XIX. THE LAST PARLEY
Turnbull walked away, wildly trying to explain to himself the
presence of two personal acquaintances so different as Vane and
the girl. As he skirted a low hedge of laurel, an enormously tall
young man leapt over it, stood in front of him, and almost fell
on his neck as if seeking to embrace him.
"Don't you know me?" almost sobbed the young man, who was in the
highest spirits. "Ain't I written on your heart, old boy? I say,
what did you do with my yacht?"
"Take your arms off my neck," said Turnbull, irritably. "Are you
mad?"
The young man sat down on the gravel path and went into ecstasies
of laughter. "No, that's just the fun of it--I'm not mad," he
replied. "They've shut me up in this place, and I'm not mad." And
he went off again into mirth as innocent as wedding-bells.
Turnbull, whose powers of surprise were exhausted, rolled his
round grey eyes and said, "Mr. Wilkinson, I think," because he
could not think of anything else to say.
The tall man sitting on the gravel bowed with urbanity, and said:
"Quite at your service. Not to be confused with the Wilkinsons of
Cumberland; and as I say, old boy, what have you done with my
yacht? You see, they've locked me up here--in this garden--and a
yacht would be a sort of occupation for an unmarried man."
"I am really horribly sorry," began Turnbull, in the last stage
of bated bewilderment and exasperation, "but really----"
"Oh, I can see you can't have it on you at the moment," said Mr.
Wilkinson with much intellectual magnanimity.
"Well, the fact is----" began Turnbull again, and then the phrase
was frozen on his mouth, for round the corner came the goatlike
face and gleaming eye-glasses of Dr. Quayle.
"Ah, my dear Mr. Wilkinson," said the doctor, as if delighted at
a coincidence; "and Mr. Turnbull, too. Why, I want to speak to
Mr. Turnbull."
Mr. Turnbull made some movement rather of surrender than assent,
and the doctor caught it up exquisitely, showing even more of his
two front teeth. "I am sure Mr. Wilkinson will excuse us a
moment." And with flying frock-coat he led Turnbull rapidly round
the corner of a path.
"My dear sir," he said, in a quite affectionate manner, "I do not
mind telling you--you are such a very hopeful case--you
understand so well the scientific point of view; and I don't like
to see you bothered by the really hopeless cases. They are
monotonous and maddening. The man you have just been talking to,
poor fellow, is one of the strongest cases of pure _idee fixe_
that we have. It's very sad, and I'm afraid utterly incurable. He
keeps on telling everybody"--and the doctor lowered his voice
confidentially--"he tells everybody that two people have taken is
yacht. His account of how he lost it is quite incoherent."
Turnbull stamped his foot on the gravel path, and called out:
"Oh, I can't stand this. Really----"
"I know, I know," said the psychologist, mournfully; "it is a
most melancholy case, and also fortunately a very rare one. It is
so rare, in fact, that in one classification of these maladies it
is entered under a heading by itself--Perdinavititis, mental
inflammation creating the impression that one has lost a ship.
Really," he added, with a kind of half-embarrassed guilt, "it's
rather a feather in my cap. I discovered the only existing case of
perdinavititis."
"But this won't do, doctor," said Turnbull, almost tearing his
hair, "this really won't do. The man really did lose a ship.
Indeed, not to put too fine a point on it, I took his ship."
Dr. Quayle swung round for an instant so that his silk-lined
overcoat rustled, and stared singularly at Turnbull. Then he said
with hurried amiability: "Why, of course you did. Quite so, quite
so," and with courteous gestures went striding up the garden
path. Under the first laburnum-tree he stopped, however, and
pulling out his pencil and notebook wrote down feverishly:
"Singular development in the Elenthero-maniac, Turnbull. Sudden
manifestation of Rapinavititis--the delusion that one has stolen
a ship. First case ever recorded."
Turnbull stood for an instant staggered into stillness. Then he
ran raging round the garden to find MacIan, just as a husband,
even a bad husband, will run raging to find his wife if he is
full of a furious query. He found MacIan stalking moodily about
the half-lit garden, after his extraordinary meeting with
Beatrice. No one who saw his slouching stride and sunken head
could have known that his soul was in the seventh heaven of
ecstasy. He did not think; he did not even very definitely
desire. He merely wallowed in memories, chiefly in material
memories; words said with a certain cadence or trivial turns of
the neck or wrist. Into the middle of his stationary and
senseless enjoyment were thrust abruptly the projecting elbow and
the projecting red beard of Turnbull. MacIan stepped back a
little, and the soul in his eyes came very slowly to its windows.
