Per Iter Tenebricosum
After Elsa had rejected any further collaboration with me, I was forced
at times to consult Nordenholt upon certain points in my schemes which
seemed to me to require the criticism of a fresh mind; and I thus fell
into the habit of seeing him in his office at intervals.
“Things are in a bad way, Jack,” he said to me at the end of one of
these interviews. “You don’t see everything that’s going on, of course;
so you couldn’t be expected to be on the alert for it; but it’s only
right to warn you that we’re coming up against the biggest trouble
we’ve had yet in the Area.”
“Of course things are anything but satisfactory, I know,” I replied.
“The output’s going down and there seems to be no way of screwing the
men up to increase it. But is it really fatal, do you think? We seem
even now to have the thing well in hand.”
I glanced up at the great Nitrogen Curve above the fireplace. The red
and green lines upon it appeared to me to show a state of affairs
which, if not all that we could wish, was at least satisfactory as
compared with what might have been. Nordenholt followed my glance.
“That practical trend of mind which you have, Jack, sometimes keeps
you from seeing realities. What lies at the root of the trouble just
now isn’t output or slackness or anything like that. These are only
symptoms of the real disease. It’s not in the concrete things that
I see the danger, except indirectly. The true peril comes from the
intangibles; ideas, states of mind, sub-conscious reflections. I’ve
told you often that the material world is only the outward show which
hardly matters: the real things are the minds of the men who live in
it. It’s their movements you need to look at if you want to gauge
affairs.”
“I stick to what I know, Nordenholt, as I’ve often told you. I’m no
psychologist; and I have to look on the material side because I’m out
of my depth in the other. But let’s hear what you have in your mind
about the state of affairs.”
“Well, you’ve been busy enough with your own work; so probably you
haven’t had time to observe how things are going; but I can put the
thing in a nutshell. We’ve weathered a good many difficulties; but
now we’re up against the biggest of them all. I see all the signs of
a revival in the near future--and it isn’t going to be a Christian
revival. It spells trouble of the worst description.”
Now that my attention had been drawn to the point, a score of incidents
flashed across my mind in confirmation of what he said. I had noticed
an increased attendance at the meetings of street-preachers; and also
a growth in the number of the preachers themselves. As I went about
the city in the evenings I had seen in many places knots of people
assembled round some speaker who, with emotion-contorted visage, was
striving to move them by his eloquence.
Once I had even stopped for a few minutes to listen to a sermon being
preached outside the Central Station by the Reverend John P. Wester;
and I still remembered the effect which it had produced upon me. He
was a tall man with a flowing red beard and a voice which enabled him
to make himself heard to huge audiences in the open air. He repelled
me by the cloudiness of his utterances--I hate loose thinking--and
also by the touch of fanaticism which clung to his discourses; for I
instinctively detest a fanatic. Yet in spite of this I felt strangely
attracted by him. He had the gift of gripping his hearers; and I could
see how he played upon them as a great musician plays upon a favourite
instrument. Remotely he reminded me of Nordenholt in the way in which
he seemed to know by instinct the points to which his rhetorical
attacks should be directed; but the resemblance between the two men
ended at this. It was always reason to which Nordenholt appealed in
the end; whilst emotional chords were the ones which the Reverend John
fingered with success.
“Now you’ve told me, I believe you’re right,” I said. “I _have_ seen
signs of something like a revival. The crowds seem to be taking a
greater interest in religion.”
“I wish they would,” Nordenholt returned, abruptly. “They won’t get it
from the Reverend John. He’s out for something quite different. It’s
just what I feared would happen, sooner or later. It always crops up
under conditions like those we are in just now. We’ve strained the
human machine to its utmost in all this work; and we’re on the edge of
possibilities in the way of collective hysteria.
“Now that man Wester is at the root of half the trouble we are having
just now. I don’t mean that he is creating it; nothing of that sort:
but his personality forms a centre round which the thing collects.
The thing itself is there anyway: but if it weren’t for him and some
others, it would remain fluid; it wouldn’t become really dangerous.
But Wester is a fanatic and with his oratorical powers he carries
the weaker people off their feet, especially the women. He’s got a
following. What worries me is, where he’s going to lead them. He’s got
a kink in him. Still, I’m trusting that we may be able to weather the
thing without using force even now. But if he goes too far, I’ll break
him like _that_.”
He tapped a stick of sealing wax on his desk and broke it in two.
