“Well,” said Lord de Jones, taking Frank by the arm and leading him into
a similar establishment almost next door, “if they are off, we shall
continue by ourselves.” And he ordered more champagne and more chicken.
The hour was far advanced into the morning and the last revellers were
leaving the premises. The band played on sulkily for the two new
visitors and looked appealingly at the waiters. “Look here, Dickin,” de
Jones said, rather thickly, “you’re a jolly good sort and I am awful
fond of you.”
“I, too, I really am, very fond of you, more than I can say.”
The wine had done its noble work: they lived in a world of mutual and
uncritical esteem.
“By Jove, you’re a fine fellow, Dickin, that’s what you are! A fine
fellow. A _fine fellow_. And a damn good writer too!”
Frank remembered through his dim but blissful state that de Jones could
never be persuaded to read a book of any sort, let alone Frank’s novels,
but now this fact did not detract, but rather added value to the
sincerity of the noble lord’s appreciation. And, when, with swelling
heart, Frank answered, “And I feel, de Jones, you’re first among
contemporary scientists!” he really felt it. As the waiter opened a new
bottle of champagne, Lord de Jones lapsed into reminiscence. “Why do I
love that girl? Traits of her mother? As a young man I did not care for
women, and they did not care for me. You see what I look like. A
Frenchwoman once described my appearance as ‘_ignoble_’! But that one
when I saw her first in Russia! Now, of course, she is nothing much to
look at. But at that time she was extraordinarily good looking--better
than her daughters. I was constrained by her husband and was half blind
to her suggestive looks. I wouldn’t listen. Till one day as I was
leaving her she fell before me on the floor. That somehow got hold of my
senses. Raymond dates back to that incident, I believe. The vision of
her prostrate on the floor haunted me always. It made me come back to
her. I always went back. And now’s she’s too old.... I am drunk or I
wouldn’t be telling you this.”
He was silent a while. “Eva, Dickin,” he said. “He abducted her, but we
two can go on loving her more than _he_ will ever understand....”
Dickin’s eyes filled. “We love her,” he said. “We all love her. Perhaps
Ottercove too loves her. Why can’t we all love her and love one
another?”
“Don’t I know my excellent uncle Lord O.! Have you seen him sign himself
‘O.’? A tremendous O. Nevertheless, the numerical symbol.”
“You are hard on the baron.”
“Am I? I like his boyishness, his prodigious vitality. He is a Hannibal
playing quoits with the world. Not, I regret to say, because he loves
the world, but because he loves playing quoits. But a rather lovable
_enfant terrible_ all the same. He could have helped me. But he would
back out of it next day. He has no large plan of action; but he conceals
this very cleverly by dramatising every little situation on the spur of
the moment, improvising campaigns at the turn of an effective phrase,
and making you think that his least bit of whim is the component part of
a large premeditated whole.”
“I know. A sort of second inspiration known to dramatists, more clever
but more freakish than the main idea.”
“Exactly. But he has no main idea, unless it be a certain feeling for
caution, which, coupled with his second inspiration in which he is a
virtuoso, determines his success. He may turn into a great peacemaker
to-morrow, and the day after find himself uttering: ‘It is not peace I
have brought, but a sword,’ and side with the forces of war; and, in
turn, prove successful in each. I am bitter because I cannot get him to
help me in my mission without resorting to subterfuge, which maddens me.
This idiotic crop-growing scheme! He was quick enough to seize it for
his own journalistic ends without bothering to probe the scientific
aspect. If I could make him understand my real motive I might fire his
imagination for a day; but he would sleep on it (he always sleeps on all
important questions and telephones his decision in the morning), sleep
on it and ring me up at dawn: ‘Look here, Chris. It is a brilliant idea.
But I advise you against it. Why? It would not do you any good. Good-bye
to you,’ and hang up the receiver. ‘Do you no good.’ Not him, no! No
advertising possibilities. Actors and audience simultaneously reduced to
smithereens!
“Why should we regret it? Schopenhauer could not understand how it was
that man, in the teeth of all this pain and hell of life, had not the
sense and pluck to end it. Wherever I look, in every moment there is
pain. The pain of memory, the pain of anxiety, the pain of sheer
dullness, the pain of regret. You cannot think either backward or
forward for ten minutes without a pang of pain. Then why should we be
sorry to quit it, to take ourselves away to where pain cannot reach us?
“‘_Who breathes must suffer and who thinks must mourn,_
_And he alone is blest who ne’er was born._’
“It’s a poor life, Dickin. The more successful, the more multifarious
and sensitive, the more painful. We are, with our birth, caught in a
vice and cannot away. You don’t believe in the devil. But I do. The
brain is the devil. A malignant cancerous growth. It’s a mockery from
start to finish. We are simply made to chase after our own tail, and
Satan stands by and laughs: ‘Let us see whether they have sense and
pluck enough to end it.’ The mundane life is a blind avenue we have
strayed into while nobody was looking. We must get out. There is no
other course. We do not belong here. Do not the eyes of humans and
beasts alike tell you that we do not belong here? We must quit _en
masse_, get away.
“The cruelty and pain of this world. The pain and cruelty. Donkeys and
mules goaded with a stick; the resigned suffering in their eyes. The
Arabs cut their donkeys and then prod the wound: ‘Go on, damn you.’ And,
in the same way, we are all goaded. On the raw, or we won’t move. Goaded
by desire, remorse, love, hope, despair.... Hourly, minute by minute.
“This is not an age that believes in the coming of a new Messiah. It
believes, foolishly, in what it can touch and see. What will you say,
Dickin, when I tell you that already as a youth I had intimations of a
mission, of being a--don’t laugh--a new Messiah, clad not in fine
raiment, nor born in a manger, but in the fashion of the age
scientifically equipped! Christ showed the way, but lacked the
mechanical means. He said this visible world had to be completely and
utterly destroyed: He waited for the miracle: but none came. Christ had
love, but no dynamite.
“But not for ever will mankind be mocked. My friends, the hour of
deliverance is at hand. How is it?: ‘I am the Resurrection and the
Life.’ The Resurrection and the Life.” Suddenly his eyes were moist. He
wept.
As they walked back it was light and the birds were twittering in the
square.