“Well?”
“Well, if so, what is there objective about stamping on the face? Isn’t it just as subjective to spit on a thing like this as to worship it? I mean-damn it all-if it’s only a bit of wood, why do anything about it?”
“That is superficial. If you had been brought up in a non-Christian society, you would not be asked to do this. Of course it is a superstition: but it is that particular superstition which has pressed upon our society for a great many centuries. It can be experimentally shown that it still forms a dominant system in the subconscious of many individuals whose conscious thought appears to be wholly liberated. An explicit action in the reverse direction is therefore a necessary step towards complete objectivity. It is not a question for a priori discussion. We find in practice that it cannot be dispensed with.”
Mark himself was surprised at the emotions he was undergoing. He did not regard the image with anything at all like a religious feeling. Most emphatically it did not belong to that idea of the Straight or Normal or Wholesome which had, for the last few days, been his support against what he now knew of the innermost circle at Belbury. The horrible vigour of its realism was, indeed, in its own way as remote from that Idea as anything else in the room. That was one source of his reluctance. To insult even a carved image of such agony seemed an abominable act. But it was not the only source. With the introduction of this Christian symbol the whole situation had somehow altered. The thing was becoming incalculable. His simple antithesis of the Normal and the Diseased had obviously failed to take something into account. Why was the crucifix there? Why were more than half the poison-pictures religious? He had the sense of new parties to the conflict-potential allies and enemies which he had not suspected before. “If I take a step in any direction,” he thought, “I may step over a precipice.” A donkey-like determination to plant hoofs and stay still at all costs arose in his mind.
“Pray make haste,” said Frost.
The quiet urgency of the voice and the fact that he had so often obeyed it before, almost conquered him. He was on the verge of obeying and getting the whole silly business over, when the defencelessness of the figure deterred him. The feeling was a very illogical one. Not because its hands were nailed and helpless, but because they were only made of wood and therefore even more helpless, because the thing, for all its realism, was inanimate and could not in any way hit back, he paused. The unretaliating face of a doll-one of Myrtle’s dolls-which he had pulled to pieces in boyhood had affected him in the same way, and the memory, even now, was tender to the touch.
“What are you waiting for, Mr. Studdock?” said Frost.
Mark was well aware of the rising danger. Obviously, if he disobeyed, his last chance of getting out of Belbury alive might be gone. Even of getting out of this room. The smothering sensation once again attacked him. He was himself, he felt, as helpless as the wooden Christ. As he thought this, he found himself looking at the crucifix in a new way-neither as a piece of wood nor a monument of superstition but as a bit of history. Christianity was nonsense, but one did not doubt that the man had lived and had been executed thus by the Belbury of those days. And that, as he suddenly saw, explained why this image, though not itself an image of the Straight or Normal, was yet in opposition to crooked Belbury. It was a picture of what happened when the Straight met the Crooked, a picture of what the Crooked did to the Straight-what it would do to him if he remained straight. It was, in a more emphatic sense than he had yet understood, a cross.
“Do you intend to go on with the training or not?” said Frost. His eye was on the time. He knew that those others were conducting their tour of inspection and that Jules must have very nearly reached Belbury. He knew that he might be interrupted at any moment. He had chosen this time for this stage in Mark’s initiation partly in obedience to an unexplained impulse (such impulses grew more frequent with him every day), but partly because he wished, in the uncertain situation which had now arisen, to secure Mark at once. He and Wither and possibly (by now) Straik were the only full initiates in the N.I.C.E. On them lay the danger of making any false step in dealing with the man who claimed to be Merlin and with his mysterious interpreter. For him who took the right steps there was a chance of ousting all the others, of becoming to them what they were to the rest of the Institute and what the Institute was to the rest of England. He knew that Wither was waiting eagerly for any slip on his own part. Hence it seemed to him of the utmost importance to bring Mark as soon as possible beyond that point after which there is no return, and the disciple’s allegiance both to the Macrobes and to the teacher who has initiated him becomes a matter of psychological, or even physical, necessity.
