CHAPTER XVIII
For all the wildness of the talk, this group of the Unstable was acoherent and consistent entity, using a language each item in itunderstood. They knew what they were after. Alcohol, coffee, tobacco,underfeeding, these helped or hindered, respectively, the expression ofan ideal that, nevertheless, was common to them all; and if the mindsrepresented were unbalanced, or merely speculative, poetic, one genuinequest and sympathy bound all together into a coherent, and who shallsay unintelligent or valueless, unit. The unstable enjoyed an extremesensitiveness to varied experience, with flexible adaptability to allpossible new conditions, whereas the stable, with their rigid mentalorganizations, remained uninformed, stagnant, even fossilized.
In other rooms about the great lamp-lit city sat, doubtless, othersimilar groups at the very same moment, discussing the shibbolethsof other faiths, of other dreams, of other ideas, systems, notions,philosophies, all interpretative of the earth in which little humanitydwells, cut off and isolated, apparently, from the rest of thestupendous universe. A listener, screened from view, a listener not insympathy with the particular group he observed, and puzzled, therefore,by the language used, must have deemed he listened to harmless,if boring, madness. For each group uses its own language, and thelowest common denominator, though plainly printed in the world's oldscriptures, has not yet become adopted by the world at large.
Into this particular group, a little later in the evening, and when thewings of imagination had increased their sweep a trifle dangerouslyperhaps--into the room, like the arrival of a policeman rather, droppedFather Collins. He came rarely to the Prometheans' restaurant. Therewas a general sense of drawing breath as he appeared. A pause followed.Something of the cold street air came with him. He wore his big blackfelt hat, his shabby opera cloak, and clutched firmly--he had nogloves on--the heavy gnarled stick he had cut for his collection ina Cingalese forest years ago, when he was studying with a Buddhistpriest. The folds of his voluminous cloak, as he took it off, sent thehanging smoke-clouds in a whirl. His personality stirred the mentalatmosphere as well. The women looked up and stared, respectful welcomein their eyes; several of the men rose to shake hands; there was ageneral shuffling of chairs.
"Bring another _moulin a vent_ and a clean glass," Povey said at onceto the hovering waiter.
"It's raw and bitter in the street and a fog coming down thickly,"mentioned Father Collins. He exhaled noisily and with comfortablerelief, as he squeezed himself towards the chair Povey placed forhim and looked round genially, nodding and shaking hands with thosehe knew. "But you're warm and cosy enough in here"--he sat down withunexpected heaviness, and smiled at everybody--"and well fed, too, I'llbe bound."
"'The body must be comfortable before the mind can enjoy itself,'"said Phillipps, an untidy member who disliked asceticism. "Starvationproduces hallucination, not vision." His glance took in the unusedglasses. His qualification was a vision of an uncle at the momentof death, and the uncle had left him money. He had written a wordypamphlet describing it.
"I'll have an omelette, then, I think," Father Collins told the waiter,as the red wine arrived. "And some fried potatoes. A bit of cheese tofollow, and coffee, yes." He filled his glass. He had not come to argueor to preach, and Phillipps's challenge passed unnoticed. Phillipps,who had been leading the talk of late, resented the new arrival, butfelt his annoyance modify as he saw his own glass generously filled.Povey, too, accepted a glass, while saying with a false vehemence, "No,no," his finger against the rim.
A change stole over the room, for the new personality was notnegligible; he brought his atmosphere with him. The wild talk, itwas felt now, would not be quite suitable. Father Collins had thereputation of being something of a scholar; they were not quite sure ofhim; none knew him very intimately; he had a rumoured past as well thatlent a flavour of respect. One story had it that "dabbling in magic"had lost him his position in the Church. Yet he was deemed an asset tothe Society.
