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The Wisdom of Father Brown
by G. K. Chesterton
February, 1995 Etext #223
The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Wisdom of Father Brown by Chesterton

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The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Wisdom of Father Brown by Chesterton






1. The Absence of Mr Glass

2. The Paradise of Thieves

3. The Duel of Dr Hirsch

4. The Man in the Passage

5. The Mistake of the Machine

6. The Head of Caesar

7. The Purple Wig

8. The Perishing of the Pendragons

9. The God of the Gongs

10. The Salad of Colonel Cray

11. The Strange Crime of John Boulnois

12. The Fairy Tale of Father Brown


The Absence of Mr Glass

THE consulting-rooms of Dr Orion Hood, the eminent criminologist

and specialist in certain moral disorders, lay along the sea-front

at Scarborough, in a series of very large and well-lighted french windows,

which showed the North Sea like one endless outer wall of blue-green marble.

In such a place the sea had something of the monotony of a blue-green dado:

for the chambers themselves were ruled throughout by a terrible tidiness

not unlike the terrible tidiness of the sea. It must not be supposed

that Dr Hood's apartments excluded luxury, or even poetry.

These things were there, in their place; but one felt that

they were never allowed out of their place. Luxury was there:

there stood upon a special table eight or ten boxes of the best cigars;

but they were built upon a plan so that the strongest were always

nearest the wall and the mildest nearest the window. A tantalum

containing three kinds of spirit, all of a liqueur excellence,

stood always on this table of luxury; but the fanciful have asserted

that the whisky, brandy, and rum seemed always to stand at the same level.

Poetry was there: the left-hand corner of the room was lined with

as complete a set of English classics as the right hand could show

of English and foreign physiologists. But if one took a volume

of Chaucer or Shelley from that rank, its absence irritated the mind

like a gap in a man's front teeth. One could not say the books

were never read; probably they were, but there was a sense of their

being chained to their places, like the Bibles in the old churches.

Dr Hood treated his private book-shelf as if it were a public library.

And if this strict scientific intangibility steeped even the shelves

laden with lyrics and ballads and the tables laden with drink and tobacco,

it goes without saying that yet more of such heathen holiness

protected the other shelves that held the specialist's library,

and the other tables that sustained the frail and even fairylike

instruments of chemistry or mechanics.

Dr Hood paced the length of his string of apartments, bounded--

as the boys' geographies say--on the east by the North Sea and on the west

by the serried ranks of his sociological and criminologist library.

He was clad in an artist's velvet, but with none of an artist's negligence;

his hair was heavily shot with grey, but growing thick and healthy;

his face was lean, but sanguine and expectant. Everything about him

and his room indicated something at once rigid and restless,

like that great northern sea by which (on pure principles of hygiene)

he had built his home.
Fate, being in a funny mood, pushed the door open and

introduced into those long, strict, sea-flanked apartments

one who was perhaps the most startling opposite of them and their master.

In answer to a curt but civil summons, the door opened inwards

and there shambled into the room a shapeless little figure,

which seemed to find its own hat and umbrella as unmanageable as

a mass of luggage. The umbrella was a black and prosaic bundle

long past repair; the hat was a broad-curved black hat, clerical

but not common in England; the man was the very embodiment of all

that is homely and helpless.

The doctor regarded the new-comer with a restrained astonishment,

not unlike that he would have shown if some huge but obviously

harmless sea-beast had crawled into his room. The new-comer

regarded the doctor with that beaming but breathless geniality

which characterizes a corpulent charwoman who has just managed

to stuff herself into an omnibus. It is a rich confusion of

social self-congratulation and bodily disarray. His hat tumbled

to the carpet, his heavy umbrella slipped between his knees with a thud;

he reached after the one and ducked after the other, but with

an unimpaired smile on his round face spoke simultaneously as follows:

"My name is Brown. Pray excuse me. I've come about

that business of the MacNabs. I have heard, you often help people

out of such troubles. Pray excuse me if I am wrong."
By this time he had sprawlingly recovered the hat, and made

an odd little bobbing bow over it, as if setting everything quite right.

"I hardly understand you," replied the scientist, with

a cold intensity of manner. "I fear you have mistaken the chambers.

I am Dr Hood, and my work is almost entirely literary and educational.

It is true that I have sometimes been consulted by the police

in cases of peculiar difficulty and importance, but--"
"Oh, this is of the greatest importance," broke in the little man

called Brown. "Why, her mother won't let them get engaged."

And he leaned back in his chair in radiant rationality.
The brows of Dr Hood were drawn down darkly, but the eyes

under them were bright with something that might be anger or

might be amusement. "And still," he said, "I do not quite understand."
"You see, they want to get married," said the man with the

clerical hat. "Maggie MacNab and young Todhunter want to get married.

Now, what can be more important than that?"
The great Orion Hood's scientific triumphs had deprived him

of many things--some said of his health, others of his God;

but they had not wholly despoiled him of his sense of the absurd.

At the last plea of the ingenuous priest a chuckle broke out of him

from inside, and he threw himself into an arm-chair in an ironical attitude

of the consulting physician.

