Part 14

“Yes, I do. But who do you suppose is going to play a god who works miracles, who is the genius of love and laughter, who heals the wounds of the world by converting it to a religion of universal brotherhood, universal fellowship, universal joy? Of course, in its way it’s sublime, but the whole thing is full of peril.”

“It has pitfalls, no doubt. But if only the players will have courage, I am convinced that the play will carry them.”

“It would be a terrible risk. And then there’s the Censor.”

Brandon confessed that he had forgotten the Censor.

“He’s very shy of religion as a rule,” said Pomfret. “And he’s very likely to object that it’s far too gentle with the Boche. The creed of love your enemies is all very well in the Bible, but it’s quite impossible to practice--at any rate just now. And then the parsons won’t like their pitch being queered. Their stock in trade has always been gloom, reproach, damnation, mumbo jumbo, but your deity is a sort of Pied Piper, who converts a bleeding world to the love of God by the charm of his music, his power of sympathy, and his care for the doers of evil. Yes, it’s a remarkable idea, but I’m afraid it’s pro-Boche, and as far as the religious aspect goes, the people whom it might hope to interest are the most likely to take offense at it.”

“I can’t think they will,” Brandon protested, “if it’s given in the spirit in which it’s conceived. Don’t you see that it restates the central truths of Christianity, and presents them in a clearer, fuller, more universal light?”

“It may, but that is not likely to appeal to the big public, which goes to the play to be amused, and not to be edified.”

“Why not let the two states be one and the same? Why not let them march together?”

“My boy, you don’t know the theater.”

“But the idea behind this play is that the theater is capable of becoming a great moral and spiritual force. And that’s what it ought to be. It’s appeal is irresistible; and religion brought from its superhuman pedestal might be humanized, individualized, made attractive to all the world. Now, my friend, produce this play at your best theater, with all the wonderful technical resources at your command, and you will have a success that will simply astonish you.”

“Or failure that will cause me to file a petition in bankruptcy.”

“I will indemnify you against all loss.”

Pomfret shook a solemn head. “My dear boy,” he said, “it would be madness to put up a play of this kind.”

“Tell me, what would be the cost of a first-class production?”

“At the Imperial, five thousand pounds, and you would have to be prepared to lose every penny. It’s not the kind of thing the public wants, particularly just now.”

“Well, let them have their chance and see what happens.”

They continued to discuss the matter until midnight, and even returned to it the following day. Brandon marshaled his arguments with such skill that Pomfret, against his deepest instinct as a theatrical manager, began to weaken a little. Like all men who succeed in life, the sense of his own limitations was ever before him. He knew that there were more things in earth and heaven than were dreamed of in the philosophy of Robert Pomfret. Brandon was a poet, a scholar, a man of taste, and even if his qualities had no place in a theater run on sound commercial lines, after all they stood for something. And when they had a solid backing of five thousand pounds, they became doubly impressive.

By the time Pomfret was at the end of his brief stay, he was thinking furiously. And if he saw no cause to alter the judgment he had formed, he was too shrewd a man not to fortify it with sound technical advice. Therefore, the next day, when he left Hart’s Ghyll, the precious manuscript went with him. He promised to have it copied and submitted to his reader of plays.

XXXV

A FORTNIGHT passed, which for Brandon was a time of hope, increasing physical well-being, steadily returning faculty, and then came a letter from Pomfret. A second reading of the play had deepened his interest; moreover his reader, on whose judgment he relied, was inclined to think that it had possibilities. He agreed, however, that the subject was a thorny one in the present state of public feeling, and before any proposal was made it would be well, perhaps, to sound the Censor of plays.

A week later there came a second letter which severely dashed Brandon’s hopes. The Lord Chamberlain was not prepared to license the play unless the chief character and two of the principal scenes were removed, in other words Hamlet must be played without the Prince of Denmark. “But,” the letter added, “my reader and I are agreed that these ‘cuts’ will give the production as a whole a far better chance with the large public. The big scenes are full of danger and religion is not wanted in the theater. Therefore, if the author is willing for the cuts to be made, the play may be a practical proposition. The acting, the scenery, the mounting and the incidental music, which I am told is really first-rate, will then have less to interfere with them.”

