AS the vicar and the doctor left John Smith’s cell, there came out of
the deep shadows of the long corridor a figure, old, forlorn, very
infirm. With a haunted look this rather grotesque creature shuffled
forward, and fixing tragic eyes upon the doctor’s face muttered in an
alien tongue:
“He is risen. He is risen.”
The doctor reproved him sharply. “Why, Goethe, what in fortune’s name
are you doing here! Go at once to your own side and don’t let me
see you here again. Strict instructions were given that none of the
patients were to be seen in the west wing just now. I must look into
this. Go at once to your own side.”
The old man slunk away, still muttering softly, “He is risen. He is
risen.”
The doctor was obviously annoyed by the incident. “Gross carelessness
on the part of someone,” he said. “The deputation is already due, and
the Home Office desires us in the special and quite unprecedented
circumstances of the case to present as normal an appearance as we can.
In other words, it doesn’t want representatives of our own and foreign
governments to be welcomed by a parcel of lunatics. That will not help
anybody; besides, as the Home Office says, it is desirable that no slur
should be cast on the profession of literature.”
“And on the memory of the Master,” whispered the vicar in his hushed
voice.
“Quite so. I fully agree. The dear fellow! And to think he was able to
win a prize of seven thousand pounds, not to mention the many thousands
his work is earning all over the world, from which, by the way,
deserving charities are benefiting.”
“Did he know that his work was producing these large sums?”
“Oh, yes. And I think the knowledge gave him pleasure. But he never
regarded a penny as his own. He left it to Mr. Brandon and myself--two
just men I am proud to think he called us--to give back again, as he
said, ‘that which had been given to him, in the way likely to do the
most good.’”
“He was quite selfless,” said the vicar.
“Absolutely. And he is the only man I have known, or am ever likely to
know, of whom that statement could be truly made. I have known good
men, I have known men with high, forward-looking souls, but I have
never known a man so near His model that if it had not existed already
one almost felt that such a man must have created it. In fact, John
Smith will stand out in my experience as the most remarkable case I
have known. He believed until he became.”
“As you say, he believed until he became. And he made a prophecy which
he has lived to fulfill.”
“What was the prophecy he made?”
“That he would heal the wounds of the world.”
“I wonder, I wonder.”
“Oh ye of little faith!” whispered the vicar. The tears that rose to
his eyes were like the blood of his heart.
Hardly had Mr. Perry-Hennington spoken the words when both he and
Doctor Thorp perceived a stir at the doors of the main entrance to the
institution, now in view at the far end of the corridor along which
they were passing. No more than a glance was needed to tell them that
the deputation was in the act of arrival. Beyond the open doors, a
large motor car and an imposing array of silk hats were clearly visible
in the half-light of the wet afternoon.
As the doctor and the vicar came to the main entrance, several persons
entered the building. Foremost of these were Gervase Brandon and a very
noble-looking old man with snow-white hair and the eyes of a child. In
one hand he carried his hat, in the other a large bunch of lilies held
together with a broad ribbon of white satin.
“Dr. Thorp,” said Brandon, with a happy and proud smile. “I have
the great honor and privilege to present Dr. Kurt Christiansen,
whose reputation has long preceded him. At the instance of a neutral
government he has come to this country to pay in the name of humanity
the world’s homage to our dear friend.”
Solemn but cordial bows were exchanged and then Dr. Thorp replied,
“I grieve to have to tell you, sir, that our dear friend has already
passed.”
The childlike bearer of the lilies looked very simply into the doctor’s
eyes. “Dead,” he said.
“But being dead liveth,” said a tall clergyman from the background in a
whispered tone of new authority.
There followed a moment of silence and constraint. And then it was very
unexpectedly shattered by a wild appearance, grinning with strange joy
and crying in an alien tongue, “He is risen! He is risen!”
Only the prompt intervention of Dr. Thorp prevented this figure of
fantasy flinging its arms round the neck of Mr. Sigismund Prosser, C.B.
An international incident of some magnitude was thus averted, for the
representative of the Royal Academy of Literature had recently said at
a public meeting that “he had done with Goethe forever.”