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When the World Shook; being an account of the great adventure of Bastin, Bickley and Arbuthnot 1368.txt
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When the World Shook; being an account of the great adventure of Bastin, Bickley and Arbuthnot 1368.txt
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Produced by Anthony Matonak
WHEN THE WORLD SHOOK
Being an Account of the Great Adventure of Bastin, Bickley and Arbuthnot
by H. Rider Haggard
DEDICATION
Ditchingham, 1918.
MY DEAR CURZON,
More than thirty years ago you tried to protect me, then a stranger to
you, from one of the falsest and most malignant accusations ever made
against a writer.
So complete was your exposure of the methods of those at work to blacken
a person whom they knew to be innocent, that, as you will remember,
they refused to publish your analysis which destroyed their charges and,
incidentally, revealed their motives.
Although for this reason vindication came otherwise, your kindness is
one that I have never forgotten, since, whatever the immediate issue of
any effort, in the end it is the intention that avails.
Therefore in gratitude and memory I ask you to accept this romance, as
I know that you do not disdain the study of romance in the intervals of
your Imperial work.
The application of its parable to our state and possibilities--beneath
or beyond these glimpses of the moon--I leave to your discernment.
Believe me,
Ever sincerely yours,
H. RIDER HAGGARD.
To
The Earl Curzon of Kedleston, K.G.
CONTENTS
1. ARBUTHNOT DESCRIBES HIMSELF
2. BASTIN AND BICKLEY
3. NATALIE
4. DEATH AND DEPARTURE
5. THE CYCLONE
6. LAND
7. THE OROFENANS
8. BASTIN ATTEMPTS THE MARTYR'S CROWN
9. THE ISLAND IN THE LAKE
10. THE DWELLERS IN THE TOMB
11. RESURRECTION
12. TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND YEARS!
13. ORO SPEAKS AND BASTIN ARGUES
14. THE UNDER-WORLD
15. ORO IN HIS HOUSE
16. VISIONS OF THE PAST
17. YVA EXPLAINS
18. THE ACCIDENT
19. THE PROPOSALS OF BASTIN AND BICKLEY
20. ORO AND ARBUTHNOT TRAVEL BY NIGHT
21. LOVE'S ETERNAL ALTAR
22. THE COMMAND
23. IN THE TEMPLE OF FATE
24. THE CHARIOT OF THE PIT
25. SACRIFICE
26. TOMMY
27. BASTIN DISCOVERS A RESEMBLANCE
28. NOTE BY J. R. BICKLEY, M.R.C.S.
WHEN THE WORLD SHOOK
Chapter I. Arbuthnot Describes Himself
I suppose that I, Humphrey Arbuthnot, should begin this history in
which Destiny has caused me to play so prominent a part, with some short
account of myself and of my circumstances.
I was born forty years ago in this very Devonshire village in which I
write, but not in the same house. Now I live in the Priory, an ancient
place and a fine one in its way, with its panelled rooms, its beautiful
gardens where, in this mild climate, in addition to our own, flourish
so many plants which one would only expect to find in countries that
lie nearer to the sun, and its green, undulating park studded with great
timber trees. The view, too, is perfect; behind and around the rich
Devonshire landscape with its hills and valleys and its scarped faces
of red sandstone, and at a distance in front, the sea. There are little
towns quite near too, that live for the most part on visitors, but these
are so hidden away by the contours of the ground that from the Priory
one cannot see them. Such is Fulcombe where I live, though for obvious
reasons I do not give it its real name.
Many years ago my father, the Rev. Humphrey Arbuthnot, whose only child
I am, after whom also I am named Humphrey, was the vicar of this place
with which our family is said to have some rather vague hereditary
connection. If so, it was severed in the Carolian times because my
ancestors fought on the side of Parliament.
My father was a recluse, and a widower, for my mother, a Scotswoman,
died at or shortly after my birth. Being very High Church for those
days he was not popular with the family that owned the Priory before me.
Indeed its head, a somewhat vulgar person of the name of Enfield who had
made money in trade, almost persecuted him, as he was in a position to
do, being the local magnate and the owner of the rectorial tithes.