“Do you not hear what I am saying?” he asked Mark again.
Mark made no reply. He was thinking, and thinking hard because he knew that if he stopped even for a moment mere terror of death would take the decision out of his hands. Christianity was a fable. It would be ridiculous to die for a religion one did not believe. This Man himself, on that very cross, had discovered it to be a fable, and had died complaining that the God in whom he trusted, had forsaken him-had, in fact, found the universe a cheat. But this raised a question that Mark had never thought of before. Was that the moment at which to turn against the Man? If the universe was a cheat, was that a good reason for joining its side? Supposing the Straight was utterly powerless, always and everywhere certain to be mocked, tortured, and finally killed by the Crooked, what then? Why not go down with the ship? He began to be frightened by the very fact that his fears seemed to have momentarily vanished. They had been a safeguard . . . they had prevented him, all his life, from making mad decisions like that which he was now making as he turned to Frost and said, “It’s all bloody nonsense, and I’m damned if I do any such thing.”
When he said this he had no idea what might happen next. He did not know whether Frost would ring a bell or produce a revolver or renew his demands. In fact, Frost simply went on staring at him and he stared back. Then he saw that Frost was listening, and he began to listen himself. A moment later the door opened. The room seemed suddenly to be full of people-a man in a red gown (Mark did not instantly recognise the tramp) and the huge man in the black gown and Wither.
V
In the great drawing-room at Belbury a singularly uncomfortable party was by now assembled. Horace Jules, Director of the N.I.C.E . . . had arrived about half an hour before. They had shown him to the Deputy Director’s study, but the Deputy Director was not there. Then they had shown him to his own rooms and hoped he would take a long time settling in. He took a very short time. In five minutes he was downstairs again and on their hands, and it was still much too early for anyone to go and dress. He was now standing with his back to the fire drinking a glass of sherry and the principal members of the Institute were standing round him. Conversation was hanging fire.
Conversation with Mr. Jules was always difficult, because he insisted on regarding himself not as a figure-head but as the real director of the Institute, and even as the source of most of its ideas. And since, in fact, any science he knew was that taught him at the University of London over fifty years ago, and anything else he knew had been acquired from writers like Haeckel and Joseph McCabe and Winwood Reade, it was not, in fact, possible to talk to him about most of the things the Institute was really doing. One was always engaged in inventing answers to questions which were actually meaningless and expressing enthusiasm for ideas which were out of date and had been crude even in their prime. That was why the absence of the Deputy Director in such interviews was so disastrous, for Wither alone was master of a conversational style that exactly suited Jules.
Jules was a cockney. He was a very little man, whose legs were so short that he had unkindly been compared to a duck. He had a turned-up nose and a face in which some original bonhomie had been much interfered with by years of good living and conceit. His novels had first raised him to fame and affluence; later, as editor of the weekly called We want to Know he had beco
me such a power in the country that his name was really necessary to the N.I.C.E.
“And as I said to the Archbishop,” observed Jules, “you may not know, my lord, said I, that modern research shows the temple at Jerusalem to have been about the size of an English village church.”
“God!” said Feverstone to himself, where he stood silent on the fringes of the group.
“Have a little more sherry, Director,” said Miss Hardcastle.
“Well, I don’t mind if I do,” said Jules. “It’s not at all bad sherry, though I think I could tell you of a place where we could get something better. And how are you getting on, Miss Hardcastle, with your reforms of our penal system?”
“Making real headway,” she replied. “I think some modification of the Pellotoff method”
“What I always say,” remarked Jules, interrupting her, “is, why not treat crime like any other disease? I’ve no use for punishment. What you want to do is to put the man on the right lines-give him a fresh start-give him an interest in life. It’s all perfectly simple if you look at it from that point of view. I dare say you’ve been reading a little address on the subject I gave at Northampton.”
