_Practical Idealism_
When Mr. Trimblerigg again woke, he was happy; he had an idea, and
the idea was entirely his own. It was not less his own because it had
flashed into life during his talk with Davidina, or because it ran on
diametrically opposite lines (up to a certain point, at least) from his
previous policy of black-and-tan stripes and head-downward reprisals.
The thing which had been ‘absolutely necessary’ the day before and
on those grounds had been justified, was now a discarded, if not a
discredited device. He had found a better. It was inconsistent, no
doubt; for if it could be put into practice now, it could have been
put into practice earlier, and the tarrings and the featherings and
the rest need never have happened. But it is no good condemning Mr.
Trimblerigg for his inconsistencies; they were as much a part of that
strangely divided unity, his character, as the extreme notes which
give the range of a singer’s voice; and even when he had a divided
mind, it served like the divided hoof of the mountain goat which gives
nimbleness and elasticity to the tread. Often and often, because of his
divided mind, his enemies did not know where to have him, nor sometimes
where he would have them.
In these see-saw gymnastics his doctrine of Relative Truth helped him
not a little. Mr. Trimblerigg never worried about methods; he judged
himself only by results, and expected the world to have as short a
memory as his own and to do likewise.
And I cannot deny that if results are a justification for doubtful
faith and slippery dealings, results often did justify him; and many of
his flashlight successes were won entirely because he had a mind of
two parts diametrically opposed, which he never troubled to reconcile.
They were there for alternate use and combined effect, just as oil and
vinegar are used by a maker of salads--opposites resulting in a balance
of flavour.
And undoubtedly, though they produced a mixed record, the tactical
advantage was great. For what enemy of sane mind could anticipate
attack from such opposite quarters as those chosen by Mr. Trimblerigg
when he found himself in a tight place? It was not the simple strategy
of a general whose armies came into action simultaneously from north
and south; it was rather the conjuration of a wizard able to summon to
his aid at the same moment and for a common end the hosts of Heaven and
the powers of Hell--or of one who came offering peace, with a dove in
one hand and a vulture in the other, undecided up to the last moment
which of the two he intended to let go.
So it was when, in all the freshness of his new idea, Mr. Trimblerigg
set out to play the god--the god of peace, mercy, and reconciliation
to the expropriated natives of Puto-Congo; not because he regarded
it as specially true to his character, or as the better hole to fall
into--for to fall he did not intend; but because the coming of Davidina
had made him realize that a sporting alternative to reprisals did
actually exist; and being a sportsman by instinct, where matters of
principle were concerned, he saw it adventurously as the obvious game
to play.
Having made up his mind to it, he played it with a swift hand, and
three days later set off unattended for the upper wilds of Ray River
Territory (into which the elusive natives had gradually retired) with
nothing to protect him but the safe conduct of one of their chiefs whom
he had made captive, and whom he now released handsomely on parole to
be his fore-runner and messenger.
And who, seeing him thus set forth, his feet shod with the preparation
of the gospel of peace, his loins girt with truth, and having on the
shield of faith, and the sword of the spirit, who, seeing him so
arrayed, could ever have supposed that at the same time he had planned,
swiftly and covertly, a forced march of armed missionaries by night
to secure at dawn the ratification of an imposed treaty; and that the
signal of their presence was to be--not indeed the dropping of bombs
and the rattle of machine-guns (though the bombs and machine-guns
were to be all there, primed and ready to let go), but a strain of
holy voices setting forth the alternative thus presented, threat and
persuasion combined, to the tune of the Puto-Congo love-chant, which
from time immemorial the young warriors had sung in spring outside the
wigwams of their beloved ones.
It was possible to suppose one or other of two such courses of action:
but to imagine them inextricably combined as the single homogeneous
plan of a sane mind was altogether beyond reckoning; only Mr.
Trimblerigg could have thought of it, only Mr. Trimblerigg could have
asked a blessing for it--as he confidently did, in his prayers, and
have gone forth to the experiment assured that he had not only the
bombs and the machine-guns with him, but the favour of Heaven as well.
And though a word from Davidina had prompted it, he was quite right in
saying that the idea was entirely his own.
And so at dawn of the third day his idea came to fruition, and Mr.