I mention this fact because owing to it as a boy I made up my mind that
one day I would buy that place and sit in his seat, a wild enough idea
at the time. Yet it became engrained in me, as do such aspirations of
our youth, and when the opportunity arose in after years I carried
it out. Poor old Enfield! He fell on evil fortunes, for in trying to
bolster up a favourite son who was a gambler, a spendthrift, and an
ungrateful scamp, in the end he was practically ruined and when the
bad times came, was forced to sell the Fulcombe estate. I think of him
kindly now, for after all he was good to me and gave me many a day's
shooting and leave to fish for trout in the river.
By the poor people, however, of all the district round, for the parish
itself is very small, my father was much beloved, although he did
practise confession, wear vestments and set lighted candles on the
altar, and was even said to have openly expressed the wish, to which
however he never attained, that he could see a censer swinging in the
chancel. Indeed the church which, as monks built it, is very large and
fine, was always full on Sundays, though many of the worshippers came
from far away, some of them doubtless out of curiosity because of its
papistical repute, also because, in a learned fashion, my father's
preaching was very good indeed.
For my part I feel that I owe much to these High-Church views. They
opened certain doors to me and taught me something of the mysteries
which lie at the back of all religions and therefore have their home
in the inspired soul of man whence religions are born. Only the pity
is that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred he never discovers, never
even guesses at that entombed aspiration, never sinks a shaft down on to
this secret but most precious vein of ore.
I have said that my father was learned; but this is a mild description,
for never did I know anyone quite so learned. He was one of those
men who is so good all round that he became pre-eminent in nothing. A
classic of the first water, a very respectable mathematician, an expert
in theology, a student of sundry foreign languages and literature in
his lighter moments, an inquirer into sociology, a theoretical musician
though his playing of the organ excruciated most people because it was
too correct, a really first-class authority upon flint instruments and
the best grower of garden vegetables in the county, also of apples--such
were some of his attainments. That was what made his sermons so popular,
since at times one or the other of these subjects would break out into
them, his theory being that God spoke to us through all of these things.
But if I began to drift into an analysis of my father's abilities, I
should never stop. It would take a book to describe them. And yet mark
this, with them all his name is as dead to the world to-day as though he
had never been. Light reflected from a hundred facets dissipates itself
in space and is lost; that concentrated in one tremendous ray pierces to
the stars.
Now I am going to be frank about myself, for without frankness what
is the value of such a record as this? Then it becomes simply another
convention, or rather conventional method of expressing the octoroon
kind of truths with which the highly civilised races feed themselves,
as fastidious ladies eat cakes and bread from which all but the smallest
particle of nourishment has been extracted.
The fact is, therefore, that I inherited most of my father's abilities,
except his love for flint instruments which always bored me to
distraction, because although they are by association really the most
human of things, somehow to me they never convey any idea of humanity.
In addition I have a practical side which he lacked; had he possessed it
surely he must have become an archbishop instead of dying the vicar of
an unknown parish. Also I have a spiritual sense, mayhap mystical would
be a better term, which with all this religion was missing from my
father's nature.
For I think that notwithstanding his charity and devotion he never quite
got away from the shell of things, never cracked it and set his teeth in
the kernel which alone can feed our souls. His keen intellect, to take
an example, recognised every one of the difficulties of our faith and
flashed hither and thither in the darkness, seeking explanation, seeking
light, trying to reconcile, to explain. He was not great enough to
put all this aside and go straight to the informing Soul beneath that
strives to express itself everywhere, even through those husks which are
called the World, the Flesh and the Devil, and as yet does not always
quite succeed.
It is this boggling over exteriors, this peering into pitfalls, this
desire to prove that what such senses as we have tell us is impossible,
is in fact possible, which causes the overthrow of many an earnest,
seeking heart and renders its work, conducted on false lines, quite
nugatory. These will trust to themselves and their own intelligence and
not be content to spring from the cliffs of human experience into the
everlasting arms of that Infinite which are stretched out to receive
them and to give them rest and the keys of knowledge. When will man
learn what was taught to him of old, that faith is the only plank
wherewith he can float upon this sea and that his miserable works avail
him nothing; also that it is a plank made of many sorts of wood, perhaps
to suit our different weights?