"Mr Brown," he said gravely, "it is quite fourteen and a half years

since I was personally asked to test a personal problem: then it was

the case of an attempt to poison the French President at

a Lord Mayor's Banquet. It is now, I understand, a question of whether

some friend of yours called Maggie is a suitable fiancee for some friend

of hers called Todhunter. Well, Mr Brown, I am a sportsman.

I will take it on. I will give the MacNab family my best advice,

as good as I gave the French Republic and the King of England--no, better:

fourteen years better. I have nothing else to do this afternoon.

Tell me your story."

The little clergyman called Brown thanked him with

unquestionable warmth, but still with a queer kind of simplicity.

It was rather as if he were thanking a stranger in a smoking-room

for some trouble in passing the matches, than as if he were (as he was)

practically thanking the Curator of Kew Gardens for coming with him

into a field to find a four-leaved clover. With scarcely a semi-colon

after his hearty thanks, the little man began his recital:
"I told you my name was Brown; well, that's the fact,

and I'm the priest of the little Catholic Church I dare say you've seen

beyond those straggly streets, where the town ends towards the north.

In the last and straggliest of those streets which runs along the sea

like a sea-wall there is a very honest but rather sharp-tempered

member of my flock, a widow called MacNab. She has one daughter,

and she lets lodgings, and between her and the daughter,

and between her and the lodgers--well, I dare say there is a great deal

to be said on both sides. At present she has only one lodger,

the young man called Todhunter; but he has given more trouble

than all the rest, for he wants to marry the young woman of the house."
"And the young woman of the house," asked Dr Hood, with huge and

silent amusement, "what does she want?"

"Why, she wants to marry him," cried Father Brown, sitting up eagerly.

"That is just the awful complication."

"It is indeed a hideous enigma," said Dr Hood.

"This young James Todhunter," continued the cleric,

"is a very decent man so far as I know; but then nobody knows very much.

He is a bright, brownish little fellow, agile like a monkey,

clean-shaven like an actor, and obliging like a born courtier.

He seems to have quite a pocketful of money, but nobody knows what

his trade is. Mrs MacNab, therefore (being of a pessimistic turn),

is quite sure it is something dreadful, and probably connected with dynamite.

The dynamite must be of a shy and noiseless sort, for the poor fellow

only shuts himself up for several hours of the day and studies something

behind a locked door. He declares his privacy is temporary and justified,

and promises to explain before the wedding. That is all that anyone knows

for certain, but Mrs MacNab will tell you a great deal more than

even she is certain of. You know how the tales grow like grass on

such a patch of ignorance as that. There are tales of two voices

heard talking in the room; though, when the door is opened,

Todhunter is always found alone. There are tales of a mysterious

tall man in a silk hat, who once came out of the sea-mists and

apparently out of the sea, stepping softly across the sandy fields and

through the small back garden at twilight, till he was heard

talking to the lodger at his open window. The colloquy seemed to end

in a quarrel. Todhunter dashed down his window with violence,

and the man in the high hat melted into the sea-fog again.

This story is told by the family with the fiercest mystification;

but I really think Mrs MacNab prefers her own original tale:

that the Other Man (or whatever it is) crawls out every night from the

big box in the corner, which is kept locked all day. You see,

therefore, how this sealed door of Todhunter's is treated as the gate

of all the fancies and monstrosities of the `Thousand and One Nights'.

And yet there is the little fellow in his respectable black jacket,

as punctual and innocent as a parlour clock. He pays his rent to the tick;

he is practically a teetotaller; he is tirelessly kind with

the younger children, and can keep them amused for a day on end; and,

last and most urgent of all, he has made himself equally popular with

the eldest daughter, who is ready to go to church with him tomorrow."

A man warmly concerned with any large theories has always

a relish for applying them to any triviality. The great specialist

having condescended to the priest's simplicity, condescended expansively.

He settled himself with comfort in his arm-chair and began to talk in

the tone of a somewhat absent-minded lecturer:
"Even in a minute instance, it is best to look first to

the main tendencies of Nature. A particular flower may not be dead

in early winter, but the flowers are dying; a particular pebble

may never be wetted with the tide, but the tide is coming in.

To the scientific eye all human history is a series of collective movements,

destructions or migrations, like the massacre of flies in winter

or the return of birds in spring. Now the root fact in all history is Race.

Race produces religion; Race produces legal and ethical wars.

There is no stronger case than that of the wild, unworldly and

perishing stock which we commonly call the Celts, of whom your friends

the MacNabs are specimens. Small, swarthy, and of this dreamy and

drifting blood, they accept easily the superstitious explanation of

any incidents, just as they still accept (you will excuse me for saying)

that superstitious explanation of all incidents which you

and your Church represent. It is not remarkable that such people,

with the sea moaning behind them and the Church (excuse me again)

droning in front of them, should put fantastic features into what are

probably plain events. You, with your small parochial responsibilities,

see only this particular Mrs MacNab, terrified with this particular tale

of two voices and a tall man out of the sea. But the man with

the scientific imagination sees, as it were, the whole clans of MacNab

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