Brandon was rather dismayed. And he was in a trying position. Every week that passed added to his belief in the plenary inspiration of the work as a whole. His physical and mental power were growing day by day and the more firmly he became rooted in the living world of the present the greater his faith in the miracle which had made him so. To him, therefore, every word of the play was sacred. But in face of the official ukase there was only one thing to be done: he constrained himself to write to Wellwood, giving the history of the negotiations and inclosing Pomfret’s letter.

He had not long to remain in doubt. In two days there came a reply. “Dear friend,” it said, “the Masters of Wisdom in council assembled say to you, let none impair the Truce of God. It is or it is not. The Terms are the fruit of deep communing. The world must accept or reject them.”

It was the kind of answer Brandon had looked for. Yet while it simplified his difficulties, it also added to them. On the surface there was nothing more to be done, and the fact could be accepted with a clear conscience. But his faith being now as it was, and reënforced by his daily, his hourly experience, he felt his duty to the world at large bearing upon him more and more heavily.

Although the matter seemed to have reached its logical end, Brandon, somewhat to his wife’s dismay, suddenly determined to go up to town. Even if there was nothing to hope for by still pursuing it, he would give himself the satisfaction of doing his utmost in the charge laid upon him.

Millicent did her best to keep him from London. His recovery had been so recent and so unforeseen that she could not help feeling that he was still on probation, and that undue stress, either of mind or body, would involve a serious relapse.

Dr. Joliffe, as puzzled as herself by the new turn of events, seconded her vigorously. He was sure, from the nature of the case, that his patient was still on very thin ice. But he was met now by a will of iron. Even if the heavens fell, Brandon had set his mind on going to town; yet he would not give a reason. The rueful Millicent had to order her trunks to be packed; moreover, she had to crave the shelter of the paternal roof in Hill Street for the peccant invalid until such time as he had done his business, whatever that business might be.

Prophesying every kind of evil for her stubborn lord, Millicent motored with him to town on a cold, wet morning of mid-January. Her mood was one of inspissated gloom, yet as she came to reflect, in the warmth and comfort of the car, on Gervase’s state in relation to what it had been hardly more than a month ago, simple gratitude became the dominant emotion. She must never forget that several of the ablest doctors in the land had by that time given up his case as hopeless. It had been finally diagnosed as a nerve lesion whose baffling obscurity had proved too much even for modern therapeutic skill. A recovery was no longer hoped for, yet here was the sufferer sitting by her side in full possession of every physical and mental faculty. A miracle had happened beyond the ken of science, which it could only account for in the most general terms. A severe shock had stopped the clock in the first instance and medical science must now assume that a counter-shock had set it going again.

Even if Gervase was presuming on the abundant mercy of providence, it was hard for a devoted wife to be really angry with him just now. For one thing he was a gay and joyful Gervase. As one who has known the nadir of the soul, he was now a giant newly risen and refreshed with strong wine. The universe was rare and strange; the secret hope at the core of every human life had been verified in a way to surprise the expectations of the wildest dreamer.

The next morning he went to see Pomfret. As he set out for Half Moon Street the air was raw, the wind bitter, but he felt like an awakened sleeper walking in a new and wonderful world. Not again had he hoped to feel the London pavement under his feet; not again had he hoped to experience the thrill of the world’s metropolis. Somehow its old, drab streets put an enchantment upon him. He was fired as he had never been by their magic and their mystery. And now he had a power within which set him so miraculously in tune with the infinite that he saw new colors in the gray sky, the dull grass, the bare trees; he heard noble harmonies in the flowing air and the sharp wind.

The great man, in a vivid chocolate breakfast suit, was dallying with a poached egg.

“By all the gods!” he cried, rising with outstretched hands. “What brings you to town, my son?”

“There is but one God,” said Brandon, allowing himself to be pressed into the chair nearest the fire. “And John Smith is his prophet. In a word, he has brought me to town.”