So to be honest, in a sense I believe myself to be my father's superior,
and I know that he agreed with me. Perhaps this is owing to the blood
of my Scotch mother which mixed well with his own; perhaps because the
essential spirit given to me, though cast in his mould, was in fact
quite different--or of another alloy. Do we, I wonder, really understand
that there are millions and billions of these alloys, so many indeed
that Nature, or whatever is behind Nature, never uses the same twice
over? That is why no two human beings are or ever will be quite
identical. Their flesh, the body of their humiliation, is identical in
all, any chemist will prove it to you, but that which animates the
flesh is distinct and different because it comes from the home of that
infinite variety which is necessary to the ultimate evolution of the
good and bad that we symbolise as heaven and hell.
Further, I had and to a certain extent still have another advantage
over my father, which certainly came to me from my mother, who was, as
I judge from all descriptions and such likenesses as remain of her, an
extremely handsome woman. I was born much better looking. He was small
and dark, a little man with deep-set eyes and beetling brows. I am also
dark, but tall above the average, and well made. I do not know that I
need say more about my personal appearance, to me not a very attractive
subject, but the fact remains that they called me "handsome Humphrey"
at the University, and I was the captain of my college boat and won many
prizes at athletic sports when I had time to train for them.
Until I went up to Oxford my father educated me, partly because he knew
that he could do it better than anyone else, and partly to save school
expenses. The experiment was very successful, as my love of all outdoor
sports and of any small hazardous adventure that came to my hand, also
of associating with fisherfolk whom the dangers of the deep make men
among men, saved me from becoming a milksop. For the rest I learned more
from my father, whom I always desired to please because I loved him,
than I should have done at the best and most costly of schools. This was
shown when at last I went to college with a scholarship, for there I did
very well indeed, as search would still reveal.
Here I had better set out some of my shortcomings, which in their sum
have made a failure of me. Yes, a failure in the highest sense, though
I trust what Stevenson calls "a faithful failure." These have their root
in fastidiousness and that lack of perseverance, which really means a
lack of faith, again using the word in its higher and wider sense. For
if one had real faith one would always persevere, knowing that in every
work undertaken with high aim, there is an element of nobility, however
humble and unrecognised that work may seem to be. God after all is the
God of Work, it is written large upon the face of the Universe. I will
not expand upon the thought; it would lead me too far afield, but those
who have understanding will know what I mean.
As regards what I interpret as fastidiousness, this is not very easy
to express. Perhaps a definition will help. I am like a man with an
over-developed sense of smell, who when walking through a foreign city,
however clean and well kept, can always catch the evil savours that
are inseparable from such cities. More, his keen perception of them
interferes with all other perceptions and spoils his walks. The result
is that in after years, whenever he thinks of that beautiful city,
he remembers, not its historic buildings or its wide boulevards, or
whatever it has to boast, but rather its ancient, fish-like smell. At
least he remembers that first owing to this defect in his temperament.
So it is with everything. A lovely woman is spoiled for such a one
because she eats too much or has too high a voice; he does not care for
his shooting because the scenery is flat, or for his fishing because
the gnats bite as well as the trout. In short he is out of tune with
the world as it is. Moreover, this is a quality which, where it exists,
cannot be overcome; it affects day-labourers as well as gentlemen at
large. It is bred in the bone.
Probably the second failure-breeding fault, lack of perseverance, has
its roots in the first, at any rate in my case. At least on leaving
college with some reputation, I was called to the Bar where, owing to
certain solicitor and other connections, I had a good opening. Also,
owing to the excellence of my memory and powers of work, I began very
well, making money even during my first year. Then, as it happened, a
certain case came my way and, my leader falling ill suddenly after it
was opened, was left in my hands. The man whose cause I was pleading
was, I think, one of the biggest scoundrels it is possible to conceive.
