IN the hall was an odd little man in a brown hat. Appearance
marched with intellect in such a naïve way, that Urban Meyer had an
unmistakable air of being the only one of his kind in existence. And
this was fit and proper. There was only one Urban Meyer in the world,
and nature had been at some pains to emphasize the fact for the benefit
of all whom it might concern.
He was a singularly accessible little man, simple and modest, and not
afflicted with “frills” or shyness. But the queer, birdlike eyes,
while they smiled a gently diffused benevolence, missed no crumb of
what passed around. He was delighted to meet Mr. Brandon--there was a
curious habit of cutting up his words into syllables, the voice was
soft and kind to the verge of the feminine, the handshake prompt and
hearty and almost embarrassingly full of friendship. Altogether he
was such a disarming little man on the surface, that it was hard to
believe that any real depth of guile could be masked by such charm
and innocence. But somehow the infallible Pomfret, in spite of his
encomiums, had contrived to leave no doubt on the matter.
“‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son,’” he whispered as they moved in the
direction of luncheon.
The table was in the left-hand corner, out of the range of the curious,
and as they sat down a feeling almost uncanny came upon Brandon that
this was about to prove the most memorable meal of his life. Outwardly
cool, he was so strangely excited that he had diligently to rehearse
the precepts of his mentor.
“Let Old Uncle do the talking,” had counseled the sage.
To begin with, however, Urban Meyer went off at a tangent. The keen
eyes fixed themselves upon a distant table, and then he said, in a tone
low and deep: “It may interest you to know that the world’s biggest
brain is in the room.”
Brandon and Pomfret were duly impressed.
“Indeed,” said Pomfret with becoming seriousness.
“You mean the man over there?” said Brandon following the eyes of Urban
Meyer.
“Yes, the sallow one with a face like a Chicago ham.”
“Where? Show me.” Pomfret’s curiosity was roused. Urban Meyer did not
mistake geese for swans as a rule.
“Straight ahead,” said Brandon. “The long, lean, pale man. That’s
Murdwell the scientist--Gazelee Payne Murdwell who is giving his nights
and days to making a worse hell of this planet than it is already.”
“You know him?” said Urban Meyer.
“He’s a neighbor of mine,” Brandon explained. “Personally I like him,
but he won’t bear thinking about. He’s all new and all true I suppose?”
He had the air of one seeking for information.
“Sure.” It was Urban Meyer’s favorite word, but it seemed to do the
work of many at this moment. “Murdwell’s the problem for the near
future. He’s getting through to things that are best left alone. He’s
the writing on the wall. The best that can happen to the human race
just now is for Murdwell to be closed down.”
The tone had a curious authority. Somehow it made a deep impression on
Brandon.
“That man’s intellect is colossal. But he’s on the wrong tack, and
I tell him so, as I told Orville Wright when he first said that he
was going to fly. The day the Wrights got home with their damned
contraption was the worst the human race has seen since the invention
of gunpowder; and now Gazelee Payne Murdwell comes along with a promise
which it is humanity’s business to see that he never fulfills.”
“But how prevent him?” asked Brandon. “In the present phase of human
perversion, Gazelee Payne Murdwell is a prophet and a savior.”
“At this moment,” said Urban Meyer, “there’s just one thing between
the human race and Murdwell’s Law, and that thing’s God. And that’s
why I venture to hope that the Professor will have to close down.
Two years ago I didn’t believe in God, but since then I’ve changed
my outlook.” At this point he helped himself to an excellent mousse
of ham, and the host ordered a bottle of Pommery. “Since then I’ve
been down in the _Lusitania_, I’ve seen Paris saved for Europe, and
I’ve still hopes of seeing civilization saved for mankind. I say this
because I feel there’s a God standing behind it and he’s going to see
it through. I was born at Frankfort in 1849, and I’ve bled for Prussia
at Gravelotte.” The little man drew up his shirt sleeve and showed a
deep scar on his arm. “That’s a Frenchman’s saber. I was young then and
I loved the fatherland. Even at that time Prussia was the enemy of the
human race, but a boy couldn’t be expected to know that and he couldn’t
have helped himself if he had. In 1876 I went to New York; in 1890 I
became an American citizen; in 1916 I’m a citizen of the world.
“I consider that I have had exceptional facilities for seeing this
war impartially, but my nature is to look to the future. I’ve always
planned and built ahead. And as I figure it out Prussia is going to
be downed and Germany bled white. But take it from me, my friends, it
will be a very long and slow process.” There was a slight pause in the
little man’s monologue, but no contradiction was offered.
“And in the end civilization will have to save Germany. Unless she gets
a change of heart there’s no security for the time ahead. At present
she’s outside the pale, but it won’t be wise or right to let her
remain there forever. She’s a big proposition and the world owes her
something. She will have to be helped to rid herself of Prussia. How’s
it to be done--that’s the problem for the future. One thing is sure:
you won’t get her to cut herself free of her protector by ramming a
pistol down her throat.”
Brandon agreed.
“What’s your alternative?” said Pomfret.
“We must keep the communications open as well as we can. It’s the duty
of those who look to the time ahead to try to get into touch with the
German people.”
“But that’s quite impossible,” said Pomfret. “They are a set of outlaws
and perverts.”
“I admit that the present plight of the German people is just about
the biggest problem in all history.”
“You’re right. And every effort made by outsiders to help them will
simply recoil on itself.”
“It may be so. But if there is a God in the world he cares just as much
for the Teuton as he cares for anyone else.”
“Very true,” said Brandon. “And Germany must be made to see the light.
But that can only be done indirectly. The German, as the world is now
beginning to realize, has a very curious psychology. He doesn’t see
through his eyes, but through his emotions. Therefore he calls for very
special treatment.”
