens of times he must have passed the Sytch Pottery,
and yet not noticed, not suspected, that it differed from any other
pot-works: he who dreamed of being an architect!
"You don't think much of it?" said Mr Orgreave, moving on. "People
don't."
"Oh yes! I _do_!" Edwin protested, and with such an air of eager
sincerity that Mr Orgreave turned to glance at him. And in truth he
did think that the Sytch Pottery was beautiful. He never would have
thought so but for the accident of the walk with Mr Orgreave; he might
have spent his whole life in the town, and never troubled himself a
moment about the Sytch Pottery. Nevertheless he now, by an act of sheer
faith, suddenly, miraculously and genuinely regarded it as an
exquisitely beautiful edifice, on a plane with the edifices of the
capitals of Europe, and as a feast for discerning eyes. "I like
architecture very much," he added. And this too was said with such
feverish conviction that Mr Orgreave was quite moved.
"I must show you my new Sytch Chapel," said Mr Orgreave gaily.
"Oh! I should like you to show it me," said Edwin.
But he was exceedingly perturbed by misgivings. Here was he wanting to
be an architect, and he had never observed the Sytch Pottery! Surely
that was an absolute proof that he had no vocation for architecture!
And yet now he did most passionately admire the Sytch Pottery. And he
was proud to be sharing the admiration of the fine, joyous, superior,
luxurious, companionable man, Mr Orgreave.
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