It was a will case and if he won, the effect would be to beggar two most
estimable middle-aged women who were justly entitled to the property,
to which end personally I am convinced he had committed forgery; the
perjury that accompanied it I do not even mention.
Well, he did win, thanks to me, and the estimable middle-aged ladies
were beggared, and as I heard afterwards, driven to such extremities
that one of them died of her misery and the other became a lodging-house
keeper. The details do not matter, but I may explain that these ladies
were unattractive in appearance and manner and broke down beneath my
cross-examination which made them appear to be telling falsehoods,
whereas they were only completely confused. Further, I invented an
ingenious theory of the facts which, although the judge regarded it with
suspicion, convinced an unusually stupid jury who gave me their verdict.
Everybody congratulated me and at the time I was triumphant, especially
as my leader had declared that our case was impossible. Afterwards,
however, my conscience smote me sorely, so much so that arguing from
the false premise of this business, I came to the conclusion that the
practice of the Law was not suited to an honest man. I did not take the
large view that such matters average themselves up and that if I had
done harm in this instance, I might live to do good in many others, and
perhaps become a just judge, even a great judge. Here I may mention that
in after years, when I grew rich, I rescued that surviving old lady from
her lodging-house, although to this day she does not know the name of
her anonymous friend. So by degrees, without saying anything, for I kept
on my chambers, I slipped out of practice, to the great disappointment
of everybody connected with me, and took to authorship.
A marvel came to pass, my first book was an enormous success. The whole
world talked of it. A leading journal, delighted to have discovered
someone, wrote it up; other journals followed suit to be in the
movement. One of them, I remember, which had already dismissed it with
three or four sneering lines, came out with a second and two-column
notice. It sold like wildfire and I suppose had some merits, for it is
still read, though few know that I wrote it, since fortunately it was
published under a pseudonym.
Again I was much elated and set to work to write another and, as I
believe, a much better book. But jealousies had been excited by this
leaping into fame of a totally unknown person, which were, moreover,
accentuated through a foolish article that I published in answer to some
criticisms, wherein I spoke my mind with an insane freedom and biting
sarcasm. Indeed I was even mad enough to quote names and to give the
example of the very powerful journal which at first carped at my work
and then gushed over it when it became the fashion. All of this made me
many bitter enemies, as I found out when my next book appeared.
It was torn to shreds, it was reviled as subversive of morality
and religion, good arrows in those days. It was called puerile,
half-educated stuff--I half-educated! More, an utterly false charge of
plagiarism was cooked up against me and so well and venomously run that
vast numbers of people concluded that I was a thief of the lowest order.
Lastly, my father, from whom the secret could no longer be kept, sternly
disapproved of both these books which I admit were written from a very
radical and somewhat anti-church point of view. The result was our first
quarrel and before it was made up, he died suddenly.
Now again fastidiousness and my lack of perseverance did their work, and
solemnly I swore that I would never write another book, an oath which I
have kept till this moment, at least so far as publication is concerned,
and now break only because I consider it my duty so to do and am not
animated by any pecuniary object.
Thus came to an end my second attempt at carving out a career. By now
I had grown savage and cynical, rather revengeful also, I fear. Knowing
myself to possess considerable abilities in sundry directions, I sat
down, as it were, to think things over and digest my past experiences.
Then it was that the truth of a very ancient adage struck upon my mind,
namely, that money is power. Had I sufficient money I could laugh at
unjust critics for example; indeed they or their papers would scarcely
dare to criticise me for fear lest it should be in my power to do them
a bad turn. Again I could follow my own ideas in life and perhaps work
good in the world, and live in such surroundings as commended themselves
to me. It was as clear as daylight, but--how to make the money?
I had some capital as the result of my father's death, about £8,000 in
all, plus a little more that my two books had brought in. In what way
could I employ it to the best advantage? I remembered that a cousin of
my father and therefore my own, was a successful stock-broker, also
that there had been some affection between them. I went to him, he was
a good, easy-natured man who was frankly glad to see me, and offered to
put £5,000 into his business, for I was not minded to risk every thing I
had, if he would give me a share in the profits. He laughed heartily at
my audacity.
