CHAPTER THIRTY-THREEThe Procession Ends
HAVING announced a date for the end of the world—the old world with its troublous record, its damaged reputation, its useless strivings after success,—an end which was to be brought about not by the death and destruction of the wicked, but by a new birth unto righteousness upon an unprecedented scale,—having so definitely announced the spiritual transformation which was about to take place before the eyes of all, the Second Adventists had to live up to it.
And to their credit, be it said, they did so without a qualm of doubt. Mr. Trimblerigg’s experience since his adoption of Second Adventism had convinced him that if only it were well organized for a fixed purpose, prayer could get itself answered; and that given a commanding majority and a united aim, the human race was master of the Event. He had backed his country through war with prayerful conviction, had even prayed that it might go on an extra eighteen months so as to avoid a negotiated peace, and secure the dictated one which was to be so much better; and then, because hearts and aims were divided, had seen the dictated peace lost and become very much worse than a negotiated one; and though he did not for a moment consider that his own prayers and strivings for a dictated peace made him in the least responsible for its bad results, he had an uneasy suspicion that the world, and even his own country, might have done better for itself by letting the war end sooner than it did, for the simple reason that though it could agree about fighting it could not agree about peace.
But about making the bad old world come to an end ona given date, Second Adventists were all enthusiastically agreed; and when Mr. Trimblerigg returned from America he found the building of the New Jerusalem so well advanced that though it might not be entirely habitable on the day, externally it looked habitable; and though a good many scaffolding poles still had to remain, they would serve to hang bunting on, and so enhance the welcoming effect when Heaven sent down its new spirit to take possession.
For that something auspicious and visible would take place was the general belief; the writings of Susannah Walcot suggested it, and though the idea had not been officially endorsed, yet, since it helped publicity, nothing had been said to discourage it. It might be prophecy, or it might only be figure of speech; but in a very literal sense the faith of millions did undoubtedly look skywards expecting a sign to be given it. For it must be remembered that always now before men’s eyes one sign stood conspicuous; and if upon one eminent head glory had so forecast itself, might it not be possible when the Day came that Heaven would rain haloes by the million upon those found faithfully waiting to receive them?
For that given date the railway companies had already arranged to run special excursions from all parts of the country, timed to arrive at latest before the stroke of midnight signalled the beginning of the new Day. Behind the railways were the caterers, all ready to link up the meat and the fish markets, the dairies, the greengrocers, and the provision-dealers, with the demanding appetite of the new-born and spiritualized world.
It was computed that not less than a million prospective inhabitants of the New Jerusalem would be there allready and waiting in wedding garments for the hour when Heaven should declare itself.
All were to come dressed in white; and a city dressed in white stood prepared to receive them. A little garish by day, the New Jerusalem looked very beautiful by moonlight; then, with its white walls, and pearly windows, and blue-grey roofs, crowned fantastically by the points and perforated pinnacles of its toy-palaces, it seemed like a city of silver. In the midst of it—the great co-operative shopping-centre—were buildings composed entirely of glass, with covered streets where the weather would no longer count for anything; and on the outskirts, separated from the residential quarters by parks and public gardens and ornamental lakes, stood the power-stations, and water-towers, and above all these, in noble battlemented walls, like a mediæval castle converted to spiritual ends, the gasometers had concealed themselves. It was all very expansive and opulent, and self-complacent, and plausible, and what perhaps in an earlier age might have been called genteel; but what to my mind it resembled most was the character—the public character, I mean—of Mr. Trimblerigg as it appeared when things went well with him. In this ‘Home for Haloes’ he had finally and magnificently expressed himself as he wished he might be. ‘Si monumentum requiris, circumspice’ was the motto with which, after looking out of his Presidential window on that last happy night of his career, he closed his eyes in post-prandial repose, so as to be up blithe and fresh for ‘the Great Watch’ which at midnight was to begin. In all the streets that lay before his gaze orderly crowds, clothed in white and carrying lanterns and palm-branches in their hands, paraded with happy unanimity, all marching oneway as the traffic signals directed, and singing as they went. It was a marvel of organization; as a human demonstration—the expression of a commanding majority devoting itself for the first time to one single spiritual end—it was still more wonderful.
And so with a happy smile upon his illuminated face Mr. Trimblerigg lay down in his Presidential robe, and slept like a child.