Pomfret laughed, but the shrewd eyes twinkled with a heightened curiosity. “That is to say, your mysterious genius consents to the cuts?’

“On the contrary.” And Brandon produced the letter.

While Pomfret read he watched his face narrowly. One thing was clear: since the great man’s visit to Hart’s Ghyll a good deal of water had flowed under the bridge. At any rate disappointment, vexation, perplexity, were now freely displayed in that expressive countenance.

“What a rum letter!” was the first comment. “Is the chap cracked or is he trying to pull your leg?”

“‘Nothing is but thinking makes it so.’” Brandon’s gravity was almost stern. “This is no common man, and one day, I hope, a topsy-turvy planet will know it.”

“I can only say it’s a great pity he won’t consent to the cuts.” The rejoinder was measured, deliberate, businesslike. “A very great pity. Morrison’s read it, and he says if it is handled in the right way it might be a property. As it is of course the public won’t look at it.”

“They won’t be allowed to look at it if the Censor’s ukase means anything.”

“That can be got over. And as I say, the cuts will be all for the good of the play.”

“But don’t you see, old dunce, that this is a thing no one can touch?”

“In that case there’s an end of the matter.” Pomfret’s jaw fell three inches. “The law won’t allow it to be produced in London.”

“Then so much the worse for London.”

“No doubt,” said the cynic at the breakfast table. “But seriously, if you can persuade your crackpot to be practical we may have a pretty big thing. Honeybone, the composer, has seen the music. He says it’s great, and he thinks that theme in the second act might go all over the world.”

“Well, we shall see.”

“But you won’t, my friend, I assure you, unless you can make the man hear reason.”

“We have his last word, I’m afraid,” said Brandon gravely, as he put the letter back in his pocket. “And we mustn’t forget that there’s a great purpose at the back of it all. I believe this work to be inspired, just as the gospels are inspired--although I own that a month ago I daren’t have made any such statement.”

Pomfret opened round eyes of wary amazement “Well, well,” he said. And he rose from the table and offered his visitor a cigarette.

XXXVI

“WELL, well,” said Robert Pomfret. At that moment he was a very puzzled man.

“So now you know the worst,” said Brandon, looking at him eagerly. “And that’s why in my humble opinion the thing must stand just as it is. Moreover, you now know why I conceive it my bounden duty to give it to the world. And if it can’t be put up here I shall take it to New York.”

The mention of New York had a visible effect upon Pomfret. “Rather a coincidence,” he said. “Urban Meyer is over here. He’s lunching with me today at the Ritz. You’d better come and meet him.”

It was a grave confession of ignorance, but Brandon owned that the name of Urban Meyer conveyed nothing.

“He’s the biggest thing of his kind in existence. He controls four hundred theaters in the United States, and about the same number in Europe.”

“A sort of Haroun-al-Raschid,” laughed Brandon.

“I’ve already mentioned the play to him. And he’s reading it now. If you will come with me to the Ritz you may get further light on the matter. But if you’re wise you won’t be quite so frank with him as you’ve been with me. A little bird tells me that he’s interested. But he’s a regular Napoleon in business. Still you may like to hear what he has to say, and there’s just a chance that he may save you a journey to New York.”

“He may,” said Brandon, “but I’m not hopeful. His name bewrayeth him.”

“A hyphenated American,” said Pomfret, “but he began life as a little Frankfort Jew. A remarkable man with a still more remarkable career behind him. Exact study of the public taste has made him a millionaire. Still, we’re old friends and I’m bound to say I’ve always found him a very decent fellow. And if you care for human documents I think he will interest you.”

In a fraternal manner they passed the time till one o’clock. About noon a wintry sun came out and they took a gentle turn in the Green Park to get an appetite for luncheon. The shrewdly humorous man of affairs was so full of advice that he was like a kindly uncle. “Whatever you do, my son, don’t talk to Urban Meyer as you’ve talked to me,” was the burden of his homily. Even now the practical Pomfret had not quite overcome a feeling of sheer amazement. A fantastic illusion had declared itself in a brilliant mind, and no matter how cautiously he approached the subject he felt the oppression of its shadow. Continuing his sage advice, he finally led his freakish friend through the revolving doors of the Ritz on the very stroke of one o’clock.