"Why, my boy," he said, "being totally inexperienced at this game, you
might lose us more than that in a month. But I like your courage, I like
your courage, and the truth is that I do want help. I will think it over
and write to you."
He thought it over and in the end offered to try me for a year at a
fixed salary with a promise of some kind of a partnership if I suited
him. Meanwhile my £5,000 remained in my pocket.
I accepted, not without reluctance since with the impatience of youth
I wanted everything at once. I worked hard in that office and soon
mastered the business, for my knowledge of figures--I had taken a
first-class mathematical degree at college--came to my aid, as in a way
did my acquaintance with Law and Literature. Moreover I had a certain
aptitude for what is called high finance. Further, Fortune, as usual,
showed me a favourable face.
In one year I got the partnership with a small share in the large
profits of the business. In two the partner above me retired, and I took
his place with a third share of the firm. In three my cousin, satisfied
that it was in able hands, began to cease his attendance at the office
and betook himself to gardening which was his hobby. In four I paid him
out altogether, although to do this I had to borrow money on our credit,
for by agreement the title of the firm was continued. Then came that
extraordinary time of boom which many will remember to their cost. I
made a bold stroke and won. On a certain Saturday when the books were
made up, I found that after discharging all liabilities, I should not
be worth more than £20,000. On the following Saturday but two when the
books were made up, I was worth £153,000! L'appetit vient en mangeant.
It seemed nothing to me when so many were worth millions.
For the next year I worked as few have done, and when I struck a balance
at the end of it, I found that on the most conservative estimate I was
the owner of a million and a half in hard cash, or its equivalent. I was
so tired out that I remember this discovery did not excite me at all. I
felt utterly weary of all wealth-hunting and of the City and its ways.
Moreover my old fastidiousness and lack of perseverance re-asserted
themselves. I reflected, rather late in the day perhaps, on the
ruin that this speculation was bringing to thousands, of which some
lamentable instances had recently come to my notice, and once more
considered whether it were a suitable career for an upright man. I had
wealth; why should I not take it and enjoy life?
Also--and here my business acumen came in, I was sure that these times
could not last. It is easy to make money on a rising market, but when
it is falling the matter is very different. In five minutes I made up
my mind. I sent for my junior partners, for I had taken in two, and told
them that I intended to retire at once. They were dismayed both at my
loss, for really I was the firm, and because, as they pointed out, if
I withdrew all my capital, there would not be sufficient left to enable
them to carry on.
One of them, a blunt and honest man, said to my face that it would be
dishonourable of me to do so. I was inclined to answer him sharply, then
remembered that his words were true.
"Very well," I said, "I will leave you £600,000 on which you shall pay
me five per cent interest, but no share of the profits."
On these terms we dissolved the partnership and in a year they had
lost the £600,000, for the slump came with a vengeance. It saved them,
however, and to-day they are earning a reasonable income. But I have
never asked them for that £600,000.
Chapter II. Bastin and Bickley
Behold me once more a man without an occupation, but now the possessor
of about £900,000. It was a very considerable fortune, if not a large
one in England; nothing like the millions of which I had dreamed, but
still enough. To make the most of it and to be sure that it remained, I
invested it very well, mostly in large mortgages at four per cent which,
if the security is good, do not depreciate in capital value. Never again
did I touch a single speculative stock, who desired to think no more
about money. It was at this time that I bought the Fulcombe property.
It cost me about £120,000 of my capital, or with alterations, repairs,
etc., say £150,000, on which sum it may pay a net two and a half per
cent, not more.
This £3,700 odd I have always devoted to the upkeep of the place, which
is therefore in first-rate order. The rest I live on, or save.
These arrangements, with the beautifying and furnishing of the house
and the restoration of the church in memory of my father, occupied and
amused me for a year or so, but when they were finished time began to
hang heavy on my hands. What was the use of possessing about £20,000 a
year when there was nothing upon which it could be spent? For after
all my own wants were few and simple and the acquisition of valuable
pictures and costly furniture is limited by space. Oh! in my small way
I was like the weary King Ecclesiast. For I too made me great works
and had possessions of great and small cattle (I tried farming and
lost money over it!) and gathered me silver and gold and the peculiar
treasure of kings, which I presume means whatever a man in authority
chiefly desires, and so forth. But "behold all was vanity and vexation
of spirit, and there was no profit under the sun."