Again I reflected how unlike this was to the Nordenholt I had known at
first, the man who could unfold huge plans without so much as a gesture
to help out his meaning. He must have read the thought in my eyes, for
he laughed, half at himself, I think.
“Quite right, Jack. These theatrical touches seem to be growing on me,
of late. I must really try to cure myself. But, all the same, I mean
to keep my eye on the Reverend John. If he sets up as a prophet--and I
expect he will do that one of these days--I’ll take the risk and put
him down. But it’s a tricky business, I can tell you. Until he actually
becomes dangerous, I shall let him go on.”
It was only natural, after that, for me to take more interest in the
career of the Reverend John. I even attended one of his open-air
meetings from start to finish; and I was still more impressed by his
command over his hearers. The material of his sermons seemed to me
commonplace in the extreme: it was not by the novelty of his subjects
but by his personal force that he impressed his audiences and raised
them to a state of exaltation. Zion, the River, The Tree of Life, Eden,
the loosing of burdens, rest and joy eternal: all the old phrases
were utilised. From what I heard of his preaching, it seemed to me
innocuous. A brief time of suffering and sorrow upon earth and then
the heavens would open and the Elect would enter into their endless
happiness: these appeared to be the elements of the creed which he
expounded; and I could see little reason for Nordenholt’s anxiety.
At last, however, I began to notice something novel in the sermons. The
change came so gradually that I could hardly be sure when it began.
Probably he had opened up his fresh line so tentatively that I had not
observed it at the time; and it was only after he had already been
changing step by step in his subject that I became clearly conscious of
his new tone.
With the greatest skill he contrived to use the old expressions while
inflecting them with a fresh intention. At last, however, there could
be no doubt as to his meaning. It was no longer Christianity that he
preached, but a kind of bastard Buddhism. Up to that point in his
career he had spoken of earthly affairs as a trial through which we
must pass in order to attain to bliss in the Hereafter; but in his
newer phase the things of the material world became entirely secondary.
Eternal rest, eternal joy, eternal peace: these were his main themes;
and to the exhausted and nerve-racked population they had an attraction
of the most subtle kind. The Reverend John was a psychologist like
Nordenholt, though he worked in a narrower groove; and he well knew how
to utilise the levers of the human consciousness. Eternal rest! What
more attractive prospect could be held out to that toil-worn race?
Slowly, with the most gradual of transitions, he began to assume the
mantle of a prophet; and with that phase new names began to emerge in
his discourses. The Four Truths, the Middle Path, the Five Hindrances,
Arahatship, Karma: these cropped up from time to time in sermons which
were daily becoming wilder in their phraseology.
I have no wish to be unfair to the Reverend John. He was a fanatic;
and no fanatic is entirely sane. I am sure, also, that in the earlier
stages of his campaign he strove merely for the spiritual good of the
people as he understood it. But it is necessary to say also that I
believe he became crazed in the end; and that the ultimate effect of
his preaching led us to the very edge of disaster. It is not for me to
weigh or judge him; he preferred his visions to material safety; whilst
my own mind is concerned more with the things of this earth than with
what may come later.
His preaching now passed into a stage where even I could appreciate
its dangerous character. More and more, his sermons took the form of
belittlings of the material world; while the joys of eternal life were
held up in comparison. It was not long until he was openly questioning
whether our human existence was worth prolonging at all. Would it
not be better, he asked, to throw off these shackles of the Flesh at
once rather than live for a few years longer amid the sorrows and
temptations of this world? Why not discard this earthly mantle and
enter at once into Nirvana?
This appeared to me a mere preaching of suicide; but if his followers
chose to adopt his suggestions, it seemed to me a matter for
themselves. I had always regarded suicide as the back-door out of life;
though I had never under-estimated the courage of those who turn its
handle. Yet it seemed to me evidence of a certain want of toughness of
fibre, a lack of fitness to survive; and, personally, I had no desire
to retain in the world anyone who seemed unable to bear its strains.
His next phase of development, however, opened my eyes. By this time he
had become a great power among the people. Many a king has been treated
with less reverence than his followers showed to him. Crowds flocked
to his meetings, standing thickly even when they stretched far beyond
the reach of that magnificent voice. In the streets he was saluted as
though he were a superhuman agent. There were attempts made to get him
to touch the sick in the hope that he might heal them.
From afar, Nordenholt watched all this rising surge of emotion. In some
ways, the two men resembled each other; but their motives were wide
apart as the Poles. Both had their ideals, higher than the normal;
but these ideals were in deadly antagonism to each other. Both, it is
possible, were right; but the clash of right with right is the highest
form of tragedy; and collision between them was inevitable.
