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 NICE. 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.
In the great drawing room at Belbury a singularly uncomfortable party was by now assembled. Horace Jules, Director of the NICE, 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 any philosophy he knew had been acquired from writers like Hœckel 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 with 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 become such a power in the country that his name was really necessary to the NICE.
‘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 daresay 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 bye, 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 daresay 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. He also disliked to be kept waiting.
‘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 supplies of blood and 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.
16
Banquet at Belbury
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.
For the first few minutes, anyone glancing down the long tables would have seen what we always see on such occasions. There were the placid faces of elderly bons viveurs whom food and wine had placed in a contentment which no amount of speeches could violate. There were the patient face
s of responsible but serious diners, who had long since learned how to pursue their own thoughts, while attending to the speech just enough to respond wherever a laugh or a low rumble of serious assent was obligatory. There was the usual fidgety expression on the faces of young men unappreciative of port and hungry for tobacco. There was bright over-elaborate attention on the powdered faces of women who knew their duty to society. But if you had gone on looking down the tables you would presently have seen a change. You would have seen face after face look up and turn in the direction of the speaker. You would have seen first curiosity, then fixed attention, then incredulity. Finally you would have noticed that the room was utterly silent, without a cough or a creak, that every eye was fixed on Jules, and soon every mouth opened in something between fascination and horror.
To different members of the audience the change came differently. To Frost it began at the moment when he heard Jules end a sentence with the words ‘as gross an anachronism as to trust to Calvary for salvation in modern war’. Cavalry, thought Frost almost aloud. Why couldn’t the fool mind what he was saying? The blunder irritated him extremely. Perhaps –but hullo! what was this? Had his hearing gone wrong? For Jules seemed to be saying that the future density of mankind depended on the implosion of the horses of Nature. ‘He’s drunk,’ thought Frost. Then, crystal clear in articulation, beyond all possibility of mistake, came, ‘The madrigore of ver-juice must be talthibianised.’
Wither was slower to notice what was happening. He had never expected the speech to have any meaning as a whole and for a long time the familiar catch-words rolled on in a manner which did not disturb the expectation of his ear. He thought, indeed, that Jules was sailing very near the wind, that a very small false step would deprive both the speaker and the audience of the power even to pretend that he was saying anything in particular. But as long as that border was not crossed, he rather admired the speech; it was in his own line. Then he thought, ‘Come! That’s going too far. Even they must see that you can’t talk about accepting the challenge of the past by throwing down the gauntlet of the future.’ He looked cautiously down the room. All was well. But it wouldn’t be if Jules didn’t sit down pretty soon. In that last sentence there were surely words he didn’t know. What the deuce did he mean by aholibate? He looked down the room again. They were attending too much, always a bad sign. Then came the sentence ‘The surrogates esemplanted in a continual of porous variations.’
Mark did not at first attend to the speech at all. He had plenty of other things to think of. The appearance of this spouting popinjay at the very crisis of his own history was a mere interruption. He was too endangered and yet also, in some precarious way, too happy to bother about Jules. Once or twice some phrase caught his ear and made him want to smile. What first awoke him to the real situation was the behaviour of those who sat near him. He was aware of their increasing stillness. He noticed that everyone except himself had begun to attend. He looked up and saw their faces. And then first he really listened. ‘We shall not,’ Jules was saying, ‘we shall not till we can secure the erebation of all prostundiary initems.’ Little as he cared for Jules, a sudden shock of alarm pierced him. He looked round again. Obviously it was not he who was mad–they had all heard the gibberish. Except possibly the tramp, who looked as solemn as a judge. He had never heard a speech from one of these real toffs before and would have been disappointed if he could understand it. Nor had he ever before drunk vintage port, and though he did not much like the taste he had been working away like a man.
Wither had not forgotten for a moment that there were reporters present. That in itself did not matter much. If anything unsuitable appeared in tomorrow’s paper, it would be child’s play for him to say that the reporters were drunk or mad and break them. On the other hand he might let the story pass. Jules was in many respects a nuisance, and this might be as good an opportunity as any other for ending his career. But this was not the immediate question. Wither was wondering whether he should wait till Jules sat down or whether he should rise and interrupt him with a few judicious words. He did not want a scene. It would be better if Jules sat down of his own accord. At the same time, there was by now an atmosphere in that crowded room which warned Wither not to delay too long. Glancing down at the second hand of his watch he decided to wait two minutes more. Almost as he did so he knew that he had misjudged it. An intolerable falsetto laugh rang out from the bottom of