Whatever it was, the key changed sharply. Imson's eyes and ears grewwider, the hand of Miss Lance went instinctively to her hair and combs,Miss Milligan sought through her mind for a remark at once instructiveand uncommon, Mrs. Towzer looked past him searchingly lest his auraescape her before she caught its colour, and Kempster, smoothing hisimmaculate coat, had an air of being in his present surroundings merelyby chance. Toogood, quickly scanning his notes, wondered whether, ifcalled upon, he was to be Pharaoh or Cleopatra. One and all, that is,took on a soberer gait. This semi-clerical visit complicated. Thepresence of Father Collins was a compliment. What he had to say--aboutLeVallon and the Studio scene--was, anyhow, assured of breathlessinterest.
Povey led off. "We were just talking over the other night," heobserved, "the night at the Studio, you remember. The storm and soon. It was a singular occurrence, though, of course, we needn't, we_mustn't_ exaggerate it." And while he thus, as Secretary, set thenote, Father Collins sipped his wine and beamed upon the group. He madeno comment. "You were there, weren't you?" continued Povey, sippinghis own comforting glass. "I think I saw you. Fillery, you may havenoticed," he added, "brought--a friend."
"LeVallon, yes," said the other in a tone that startled them. "A mostunusual fellow, wasn't he?" He was attacking the omelette now. "A GreekGod, if ever I saw one," he added. And the silence in the crowded roombecame abruptly noticeable. Miss Milligan, feeling her zodiacal garterslipping, waited to pull it up. Imson's brown eyes grew wider. Kempsterheld his breath. Toogood borrowed a cigar and waited for someone tooffer him a match before he lit it.
"Delicious," added Father Collins. "Cooked to a turn." The omeletteslid about his plate.
But the silence continued, and he realized the position suddenly.Emptying his glass and casually refilling it, he turned and faced theeager group about him.
"You want to know what _I_ thought about it all," he said. "You'vebeen discussing LeVallon, Nayan and the rest, I see." He looked roundas though he were in the lost pulpit that was his right. After a pausehe asked point blank: "And what do _you_ all think of it? How didit strike you all? For myself, I confess"--he took another sip andpaused--"I am full of wonder and question," he finished abruptly.
It was Imson, the fearless, wondering Pat Imson, who first found histongue.
"We think," he ventured, "LeVallon is probably of _Deva_ origin."
The others, while admiring his courage, seemed unsympathetic suddenly.Such phraseology, probably meaningless to the respected guest, was outof place. Eyes were cast down, or looked generally elsewhere. Povey,remembering that the Society was not solely Eastern, glared at thespeaker. Father Collins, however, was not perturbed.
"Possibly," he remarked with a courteous smile. "The origin of usall is doubtful and confused. We know not whence we come, of course,and all that. Nor can we ever tell exactly who our neighbour is, orwhat. LeVallon," he went on, "since you all ask me"--he looked roundagain--"is--for me--an undecipherable being. I am," he added, hiswords falling into open mouths and extended eyes and ears, "somewhatpuzzled. But more--I am enormously stimulated and intrigued."
All gazed at him. Father Collins was in his element. The rapt silencethat met him was precisely what he had a right to expect from his lostpulpit. He had come, probably, merely to listen and to watch. Theopportunity provided by a respectful audience was too much for him. Aninspiration tempted him.
"I am inclined to believe," he resumed suddenly in a simple tone, "thathe is--a Messenger."
The sentence might have dropped from Sirius upon a listening planet.The babble that followed must, to an ordinary man, have seemedconfusion. Everyone spoke with a rush into his neighbour's ear. Allbubbled. "I always thought so, I told you so, that was exactly what Imeant just now"--and so on. All found their tongues, at any rate, ifPovey, as Secretary, led the turmoil:
"Something outside our normal evolution, you mean?" he askedjudiciously. "Such a conception is possible, of course."
"A Messenger!" ran on the babel of male and female voices.
