For all the wildness of the talk, this group of the Unstable was a
coherent and consistent entity, using a language each item in it
understood. They knew what they were after. Alcohol, coffee, tobacco,
underfeeding, these helped or hindered, respectively, the expression of
an ideal that, nevertheless, was common to them all; and if the minds
represented were unbalanced, or merely speculative, poetic, one genuine
quest and sympathy bound all together into a coherent, and who shall
say unintelligent or valueless, unit. The unstable enjoyed an extreme
sensitiveness to varied experience, with flexible adaptability to all
possible new conditions, whereas the stable, with their rigid mental
organizations, remained uninformed, stagnant, even fossilized.
In other rooms about the great lamp-lit city sat, doubtless, other
similar groups at the very same moment, discussing the shibboleths
of other faiths, of other dreams, of other ideas, systems, notions,
philosophies, all interpretative of the earth in which little humanity
dwells, cut off and isolated, apparently, from the rest of the
stupendous universe. A listener, screened from view, a listener not in
sympathy 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 the
lowest common denominator, though plainly printed in the world's old
scriptures, has not yet become adopted by the world at large.
Into this particular group, a little later in the evening, and when the
wings of imagination had increased their sweep a trifle dangerously
perhaps--into the room, like the arrival of a policeman rather, dropped
Father Collins. He came rarely to the Prometheans' restaurant. There
was 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 black
felt hat, his shabby opera cloak, and clutched firmly--he had no
gloves on--the heavy gnarled stick he had cut for his collection in
a Cingalese forest years ago, when he was studying with a Buddhist
priest. The folds of his voluminous cloak, as he took it off, sent the
hanging smoke-clouds in a whirl. His personality stirred the mental
atmosphere as well. The women looked up and stared, respectful welcome
in their eyes; several of the men rose to shake hands; there was a
general shuffling of chairs.
"Bring another _moulin à vent_ and a clean glass," Povey said at once
to 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 comfortable
relief, as he squeezed himself towards the chair Povey placed for
him and looked round genially, nodding and shaking hands with those
he knew. "But you're warm and cosy enough in here"--he sat down with
unexpected heaviness, and smiled at everybody--"and well fed, too, I'll
be bound."
"'The body must be comfortable before the mind can enjoy itself,'"
said Phillipps, an untidy member who disliked asceticism. "Starvation
produces hallucination, not vision." His glance took in the unused
glasses. His qualification was a vision of an uncle at the moment
of death, and the uncle had left him money. He had written a wordy
pamphlet 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 to
follow, and coffee, yes." He filled his glass. He had not come to argue
or to preach, and Phillipps's challenge passed unnoticed. Phillipps,
who had been leading the talk of late, resented the new arrival, but
felt 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 not
negligible; he brought his atmosphere with him. The wild talk, it
was felt now, would not be quite suitable. Father Collins had the
reputation of being something of a scholar; they were not quite sure of
him; none knew him very intimately; he had a rumoured past as well that
lent 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 to
the Society.
Whatever it was, the key changed sharply. Imson's eyes and ears grew
wider, the hand of Miss Lance went instinctively to her hair and combs,
Miss Milligan sought through her mind for a remark at once instructive
and uncommon, Mrs. Towzer looked past him searchingly lest his aura
escape her before she caught its colour, and Kempster, smoothing his
immaculate coat, had an air of being in his present surroundings merely
by chance. Toogood, quickly scanning his notes, wondered whether, if
called upon, he was to be Pharaoh or Cleopatra. One and all, that is,
took on a soberer gait. This semi-clerical visit complicated. The
presence of Father Collins was a compliment. What he had to say--about
LeVallon and the Studio scene--was, anyhow, assured of breathless
interest.
Povey led off. "We were just talking over the other night," he
observed, "the night at the Studio, you remember. The storm and so
on. It was a singular occurrence, though, of course, we needn't, we
_mustn't_ exaggerate it." And while he thus, as Secretary, set the
note, Father Collins sipped his wine and beamed upon the group. He made
no comment. "You were there, weren't you?" continued Povey, sipping
his own comforting glass. "I think I saw you. Fillery, you may have
noticed," he added, "brought--a friend."