“Why not let him alone?” said Pomfret. “Why not let him find his own
level?”
“Because civilization can’t afford to do that. It owes it to itself to
help Germany.”
“I fully agree,” said Brandon.
“I entirely dissent,” said Pomfret, filling the glasses of his guests.
“Germany by her own considered acts has put herself outside the
comity of nations, and there’s no need to readmit her. She may lie
down with the Magyar, the Turk and the Bulgar till the crack of doom.
Civilization can do without Germany. The question is, can Germany do
without civilization?”
“In spite of her errors and her crimes,” said Urban Meyer, “you do an
injustice to a great people if you close all the doors against her.”
“We shall not agree about their greatness,” said Pomfret. “They are a
race of barbarians, with a dangerous streak of madness.”
“That’s one side of the Teuton, I admit. But on the other he’s an
idealist, a lover of the arts, an exemplary citizen. And the task of
the future is to get him back to where he was. He’s got to return to
the old ways. By the bye, that play has set me thinking.” Pomfret and
Brandon exchanged glances, but Urban Meyer went on with a curious
spontaneity, as if he were thinking aloud. “Yes, it has set my mind
working. Last night I dreamed about it, and I believe if the Kingdom of
Something Else could be presented just as I saw it in my dream it would
speak to the real heart of Germany. It has the very spirit of her folk
tales; it has the romance, the poetry, the music, the kindly people
my childhood used to make and adore. And it teaches a gospel which
might have a universal appeal. You know I’ve an immense belief in the
theater. To me it’s the true church of the time to come. And I don’t
see why the next world religion shouldn’t begin with a great play.”
Again Pomfret and Brandon exchanged glances.
“People ask what’s wrong with Christianity. Its great flaw to my mind
is that it asks too much; it is sublime but it isn’t quite a working
proposition. We won’t go into a tremendous argument, but there isn’t
the slightest doubt that in its present form it doesn’t touch the
crowd. It needs simplifying, modifying, humanizing, before it can get
right home to the man in the street. A lot of old lumber and obsolete
formulas will have to find their way to the scrap heap. The great
truths can still be there, but the religion of the future has got to
think more of this world and less of the next. And I’m by no means sure
that the mind which conceived the idea of the Kingdom of the Something
Else is not going to meet the deepest need of mankind at the present
time.”
Brandon shot a glance of triumph at Pomfret, but even in that moment of
exaltation he remembered the counsel of the sage.
“At the first opportunity I should like to put up that play in New York
at my biggest theater. There would be an all-star cast and a special
orchestra, and in every detail it would be absolutely the greatest
production ever seen in the States or anywhere else.”
“And you would present it exactly as it is written?” said Pomfret in a
matter-of-fact tone.
“Yes. Not a line would be altered. It’s not ordinary theater stuff. In
this case it’s the spirit of the thing that is going to matter and
that must not be tampered with on any account.”
Pomfret sat, a picture of whimsical incredulity, but Brandon, burning
with the zeal of the evangelist, was now unequal to the change that the
prudence of this world had laid upon him. Urban Meyer had been visited
by the divine wisdom, and Brandon could not withhold acknowledgment of
a fact so signal and so astonishing.
“The theater is my religion,” the little man went on, and his queer
eyes grew suddenly fixed as if they were looking at something. “I
believe in it as I believe in nothing else. When you’ve watched
millions of people going crazy over stunts like ‘Baby’s Bedsocks,’
the original smile-with-a-tear-in-it, you ask yourself what could be
done by a real play with a live message. As I say, the theater is the
church of the future. There’s no limit to its power; it speaks to the
masses, cheers them, strengthens them, makes them healthy, lifts them
up; it takes them into worlds beyond their own. And they understand its
language.
“Now this play, as I see it, is a test case. It’s not theater stuff
of the ordinary brand and it’s got to be played just as it is, in the
spirit of reverence. It may fall down, and fall down badly, but I’d
like to produce it as an act of faith, for the love I bear humanity.”
Pomfret could hardly believe his ears. Something had happened to the
little man. He had known Urban Meyer nearly twenty years, and it
was hard to relate this gush of altruism with the impresario whose
astuteness was a byword all over the world. For one thing, and it
amused Pomfret vastly, in the stress of his enthusiasm he had even
forgotten to discuss the terms of the contract.
They came to that presently, and then a sight for the gods presented
itself. With the aid of racial instincts ruthlessly applied, Urban
Meyer had taken an immense fortune out of the theater, but now,
entering it as a missionary, he was willing to make a contract which
added greatly to Pomfret’s perplexity.
“It’s double what I’ve ever offered to a new man,” said Urban Meyer,
“but as I say, this production is going to be an act of faith. I
believe in God, I believe in the theater, I believe in this play and
that’s the basis on which I invite the world to come in. If it falls
down I may be out a hundred thousand dollars, but I shall not grudge a
nickel, because no man can serve God and serve Mammon at the same time.”
Moreover, to judge by a new glow in a quaintly Semitic countenance,
Urban Meyer felt immensely strengthened by being in a position to make
that assertion. He was not puffed up, but a light of enthusiasm played
over his face which somehow made him better to look at. “Nothing is but
thinking makes it so! To a man of imagination that means all that ever
was and ever will be. And if you keep on expecting miracles to happen,
miracles are bound to happen--if only you expect in the right way.”
Pomfret could only smile perplexedly, but Brandon, flooded by a
happiness rare and strange, was overborne by the workings of the divine
providence. For a moment he was submerged by wild speculations, and
then he awoke with a start to the fact that a sudden hand had been laid
on his shoulder.