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don’t feel capable of undressing a Zulu king; we haven’t the stuff to
do the grand coucher properly. Why is royalty so impressive?”
“It’s the concentration of political energy in a person,” Caithness
said thoughtfully, “the making visible of hierarchic freedom, a
presented moment of obedience and rule.”
“I think I prefer the Republic,” Sir Bernard said; “it’s the more
abstract dream. But I’m too tired to discuss it. Let’s settle as well
as we can. Will you have the divan?”
Neither of them slept much—indeed Caithness remained wakeful in his
chair, except when for change of comfort he walked up and down a
little. Sir Bernard, having slipped away for a few minutes to change,
locked the door, took the key with him, and stretched himself on the
divan, but only to feel himself revolving the events of the evening.
Once his mind was relaxed it became conscious that it was more
distressed than it had known. The impact of these high, strange, and
violent ideas, the circumstances of colour, music, and ceremonial with
which they had been accompanied, the dim suggestion of vivid
personalities accepting and serving them and ringing around
Considine’s own exalted figure, the dimmer but not negligible
possibility that here in London moved the mysterious High Executive of
the African declarations, the great intention of Nielsen’s voice, the
threat and anger of the guns answering some threat hurled from the
hidden places of the negro nations, the obedience of Inkamasi to some
distant control, the passion of Ian Caithness-all these things shook
his sedate and happily ironical brain. This was an irony which his
habits found it difficult to bear, for it struck at the root of his
own irony. And one nearer thing troubled him yet more closely. There
had been five of them at dinner that night, and three of them had gone
together, and of those three how many had come away? Roger and Philip
had gone with him, but it was not the same Roger that had parted from
him afterwards, and Philip was labouring under some unaccustomed
burden. He felt obscurely alone—his own house, his own friends, were
grown alien to him; nowhere in all the world was there one intimate
with whom he could mock at the monstrous apparitions that loomed on
the outskirts of his mind, closing round the slender spires and
delicate gardens, in which of late its chosen civilization had moved.
Not so much the facts, though they were grotesque enough, but the
manner of the facts, disturbed him—the triumph, the fanaticism, the
shadows of ecstasy. Other memories forced themselves on him—an insane
political hot-gospeller in Hyde Park, Caithness vestmented in an
ecclesiastical ceremony, the antique faces of the Jews in the crude
reproductions of the papers, a look in Philip’s eyes as he watched
Rosamond, the silly raucous voices of the crowd in the streets: where
was detachment, where was contemplation there? Amidst all the gracious
achievements of the mind what wild rites of self-immolation were
again to be practised? the rich blue of those curtains was marvellous
in its beauty, but in what depth of rapturous experience had it been
woven? and was that rapture, with all that must accompany it of danger
and terror, indeed desirable for man? Someone had cried out somewhere
lately—“I will encounter darkness as a bride”—“She comes…the
sable throne behold”…to encounter that as a bride; the words meant
to him something far beyond his nature. Darkness was to be exiled, not
embraced; and when, as in the hour of death, it could no longer be
exiled, it should be received with a proud and courteous if
constrained hostility. It was Roger who had cried: Roger who loved
some mysterious energy that he himself had never found, or finding had
mistrusted and banished. He looked from his couch on the shaded room,
the dark face of the African chieftain, the pacing figure of the
priest of crucifixion; he listened to find if he should again hear the
sound of the guns that warned him of a crusade which had spies and
devotees in the city where he lay, in the friends by whom he was
surrounded, nay, in the very spirit which moved in his obscure self.
Nevertheless, he rose early the next morning with a mind still
determined to enjoy its stand against enemies within and without, and
gravely put his telephone at Ian’s disposal in order that the priest
might speak to Lambeth. It seemed to Sir Bernard very unlikely that
the Archbishop would be up, but either he was or he was caused to be.
After a prolonged conversation Caithness came back to say merely that
all had been arranged. Philip, who apparently had also had very little
sleep, offered to drive, more for the sake of doing something, his
father suspected, than because he was very clear what was supposed to
be happening. But it was a perfectly good idea, Sir Bernard thought;
he himself had done all, and rather more than all, that could be
thought reasonable, and if Caithness’s Deity were going to fight Nigel
Considine for the soul of the Zulu king, he would himself maintain
towards such fantastic spiritual warfare a beautiful neutrality. He
liked Inkamasi as an individual; he sympathized with him as an
African; he was prepared to be interested in him as a king. But he was
certainly not prepared to help decide whether he should turn out a
fervent Christian or a submissive Considinian; the powers concerned
could settle that between them. He saw the others off, and returned
first to have breakfast and then to ring up Roger and urge on him the
advisability of removing himself, Isabel and Rosamond to Colindale
Square in case of further air-raids. Roger made some objection about
correspondence, but a long discussion conducted between Sir Bernard at
one end and sometimes Roger, sometimes Isabel, sometimes both of them
at the other, and sometimes merely between themselves, ended in their
accepting his offer. “I had thought of leaving London,” Sir Bernard
said, “but if we decide to go, we can all go together. It’ll be kinder
to Philip for you to come here, and I have the finest sort of cellar
if it’s needed.”
