Leysin, at any rate, somehow made it so. His description of what he had personally witnessed, both in wilder lands and here in this little mountain range of middle Europe, had a reality in it that was upsetting to the last degree. “There is nothing more difficult to believe,” he said, “yet more certainly true, than the effect of these singular elemental rites.” He laughed a short dry laugh. “The mediaeval superstition that a witch could raise a storm is but a remnant of a once completely efficacious system,” he concluded, “though how that strange being, the Valais priest, rediscovered the process and introduced it here, I have never been able to ascertain. That he did so results have proved. At any rate, it lets in life, life moreover in astonishing abundance; though, whether for destruction or regeneration, depends, obviously, upon the use the recipient puts it to. That’s where direction comes in.”
The beckoning impulse in the tutor’s bewildered thoughts drew closer. the moment for communicating it had come at last. Without more ado he took the opening. He told his companion the incident in the village street, the boy’s abrupt excitement, his new-found energy, the curious words he used, the independence and vitality of his attitude. He told also of his parentage, of his mother’s disabilities, his craving for rushing air in abundance, his love of fire for its own sake, of his magnificent physical machinery, yet of his uselessness.
And Leysin, as he listened, seemed built on wires. Searching questions shot forth like blows into the other’s mind. the Pasteur’s sudden increase of enthusiasm was infectious. He leaped intuitively to the thing in Hendricks’ thought. He understood the beckoning.
The tutor answered the questions as best he could, aware of the end in view with trepidation and a kind of mental breathlessness. Yes, unquestionably, Bindy had exchanged communication of some sort with the man, though his excitement had been evident even sooner.
“And you saw this man yourself?” Leysin pressed him.
“Indubitably—a tall and hurrying figure in the dusk.”
“He brought energy with him? the boy felt it and responded?”
Hendricks nodded. “Became quite unmanageable for some minutes,” he replied.
“He assimilated it though? There was no distress exactly?” Leysin asked sharply.
“None—that I could see. Pleasurable excitement, something aggressive, a rather wild enthusiasm. His will began to act. He used that curious phrase about wind and fire. He turned alive. He wanted to follow the man—”
“And the face—how would you describe it? Did it bring terror, I mean, or confidence?”
“Dark and splendid,” answered the other as truthfully as he could. “In a certain sense, rushing, tempestuous, yet stern rather.”
“A face like the heights,” suggested Leysin impatiently, “a windy, fiery aspect in it, eh?”
“The man swept past like the spirit of a storm in imaginative poetry—” began the tutor, hunting through his thoughts for adequate description, then stopped as he saw that his companion had risen from his chair and begun to pace the floor.
The Pasteur paused a moment beside him, hands thrust deep into his pockets, head bent down, and shoulders forward. For twenty seconds he stared into his visitor’s face intently, as though he would force into him the thought in his own mind. His features seemed working visibly, yet behind a mask of strong control.
“Don’t you see what it is? Don’t you see?” he said in a lower, deeper tone. “They knew. Even from a distance they were aware of his coming. He is one of themselves.” And he straightened up again. “He belongs to them.”
“One of them? One of the wind-and-fire lot?” the tutor stammered.
The restless little man returned to his chair opposite, full of suppressed and vigorous movement, as though he were strung on springs.
“He’s of them,” he continued, “but in a peculiar and particular sense. More than merely a possible recruit, his empty organism would provide the very link they need, the perfect conduit.” He watched his companion’s face with careful keenness. “In the country where I first experienced this marvellous thing,” he added significantly, “he would have been set apart as the offering, the sacrifice, as they call it there. the tribe would have chosen him with honor. He would have been the special bait to attract.”
“Death?” whispered the other.
But Leysin shook his head. “In the end, perhaps,” he replied darkly, “for the vessel might be torn and shattered. But at first charged to the brim and crammed with energy—with transformed vitality they could draw into themselves through him. A monster, if you will, but to them a deity; and superhuman, in our little sense, most certainly.”
Then Hendricks faltered inwardly and turned away. No words came to him at the moment. In silence the minds of the two men, one a religious, the other a secular teacher, and each with a burden of responsibility to the race, kept pace together without speech. the religious, however, outstripped the pedagogue. What he next said seemed a little disconnected with what had preceded it, although Hendricks caught the drift easily enough—and shuddered.
“An organism needing heat,” observed Leysin calmly, “can absorb without danger what would destroy a normal person. Alcohol, again, neither injures nor intoxicates—up to a given point—the system that really requires it.”
The tutor, perplexed and sorely tempted, felt that he drifted with a tide he found it difficult to stem.
“Up to a point,” he repeated. “That’s true, of course.”
“Up to a given point,” echoed the other, with significance that made his voice sound solemn. “Then rescue—in the nick of time.”
He waited two full minutes and more for an answer; then, as none was audible, he said another thing. His eyes were so intent upon the tutor’s that the latter raised his own unwillingly, and understood thus all that lay behind the pregnant little sentence.