“I agreed with you,” said Miss Hardcastle.
“That’s right,” said Jules. “I tell you who didn’t, though. Old Hingest-and by the by, that was a queer business. You never caught the murderer, did you? But though I’m sorry for the old chap, I never did quite see eye to eye with him. Very last time I met him one or two of us were talking about juvenile offenders, and do you know what he said? He said, ‘The trouble with these courts for young criminals nowadays is that they’re always binding them over when they ought to be bending them over.’ Not bad, was it? Still, as Wither said-and, by the way, where is Wither?”
“I think he should be here any moment now,” said Miss Hardcastle; “I can’t imagine why he’s not.”
“I think,” said Filostrato, “he have a breakdown with his car. He will be very desolated, Mr. Director, not to have given you the welcome.”
“Oh, he needn’t bother about that,” said Jules, “I never was one for any formality, though I did think he’d be here when I arrived. You’re looking very well, Filostrato. I’m following your work with great interest. I look upon you as one of the makers of mankind.”
“Yes, yes,” said Filostrato, “that is the real business. Already we begin”
“I try to help you all I can on the non-technical side,” said Jules. “It’s a battle I’ve been fighting for years. The whole question of our sex-life. What I always say is that once you get the whole thing out into the open, you don’t have any more trouble. It’s all this Victorian secrecy which does the harm. Making a mystery of it. I want every boy and girl in the country-”
“God!” said Feverstone to himself.
“Forgive me,” said Filostrato, who, being a foreigner, had not yet despaired of trying to enlighten Jules. “But that is not precisely the point.”
“Now, I know what you’re going to say,” interrupted Jules, laying a fat forefinger on the Professor’s sleeve.
“And I dare say you don’t read my little paper. But, believe me, if you looked up the first number of last month you’d find a modest little editorial which a chap like you might overlook because it doesn’t use any technical terms. But I ask you just to read it and see if it doesn’t put the whole thing in a nutshell and in a way that the man in the street can understand.”
At this moment the clock struck a quarter.
“I say,” asked Jules, “what time is this dinner at?”
He liked banquets, and specially banquets at which he had to speak.
“At quarter to eight,” said Miss Hardcastle.
“You know,” said Jules, “this fellow Wither really ought to be here. I mean to say. I’m not particular, but I don’t mind telling you, between you and me, that I’m a bit hurt. It isn’t the kind of thing a chap expects is it?”
“I hope nothing’s gone wrong with him,” said Miss Hardcastle.
“You’d hardly have thought he’d have gone out anywhere, not on a day like this,” said Jules.
“Ecco,” said Filostrato. “Someone come.” It was indeed Wither who entered the room, followed by a company whom Jules had not expected to see, and Wither’s face had certainly good reason to look even more chaotic than usual. He had been bustled round his own institute as if he were a kind of footman. He had not even been allowed to have the supply of air turned on for the Head when they made him take them into the Head’s room. And “Merlin” (if it was Merlin) had ignored it. Worst of all, it had gradually become clear to him that this intolerable incubus and his interpreter fully intended to be present at dinner. No one could be more keenly aware than Wither of the absurdity of introducing to Jules a shabby old priest who couldn’t speak English, in charge of what looked like a somnambulist chimpanzee dressed up as a Doctor of Philosophy. To tell Jules the real explanation-even if he knew which was the real explanation-was out of the question. For Jules was a simple man to whom the word “medieval” meant only “savage” and in whom the word “magic” roused memories of The Golden Bough. It was a minor nuisance that ever since their visit to the Objective Room he had been compelled to have both Frost and Studdock in attendance. Nor did it mend matters that as they approached Jules, and all eyes were fixed upon them, the pseudo-Merlin collapsed into a chair, muttering, and closed his eyes.
