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almost worthy Messias.”
But Mottreux leant nearer them, and turned an agonized face towards
his master.
“You are giving them back,” he whispered. “You won’t surely?” His
hands trembled forward towards the heap. “It’s…it’s life,” he said
grasping, and fell on his knees by the table.
Considine looking down at him laid a hand on his shoulder. “Do you
feel them so?” he asked, and felt the answer shudder through the
kneeling man’s limbs as he turned his face upwards.
“Don’t give them back,” he moaned, “don’t shut them up! they’re
breath, they’re everything, they’re me! Don’t keep them in a
box—unless I keep it! Give them to me! You don’t want them. You don’t
care for their life, you’ve got all the life you want. I tell you
they’re like woman, they’re more than woman: who ever saw a woman
quiver like that? quiver and be so still? I want to grow to them,
don’t take them away. I haven’t asked you much, I’ll do anything you
want. Tell me someone to kill. I’ll give you his blood for these
stones. I’ll give you my blood for them—only let me love them a
little, let me hold them while you kill me. O they’ll kill me
themselves, they’re so merciless. Can’t you feel them? Can’t you feel
them melting into you? Or is it that I’m melting? I…I…” His voice
choked with his passion and stopped.
Considine leant over him. “Now, Mottreux, now,” he said, “remember the
end of the experiment. Be master of love, be master of death! Change
delight that is agony into that agony that is delight. Not for
possession, not for yourself, achieve and transmute desire.” Standing
behind him he pressed his hands on the other’s shoulders, till
Mottreux crouched under the weight. “Not for a dream like the poor
wretch who died but for the power and glory of life, for the marriage
of death and love, and for the dominion that comes from them.
Mottreux, Mottreux! you that live to beauty, die to beauty!”
But Mottreux, as the pressure relaxed, sprang to his feet and leant
half over the table with a snarl.
“They are my life,” he said, “who touches them touches me.”
“Remember those who have failed on the threshold of achievement,”
Considine answered. “You seek a deeper thing than these stones
hold-you seek the mastery of death. Destroy them then, and enter
farther into the chambers of death. But if you touch one to keep or to
destroy, for greed or desire, or lest others should gain, you are
lost, Mottreux. If you possess you are lost.”
“It’s not true,” the tormented creature exclaimed, and went on
hurriedly. “Don’t you possess—money and houses and lands? Don’t you
say that a man can grow by the ecstasy which the things he possesses
give him? a miser by gold, and a lover by woman?”
“If the chance of the world throws things into his hands, let him take
them,” Considine answered; “if it tears them from him let him forsake
them. It need make no difference to him. As for me, I use what I have
for the purpose of the schools. But if it were all caught away
tomorrow what change would it cause in me? The man who prefers
possession to abandonment is lost. You’ve come far, Mottreux, by
experience of hunting and war; you’ve grown and thriven on that
rapture. Thrive now on this; all this pain is but your power seeking
its proper end.”
“Nielsen sought it and he’s dead,” the other cried out. “It can’t be
done; it’s wilder than all dreams. Haven’t others in Uganda and
Nigeria tried it and failed?”
“And Jersey and London,” Considine said. “More than you’ll ever know.
Will you disbelieve because a million have failed? One shall succeed
and others and their children shall have it in their blood. Leave
Nielsen; leave all. Leave this.”
He moved to face the other and meeting his eyes held them with so
strong a power that Mottreux turned his own eyes away.
But he moaned desperately, “I can’t—not this. Anything else—not
this.”
“Are you a fool?” Considine said, “it’s always anything else, and it’s
always this. How will you die indeed if you daren’t die now? There’s
not a man in all this world who doesn’t have to relinquish; it’s given
to us to do it willingly and make our profit from it. Strike and live
in the wound.”
“But you won’t give them back?” Mottreux cried. “At least keep them
yourself; don’t give them away.”
“Certainly I shall give them,” Considine answered, “for it’s better
that they should serve a myth than a man, and if I were to keep them
now I should take the kingdom of man away from you-”
As he paused, there was a sharp knock at the door. Considine thrust
Mottreux round so that the tormented face was hidden, and cried a word
over his shoulder. Vereker came into the room. “Sir, the message is
here,” he said.
“I’ll come,” Considine answered, and as Vereker went out he gathered
the jewels in his hands and poured them back into the case. Mottreux
leaned against the table; he could not speak; he gazed as the
traveller whose camel has just fallen might stare after the vanished
mirage or as a young boy might when the beloved of his heart gives her
sacred hand into another’s charge. Considine locked the case, dropped
it back on the table, slipped his hand into Mottreux’s arm, and drew
him from the room.
Meanwhile the three guests, centrifugally repulsed by the very ardour
which united them, remained for some time in the one room. They were
aware, as they sat there, of increased movement in the house; new
voices came to them, and the occasional sound of cars arriving or
departing. The expectancy of crisis was heightened, and Caithness who
was the most open to external impressions, was the first to give way.