“The Reverend John has been a great disappointment to me, Jack,”
Nordenholt admitted to me one day. “That man has the makings of a
great demagogue or a great saint in him; and it seems to me that the
spin of the coin has gone against me, for I thought the saint would
come uppermost. He isn’t as big as I thought he was. His head has
been turned by all this adulation; and unless I am mistaken again we
shall find him becoming a public danger before very long. He thinks he
has his own work to do, preparing for the Kingdom of Heaven; and in
doing that he seems to sweep aside all earthly affairs as trifles. He
despises them. I don’t. To me, he seems to be like a child in a game
who won’t abide by the rules. His heaven may be all right; but if it
is to be attained by shirking one’s work on earth--not _striving_ to
live--it seems to me a poor business. I think life is important, or it
wouldn’t exist; and I’m working to keep it in existence. He seems to
believe it is of no value, if he really means what he says. We can’t
agree, that’s evident.”
It was not long before the Reverend John’s campaign filled even my
mind with apprehension. His style of preaching changed and grew more
incoherent; his phraseology became wilder; and a minatory tone crept
into his sermons. And the tremendous personality of the speaker,
coupled with all the art of the orator, made even these obscure ravings
powerful to influence the minds of his hearers.
He began to speak of curses from heaven upon a generation which had
forgotten the right path. The Famine was a sign that all life was to be
swept from the earth’s face. And thence he passed to the proposition
that any struggling against the Famine was a hindrance to the workings
of the universe.
I think that it was about this time that he discarded ordinary clothes
and began to go about clad in a curious garment manufactured from
the skin of some animal. Except for his fiery beard, he recalled the
sandal-shod John the Baptist represented in old illustrated Bibles. Nor
was he alone in this fashion: some of his more prominent adherents also
adopted it, though in their cases the results were not so imposing.
And now things moved rapidly towards their end.
The Reverend John preached daily in the streets, predicting a universal
entry into Nirvana. His curses against those who worked for the
physical salvation of the people to the detriment of their Karma became
louder and more frequent; and it was not long until he spent most of
his energies in comminations. From cursings, he passed to threats; and
his attacks upon Nordenholt grew in vehemence day by day. And still
Nordenholt, to my growing wonder, held his hand and forbore to strike.
By this time the religious mania was spreading rapidly throughout
the population of the Area. The skin-clad followers of the Reverend
John ran nightly through the streets crying that the Great Day was at
hand and calling upon the people to repent of their sins and turn to
righteousness. Strange scenes were witnessed; and stranger doctrines
preached. It was a weird time.
Meanwhile, the preaching of the revivalist was becoming more and
more exalted. He named himself a Prophet, the last and the greatest.
He began to be more definite in his predictions; events which he
foreshadowed were foretold as coming to pass at stated dates. At last
he gave out that three days later he and his followers would publicly
ascend to heaven in a cloud of glory; and that the world of earthly
things would pass away as he did so.
And still Nordenholt held his hand. I could not understand it; for
by this time I had seen where the teaching of the Reverend John was
leading us. Work was slowing down in the factories; crowds of all
classes were spending their whole time following their Prophet;
and the mere numbers of them were becoming a serious menace to the
safety of the Area. At last I became so anxious on the subject that I
went to consult Nordenholt on the matter. I had begun to doubt if he
appreciated the gravity of the situation.
I found him sitting before the fire in his office, smoking and gazing
before him as though wrapped in his reflections.
“Look here, Nordenholt,” I said. “I suppose you grasp the seriousness
of affairs nowadays? Isn’t it about time something was done? It seems
to me that you’ll need to grasp this nettle before long anyway. Why let
it grow any bigger?”
“Afraid I’m losing my grip, eh? Not yet, Jack, not yet awhile. But I
will _grasp_ it before long. I’m only waiting the proper moment. I’ve
waited for weeks; and now I think it’s nearly due at last.”
“But the man’s insane, Nordenholt. You see that, don’t you? Why wait
any longer. Grab him now and be done with it--at least that’s what I
should do if I were in charge.”
“No, I’m going to give him three days more. If I interfered now, it
would spoil everything. Wait till he has seen his prophecy fail, and
then we can tackle him.”
“I don’t see any use waiting; but I suppose you know best.”
“I do know best, Jack, believe me. Come back here in three days, at
half-past eleven, and you’ll see my methods. I’m going to teach these
people a lesson this time.”
