XLVII
Asthe vicar and the doctor left John Smith’s cell, there came out of the deep shadows of the long corridor a figure, old, forlorn, very infirm. With a haunted look this rather grotesque creature shuffled forward, and fixing tragic eyes upon the doctor’s face muttered in an alien tongue:
“He is risen. He is risen.”
The doctor reproved him sharply. “Why, Goethe, what in fortune’s name are you doing here! Go at once to your own side and don’t let me see you here again. Strict instructions were given that none of the patients were to be seen in the west wing just now. I must look into this. Go at once to your own side.”
The old man slunk away, still muttering softly, “He is risen. He is risen.”
The doctor was obviously annoyed by the incident. “Gross carelessness on the part of someone,” he said. “The deputation is already due, and the Home Office desires us in the special and quite unprecedented circumstances of the case to present as normal an appearance as we can. In other words, it doesn’t wantrepresentatives of our own and foreign governments to be welcomed by a parcel of lunatics. That will not help anybody; besides, as the Home Office says, it is desirable that no slur should be cast on the profession of literature.”
“And on the memory of the Master,” whispered the vicar in his hushed voice.
“Quite so. I fully agree. The dear fellow! And to think he was able to win a prize of seven thousand pounds, not to mention the many thousands his work is earning all over the world, from which, by the way, deserving charities are benefiting.”
“Did he know that his work was producing these large sums?”
“Oh, yes. And I think the knowledge gave him pleasure. But he never regarded a penny as his own. He left it to Mr. Brandon and myself—two just men I am proud to think he called us—to give back again, as he said, ‘that which had been given to him, in the way likely to do the most good.’”
“He was quite selfless,” said the vicar.
“Absolutely. And he is the only man I have known, or am ever likely to know, of whom that statement could be truly made. I have known good men, I have known men with high, forward-looking souls, but I have never known a man so near His model that if ithad not existed already one almost felt that such a man must have created it. In fact, John Smith will stand out in my experience as the most remarkable case I have known. He believed until he became.”
“As you say, he believed until he became. And he made a prophecy which he has lived to fulfill.”
“What was the prophecy he made?”
“That he would heal the wounds of the world.”
“I wonder, I wonder.”
“Oh ye of little faith!” whispered the vicar. The tears that rose to his eyes were like the blood of his heart.
Hardly had Mr. Perry-Hennington spoken the words when both he and Doctor Thorp perceived a stir at the doors of the main entrance to the institution, now in view at the far end of the corridor along which they were passing. No more than a glance was needed to tell them that the deputation was in the act of arrival. Beyond the open doors, a large motor car and an imposing array of silk hats were clearly visible in the half-light of the wet afternoon.
As the doctor and the vicar came to the main entrance, several persons entered the building. Foremost of these were Gervase Brandon and a very noble-looking old man with snow-white hair and the eyes of a child. In one hand he carried his hat, in the other alarge bunch of lilies held together with a broad ribbon of white satin.
“Dr. Thorp,” said Brandon, with a happy and proud smile. “I have the great honor and privilege to present Dr. Kurt Christiansen, whose reputation has long preceded him. At the instance of a neutral government he has come to this country to pay in the name of humanity the world’s homage to our dear friend.”
Solemn but cordial bows were exchanged and then Dr. Thorp replied, “I grieve to have to tell you, sir, that our dear friend has already passed.”
The childlike bearer of the lilies looked very simply into the doctor’s eyes. “Dead,” he said.
“But being dead liveth,” said a tall clergyman from the background in a whispered tone of new authority.
There followed a moment of silence and constraint. And then it was very unexpectedly shattered by a wild appearance, grinning with strange joy and crying in an alien tongue, “He is risen! He is risen!”
Only the prompt intervention of Dr. Thorp prevented this figure of fantasy flinging its arms round the neck of Mr. Sigismund Prosser, C.B. An international incident of some magnitude was thus averted, for the representative of the Royal Academy of Literaturehad recently said at a public meeting that “he had done with Goethe forever.”
EPILOGUE
Whitehall,Friday.Strictly confidential.Dear Brandon:Your moving account of the proceedings at Wellwood Sanatorium was read at the Cabinet meeting this afternoon and you will be glad to know that the Lord Chamberlain is being advised to license the production of the Play in this country. In the present state of the public mind it is felt to be the best course to take. It is hoped that further questions will not arise in the House, otherwise it may be impossible to avoid an inquiry into all the circumstances of a most singular case, and this, I think you will agree, would be undesirable just now from every point of view.Yours,George Speke.
Whitehall,
Friday.
Strictly confidential.
Dear Brandon:
Your moving account of the proceedings at Wellwood Sanatorium was read at the Cabinet meeting this afternoon and you will be glad to know that the Lord Chamberlain is being advised to license the production of the Play in this country. In the present state of the public mind it is felt to be the best course to take. It is hoped that further questions will not arise in the House, otherwise it may be impossible to avoid an inquiry into all the circumstances of a most singular case, and this, I think you will agree, would be undesirable just now from every point of view.
Yours,
George Speke.