When James Turnbull had the glittering sword-point planted upon
his breast he was in far less danger. For three pulsating seconds
after the interruption MacIan was in a mood to have murdered his
father.
And yet his whole emotional anger fell from him when he saw
Turnbull's face, in which the eyes seemed to be bursting from the
head like bullets. All the fire and fragrance even of young and
honourable love faded for a moment before that stiff agony of
interrogation.
"Are you hurt, Turnbull?" he asked, anxiously.
"I am dying," answered the other quite calmly. "I am in the quite
literal sense of the words dying to know something. I want to
know what all this can possibly mean."
MacIan did not answer, and he continued with asperity: "You are
still thinking about that girl, but I tell you the whole thing is
incredible. She's not the only person here. I've met the fellow
Wilkinson, whose yacht we lost. I've met the very magistrate you
were hauled up to when you broke my window. What can it
mean--meeting all these old people again? One never meets such
old friends again except in a dream."
Then after a silence he cried with a rending sincerity: "Are you
really there, Evan? Have you ever been really there? Am I simply
dreaming?"
MacIan had been listening with a living silence to every word,
and now his face flamed with one of his rare revelations of life.
"No, you good atheist," he cried; "no, you clean, courteous,
reverent, pious old blasphemer. No, you are not dreaming--you are
waking up."
"What do you mean?"
"There are two states where one meets so many old friends," said
MacIan; "one is a dream, the other is the end of the world."
"And you say----"
"I say this is not a dream," said Evan in a ringing voice.
"You really mean to suggest----" began Turnbull.
"Be silent! or I shall say it all wrong," said MacIan, breathing
hard. "It's hard to explain, anyhow. An apocalypse is the
opposite of a dream. A dream is falser than the outer life. But
the end of the world is more actual than the world it ends. I
don't say this is really the end of the world, but it's something
like that--it's the end of something. All the people are crowding
into one corner. Everything is coming to a point."
"What is the point?" asked Turnbull.
"I can't see it," said Evan; "it is too large and plain."
Then after a silence he said: "I can't see it--and yet I will try
to describe it. Turnbull, three days ago I saw quite suddenly
that our duel was not right after all."
"Three days ago!" repeated Turnbull. "When and why did this
illumination occur?"
"I knew I was not quite right," answered Evan, "the moment I saw
the round eyes of that old man in the cell."
"Old man in the cell!" repeated his wondering companion. "Do you
mean the poor old idiot who likes spikes to stick out?"
"Yes," said MacIan, after a slight pause, "I mean the poor old
idiot who likes spikes to stick out. When I saw his eyes and
heard his old croaking accent, I knew that it would not really
have been right to kill you. It would have been a venial sin."
"I am much obliged," said Turnbull, gruffly.
"You must give me time," said MacIan, quite patiently, "for I am
trying to tell the whole truth. I am trying to tell more of it
than I know."
"So you see I confess"--he went on with laborious distinctness--
"I confess that all the people who called our duel mad were right
in a way. I would confess it to old Cumberland Vane and his
eye-glass. I would confess it even to that old ass in brown
flannel who talked to us about Love. Yes, they are right in a
way. I am a little mad."
He stopped and wiped his brow as if he were literally doing heavy
labour. Then he went on:
"I am a little mad; but, after all, it is only a little madness.
When hundreds of high-minded men had fought duesl about a jostle
with the elbow or the ace of spades, the whole world need not
have gone wild over my one little wildness. Plenty of other
people have killed themselves between then and now. But all
England has gone into captivity in order to take us captive. All
England has turned into a lunatic asylum in order to prove us
lunatics. Compared with the general public, I might positively be
called sane."