"LeVallon, yes," said the other in a tone that startled them. "A most
unusual fellow, wasn't he?" He was attacking the omelette now. "A Greek
God, if ever I saw one," he added. And the silence in the crowded room
became abruptly noticeable. Miss Milligan, feeling her zodiacal garter
slipping, waited to pull it up. Imson's brown eyes grew wider. Kempster
held his breath. Toogood borrowed a cigar and waited for someone to
offer him a match before he lit it.
"Delicious," added Father Collins. "Cooked to a turn." The omelette
slid about his plate.
But the silence continued, and he realized the position suddenly.
Emptying his glass and casually refilling it, he turned and faced the
eager group about him.
"You want to know what _I_ thought about it all," he said. "You've
been discussing LeVallon, Nayan and the rest, I see." He looked round
as though he were in the lost pulpit that was his right. After a pause
he asked point blank: "And what do _you_ all think of it? How did
it strike you all? For myself, I confess"--he took another sip and
paused--"I am full of wonder and question," he finished abruptly.
It was Imson, the fearless, wondering Pat Imson, who first found his
tongue.
"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 out
of place. Eyes were cast down, or looked generally elsewhere. Povey,
remembering that the Society was not solely Eastern, glared at the
speaker. Father Collins, however, was not perturbed.
"Possibly," he remarked with a courteous smile. "The origin of us
all 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, or
what. LeVallon," he went on, "since you all ask me"--he looked round
again--"is--for me--an undecipherable being. I am," he added, his
words falling into open mouths and extended eyes and ears, "somewhat
puzzled. But more--I am enormously stimulated and intrigued."
All gazed at him. Father Collins was in his element. The rapt silence
that met him was precisely what he had a right to expect from his lost
pulpit. He had come, probably, merely to listen and to watch. The
opportunity provided by a respectful audience was too much for him. An
inspiration tempted him.
"I am inclined to believe," he resumed suddenly in a simple tone, "that
he is--a Messenger."
The sentence might have dropped from Sirius upon a listening planet.
The babble that followed must, to an ordinary man, have seemed
confusion. Everyone spoke with a rush into his neighbour's ear. All
bubbled. "I always thought so, I told you so, that was exactly what I
meant just now"--and so on. All found their tongues, at any rate, if
Povey, as Secretary, led the turmoil:
"Something outside our normal evolution, you mean?" he asked
judiciously. "Such a conception is possible, of course."
"A Messenger!" ran on the babel of male and female voices.
It was here that Father Collins failed. The "unstable" in him came
suddenly uppermost. The "ecstatic" in his being took the reins. The
wondering and expectant audience suited him. The red wine helped as
well. When he said "Messenger" he had meant merely someone who brought
a message. The expression of nobility merged more and more in the
slovenly aspect. Like a priest in the pulpit, whom none can answer and
to whom all must listen, he had his text, though that text had been
suggested actually by the conversation he had just heard. He had not
brought it with him. It occurred to him merely then and there. His
mind reflected, in a word, the collective idea that was in the air
about him, and he proceeded to sum it up and give expression to it.
This was his gift, his fatal gift--a ready sensitiveness, a plausible
exposition. 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, a
revelation--for that moment.
"A Messenger," he announced, thrusting his glass aside with an
impatient gesture as though noticing for the first time that it was
there. "A Messenger," he repeated, the automatic emphasis in his voice
already persuading him that he believed what he was about to say,
"sent among us from who knows what distant sphere"--he drew himself up
and looked about him--"and for who can guess on what mysterious and
splendid mission."
His eye swept his audience, his hand removed the glass yet farther
lest, it impede free gesture. It was, however, as Povey noticed, empty
now. "We, of course," he went on impressively, lowering his voice,
"_we_, a mere handful in the world, but alert and watchful, all of
us--we know that some great new teaching is expected"--he threw out
another challenging glance--"but none of us can know whence it may come
nor in what way it shall manifest." His voice dropped dramatically.
"Whether as a thief in the night, or with a blare of trumpets, none
of us can tell. But--we expect it and are ready. To _us_, therefore,
perhaps, as to the twelve fishermen of old, may be entrusted the
privilege of accepting it, the work of spreading it among a hostile and
unbelieving world, even perhaps the final sacrifice of--of suffering
for it."