He leaned back in his chair and fixed his eyes on the old stone image
of the Pope’s head which, under its glass bell, forms part of the
mantelpiece.
“What differences there are in the way religion works on a man, Jack.
There was an old chap in the dark ages, that Pope; and he believed in
spreading the light by education. He founded the University here. And
then you have this fanatic to-day whose one idea seems to be to reduce
everything to chaos again. What a difference! And yet each of them
thinks that he is inspired to do the right thing in his day.”
He threw away the end of his cigar and rose.
“Come back in three days, Jack. You’ll see it all then. I needn’t
explain it now.”
* * * * *
The events of the following two days filled me with uneasiness; and I
began to fear that for once Nordenholt had erred in his calculations.
The tumult and agitation centring around the figure of the revivalist
increased; his preaching became more and more menacing; and it seemed
to me that he had been allowed too much rope. By this time he was
quite frankly attacking the whole scheme of the Nitrogen Area as an
act of impiety which would call down the wrath of the Divinity in the
immediate future. And mingled with these cursings he poured forth his
prophecies, which grew hourly more detailed. He and his Elect would
ascend into the sky at noon, he declared; and that all men might see
this come about, he proposed to take his stand by the Roberts’ statue
in Kelvingrove Park, from which eminence he would be visible to the
assembled crowds.
Rumours ran through the Area, growing wilder and yet more wild as they
passed from lip to lip. Even the most unimaginative of the population
felt the strange electric power which seemed to flow out from the
revivalist; and the tales of his doings were magnified and distorted
out of all semblance of reality. Just as Nordenholt had predicted, all
the formless unrest of the Area crystallised round the personality of
the preacher and took shape and substance. Work was abandoned by the
greater part of the Area labour; and the factories, usually thronged by
shift after shift, remained almost untenanted during those two days in
which the populace awaited the promised miracle.
Meanwhile the followers of the revivalist redoubled their efforts and
their conduct grew less and less restrained. The labourers who remained
at work were assaulted by bands of these fanatics, and driven from the
doors of the factories. Order seemed to have vanished from the Area;
for I found that Nordenholt had withdrawn the Labour Defence Force
entirely from the streets, allowing the madmen to do their will. It
seemed as though the Area were being permitted to relapse into chaos.
The uninterrupted preaching of the revivalist had wrought the whole
population into a state of strained expectation. Even those who scoffed
at his claims were affected by the atmosphere of the time; and there
was in most minds an uneasy questioning: “Suppose that it should all be
true?”
* * * * *
At half-past eleven, I went to Nordenholt’s office as I had promised.
He was alone, seated at his huge desk. The usual mass of papers had
been cleared away and I noticed that their place had been taken by
a small piece of apparatus like a telephone in some respects and an
ordinary electric bell-push on a wooden stand. Temporary wires ran from
these to the window.
“Come in, Jack. You’re just in time for the curtain.”
“It seems to me, Nordenholt, that the curtain ought to have been rung
down on this thing long ago. You’ve waited far too long, if you ask me.”
“I don’t think I’ve miscalculated. And to tell you the truth, Jack,
this is the biggest thing I’ve had to think out so far. It’s make or
break with us this time; and we’ve never been as near disaster before.
But I’ve thought it out; and I believe I’m right. Have a cigar.”
He pushed a box across to me and I cut and lit one mechanically.
“This thing here,” he tapped the instrument, “is a dictaphone. The
transmitter’s fixed up in the statue over there.”
He nodded in the direction of the Park below our windows. I got up and
looked out. As far as my view reached, the ground was concealed by a
closely-packed crowd of people, all standing motionless and intent upon
the group on the open space around the statue. There had been some
singing of hymns earlier in the morning; but now the vast concourse had
fallen silent as their expectation rose to fever-heat and the hour of
the miracle drew near.
“I’m going to give him every chance,” said Nordenholt’s voice behind
me. “Let him pull off his miracle if he can. If he can’t, then I expect
trouble; and at the first word of danger I hear, I’ll settle with
him at last. I don’t mind his preaching suicide; but if he starts to
threaten the work of the Area, it will be on his own head.”
The three-quarters had struck from the great bells above our heads;
and, a few minutes later, Nordenholt switched on the dictaphone.
Suddenly the clarion voice of the revivalist seemed to fill the room in
which we stood.
