Part 23 (1/2)
”The Big Bow Mystery Solved
”Sir,--I wonder if any one besides myself has been struck by the incredible bad taste of Mr. Grodman's letter in your last issue. That he, a former servant of the Department, should publicly insult and run it down can only be charitably explained by the supposition that his judgment is failing him in his old age. In view of this letter, are the relatives of the deceased justified in entrusting him with any private doc.u.ments? It is, no doubt, very good of him to undertake to avenge one whom he seems sn.o.bbishly anxious to claim as a friend; but, all things considered, should not his letter have been headed 'The Big Bow Mystery Shelved'? I enclose my card, and am, sir,
”Your obedient servant,
”Scotland Yard.”
George Grodman read this letter with annoyance, and crumpling up the paper, murmured scornfully, ”Edward Wimp!”
V
”Yes, but what will become of the Beautiful?” said Denzil Cantercot.
”Hang the Beautiful!” said Peter Crowl, as if he were on the committee of the Academy. ”Give me the True.”
Denzil did nothing of the sort. He didn't happen to have it about him.
Denzil Cantercot stood smoking a cigarette in his landlord's shop, and imparting an air of distinction and an agreeable aroma to the close leathery atmosphere. Crowl cobbled away, talking to his tenant without raising his eyes. He was a small, big-headed, sallow, sad-eyed man, with a greasy ap.r.o.n. Denzil was wearing a heavy overcoat with a fur collar.
He was never seen without it in public during the winter. In private he removed it and sat in his s.h.i.+rt sleeves. Crowl was a thinker, or thought he was--which seems to involve original thinking anyway. His hair was thinning rapidly at the top, as if his brain was struggling to get as near as possible to the realities of things. He prided himself on having no fads. Few men are without some foible or hobby; Crowl felt almost lonely at times in his superiority. He was a Vegetarian, a Secularist, a Blue Ribbonite, a Republican, and an Anti-tobacconist. Meat was a fad.
Drink was a fad. Religion was a fad. Monarchy was a fad. Tobacco was a fad. ”A plain man like me,” Crowl used to say, ”can live without fads.”
”A plain man” was Crowl's catchword. When of a Sunday morning he stood on Mile-end Waste, which was opposite his shop--and held forth to the crowd on the evils of kings, priests, and mutton chops, the ”plain man”
turned up at intervals like the ”theme” of a symphonic movement. ”I am only a plain man and I want to know.” It was a phrase that sabred the spider-webs of logical refinement, and held them up scornfully on the point. When Crowl went for a little recreation in Victoria Park on Sunday afternoons, it was with this phrase that he invariably routed the supernaturalists. Crowl knew his Bible better than most ministers, and always carried a minutely printed copy in his pocket, dog's-eared to mark contradictions in the text. The second chapter of Jeremiah says one thing; the first chapter of Corinthians says another. Two contradictory statements _may_ both be true, but ”I am only a plain man, and I want to know.” Crowl spent a large part of his time in setting ”the word against the word.” c.o.c.k-fighting affords its votaries no acuter pleasure than Crowl derived from setting two texts by the ears. Crowl had a metaphysical genius which sent his Sunday morning disciples frantic with admiration, and struck the enemy dumb with dismay. He had discovered, for instance, that the Deity could not move, owing to already filling all s.p.a.ce. He was also the first to invent, for the confusion of the clerical, the crucial case of a saint dying at the Antipodes contemporaneously with another in London. Both went skyward to heaven, yet the two travelled in directly opposite directions. In all eternity they would never meet. Which, then, got to heaven? Or was there no such place? ”I am only a plain man, and I want to know.”
Preserve us our open s.p.a.ces; they exist to testify to the incurable interest of humanity in the Unknown and the Misunderstood. Even 'Arry is capable of five minutes' attention to speculative theology, if 'Arriet isn't in a 'urry.
Peter Crowl was not sorry to have a lodger like Denzil Cantercot, who, though a man of parts and thus worth powder and shot, was so hopelessly wrong on all subjects under the sun. In only one point did Peter Crowl agree with Denzil Cantercot--he admired Denzil Cantercot secretly. When he asked him for the True--which was about twice a day on the average--he didn't really expect to get it from him. He knew that Denzil was a poet.
”The Beautiful,” he went on, ”is a thing that only appeals to men like you. The True is for all men. The majority have the first claim. Till then you poets must stand aside. The True and the Useful--that's what we want. The Good of Society is the only test of things. Everything stands or falls by the Good of Society.”
”The Good of Society!” echoed Denzil, scornfully. ”What's the good of Society? The Individual is before all. The ma.s.s must be sacrificed to the Great Man. Otherwise the Great Man will be sacrificed to the ma.s.s.
Without great men there would be no art. Without art life would be a blank.”
”Ah, but we should fill it up with bread and b.u.t.ter,” said Peter Crowl.
”Yes, it is bread and b.u.t.ter that kills the Beautiful,” said Denzil Cantercot, bitterly. ”Many of us start by following the b.u.t.terfly through the verdant meadows, but we turn aside--”
”To get the grub,” chuckled Peter, cobbling away.
”Peter, if you make a jest of everything, I'll not waste my time on you.”
Denzil's wild eyes flashed angrily. He shook his long hair. Life was very serious to him. He never wrote comic verse intentionally.
There are three reasons why men of genius have long hair. One is, that they forget it is growing. The second is, that they like it. The third is, that it comes cheaper; they wear it long for the same reason that they wear their hats long.
Owing to this peculiarity of genius, you may get quite a reputation for lack of twopence. The economic reason did not apply to Denzil, who could always get credit with the profession on the strength of his appearance.