Meanwhile, Philip at the steering-wheel was trying to order his own
distracted mind. He certainly hadn’t had much sleep; the evening had
shaken him far too much. That curious music, so closely allied to
Rosamond yet ever avoiding her, calling and driving him to look for
something that seemed to hide in her yet had to be found for its own
sake not for hers, that music would by itself have prevented sleep.
And when to it was added the obscure talk of Considine’s—and talk
that meant something. The moment of vision in Isabel’s kitchen, when
Rosamond’s arm had lain like a bar of firmamental power across the
whole created universe, dividing and reconciling at once, had stirred
in him something more than masculinity, and whatever had been stirred
had recognized its own kingdom in Considine’s voice when he had spoken
of the divine delight which foretells and communicates the conquest of
death. Philip was not much concerned with the conquest of death as
such in the future, but he was vitally concerned with its immediate
presence. He became dimly aware that though Rosamond would die the
thing he had seen in Rosamond not merely could not die but had nothing
whatever to do with death. Even if it passed—though of course it
couldn’t pass—but even if it did pass, still its passing had got
nothing whatever to do with it. Its presence, he toiled laboriously at
an undefined thought, had got nothing to do with its absence. Was it
so very surprising then that men could determine not to die? He rather
wondered whether he could manage to discuss this with Rosamond, only
she was always impatient of his slow mind, and he wouldn’t be able to
find words for it. Also, probably, she wouldn’t care about it; she’d
feel it was disagreeable and a trifle obscene, and perhaps she was
right. She and Considine wouldn’t get on very well; only then—far off
a single unmistakable note sounded and ceased—only then which of
them…Shocked, as such lovers are, by the implied disloyalty, when
first some alien fate separates itself from the hitherto universal
fate which is the beloved, he put it hastily out of his mind. He had
not understood, in his confusion, the accusation which his father had
flung at Considine, and Sir Bernard considerately had not pressed it
on him. The High Executive was something to do with negroes, and
Considine was a man in London with whom he had dined. The conquest of
death itself would have been an easier matter to Philip than the union
of those two thoughts in a single idea. But the two experiences ran
closely parallel in his troubled heart.
At Lambeth he followed the others, Caithness gently guiding the Zulu
by a hand on his arm. Philip, without exactly professing and calling
himself a Christian, had a general idea that he disagreed with the
people who disagreed with Christianity. His father’s own disagreement
slightly accentuated this, because in the usual reflux of the
generations he tended to assume that his father’s mind was
insufficient. And anyhow any mere mental and argumentative
disagreement was past bothering him at the moment. He couldn’t
possibly have sat in the car while the others went wherever they were
going; and if the king had really been put to sleep, he thought the
king ought to be wakened. But even the relation of Considine with the
king did not cause him to suspect whose determination had challenged
England in the strange and piercing notes of the Allied Suzerainties
of Africa. So he went on.
One of the Archbishop’s chaplains met them and brought them to the
private chapel. Caithness led Inkamasi to the rails of the sanctuary
and there caused him to kneel, kneeling himself by his side. Philip
slipped behind a chair. The Archbishop, vested in the ordinary
chasuble, and the chaplain, acting as server, made their entrance.
Murmured sentences were exchanged and the Archbishop went up to the
altar.
Philip had long ago lost touch with the ritual of the Mysteries, and
the opening prayers brought back to him only a confused memory of
uninteresting moments in boyhood and youth. The Archbishop, with a
swift intense movement, wheeled towards the kneeling four and began
the Commandments. Caithness turned his gaze on to Inkamasi, and seemed
to concentrate it, as the celebrant uttered, almost as if in an
incantation and with his look also fixed on the Zulu, “Thou shalt have
none other gods but me.” The chaplain answered softly, and the beating
series of directions went on. The Archbishop turned again to the
altar, murmured a longer prayer, another, and came to the Epistle.
Of the Epistle and Gospel Philip, unused, to the phrasing and tone,
understood very little. A phrase here and there struck him. “Greater
is he that is in you than he that is in the world.” “This sickness is
not unto death.” “I am the resurrection and the life.” “Lazarus, come
forth.” He was aware of a rising tide of passion, swelled suddenly as
the Archbishop broke into the Creed by the strong voice of Caithness.
The tones of the three priests mingled and achieved the Profession,
and ceased; and for some minutes Philip again heard only the single
voice of the celebrant, with an occasional murmur from the chaplain.
Nevertheless, as he knelt listening, the Rite ordered his mind. He
forgot to try and reconcile; he was moved by reconciliation. There
rose in him a feeling kindred to that with which sometimes he had
waited for Rosamond—entire expectation yet mingled with complete
repose and certainty. The face of Caithness, when he saw
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