XXXVII

IN the hall was an odd little man in a brown hat. Appearance marched with intellect in such a naïve way, that Urban Meyer had an unmistakable air of being the only one of his kind in existence. And this was fit and proper. There was only one Urban Meyer in the world, and nature had been at some pains to emphasize the fact for the benefit of all whom it might concern.

He was a singularly accessible little man, simple and modest, and not afflicted with “frills” or shyness. But the queer, birdlike eyes, while they smiled a gently diffused benevolence, missed no crumb of what passed around. He was delighted to meet Mr. Brandon--there was a curious habit of cutting up his words into syllables, the voice was soft and kind to the verge of the feminine, the handshake prompt and hearty and almost embarrassingly full of friendship. Altogether he was such a disarming little man on the surface, that it was hard to believe that any real depth of guile could be masked by such charm and innocence. But somehow the infallible Pomfret, in spite of his encomiums, had contrived to leave no doubt on the matter.

“‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son,’” he whispered as they moved in the direction of luncheon.

The table was in the left-hand corner, out of the range of the curious, and as they sat down a feeling almost uncanny came upon Brandon that this was about to prove the most memorable meal of his life. Outwardly cool, he was so strangely excited that he had diligently to rehearse the precepts of his mentor.

“Let Old Uncle do the talking,” had counseled the sage.

To begin with, however, Urban Meyer went off at a tangent. The keen eyes fixed themselves upon a distant table, and then he said, in a tone low and deep: “It may interest you to know that the world’s biggest brain is in the room.”

Brandon and Pomfret were duly impressed.

“Indeed,” said Pomfret with becoming seriousness.

“You mean the man over there?” said Brandon following the eyes of Urban Meyer.

“Yes, the sallow one with a face like a Chicago ham.”

“Where? Show me.” Pomfret’s curiosity was roused. Urban Meyer did not mistake geese for swans as a rule.

“Straight ahead,” said Brandon. “The long, lean, pale man. That’s Murdwell the scientist--Gazelee Payne Murdwell who is giving his nights and days to making a worse hell of this planet than it is already.”

“You know him?” said Urban Meyer.

“He’s a neighbor of mine,” Brandon explained. “Personally I like him, but he won’t bear thinking about. He’s all new and all true I suppose?” He had the air of one seeking for information.

“Sure.” It was Urban Meyer’s favorite word, but it seemed to do the work of many at this moment. “Murdwell’s the problem for the near future. He’s getting through to things that are best left alone. He’s the writing on the wall. The best that can happen to the human race just now is for Murdwell to be closed down.”

The tone had a curious authority. Somehow it made a deep impression on Brandon.

“That man’s intellect is colossal. But he’s on the wrong tack, and I tell him so, as I told Orville Wright when he first said that he was going to fly. The day the Wrights got home with their damned contraption was the worst the human race has seen since the invention of gunpowder; and now Gazelee Payne Murdwell comes along with a promise which it is humanity’s business to see that he never fulfills.”

“But how prevent him?” asked Brandon. “In the present phase of human perversion, Gazelee Payne Murdwell is a prophet and a savior.”

“At this moment,” said Urban Meyer, “there’s just one thing between the human race and Murdwell’s Law, and that thing’s God. And that’s why I venture to hope that the Professor will have to close down. Two years ago I didn’t believe in God, but since then I’ve changed my outlook.” At this point he helped himself to an excellent mousse of ham, and the host ordered a bottle of Pommery. “Since then I’ve been down in the _Lusitania_, I’ve seen Paris saved for Europe, and I’ve still hopes of seeing civilization saved for mankind. I say this because I feel there’s a God standing behind it and he’s going to see it through. I was born at Frankfort in 1849, and I’ve bled for Prussia at Gravelotte.” The little man drew up his shirt sleeve and showed a deep scar on his arm. “That’s a Frenchman’s saber. I was young then and I loved the fatherland. Even at that time Prussia was the enemy of the human race, but a boy couldn’t be expected to know that and he couldn’t have helped himself if he had. In 1876 I went to New York; in 1890 I became an American citizen; in 1916 I’m a citizen of the world.

