"In my best clothes," shouted the Turk, "the ones I stole." And he clad
himself in a splendid turban and a waistcoat embroidered with silver,
and baggy trousers, and a great belt in which were stuck pipes and
pistols and knives.
"And in what clothes will you enter?" said the voice to Mr. Andrews.
Mr. Andrews thought of his best clothes, but he had no wish to wear
them again. At last he remembered and said, "Robes."
"Of what colour and fashion?" asked the voice.
Mr. Andrews had never thought about the matter much. He replied, in
hesitating tones, "White, I suppose, of some flowing soft material,"
and he was immediately given a garment such as he had described. "Do I
wear it rightly?" he asked.
"Wear it as it pleases you," replied the voice. "What else do you
desire?"
"A harp," suggested Mr. Andrews. "A small one."
A small gold harp was placed in his hand.
"And a palm--no, I cannot have a palm, for it is the reward of
martyrdom; my life has been tranquil and happy."
"You can have a palm if you desire it."
But Mr. Andrews refused the palm, and hurried in his white robes after
the Turk, who had already entered Heaven. As he passed in at the open
gate, a man, dressed like himself, passed out with gestures of despair.
"Why is he not happy?" he asked.
The voice did not reply.
"And who are all those figures, seated inside on thrones and mountains?
Why are some of them terrible, and sad, and ugly?"
There was no answer. Mr. Andrews entered, and then he saw that those
seated figures were all the gods who were then being worshipped on the
earth. A group of souls stood round each, singing his praises. But the
gods paid no heed, for they were listening to the prayers of living
men, which alone brought them nourishment. Sometimes a faith would
grow weak, and then the god of that faith also drooped and dwindled
and fainted for his daily portion of incense. And sometimes, owing to
a revivalist movement, or to a great commemoration, or to some other
cause, a faith would grow strong, and the god of that faith grow strong
also. And, more frequently still, a faith would alter, so that the
features of its god altered and became contradictory, and passed from
ecstasy to respectability, or from mildness and universal love to the
ferocity of battle. And at times a god would divide into two gods,
or three, or more, each with his own ritual and precarious supply of
prayer.
Mr. Andrews saw Buddha, and Vishnu, and Allah, and Jehovah, and the
Elohim. He saw little ugly determined gods who were worshipped by a
few savages in the same way. He saw the vast shadowy outlines of the
neo-Pagan Zeus. There were cruel gods, and coarse gods, and tortured
gods, and, worse still, there were gods who were peevish, or deceitful,
or vulgar. No aspiration of humanity was unfulfilled. There was even
an intermediate state for those who wished it, and for the Christian
Scientists a place where they could demonstrate that they had not died.
He did not play his harp for long, but hunted vainly for one of his
dead friends. And though souls were continually entering Heaven, it
still seemed curiously empty. Though he had all that he expected, he
was conscious of no great happiness, no mystic contemplation of beauty,
no mystic union with good. There was nothing to compare with that
moment outside the gate, when he prayed that the Turk might enter and
heard the Turk uttering the same prayer for him. And when at last he
saw his companion, he hailed him with a cry of human joy.
The Turk was seated in thought, and round him, by sevens, sat the
virgins who are promised in the Koran.
"Oh, my dear friend!" he called out. "Come here and we will never be
parted, and such as my pleasures are, they shall be yours also. Where
are my other friends? Where are the men whom I love, or whom I have
killed?"
"I, too, have only found you," said Mr. Andrews. He sat down by the
Turk, and the virgins, who were all exactly alike, ogled them with coal
black eyes.
"Though I have all that I expected," said the Turk, "I am conscious
of no great happiness. There is nothing to compare with that moment
outside the gate when I prayed that you might enter, and heard you
uttering the same prayer for me. These virgins are as beautiful and
good as I had fashioned, yet I could wish that they were better."
As he wished, the forms of the virgins became more rounded, and their
eyes grew larger and blacker than before. And Mr. Andrews, by a wish
similar in kind, increased the purity and softness of his garment and
the glitter of his harp. For in that place their expectations were
fulfilled, but not their hopes.
"I am going," said Mr. Andrews at last. "We desire infinity and we
cannot imagine it. How can we expect it to be granted? I have never
imagined anything infinitely good or beautiful excepting in my dreams."
"I am going with you," said the other.
Together they sought the entrance gate, and the Turk parted with his
virgins and his best clothes, and Mr. Andrews cast away his robes and
his harp.
"Can we depart?" they asked.
"You can both depart if you wish," said the voice, "but remember what
lies outside."
As soon as they passed the gate, they felt again the pressure of
the world soul. For a moment they stood hand in hand resisting it.
Then they suffered it to break in upon them, and they, and all the
experience they had gained, and all the love and wisdom they had
generated, passed into it, and made it better.