He was awakened at about half-past ten by a terrific explosion. Fragments of plaster battlements were falling into the street and against his front door as he opened the window and looked out. Hurriedly he drew his head in again; but what had sent him back was not the falling fragments but the despairing ululations of the crowd, which, dropping its hymn-singing parade was now rushing hither and thither frantic for shelter from showering rubble and glass which filled the air. Under the calm blaze of the full moon, queening it in a cloudless heaven, a ragged scud of black dust jagged its way from roof to roof, obliterating the distant view; in its rear, at a more ponderous gallop, came a hunch of smoke, which as it advanced billowed and spread, and became huge; swallowing up the clear air as it advanced, it left in its track a pallid haze which went everywhere. The New Jerusalem became a ghost, vague of form, clad no longer in white, but in a dun grey streaked by scarves of black lined with colours of fire. In this settling obscurity the sound of human woe went on increasing, enlivened now and again by cries of rage. The crowd, cumbered by its wedding raiment, was fighting confusedly for priority of place; the terminus was being rushed, empty excursion trains boarded. A faint-hearted exodus from the New Jerusalemhad already begun: the world was not coming to an end in the peaceful way that had been foretold.
A ring-up on Mr. Trimblerigg’s telephone gave him the news. His castle of gasometers had been blown up; as to the cause, inquiry was being made; incendiarism was suspected. Following upon that came other news of a similar kind. Something had gone wrong with the power-stations; wires fused and lights went out; after that went the water-supply; about midnight to the sound of bombs, three water-towers cascaded to earth; and when, here, there, and everywhere, fainting people turned taps to get water, none came. Presently in various parts of the city fires began; and as there was no water to put them out, they spread. Before morning the New Jerusalem had had several bits taken out of it, and many of its prospective inhabitants were left homeless. About dawn a covey of aeroplanes let down a discharge of sticky gas—the latest military invention for the humane dispersal of unarmed crowds. It had adhesive properties of an extraordinary effectiveness; the New Jerusalem became like well-spread fly-paper, and all humans with whom it established contact walked thereafter as though they had been anointed with treacle, or honey, or preserved-ginger, or turpentine; and having no water in which to wash themselves, their misery became greater than they could bear; and from all that crowd of souls which had come together with such singleness of purpose, and confidence, and goodwill, the social sense was cast violently out, so that they all hated the sight and the touch and the sound of each other.
Now all this, it must be understood, was not the operation of Heaven, but only of Big Finance, and certain other vested interests which did not wish the old ways of theworld to end, or competitive society to become co-operative, or religion in any form to have control over economics and politics, or Mr. Trimblerigg to go any farther than they considered safe for the well-being of the country. And as Second Adventism had in these respects become a peril, quite as formidable in its way as foreign invasion, therefore an underground organization had been formed, which, calling itself ‘Red Knights of the Fiery Cross’, had designed for itself a costume, and a secret ritual, and an oath which could not be broken; and had laid up store of military preparation, and with prayer and fasting and genuflections, had practised bomb-throwing and incendiarism and the casting down of sticky gas in solitary places where a Duke preserved pheasants, and where, therefore, no members of the outer public were allowed to intrude. And having become experts in the game, upon the advertised day they made a match of it, and in this, the first round, had apparently won hands down. For the New Jerusalem had become a sticky object, coated with dust and very offensive to the smell: and the Second Adventists sharply divided into two bodies of an unequal size: the larger fugitive and dispersive in tendency, no longer wishing for the end of the world, but only for the excursion trains to start upon their return journeys: the other comparatively small, but vigorous, vocal and tending to direct action: truculent, abusive, full of grievance, clamorous for the return of its deposits in a co-operative scheme which no longer seemed safe, and with regard to which, in certain important respects, the undertakings, as per contract, were not being carried out.
It was this section which presented itself at an early hour outside the Presidency, and howled to be received in deputationby Mr. Trimblerigg. For three hours they howled, while Mr. Trimblerigg, in order to give confidence to his frightened followers, had his breakfast and his bath (for which sufficient water remained in the cistern) and dealt with certain arrears of correspondence.
At ten o’clock punctually, he looked at his watch, and said to his secretary, ‘Now I will go out and speak to them.’
The secretary said, ‘I think, sir, you had better not. If I know anything of crowds, that crowd is dangerous.’