“With a number it would not be possible, but with an individual it could be done. Brim the empty vessel first. Then rescue—in the nick of time! Regeneration!”
IV
In the Englishman’s mind there came a crash, as though something fell. There was dust, confusion, noise. Moral platitudes shouted at conventional admonitions. Warnings laughed and copy-book maxims shrivelled up. Above the lot, rising with a touch of grandeur, stood the pulpit figure of the little Pasteur, his big face shining clear through all the turmoil, strength and vision in the flaming eyes—a commanding outline with spiritual audacity in his heart. And Hendricks saw then that the man himself was standing erect in the center of the room, one finger raised to command attention—listening. Some considerable interval must have passed while he struggled with his inner confusion.
Leysin stood, intently listening, his big head throwing a grotesque shadow on wall and ceiling.
“Hark!” he exclaimed, half whispering. “Do you hear that? Listen.”
A deep sound, confused and roaring, passed across the night, far away, and slightly booming. It entered the little room so that the air seemed to tremble a moment. To Hendricks it held something ominous.
“The wind,” he whispered, as the noise died off into the distance; “yet a moment ago the night was still enough. the stars were shining.” There was tense excitement in the room just then. It showed in Leysin’s face, which had gone white as a cloth. Hendricks himself felt extraordinarily stirred.
“Not wind, but human voices,” the older man said quickly. “It’s shouting. Listen!” and his eyes ran round the room, coming to rest finally in a corner where his hat and cloak hung from a nail. A gesture accompanied the look. He wanted to be out. the tutor half rose to take his leave. “You have duties tonight elsewhere,” he stammered. “I’m forgetting.” His own instinct was to get away himself with Bindy by the first early diligence. He was afraid of yielding.
“Hush!” whispered Leysin peremptorily. “Listen!”
He opened the window at the top, and through the crack, where the stars peeped brightly, there came, louder than before, the uproar of h
uman voices floating through the night from far away. the air of the great pine forests came in with it. Hendricks listened intently a moment. He positively jumped to feel a hand upon his arm. Leysin’s big head was thrust close up into his face.
“That’s the commotion in the village,” he whispered. “A messenger has come and gone; someone has gone back with him. Tonight I shall be needed—down here, but tomorrow night when the great ritual takes place—up there—!”
Hendricks tried to push him away so as not to hear the words; but the little man seemed immovable as a rock. the impulse remained probably in the mind without making the muscles work. For the tutor, sorely tempted, longed to dare, yet faltered in his will.
“—if you felt like taking the risk,” the words continued seductively, “we might place the empty vessel near enough to let it fill, then rescue it, charged with energy, in the nick of time.” And the Pasteur’s eyes were aglow with enthusiasm, his voice even trembling at the thought of high adventure to save another’s soul.
“Watch merely?” Hendricks heard his own voice whisper, hardly aware that he was saying it, “without taking part?” He said it thickly, stupidly, a man wavering and unsure of himself. “It would be an experience,” he stammered. “I’ve never—”
“Merely watch, yes; look on; let him see,” interrupted the other with eagerness. “We must be very careful. It’s worth trying—a last resort.”
They still stood close together. Hendricks felt the little man’s breath on his face as he peered up at him.
“I admit the chance,” he began weakly.
“There is no chance,” was the vigorous reply, “there is only Providence. You have been guided.”
“But as to risk and failure, what of them? What’s involved?” he asked, recklessness increasing in him.
“New wine in old bottles,” was the answer. “But here, you tell me, the vessel is not damaged, but merely empty. the machinery is all right. If he merely watches, as from a little distance—”
“Yes, yes, the machinery is there, I agree. the boy has breeding, health, and all the physical qualities—good blood and nerves and muscles. It’s only that life refuses to stay and drive them.” His heart beat with violence even as he said it; he felt the energy and zeal from the older man pour into him. He was realising in himself on a smaller scale what might take place with the boy in large. But still he shrank. Leysin for the moment said no more. His spiritual discernment was equal to his boldness. Having planted the seed, he left it to grow or die. the decision was not for him.
* * * *
In the light of the single lamp the two men sat facing each other, listening, waiting, while Leysin talked occasionally, but in the main kept silence. Some time passed, though how long the tutor could not say. In his mind was wild confusion. How could he justify such a mad proposal? Yet how could he refuse the opening, preposterous though it seemed? the enticement was very great; temptation rushed upon him. Striving to recall his normal world, he found it difficult. the face of the old Marquess seemed a mere lifeless picture on a wall—it watched but could not interfere. Here was an opportunity to take or leave. He fought the battle in terms of naked souls, while the ordinary four-cornered morality hid its face awhile. He heard himself explaining, delaying, hedging, half-toying with the problem. But the redemption of a soul was at stake, and he tried to forget the environment and conditions of modern thought and belief. Sentences flashed at him out of the battle: “I must take him back worse than when I started, or—what? A violent being like Marston, or a redeemed, converted system with new energy? It’s a chance, and my last.”