Ezekiel still sat, lost in meditation on antique words, by the
fireplace; brooding over the manner in which the High and Holy One had
in the secret story of Joseph or of David, in the hidden sayings of
Ruth or Esther, signified the return of Israel to His pardon. Roger,
concerned with other texts, sought to bring into his memory of them
the emotion awakened by the sight he had endured; he attempted to
realize the august periods of time and space which exist in and are
measured by the mastery of poetry. Lines came to him from a distance,
but it was not exterior distance; it was himself whose leagues lay
between himself and their origin, and all that space of self was no
longer void but tremulous with unapprehended life. He had always, it
seemed, been too close to them; he understood how small his feeble
little understanding was. They rose from an abyss—they had always
said so—“the mind’s abyss”—“that awful Power rose from the mind’s
abyss”—his mind’s abyss-it would lead him into the abyss—it would
define the abyss for him—the powers that inhabited it were his powers
-O how little, how little, did the most ardent reader know what
mysteries lay in “the mystery of words”
There darkness makes abode, and all the host Of shadowy things work
endless changes; there as in a mansion like their proper home
he wondered for a fantastic instant if it were this house which was
indeed their home.
But Caithness’s mind was not on such exploration. The nature of his
intellect and the necessities of his office had directed his attention
always not towards things in themselves but towards things in
immediate action. He defined men by morality; it was perhaps
inevitable that he should define God in the same way. The most
difficult texts for him to explain away had always been those which
obscurely hint at the origin of evil itself in the Unnameable, “the
lying spirit” of Zedekiah, the dark question of Isaiah—“Shall there
be evil in the city and I the Lord have not done it?” He was always
trying to avoid Dualism, and falling back on the statement that
Omniscience might permit what it did not and could not originate, yet
other origin (outside Omniscience) there be none. It is true he always
added that it was a mystery, but a safer line was to insist that good
and evil were facts, whatever the explanation was. True as this might
be, it had the slight disadvantage that he saw everything in terms of
his own good and evil, and so imperceptibly to resist evil rather than
to follow good became the chief concern of his exhortations. So
perhaps the great energies are wasted; so perhaps even evil is not
sufficiently resisted. His mind now was full of Inkamasi’s defiance;
his own pet miracle seemed to justify him, and he thought of himself
in relation to the king as the chief champion of Christendom against
Antichrist. It was also a little annoying to be treated as if he were
in an elementary stage of his own religion, and a personal rancour
unconsciously reinforced the devotion of his soul to its hypothesis.
He went out of the room, intending to go back to the Zulu, and saw
that the house was indeed more populated than it had been. He saw
several new faces in the hall; there were two or three officers in a
strange dark-green uniform. One man had a face like an Arab; there was
another who might be an Italian. He heard a voice say “Feisul Pasha,”
and saw a third cross the hall from the front door. He turned
abruptly, ran up the stairs, and on the first landing met Mottreux.
The colonel was coming slowly along; his face was pale and wrenched.
As he saw Caithness he paused, and the priest instinctively stood
still also. So for a few moments they waited, duellists uncertain of
what was to come. Mottreux said at last—as if it were not what he
meant: “You’re going to the king?”
“And if so?” Caithness asked. Something in Mottreux’s voice puzzled
him. It seemed to wish to delay him; it hesitated; he could have
believed that it inquired about something which had not been
mentioned.
Mottreux said abruptly: “I suppose you think we’re all wrong?”
Caithness very shortly said he did, but the other did not step away.
He added: “I suppose you—want us to fail?”
Caithness, again shortly, agreed. Mottreux came close up to him,
looked round, began to whisper, and was suddenly taken by a spasmodic
shudder. He caught the priest’s arm and then let it go sharply, as if
he had touched something hateful. He said in a low voice, “If one
could…” and his voice died away.
In the tone of a director of souls Caithness said: “Could?”
“If one could—make peace,” Mottreux whispered. “Would there—would
there be room for a man who could make peace?”
He was close up against Caithness, and the priest, feeling his
agitation and shaken by it, dropped his voice to an equal whisper,
“But how can—we shan’t take his terms.”
Mottreux said, “But without his terms?”
“How can you make peace without him?” Caithness asked.
“He isn’t human,” Mottreux jerked out. “If…if one caught a mad
ape…”
The truth flashed into Caithness’s mind—the possible truth, and the
possibility possessed him. In this strange house, amid strange
inhabitants, had come the strangest whisper of all, a whisper of
antagonism in the very heart of the enemy. His brain ran before him,
forgetting everything but this impossible chance. He leaned a little
closer yet, and said, “If you can’t cage it-”
Mottreux answered, “You know the Prime
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