He stopped again, and went on with the same air of travailing
with the truth:
"When I saw that, I saw everything; I saw the Church and the
world. The Church in its earthly action has really touched morbid
things--tortures and bleeding visions and blasts of
extermination. The Church has had her madnesses, and I am one of
them. I am the massacre of St. Bartholomew. I am the Inquisition
of Spain. I do not say that we have never gone mad, but I say
that we are fit to act as keepers to our enemies. Massacre is
wicked even with a provocation, as in the Bartholomew. But your
modern Nietzsche will tell you that massacre would be glorious
without a provocation. Torture should be violently stopped,
though the Church is doing it. But your modern Tolstoy will tell
you that it ought not to be violently stopped whoever is doing
it. In the long run, which is most mad--the Church or the world?
Which is madder, the Spanish priest who permitted tyranny, or the
Prussian sophist who admired it? Which is madder, the Russian
priest who discourages righteous rebellion, or the Russian
novelist who forbids it? That is the final and blasting test. The
world left to itself grows wilder than any creed. A few days ago
you and I were the maddest people in England. Now, by God! I
believe we are the sanest. That is the only real question--
whether the Church is really madder than the world. Let the
rationalists run their own race, and let us see where _they_ end.
If the world has some healthy balance other than God, let the
world find it. Does the world find it? Cut the world loose," he
cried with a savage gesture. "Does the world stand on its own
end? Does it stand, or does it stagger?"
Turnbull remained silent, and MacIan said to him, looking once
more at the earth: "It staggers, Turnbull. It cannot stand by
itself; you know it cannot. It has been the sorrow of your life.
Turnbull, this garden is not a dream, but an apocalyptic
fulfilment. This garden is the world gone mad."
Turnbull did not move his head, and he had been listening all the
time; yet, somehow, the other knew that for the first time he was
listening seriously.
"The world has gone mad," said MacIan, "and it has gone mad about
Us. The world takes the trouble to make a big mistake about every
little mistake made by the Church. That is why they have turned
ten counties to a madhouse; that is why crowds of kindly people
are poured into this filthy melting-pot. Now is the judgement of
this world. The Prince of this World is judged, and he is judged
exactly because he is judging. There is at last one simple
solution to the quarrel between the ball and the cross----"
Turnbull for the first time started.
"The ball and----" he repeated.
"What is the matter with you?" asked MacIan.
"I had a dream," said Turnbull, thickly and obscurely, "in which
I saw the cross struck crooked and the ball secure----"
"I had a dream," said MacIan, "in which I saw the cross erect and
the ball invisible. They were both dreams from hell. There must
be some round earth to plant the cross upon. But here is the
awful difference--that the round world will not consent even to
continue round. The astronomers are always telling us that it is
shaped like an orange, or like an egg, or like a German sausage.
They beat the old world about like a bladder and thump it into a
thousand shapeless shapes. Turnbull, we cannot trust the ball to
be always a ball; we cannot trust reason to be reasonable. In the
end the great terrestrial globe will go quite lop-sided, and only
the cross will stand upright."
There was a long silence, and then Turnbull said, hesitatingly:
"Has it occurred to you that since--since those two dreams, or
whatever they were----"
"Well?" murmured MacIan.
"Since then," went on Turnbull, in the same low voice, "since
then we have never even looked for our swords."
"You are right," answered Evan almost inaudibly. "We have found
something which we both hate more than we ever hated each other,
and I think I know its name."
Turnbull seemed to frown and flinch for a moment. "It does not
much matter what you call it," he said, "so long as you keep out
of its way."
The bushes broke and snapped abruptly behind them, and a very
tall figure towered above Turnbull with an arrogant stoop and a
projecting chin, a chin of which the shape showed queerly even in
its shadow upon the path.
"You see that is not so easy," said MacIan between his teeth.
They looked up into the eyes of the Master, but looked only for a
moment. The eyes were full of a frozen and icy wrath, a kind of
utterly heartless hatred. His voice was for the first time devoid
of irony. There was no more sarcasm in it than there is in an
iron club.
"You will be inside the building in three minutes," he said, with
pulverizing precision, "or you will be fired on by the artillery
at all the windows. There is too much talking in this garden; we
intend to close it. You will be accommodated indoors."
"Ah!" said MacIan, with a long and satisfied sigh, "then I was
right."
And he turned his back and walked obediently towards the
building. Turnbull seemed to canvass for a few minutes the notion
of knocking the Master down, and then fell under the same almost
fairy fatalism as his companion. In some strange way it did seem
that the more smoothly they yielded, the more swiftly would
events sweep on to some great collision.