So, notwithstanding my wealth and health and the deference which is
the rich man's portion, especially when the limit of his riches is not
known, it came about that I too "hated life," and this when I was not
much over thirty. I did not know what to do; for Society as the word
is generally understood, I had no taste; it bored me; horse-racing and
cards I loathed, who had already gambled too much on a big scale. The
killing of creatures under the name of sport palled upon me, indeed I
began to doubt if it were right, while the office of a junior county
magistrate in a place where there was no crime, only occupied me an hour
or two a month.
Lastly my neighbours were few and with all due deference to them,
extremely dull. At least I could not understand them because in them
there did not seem to be anything to understand, and I am quite certain
that they did not understand me. More, when they came to learn that I
was radical in my views and had written certain "dreadful" and
somewhat socialistic books in the form of fiction, they both feared and
mistrusted me as an enemy to their particular section of the race. As
I had not married and showed no inclination to do so, their womenkind
also, out of their intimate knowledge, proclaimed that I led an immoral
life, though a little reflection would have shown them that there was
no one in the neighbourhood which for a time I seldom left, who could
possibly have tempted an educated creature to such courses.
Terrible is the lot of a man who, while still young and possessing the
intellect necessary to achievement, is deprived of all ambition. And
I had none at all. I did not even wish to purchase a peerage or a
baronetcy in this fashion or in that, and, as in my father's case, my
tastes were so many and so catholic that I could not lose myself in any
one of them. They never became more than diversions to me. A hobby is
only really amusing when it becomes an obsession.
At length my lonesome friendlessness oppressed me so much that I took
steps to mitigate it. In my college life I had two particular friends
whom I think I must have selected because they were so absolutely
different from myself.
They were named Bastin and Bickley. Bastin--Basil was his Christian
name--was an uncouth, shock-headed, flat-footed person of large, rugged
frame and equally rugged honesty, with a mind almost incredibly simple.
Nothing surprised him because he lacked the faculty of surprise. He was
like that kind of fish which lies at the bottom of the sea and takes
every kind of food into its great maw without distinguishing its
flavour. Metaphorically speaking, heavenly manna and decayed cabbage
were just the same to Bastin. He was not fastidious and both were mental
pabulum--of a sort--together with whatever lay between these extremes.
Yet he was good, so painfully good that one felt that without exertion
to himself he had booked a first-class ticket straight to Heaven; indeed
that his guardian angel had tied it round his neck at birth lest he
should lose it, already numbered and dated like an identification disc.
I am bound to add that Bastin never went wrong because he never felt the
slightest temptation to do so. This I suppose constitutes real virtue,
since, in view of certain Bible sayings, the person who is tempted and
would like to yield to the temptation, is equally a sinner with the
person who does yield. To be truly good one should be too good to be
tempted, or too weak to make the effort worth the tempter's while--in
short not deserving of his powder and shot.
I need hardly add that Bastin went into the Church; indeed, he could not
have gone anywhere else; it absorbed him naturally, as doubtless Heaven
will do in due course. Only I think it likely that until they get to
know him he will bore the angels so much that they will continually move
him up higher. Also if they have any susceptibilities left, probably
he will tread upon their toes--an art in which I never knew his equal.
However, I always loved Bastin, perhaps because no one else did, a fact
of which he remained totally unconscious, or perhaps because of his
brutal way of telling one what he conceived to be the truth, which, as
he had less imagination than a dormouse, generally it was not. For if
the truth is a jewel, it is one coloured and veiled by many different
lights and atmospheres.
It only remains to add that he was learned in his theological fashion
and that among his further peculiarities were the slow, monotonous
voice in which he uttered his views in long sentences, and his total
indifference to adverse argument however sound and convincing.