Moreover, odd, half-comic detail—there was the support of the Church, of a protestant clergyman whose fundamental beliefs were similar to the evangelical persuasions of the boy’s family. Conversion, as demoniacal possession, were both traditions of the blood. After all, the old Marquess might understand and approve. “You took the opening God set in your way in His wisdom. You showed faith and courage. Far be it from me to condemn you.” the picture on the wall looked down at him and spoke the words.
The wild hypothesis of the intrepid little missionary-pasteur swept him with an effect like hypnotism. Then, suddenly, something in him seemed to decide finally for itself. He flung himself, morality and all, upon this vigorous other personality. He leaned across the table, his face close to the lamp. His voice shook as he spoke.
“Would you?” he asked—then knew the question foolish, and that such a man would shrink from nothing where the redemption of a soul was at stake; knew also that the question was proof that his own decision was already made.
There was something grotesque almost in the torrent of colloquial French Leysin proceeded to pour forth, while the other sat listening in amazement, half ashamed and half exhilarated. He looked at the stalwart figure, the wiry bowed legs as he paced the floor, the shortness of the coat-sleeves and the absence of shirt-cuffs round the powerful lean wrists. It was a great fighting man he watched, a man afraid of nothing in heaven or earth, prepared to lead a forlorn hope into a hostile unknown land. And the sight, combined with what he heard, set the seal upon his half-hearted decision. He would take the risk and go.
“Pfui!” exclaimed the little Pasteur as though it might have been an oath, his loud whisper breaking through into a guttural sound, “pfui! Bah! Would that my people had machinery like that so that I could use it! I’ve no material to work on, no force to direct, nothing but heavy, sodden clay. Jelly!” he cried, “negative, useless, lukewarm stuff at best.” He lowered his voice suddenly, so as to listen at the same time. “I might as well be a baker kneading dough,” he continued. “They drink and yield and drink again; they never attack and drive; they’re not worth laboring to save.” He struck the wooden table with his fist, making the lamp rattle, while his listener started and drew back. “What good can weak souls, though spotless, be to God? the best have long ago gone up to them,” and he jerked his leonine old head towards the mountains. “Where there’s life there’s hope,” he stamped his foot as he said it, “but the lukewarm—pfui!—I will spue them out of my mouth!”
He paused by the window a moment, listened attentively, then resumed his pacing to and fro. Clearly, he longed for action. Indifference, half-heartedness had no place in his composition. And Hendricks felt his own slower blood take fire as he listened.
“Ah!” cried Leysin louder, “what a battle I could fight up there for God, could I but live among them, stem the flow of their dark strong vitality, then twist it round and up, up, up!” And he jerked his finger skywards. “It’s the great sinners we want, not the meek-faced saints. There’s energy enough among those devils to bring a whole Canton to the great Footstool, could I but direct it.” He paused a moment, standing over his astonished visitor. “Bring the boy up with you, and let him drink his fill. And pray, pray, I say, that he become a violent sinner first in order that later there shall be something worth offering to God. Over one sinner that repenteth—”
A rapid, nervous knocking interrupted the flow of words, and the figure of a woman stood upon the threshold. With the opening of the door came also again the roaring from the night outside. Hendricks saw the tall, somewhat dishevelled outline of the wife—he remembered her vaguely, though she could hardly see him now in his darker corner—and recalled the fact that she had been sent out to Leysin in his missionary days, a worthy, illiterate, but adoring woman. She wore a shawl, her hair was untidy, her eyes fixed and staring. Her husband’s sturdy little figure, as he rose, stood level with her chin.
“You hear it, Jules?” she whispered thickly. “The joran has brought them down. You’ll be needed in the village.” She said it anxiously, though Hendricks understood the patois with difficulty. They talked excitedly together a moment in the doorway, their outlines blocked against the corridor where a single oil lamp flickered. She warned, urging something; he expostulated. Fragments reached Hendricks in his corner. Clearly the woman worshipped her husband like a king, yet feared for hi
s safety. He, for his part, comforted her, scolded a little, argued, told her to “believe in God and go back to bed.”
“They’ll take you too, and you’ll never return. It’s not your parish anyhow…” a touch of anguish in her tone.
But Leysin was impatient to be off. He led her down the passage. “My parish is wherever I can help. I belong to God. Nothing can harm me but to leave undone the work He gives me.” the steps went farther away as he guided her to the stairs. Outside the roar of voices rose and fell. Wind brought the drifting sound, wind carried it away. It was like the thunder of the sea.
And the Englishman, using the little scene as a flashlight upon his own attitude, saw it for an instant as God might have seen it. Leysin’s point of view was high, scanning a very wide horizon. His eye being single, the whole body was full of light. the risk, it suddenly seemed, was—nothing; to shirk it, indeed, the merest cowardice.
He went up and seized the Pasteur’s hand.
“Tomorrow,” he said, a trifle shakily perhaps, yet looking straight into his eyes. “If we stay over—I’ll bring the lad with me—provided he comes willingly.”
The First Algernon Blackwood Megapack Page 125