It was her
e that Father Collins failed. The "unstable" in him camesuddenly uppermost. The "ecstatic" in his being took the reins. Thewondering and expectant audience suited him. The red wine helped aswell. When he said "Messenger" he had meant merely someone who broughta message. The expression of nobility merged more and more in theslovenly aspect. Like a priest in the pulpit, whom none can answer andto whom all must listen, he had his text, though that text had beensuggested actually by the conversation he had just heard. He had notbrought it with him. It occurred to him merely then and there. Hismind reflected, in a word, the collective idea that was in the airabout him, and he proceeded to sum it up and give expression to it.This was his gift, his fatal gift--a ready sensitiveness, a plausibleexposition. He caught the prevailing mood, the collective notion,then dramatized it. Before he left the pulpit he invariably, however,convinced himself that what he had said in it was true, inspired, arevelation--for that moment.
"A Messenger," he announced, thrusting his glass aside with animpatient gesture as though noticing for the first time that it wasthere. "A Messenger," he repeated, the automatic emphasis in his voicealready persuading him that he believed what he was about to say,"sent among us from who knows what distant sphere"--he drew himself upand looked about him--"and for who can guess on what mysterious andsplendid mission."
His eye swept his audience, his hand removed the glass yet fartherlest, it impede free gesture. It was, however, as Povey noticed, emptynow. "We, of course," he went on impressively, lowering his voice,"_we_, a mere handful in the world, but alert and watchful, all ofus--we know that some great new teaching is expected"--he threw outanother challenging glance--"but none of us can know whence it may comenor in what way it shall manifest." His voice dropped dramatically."Whether as a thief in the night, or with a blare of trumpets, noneof us can tell. But--we expect it and are ready. To _us_, therefore,perhaps, as to the twelve fishermen of old, may be entrusted theprivilege of accepting it, the work of spreading it among a hostile andunbelieving world, even perhaps the final sacrifice of--of sufferingfor it."
He paused, quickly took in the general effect of his words, picked uphere and there a hint of question, and realized that he had begun ontoo exalted a note. Detecting this breath of caution in the collectivemind that was his inspiration, he instantly shifted his key.
"LeVallon," he resumed, instinctively emphasizing the convictionin his voice so that the change of key might be less noticeable,"undoubtedly--believes himself to be--some such divine Messenger...."It was consummate hedging.
The sermon needs no full report. The audience, without realizingit, witnessed what is known as an "inspirational address," where aspeaker, naturally gifted with a certain facile eloquence, gathershis inspiration, takes his changing cues as well, from the collectivemind that listens to him. Father Collins, quite honestly doubtless,altered his key automatically. He no longer said that LeVallon _was_a Messenger, but that he "believed himself" to be one. Like Balaam,he said things he had not at first thought of saying. He talked forsome ten minutes without stopping. He said "all sorts of things,"according to the expression of critical doubt, of wonder, of question,of rejection or acceptance, on the particular face he gazed at. Atregular intervals he inserted, with considerable effect, his favouritesentence: "A man in his _own_ place is the Ruler of his Fate."
He developed his idea that LeVallon "believed himself to be such andsuch ..." but declared that the conception had been put into the youthduring his life of exile in the mountains--the Society had alreadyacquired this information and extended it--and had "_felt himselfinto_" the role until he had become its actual embodiment.
"He does not think, he does not reason," he explained. "He feels--he_feels with_. Now, to 'feel with' anything is to become it in the end.It is the only way of true knowledge, of course, of true understanding.If I want to understand, say, an Arab, I must _feel with_ that Arab tothe point--for the moment--of actually becoming him. And this strangeyouth has spent his time, his best years, mark you--his creative years,_feeling with_ the elemental forces of Nature until he has actuallybecomes--at moments--one with them."
He paused again and stared about him. He saw faces shocked, astonished,startled, but not hostile. He continued rapidly: "There lies thedanger. One may get caught, get stuck. Lose the desire to return toone's normal self. Which means, of course, remaining out of relationwith one's environment--mad. Only a man in his _own_ place is the rulerof his luck...."
He noticed suddenly the look of disappointment on several faces. Heswiftly hedged.