My other friend, Bickley, was a person of a quite different character.
Like Bastin, he was learned, but his tendencies faced another way.
If Bastin's omnivorous throat could swallow a camel, especially
a theological camel, Bickley's would strain at the smallest gnat,
especially a theological gnat. The very best and most upright of men,
yet he believed in nothing that he could not taste, see or handle. He
was convinced, for instance, that man is a brute-descended accident and
no more, that what we call the soul or the mind is produced by a certain
action of the grey matter of the brain; that everything apparently
inexplicable has a perfectly mundane explanation, if only one could find
it; that miracles certainly never did happen, and never will; that all
religions are the fruit of human hopes and fears and the most convincing
proof of human weakness; that notwithstanding our infinite variations we
are the subjects of Nature's single law and the victims of blind, black
and brutal chance.
Such was Bickley with his clever, well-cut face that always reminded
me of a cameo, and thoughtful brow; his strong, capable hands and his
rather steely mouth, the mere set of which suggested controversy of
an uncompromising kind. Naturally as the Church had claimed Bastin, so
medicine claimed Bickley.
Now as it happened the man who succeeded my father as vicar of Fulcombe
was given a better living and went away shortly after I had purchased
the place and with it the advowson. Just at this time also I received
a letter written in the large, sprawling hand of Bastin from whom I
had not heard for years. It went straight to the point, saying that he,
Bastin, had seen in a Church paper that the last incumbent had resigned
the living of Fulcombe which was in my gift. He would therefore be
obliged if I would give it to him as the place he was at in Yorkshire
did not suit his wife's health.
Here I may state that afterwards I learned that what did not suit Mrs.
Bastin was the organist, who was pretty. She was by nature a woman
with a temperament so insanely jealous that actually she managed to be
suspicious of Bastin, whom she had captured in an unguarded moment when
he was thinking of something else and who would as soon have thought of
even looking at any woman as he would of worshipping Baal. As a matter
of fact it took him months to know one female from another. Except as
possible providers of subscriptions and props of Mothers' Meetings,
women had no interest for him.
To return--with that engaging honesty which I have mentioned--Bastin's
letter went on to set out all his own disabilities, which, he added,
would probably render him unsuitable for the place he desired to fill.
He was a High Churchman, a fact which would certainly offend many; he
had no claims to being a preacher although he was extraordinarily well
acquainted with the writings of the Early Fathers. (What on earth had
that to do with the question, I wondered.) On the other hand he had
generally been considered a good visitor and was fond of walking (he
meant to call on distant parishioners, but did not say so).
Then followed a page and a half on the evils of the existing system
of the presentation to livings by private persons, ending with the
suggestion that I had probably committed a sin in buying this particular
advowson in order to increase my local authority, that is, if I had
bought it, a point on which he was ignorant. Finally he informed me that
as he had to christen a sick baby five miles away on a certain moor
and it was too wet for him to ride his bicycle, he must stop. And he
stopped.
There was, however, a P.S. to the letter, which ran as follows:
"Someone told me that you were dead a few years ago, and of course it
may be another man of the same name who owns Fulcombe. If so, no doubt
the Post Office will send back this letter."
That was his only allusion to my humble self in all those diffuse pages.
It was a long while since I had received an epistle which made me laugh
so much, and of course I gave him the living by return of post, and
even informed him that I would increase its stipend to a sum which I
considered suitable to the position.
About ten days later I received another letter from Bastin which, as
a scrawl on the flap of the envelope informed me, he had carried for
a week in his pocket and forgotten to post. Except by inference it
returned no thanks for my intended benefits. What it did say, however,
was that he thought it wrong of me to have settled a matter of such
spiritual importance in so great a hurry, though he had observed that
rich men were nearly always selfish where their time was concerned.
Moreover, he considered that I ought first to have made inquiries as to
his present character and attainments, etc., etc.
To this epistle I replied by telegraph to the effect that I should as
soon think of making inquiries about the character of an archangel,
or that of one of his High Church saints. This telegram, he told me
afterwards, he considered unseemly and even ribald, especially as it had
given great offence to the postmaster, who was one of the sidesmen in
his church.