“I consider that I have had exceptional facilities for seeing this war impartially, but my nature is to look to the future. I’ve always planned and built ahead. And as I figure it out Prussia is going to be downed and Germany bled white. But take it from me, my friends, it will be a very long and slow process.” There was a slight pause in the little man’s monologue, but no contradiction was offered.

“And in the end civilization will have to save Germany. Unless she gets a change of heart there’s no security for the time ahead. At present she’s outside the pale, but it won’t be wise or right to let her remain there forever. She’s a big proposition and the world owes her something. She will have to be helped to rid herself of Prussia. How’s it to be done--that’s the problem for the future. One thing is sure: you won’t get her to cut herself free of her protector by ramming a pistol down her throat.”

Brandon agreed.

“What’s your alternative?” said Pomfret.

“We must keep the communications open as well as we can. It’s the duty of those who look to the time ahead to try to get into touch with the German people.”

“But that’s quite impossible,” said Pomfret. “They are a set of outlaws and perverts.”

“I admit that the present plight of the German people is just about the biggest problem in all history.”

“You’re right. And every effort made by outsiders to help them will simply recoil on itself.”

“It may be so. But if there is a God in the world he cares just as much for the Teuton as he cares for anyone else.”

“Very true,” said Brandon. “And Germany must be made to see the light. But that can only be done indirectly. The German, as the world is now beginning to realize, has a very curious psychology. He doesn’t see through his eyes, but through his emotions. Therefore he calls for very special treatment.”

“Why not let him alone?” said Pomfret. “Why not let him find his own level?”

“Because civilization can’t afford to do that. It owes it to itself to help Germany.”

“I fully agree,” said Brandon.

“I entirely dissent,” said Pomfret, filling the glasses of his guests. “Germany by her own considered acts has put herself outside the comity of nations, and there’s no need to readmit her. She may lie down with the Magyar, the Turk and the Bulgar till the crack of doom. Civilization can do without Germany. The question is, can Germany do without civilization?”

“In spite of her errors and her crimes,” said Urban Meyer, “you do an injustice to a great people if you close all the doors against her.”

“We shall not agree about their greatness,” said Pomfret. “They are a race of barbarians, with a dangerous streak of madness.”

“That’s one side of the Teuton, I admit. But on the other he’s an idealist, a lover of the arts, an exemplary citizen. And the task of the future is to get him back to where he was. He’s got to return to the old ways. By the bye, that play has set me thinking.” Pomfret and Brandon exchanged glances, but Urban Meyer went on with a curious spontaneity, as if he were thinking aloud. “Yes, it has set my mind working. Last night I dreamed about it, and I believe if the Kingdom of Something Else could be presented just as I saw it in my dream it would speak to the real heart of Germany. It has the very spirit of her folk tales; it has the romance, the poetry, the music, the kindly people my childhood used to make and adore. And it teaches a gospel which might have a universal appeal. You know I’ve an immense belief in the theater. To me it’s the true church of the time to come. And I don’t see why the next world religion shouldn’t begin with a great play.”

Again Pomfret and Brandon exchanged glances.

“People ask what’s wrong with Christianity. Its great flaw to my mind is that it asks too much; it is sublime but it isn’t quite a working proposition. We won’t go into a tremendous argument, but there isn’t the slightest doubt that in its present form it doesn’t touch the crowd. It needs simplifying, modifying, humanizing, before it can get right home to the man in the street. A lot of old lumber and obsolete formulas will have to find their way to the scrap heap. The great truths can still be there, but the religion of the future has got to think more of this world and less of the next. And I’m by no means sure that the mind which conceived the idea of the Kingdom of the Something Else is not going to meet the deepest need of mankind at the present time.”

Brandon shot a glance of triumph at Pomfret, but even in that moment of exaltation he remembered the counsel of the sage.