“My dear Director,” began Wither, a little out of breath, “this is one of the happiest moments of my life. I hope your comfort has been in every way attended to. It has been most unfortunate that I was called away at the very moment when I was expecting your arrival. A remarkable coincidence . . . another very distinguished person has joined us at the very same moment. A foreigner . . .”
“Oh,” interrupted Jules in a slightly rasping voice, “who’s he?”
“Allow me,” said Wither, stepping a little to one side.
“Do you mean that?” said Jules. The supposed Merlin sat with his arms hanging down on each side of the chair, his eyes closed, his head on one side, and a weak smile on his face. “Is he drunk? Or ill? And who is he anyway?”
“He is, as I was observing, a foreigner,” began Wither.
“Well, that doesn’t make him go to sleep the moment he is introduced to me, does it?”
“Hush!” said Wither, drawing Jules a little out of the group and lowering his voice. “There are circumstances-it would be very difficult to go into it here-I have been taken by surprise and would, if you had not been here already, have consulted you at the first possible moment. Our distinguished guest has just undertaken a very long journey and has, I admit, certain eccentricities and . . .”
“But who is he?” persisted Jules.
“His name is . . . er . . . Ambrosius. Dr. Ambrosius, you know.”
“Never ’eard of him,” snapped Jules. At another time he might not have made this admission, but the whole evening was turning out differently from his expectations and he was losing his temper.
“Very few of us have heard of him yet,” said Wither.
“But everyone will have heard of him soon. That is why, without in the least . . .”
“And who’s that?” asked Jules, indicating the real Merlin. “He looks as if he were enjoying himself.”
“Oh, that is merely Dr. Ambrosius’s interpreter.”
“Interpreter? Can’t he talk English?”
“Unfortunately not. He lives rather in a world of his own.”
“And can’t you get anyone except a priest to act for him? I don’t like the look of that fellow. We don’t want that sort of thing here at all. Hullo! And who are you?”
The last question was addressed to Straik, who had at this moment thrust his way up to the Director. “Mr. Jules,” he said, fixing the latter with a prophetic eye, “I am the bearer of a message to you which you must hear. I--”
“Shut up,” said Frost to Straik.
“Really, Mr. Straik, really,”
said Wither. Between them they shouldered him aside.
“Now look ’ere, Mr. Wither,” said Jules, “I tell you straight I’m very far from satisfied. Here’s another parson. I don’t remember the name of any such person coming before me, and it wouldn’t have got past me if it had done see? You and I’ll have to have a very serious conversation. It seems to me you’ve been making appointments behind my back and turning the place into a kind of seminary. And that’s a thing I won’t stand. Nor will the British people.”
“I know. I know,” said Wither. “I understand your feelings exactly. You can rely on complete sympathy. I am eager and waiting to explain the situation to you. In the meantime perhaps as Dr. Ambrosius seems slightly overcome and the dressing-bell has just sounded . . . oh, I beg your pardon. This is Dr. Ambrosius.”
The tramp, to whom the real magician had recently turned, was now risen from his chair, and approaching.
Jules held out his hand sulkily. The other, looking over Jules’s shoulder and grinning in an inexplicable fashion, seized it and shook it, as if absent-mindedly, some ten or fifteen times. His breath, Jules noticed, was strong and his grip horny. He was not liking Dr. Ambrosius. And he disliked even more the massive form of the interpreter towering over them both.
Sixteen
BANQUET AT BELBURY
I
It was with great pleasure that Mark found himself once more dressing for dinner and what seemed likely to be an excellent dinner. He got a seat with Filostrato on his right and a rather inconspicuous newcomer on his left. Even Filostrato seemed human and friendly compared with the two initiates, and to the newcomer his heart positively warmed. He noticed with surprise that the tramp sat at the high table between Jules and Wither, but did not often look in that direction, for the tramp, catching his eye, had imprudently raised his glass and winked at him. The strange priest stood patiently behind the tramp’s chair. For the rest, nothing of importance happened until the King’s health had been drunk and Jules rose to make his speech.
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