XXXV
Afortnightpassed, 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 bedone, 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 timeas 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 hasknown 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.