Mr. Trimblerigg said, ‘I hope it is. I shall do my best to make it so.’
The light of battle was in his eye. He said to his secretary, ‘You must dress yourself up; you are a Knight of the Fiery Cross whom we have taken prisoner. You must be shown to the people, with your hands bound and your face stained with blood. It will only be for a moment; but it will satisfy them. I will do the rest.’
But before he had finished, he spoke to emptiness: the secretary had fled. He looked out into the ante-chamber. All the others had fled with him. Outside the crowd was howling like a pack of wolves.
Mr. Trimblerigg sighed: ‘Then I must do it all by myself,’ he concluded thoughtfully. ‘Deserted of my followers, I stand alone. No matter; they shall see!’ He felt that he was a great man, and this a great occasion for making the fact known.
He went out from his study into the Council Chamber, a handsome apartment hung with mirrors. It had four windows overlooking the street, windows that went down to the ground and opened upon a balcony supported by acolonnade extending from the entrance-porch to right and left.
I have never admired Mr. Trimblerigg more than I did at that moment; as he crossed the open space before him he paused to glance at himself in one of the mirrors: his light had not failed him; its radiance was undiminished; in the midst of it his countenance shone cherubic and hopeful. He was going to enjoy himself; for of all whose fortunes depended on the breath of popular applause there was no one who understood a crowd as he did.
That this one was now hostile only added to the zest with which he faced the task that lay before him. Standing back in the deep interior of the room and where he could not be seen, he studied its physiognomy—a sea of faces in storm, multitudinous but yet one. He looked at it with affection and pride; for in another minute he was going to take and turn it round his finger, and make it into a new instrument to suit his need.
Suddenly, while he so stood, the very window-pane through which he looked fell into splinters; from the crystal chandelier above his head came a rain of shattered glass. That was the prelude; he stepped back, and skirting the wall, while all the other panes flew into fragments, reached the far window, in which by that time not a pane remained unbroken. He only paused to fasten the last button of the morning coat into which he had tactfully changed; and then, lightly embraced by the civilization he had come to save, he opened the window and stepped out.
For one moment the crowd, shocked into mute amaze, stood and gaped; then a roar of execration filled the air. Even the bright manifestation of his mission, which had once awed and delighted, failed to placate them now. Mr.Trimblerigg knew enough of crowds to admit that his secretary was right; this crowd was dangerous; but he knew also that he had only to get them to listen, to hear his opening words, for his spell to be on them. He could trust the inspiration of the moment to do the rest.
And so, with exactly the right emotional expression upon his face, he leaned out from the stone balustrade, and over the heads of the crowd pointed into the distance.
The gesture had its calculated effect: heads turned, necks were craned; the roar died down to a confused murmur. Presently they would turn back to him and seek to have the thing explained; then would come silence and they would hear what he had to say; and though that was not going to make them less dangerous, it would no longer be danger for him, but for others.
Now it so happened that in the direction where he pointed there was, by fate or by chance, something which on being pointed at, did excite the curiosity of the crowd. On its far outskirts a lone taxi with persistent wrigglings was trying to get through; an attempt which, until the attention of the crowd had been directed towards it, would have been absolutely hopeless. But now, as if by the manipulation of an invisible police, a way grew open before it, and the taxi triumphantly advanced.
As it did so it became—though nobody could guess why—a thing of extraordinary importance; people began climbing on each other’s backs to look at it. Even Mr. Trimblerigg became interested; for this—though an interruption—was also a diversion; it meant safety. A crowd which could focus its interest on a taxi-cab, could focus it also upon him; nor had he now the slightest doubt that when he spoke to it the crowd would prove amenable.
Folding his arms on the balustrade, and playing with his eyeglasses, he was the very picture of confidence and hope and courage and resourcefulness, and all the other things which, in their leaders, men admire. How could people look at him without liking him? How could they hear him without trusting him? How could there be any danger for a man who stood up to face it with such an air of high spirits and genial acceptance of a situation which seemed awkward. He felt with a sure instinct that the crowd was coming his way, that in another moment it would be cheering him.
The taxi was coming his way also. It stopped. Davidina put out her head. Over the hushed murmurs of the crowd, clear and incisive her voice reached him:
‘Jonathan, take that off!’