"On the other hand," he went on, making his voice and manner moreimpressive than before, "it may be--who can say indeed?--it may be thathe is in relation with another environment altogether, a much vasterenvironment, an extended environment of which the rest of humanity isunaware. The privilege of tasting something of an extended environmentsome of us here already enjoy. What we all know as _human_ activitiesare doubtless but a fragment of life--the conscious phenomena merely ofsome larger whole of which we are aware in fleeting seconds only--bymood, by hint, by suggestive hauntings, so to speak--by faint shadowsof unfamiliar, nameless shape cast across our daily life from someintenser sun we normally cannot see! LeVallon may be, as some of usthink and hope, a Messenger to show us the way into a yet farther fieldof consciousness....
"It is a fine, a noble, an inspiring hope, at any rate," he assured theroom. "Unless some such Messenger comes into the world, showing us howto extend our knowledge, we can get no farther; we shall never knowmore than we know now; we shall only go on multiplying our channels forobserving the same old things...."
He closed his little address finally on a word as to what attitudeshould be adopted to any new experience of amazing and incredible kind.To a Society such as the one he had the honour of belonging to was leftthe guidance of the perverse and ignorant generations outside of it,"the lethargic and unresponsive majority," as he styled them.
"We must not resist," he declared bravely. "We must accept withconfidence, above all without fear." He leaned back in his chair,somewhat exhausted, for the source of his inspiration was evidentlyweakening. His words came less spontaneously, less easily; hehesitated, sighed, looked from face to face for help he did not find.His glass was empty. "We're here," he concluded lamely, "without beingconsulted, and we may safely leave to the Powers that brought us herethe results of such acceptance."
"Quite so," agreed Povey, sighing audibly. "Denial will get usnowhere." He filled up Father Collins's glass and his own. "I thinkmost of us are ready enough to accept any new experience that comes,and to accept it without fear." He drained his own glass and lookedabout him. "But the point is--how did LeVallon produce the effect uponus all--the effect he did produce? He may be non-human, or he may bemerely mad. He may, as Imson says, come to us by some godless chancefrom another evolutionary system--of which, mind you, we have as yetno positive knowledge--or he may be a Messenger, as Father Collinssuggests, from some divine source, bringing new teaching. But, in thename of Magic, how did he manage it? In other words--what is he?"
For Povey could be very ruthless when he chose. It was thisruthlessness, perhaps, that made him such an efficient secretary. Thenote of extravagance in his language had possibly another inspiration.
An awkward pause, at any rate, followed his remarks. Father Collins hadcomforted and blessed the group. Povey introduced cold water rather.
"There's this--and there's that," remarked Miss Milligan, tactfully.
"Those among us," added Miss Lance with sympathy, "who have The Sight,know at least what they have seen. Still, I think we are indebted toFather Collins for--his guidance."
"If we knew exactly what he is," mentioned Mrs. Towzer, referring toLeVallon, "we should know exactly where we are."
They got up to go. There was a fumbling among crowded hat-pegs.
"What is he?" offered Kempster. "He certainly made us all sit up andtake notice."
"No mere earthly figure," suggested Imson, "could have produced theeffect _he_ did. I
n my poem--it came to me in sleep----"
Father Collins held his glass unsteadily to the light. "A Messenger,"he interrupted with authority, "would affect us all differently,remember."
The talk continued in this fashion for a considerable time, while allsearched for wraps and coats. The waiter brought the bill amid generalconfusion, but no one noticed him. All were otherwise engaged. Poveypaid it finally, putting it down to the Entertainment Account.
"Remember," he said, as they stood in a group on the restaurant steps,each wondering who would provide a lift home, "remember, we have allgot to write out an account of what we saw and heard at the Studio.These reports will be valuable. They will appear in our 'PsychicBulletin' first. Then I'll have them bound into a volume. And I shalltry and get LeVallon to give us a lecture too. Tickets will be extra,of course, but each member can bring a friend. I'll let you all knowthe date in due course."