Trimblerigg saw the desire of his soul and was satisfied. He had
laboured for long hours in the rough council chamber of the tribe,
and his efforts still hovered between success and failure, when the
wailing sound of the love-chant arose in the woods without; and all
the warriors, struck mute by the wonder of it, stiffened and sat up
on their haunches. And as they listened they joined hands, and their
faces softened as the growing light of day crept in through the wattled
walls. Then Mr. Trimblerigg took up a banjo which he had brought with
him, and though no expert as a musician, played his country’s national
anthem upon one note; and then ‘Rock of Ages’; and then, in alternate
phrases (‘_Nothing in my hand I bring, God save our gracious King_’),
the two tunes combined: a symbolic performance emblematic of the Treaty
of Peace which he now called on them to sign. And there he was, still
in their hands, confident, resourceful, self-assured, with nothing to
save him from death but his calculative understanding of human nature,
and the soft drift of the love-chant coming like bird-song from the
wood.
Then, through his interpreter, he spoke the final word, in so
persuasive a voice and with so smiling a face, that they could not but
feel that all was now well; and with nod and grunt, and soft patting
of palm on thigh, and slow swayings to and fro, they glimmered back at
him, suspicious no more of one so equal and fearless, and confiding,
sitting peacefully in their midst.
‘Brothers,’ he said, ‘these are your white friends, who have come,
feeling their way through the dark night with hands eager for the dawn,
to know whether we have indeed made peace. We have, have we not? I told
them that I should be here sowing seed fit for fruit-bearing, and that
in the night it would take root, and grow, and become a tree wherein
the love-singers would nest: I told them to wait and hope. But their
hope was so great that they could wait no more; therefore have they
come. Their eager hearts have led them through the blackness and terror
of night to behold the glad faces of their dark brothers shining to
welcome them. O Brothers, what matters a little giving and taking on
this side or on that, if only we can be at peace, and share together
the heat and light of the sun which are, indeed, so abundant that if we
each take half it will be better for us. Hark! they have learned your
song of love, and you shall learn ours; let us go out and meet them!’
He rose and led the dazed and awe-struck natives to the gate of their
stockade; then, as it opened, skipped nimbly across to the shelter of
that happy band of pilgrims, who, wearing white robes and carrying
guns concealed under palm-branches, stood and smiled amicably upon the
situation which Mr. Trimblerigg had prepared for them.
The faces of the chiefs fell; without a word they stepped back into
the council chamber where lay the drafted treaty, cut each a small
wrist-vein and signed it in his blood. ‘Our tribe will kill us for
this,’ said one chief as he affixed his mark. And two months later he
was dead.
And Mr. Trimblerigg, having successfully won his point, by a
judicious mixture of incompatible principles, was quite pleased with
himself--and me. For while he took over most of the credit, he did
not forget his stars for having made him the man he was. Grateful
as well as gratified, and very tired after all his efforts, he fell
asleep without having risen from his knees. And as in that attitude
he slept the sleep of the just, with just a suspicion of the crocean
dawn once more illuminating the pillow on which at sideway turn his
head so confidingly rested, I felt once again that curious sense of
helplessness which his achievement of a good conscience always imposed
on me; and the old doubt recurred--difficult to put into words, but
virtually to this effect: was the relation between us a reality or only
a dream; did he belong to me, or did I belong to him? Was I using him,
or was he using me? Ought I to consider myself anything more than a
rather shining reflector of his brain?
All through the world’s history there have been men doubtful of
their makers, honestly incredulous of the source from which they
sprung--infidels, sceptics, atheists--of lives too short to mark the
changes, vicissitudes and final disappearance of the creeds they would
not hold. Many such have I known with sympathy and with understanding;
but Mr. Trimblerigg, so far as my experience goes, is the unique
instance of that process reversed--one who has raised a like doubt in
the mind of his creator. Was he really mine, or did I only dream of him
as fantastically as he so often dreamed of me? Now he has gone from me,
and I do not know: perhaps I never shall. But if in that other region
to which he has now passed he has at last found not me but himself--and
in that image has satisfied the requirements of his soul--can it be
called a lost one--so far as he is concerned?
His work accomplished, he returned home. Incidentally the ship which
bore him and his fortunes back to the old world encountered storm
almost the whole way. But Mr. Trimblerigg’s conscience was at peace,
and he was not afraid. For myself I own that I was anxious; I never
quite know how storms are going to end; and I did not wish, at this
juncture, to lose Mr. Trimblerigg merely by accident.