If the end of Mr. Trimblerigg’s world could have come then in whatever other form it chose to take, it might have been said of him thereafter that he died happy, died believing in himself, and believed in by others even though the immediate circumstances spelt failure.
But when he felt the probing eye of Davidina, and heard the challenge of her voice, ‘Take that off!’—then all his sense of spiritual nakedness returned; and the power over his soul which she had been used to exercise reinstated itself in all its potency. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, and in the presence of all that people whose mood towards him was on the very point of ceasing to be dangerous, and whose hearts in another minute he would have won to the fulfilling of vengeance due—in a space of time too brief for breath to be taken, she had spiritually scalped him. With his head shorn of glory he stood and looked ather; and fleeing suddenly to the domestic note as his last chance of refuge from the storm which was about to burst, ‘How do you do, Davidina?’ he said.
It was magnificent, but it was no good. The crowd’s yell of derision told him that it had failed. Suddenly the taxi disappeared from view; ten, twenty, thirty human atoms, excited, gesticulating, were up and were over it. He saw Davidina fighting her way out of the collapsed framework; saw her in imminent danger, saw her emerge safe and unharmed. With no use or duty to stay him, conscious that all was lost, he turned to flee. It was too late. Active members of the crowd pushed from below swarmed up the colonnades; faster than the eye could count, heads appeared on a level with his waist,—hands, feet, fiery eyes, fierce mouths showing teeth; he became one of a confused group, felt his legs carrying much more than his own weight, his buttons bursting to a rending strain—from behind. Collared, surrounded, forced to the balcony’s edge, he looked down into a sea of eyes; and heard dimly, in the background of his dream, Davidina knocking for admission at the door under his feet; a door which nobody would answer.
‘Up, up!’ came the cry of the crowd. He was hoisted, stood giddily on the stone ledge; swayed, tottered, but hands still held him. Everything then seemed very near and immediate and objective: individual faces, blemishes, blackened eyes, the very cut and colour of men’s clothes, a broken watch-chain, the taxi-driver trying to recover possession of a cab that had become a wreck. Fifty yards away an arc-lamp high aloft on a street refuge for some unexplainable reason spat itself into light. That attracted him, only to remind him with a pang of despair that hecould no longer do the same. Light and hope and faith had all gone out of him.
‘Down! Down!’ the crowd’s cry had changed: but its intention was the same. A thousand hands reached up, opening and shutting like mouths, hungry to have hold of him. The hands from behind gave a jerk, then tossed and let go. He felt himself falling, but of that was not afraid. A real fall was impossible; of that the thousand hands made him feel safe. They caught him, forced him down, and set him upon his feet. A voice at his back cried: ‘Stand clear! Give him a run!’
Magically a way cleared for him: a long stretch of pavement, then a road: in the middle of the road, aloft on its iron standard, spluttered the arc-lamp, very wan and pale against the healthier light of day.
Propelled from behind he began running towards it, with an agility which for a moment, in his responsive mind, wakened an absurd hope.
But a moment later, under the lamp-post, he was off his feet again. Up in front of him swarmed a man-monkey of the sailor-breed trailing a rope. The crowd roared gloriously, its rage changing to delight.
Clasping the iron standard despairingly with legs and arms in a last embrace, he felt hands below pushing him, making him go higher. Then suddenly there came a wrench; the hands loosed him, but his feet did not touch ground. And as his agitated body sought this way and that for the hand-hold or foot-hold it had lost never to find again, I, reading for the last time the scrip of his brain, found the truth fairly lodged there at last:
‘O, you fool! O, you damned fool! O, you silly, damned fool, look what you have done to yourself now!’
And then something happened: something quite unexpected, for which I cannot account; though I have a sort of a fear that I know in what direction the account may hereafter be found.
I followed him into those last moments—for his last moments they proved to be—with a breathless interest, which at least told me that though he had tried me much, I was not as tired of him as, for my own peace, I would have liked to be. And up to the last hitch, I still wondered whether so agile an executant of quick turns would not manage even then to escape from his enemies. His enemies, I say. But my wonder now is whether his last escape has not been made from one who, like Davidina, was his faithful though discriminating friend. For when, after the rope had done its work, I looked for him on the spiritual plane, it was to find that he had vanished. And if I, too, must own the truth—I do not know what has become of him.