“My brothers! In a few brief moments I shall leave you, ascending in
glory to the skies. While I am yet with you, heed my words. Turn from
this idle show which blinds your eyes. Turn from this heavy labour and
unceasing toil. Turn from this valley of sin and sorrow. Turn from the
lusts of the flesh and the lures of material things. Long and weary has
been the way; life after life have we suffered, but when we pass into
Nirvana there is rest for you, rest for each of you, eternal rest! O my
brothers, all that are worn with the bearing of burdens, all that are
taxed beyond your powers, all that are a-faint and borne down, follow
after me into Nirvana, where none shall be a-weary and where all shall
rest. There shall be no more toil, no more fatigue, no more striving
and no more labour. There shall be rest, everlasting rest, a long
sweet slumber under the trees, while the river flows by your feet and
its murmur lulls you in your eternal rest.”
Even in the harsh reproduction of the dictaphone I could feel the
magic of the cadences of that splendid voice, soothing, comforting,
promising the multitude the prize which to them must have seemed the
most desirable of all. And through it all the steady repetition of
“Rest” ran with an almost hypnotic effect. Incoherent though it was,
the appeal struck at the very centre of each over-driven being in that
throng.
“Rest, rest for all. Surcease of toil. Do you not feel it already,
my brothers? Languor creeps over you; you faint as you stand. And
I promise rest to you all. Follow me and you shall rest in those
fields; there where you may dream away the long, long days among the
flowers, lying at ease. There where the songs of birds shall but stir
you faintly in your dreams, and all the tumult of the world shall be
stilled within your ears.”
He paused; and the silence seemed almost like a continuation of his
speech. The multitude seemed frozen into stone. Then came an isolated
phrase:
“Into Nirvana; Nirvana where there is rest....”
The voice died away in a soothing murmur which yet had its compelling
power. Nordenholt looked at his watch.
“Two minutes yet. So far, he hasn’t been actively objectionable; but I
can guess what is coming.”
Again the dictaphone sounded.
“But a few moments now, my brothers, then I and my Elect shall ascend
into the skies. Look well, O my brothers. Mark our passage to our rest.”
His voice ceased. There was a dead silence. Then, suddenly, with
a preliminary vibration of machinery, the clock above us struck.
Four double chimes for the quarters and then the heavy note of the
hour-strokes. Nordenholt listened grimly until all twelve had been
rung. Then I heard his voice, even as ever, without the faintest tinge
of irony:
“The passing bell!”
With the twelfth stroke there came through the windows a great wave
of indescribable sound, the loosing of breath among the thousands who
were gathered far below us in the Kelvin valley. Then again there was
silence. Nordenholt suddenly leaned forward to his desk and placed his
finger on the ivory button.
“Now’s the danger-point, Jack. He’ll try to divert attention from his
failure. But I’m ready for him.”
I began mechanically to count seconds, with no particular reason, but
simply because I felt I must do something. Two minutes passed; and
then through the windows came a long groaning note, the voice of the
multitude smitten with disillusion at the failure of the miracle which
they had expected. It rolled in a huge volume of sound across the Park
and then died away.
Suddenly the dictaphone poured out a torrent of words. The voice was no
longer calm; all the quiet strength had gone out of it, and, instead,
the tones were those of an infuriated man seeking some object upon
which to wreak his anger. But with all his rage the Reverend John had
a ready mind. In a moment he seems to have seen a possible loophole of
escape.
“No!” he cried, “I will not ascend for yet awhile. Work remains to be
done here, in this godless city; and I will renounce my rest until it
has been brought to its end. Life must cease ere I can seek my rest. I
bid you follow me that we may accomplish the task which has been laid
upon me. Over yonder”--he evidently pointed towards us--“over yonder
sits the Arch-Enemy; he who strives to chain pure spirits in this
web of flesh. His hand is on all this city, so that the smoke of her
burning goes up to the skies. Break asunder the chains which he is
forging. Destroy the evil works which he has planned. Wreck the engines
which he has designed. Come, my brothers; the doom is pronounced
against all the works of his hand. Come, follow me and end it all.
Destroy! Destroy! so that this world of sorrow and of sin may pass away
like an evil vision and life may be no more. Destroy! Destroy!”
Nordenholt, listening intently, pressed his finger upon the ivory
stud. There was a moment’s pause, and then from the eastern end of the
building came a sound of machine-guns. It lasted only for a few seconds
and then died out.
“They couldn’t miss at that range,” said Nordenholt. “That’s the end of
the Reverend John personally. But I doubt if we are finished with him
altogether even now.”