He paused, quickly took in the general effect of his words, picked up
here and there a hint of question, and realized that he had begun on
too exalted a note. Detecting this breath of caution in the collective
mind that was his inspiration, he instantly shifted his key.
"LeVallon," he resumed, instinctively emphasizing the conviction
in 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 realizing
it, witnessed what is known as an "inspirational address," where a
speaker, naturally gifted with a certain facile eloquence, gathers
his inspiration, takes his changing cues as well, from the collective
mind 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 for
some 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. At
regular intervals he inserted, with considerable effect, his favourite
sentence: "A man in his _own_ place is the Ruler of his Fate."
He developed his idea that LeVallon "believed himself to be such and
such ..." but declared that the conception had been put into the youth
during his life of exile in the mountains--the Society had already
acquired this information and extended it--and had "_felt himself
into_" the rôle 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 to
the point--for the moment--of actually becoming him. And this strange
youth has spent his time, his best years, mark you--his creative years,
_feeling with_ the elemental forces of Nature until he has actually
becomes--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 the
danger. One may get caught, get stuck. Lose the desire to return to
one's normal self. Which means, of course, remaining out of relation
with one's environment--mad. Only a man in his _own_ place is the ruler
of his luck...."
He noticed suddenly the look of disappointment on several faces. He
swiftly hedged.
"On the other hand," he went on, making his voice and manner more
impressive than before, "it may be--who can say indeed?--it may be that
he is in relation with another environment altogether, a much vaster
environment, an extended environment of which the rest of humanity is
unaware. The privilege of tasting something of an extended environment
some of us here already enjoy. What we all know as _human_ activities
are doubtless but a fragment of life--the conscious phenomena merely of
some larger whole of which we are aware in fleeting seconds only--by
mood, by hint, by suggestive hauntings, so to speak--by faint shadows
of unfamiliar, nameless shape cast across our daily life from some
intenser sun we normally cannot see! LeVallon may be, as some of us
think and hope, a Messenger to show us the way into a yet farther field
of consciousness....
"It is a fine, a noble, an inspiring hope, at any rate," he assured the
room. "Unless some such Messenger comes into the world, showing us how
to extend our knowledge, we can get no farther; we shall never know
more than we know now; we shall only go on multiplying our channels for
observing the same old things...."
He closed his little address finally on a word as to what attitude
should 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 left
the 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 with
confidence, above all without fear." He leaned back in his chair,
somewhat exhausted, for the source of his inspiration was evidently
weakening. His words came less spontaneously, less easily; he
hesitated, sighed, looked from face to face for help he did not find.
His glass was empty. "We're here," he concluded lamely, "without being
consulted, and we may safely leave to the Powers that brought us here
the results of such acceptance."
"Quite so," agreed Povey, sighing audibly. "Denial will get us
nowhere." He filled up Father Collins's glass and his own. "I think
most of us are ready enough to accept any new experience that comes,
and to accept it without fear." He drained his own glass and looked
about him. "But the point is--how did LeVallon produce the effect upon
us all--the effect he did produce? He may be non-human, or he may be
merely mad. He may, as Imson says, come to us by some godless chance
from another evolutionary system--of which, mind you, we have as yet
no positive knowledge--or he may be a Messenger, as Father Collins
suggests, from some divine source, bringing new teaching. But, in the
name of Magic, how did he manage it? In other words--what is he?"
For Povey could be very ruthless when he chose. It was this
ruthlessness, perhaps, that made him such an efficient secretary. The
note of extravagance in his language had possibly another inspiration.
An awkward pause, at any rate, followed his remarks. Father Collins had
comforted 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 to
Father Collins for--his guidance."
"If we knew exactly what he is," mentioned Mrs. Towzer, referring to
LeVallon, "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 and
take notice."
"No mere earthly figure," suggested Imson, "could have produced the
effect _he_ did. In 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 all
searched for wraps and coats. The waiter brought the bill amid general
confusion, but no one noticed him. All were otherwise engaged. Povey
paid 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 all
got to write out an account of what we saw and heard at the Studio.
These reports will be valuable. They will appear in our 'Psychic
Bulletin' first. Then I'll have them bound into a volume. And I shall
try 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 know
the date in due course."