A FORTNIGHT passed, which for Brandon was a time of hope, increasing
physical well-being, steadily returning faculty, and then came a letter
from Pomfret. A second reading of the play had deepened his interest;
moreover his reader, on whose judgment he relied, was inclined to think
that it had possibilities. He agreed, however, that the subject was
a thorny one in the present state of public feeling, and before any
proposal was made it would be well, perhaps, to sound the Censor of
plays.
A week later there came a second letter which severely dashed Brandon’s
hopes. The Lord Chamberlain was not prepared to license the play unless
the chief character and two of the principal scenes were removed, in
other words Hamlet must be played without the Prince of Denmark. “But,”
the letter added, “my reader and I are agreed that these ‘cuts’ will
give the production as a whole a far better chance with the large
public. The big scenes are full of danger and religion is not wanted in
the theater. Therefore, if the author is willing for the cuts to be
made, the play may be a practical proposition. The acting, the scenery,
the mounting and the incidental music, which I am told is really
first-rate, will then have less to interfere with them.”
Brandon was rather dismayed. And he was in a trying position. Every
week that passed added to his belief in the plenary inspiration of the
work as a whole. His physical and mental power were growing day by
day and the more firmly he became rooted in the living world of the
present the greater his faith in the miracle which had made him so.
To him, therefore, every word of the play was sacred. But in face of
the official ukase there was only one thing to be done: he constrained
himself to write to Wellwood, giving the history of the negotiations
and inclosing Pomfret’s letter.
He had not long to remain in doubt. In two days there came a reply.
“Dear friend,” it said, “the Masters of Wisdom in council assembled say
to you, let none impair the Truce of God. It is or it is not. The Terms
are the fruit of deep communing. The world must accept or reject them.”
It was the kind of answer Brandon had looked for. Yet while it
simplified his difficulties, it also added to them. On the surface
there was nothing more to be done, and the fact could be accepted with
a clear conscience. But his faith being now as it was, and reënforced
by his daily, his hourly experience, he felt his duty to the world at
large bearing upon him more and more heavily.
Although the matter seemed to have reached its logical end, Brandon,
somewhat to his wife’s dismay, suddenly determined to go up to town.
Even if there was nothing to hope for by still pursuing it, he would
give himself the satisfaction of doing his utmost in the charge laid
upon him.
Millicent did her best to keep him from London. His recovery had been
so recent and so unforeseen that she could not help feeling that he
was still on probation, and that undue stress, either of mind or body,
would involve a serious relapse.
Dr. Joliffe, as puzzled as herself by the new turn of events, seconded
her vigorously. He was sure, from the nature of the case, that his
patient was still on very thin ice. But he was met now by a will of
iron. Even if the heavens fell, Brandon had set his mind on going to
town; yet he would not give a reason. The rueful Millicent had to order
her trunks to be packed; moreover, she had to crave the shelter of the
paternal roof in Hill Street for the peccant invalid until such time
as he had done his business, whatever that business might be.
Prophesying every kind of evil for her stubborn lord, Millicent motored
with him to town on a cold, wet morning of mid-January. Her mood was
one of inspissated gloom, yet as she came to reflect, in the warmth
and comfort of the car, on Gervase’s state in relation to what it had
been hardly more than a month ago, simple gratitude became the dominant
emotion. She must never forget that several of the ablest doctors
in the land had by that time given up his case as hopeless. It had
been finally diagnosed as a nerve lesion whose baffling obscurity had
proved too much even for modern therapeutic skill. A recovery was no
longer hoped for, yet here was the sufferer sitting by her side in full
possession of every physical and mental faculty. A miracle had happened
beyond the ken of science, which it could only account for in the
most general terms. A severe shock had stopped the clock in the first
instance and medical science must now assume that a counter-shock had
set it going again.
Even if Gervase was presuming on the abundant mercy of providence, it
was hard for a devoted wife to be really angry with him just now. For
one thing he was a gay and joyful Gervase. As one who has known the
nadir of the soul, he was now a giant newly risen and refreshed with
strong wine. The universe was rare and strange; the secret hope at the
core of every human life had been verified in a way to surprise the
expectations of the wildest dreamer.
The next morning he went to see Pomfret. As he set out for Half Moon
Street the air was raw, the wind bitter, but he felt like an awakened
sleeper walking in a new and wonderful world. Not again had he hoped
to feel the London pavement under his feet; not again had he hoped
to experience the thrill of the world’s metropolis. Somehow its old,
drab streets put an enchantment upon him. He was fired as he had never
been by their magic and their mystery. And now he had a power within
which set him so miraculously in tune with the infinite that he saw new
colors in the gray sky, the dull grass, the bare trees; he heard noble
harmonies in the flowing air and the sharp wind.
The great man, in a vivid chocolate breakfast suit, was dallying with a
poached egg.
“By all the gods!” he cried, rising with outstretched hands. “What
brings you to town, my son?”
“There is but one God,” said Brandon, allowing himself to be pressed
into the chair nearest the fire. “And John Smith is his prophet. In a
word, he has brought me to town.”
Pomfret laughed, but the shrewd eyes twinkled with a heightened
curiosity. “That is to say, your mysterious genius consents to the
cuts?’
“On the contrary.” And Brandon produced the letter.
While Pomfret read he watched his face narrowly. One thing was clear:
since the great man’s visit to Hart’s Ghyll a good deal of water
had flowed under the bridge. At any rate disappointment, vexation,
perplexity, were now freely displayed in that expressive countenance.
“What a rum letter!” was the first comment. “Is the chap cracked or is
he trying to pull your leg?”
“‘Nothing is but thinking makes it so.’” Brandon’s gravity was almost
stern. “This is no common man, and one day, I hope, a topsy-turvy
planet will know it.”
“I can only say it’s a great pity he won’t consent to the cuts.” The
rejoinder was measured, deliberate, businesslike. “A very great pity.
Morrison’s read it, and he says if it is handled in the right way it
might be a property. As it is of course the public won’t look at it.”
“They won’t be allowed to look at it if the Censor’s ukase means
anything.”
“That can be got over. And as I say, the cuts will be all for the good
of the play.”
“But don’t you see, old dunce, that this is a thing no one can touch?”
“In that case there’s an end of the matter.” Pomfret’s jaw fell three
inches. “The law won’t allow it to be produced in London.”
“Then so much the worse for London.”
“No doubt,” said the cynic at the breakfast table. “But seriously, if
you can persuade your crackpot to be practical we may have a pretty big
thing. Honeybone, the composer, has seen the music. He says it’s great,
and he thinks that theme in the second act might go all over the world.”
“Well, we shall see.”
“But you won’t, my friend, I assure you, unless you can make the man
hear reason.”
“We have his last word, I’m afraid,” said Brandon gravely, as he put
the letter back in his pocket. “And we mustn’t forget that there’s
a great purpose at the back of it all. I believe this work to be
inspired, just as the gospels are inspired--although I own that a month
ago I daren’t have made any such statement.”
Pomfret opened round eyes of wary amazement “Well, well,” he said. And
he rose from the table and offered his visitor a cigarette.