Thus it came about that I appointed the Rev. Basil Bastin to the
living of Fulcombe, feeling sure that he would provide me with endless
amusement and act as a moral tonic and discipline. Also I appreciated
the man's blunt candour. In due course he arrived, and I confess that
after a few Sundays of experience I began to have doubts as to the
wisdom of my choice, glad as I was to see him personally. His sermons at
once bored me, and, when they did not send me to sleep, excited in me
a desire for debate. How could he be so profoundly acquainted with
mysteries before which the world had stood amazed for ages? Was there
nothing too hot or too heavy in the spiritual way for him to dismiss in
a few blundering and casual words, as he might any ordinary incident of
every-day life, I wondered? Also his idea of High Church observances was
not mine, or, I imagine, that of anybody else. But I will not attempt to
set it out.
His peculiarities, however, were easy to excuse and entirely swallowed
up by the innate goodness of his nature which soon made him beloved of
everyone in the place, for although he thought that probably most things
were sins, I never knew him to discover a sin which he considered to be
beyond the reach of forgiveness. Bastin was indeed a most charitable man
and in his way wide-minded.
The person whom I could not tolerate, however, was his wife, who, to
my fancy, more resembled a vessel, a very unattractive vessel, full of
vinegar than a woman. Her name was Sarah and she was small, plain, flat,
sandy-haired and odious, quite obsessed, moreover, with her jealousies
of the Rev. Basil, at whom it pleased her to suppose that every woman in
the countryside under fifty was throwing herself.
Here I will confess that to the best of my ability I took care that they
did in outward seeming, that is, whenever she was present, instructing
them to sit aside with him in darkened corners, to present him with
flowers, and so forth. Several of them easily fell into the humour of
the thing, and I have seen him depart from a dinner-party followed by
that glowering Sarah, with a handful of rosebuds and violets, to say
nothing of the traditional offerings of slippers, embroidered markers
and the like. Well, it was my only way of coming even with her, which I
think she knew, for she hated me poisonously.
So much for Basil Bastin. Now for Bickley. Him I had met on several
occasions since our college days, and after I was settled at the Priory
from time to time I asked him to stay with me. At length he came, and
I found out that he was not at all comfortable in his London practice
which was of a nature uncongenial to him; further, that he did not get
on with his partners. Then, after reflection, I made a suggestion
to him. I pointed out that, owing to its popularity amongst seaside
visitors, the neighbourhood of Fulcombe was a rising one, and that
although there were doctors in it, there was no really first-class
surgeon for miles.
Now Bickley was a first-class surgeon, having held very high hospital
appointments, and indeed still holding them. Why, I asked, should he
not come and set up here on his own? I would appoint him doctor to
the estate and also give him charge of a cottage hospital which I was
endowing, with liberty to build and arrange it as he liked. Further, as
I considered that it would be of great advantage to me to have a man of
real ability within reach, I would guarantee for three years whatever
income he was earning in London.
He thanked me warmly and in the end acted on the idea, with startling
results so far as his prospects were concerned. Very soon his really
remarkable skill became known and he was earning more money than as an
unmarried man he could possibly want. Indeed, scarcely a big operation
took place at any town within twenty miles, and even much farther away,
at which he was not called in to assist.
Needless to say his advent was a great boon to me, for as he lived in a
house I let him quite near by, whenever he had a spare evening he would
drop in to dinner, and from our absolutely opposite standpoints we
discussed all things human and divine. Thus I was enabled to sharpen
my wits upon the hard steel of his clear intellect which was yet, in a
sense, so limited.
I must add that I never converted him to my way of thinking and he
never converted me to his, any more than he converted Bastin, for
whom, queerly enough, he had a liking. They pounded away at each other,
Bickley frequently getting the best of it in the argument, and when at
last Bastin rose to go, he generally made the same remark. It was:
"It really is sad, my dear Bickley, to find a man of your intellect
so utterly wrongheaded and misguided. I have convicted you of error at
least half a dozen times, and not to confess it is mere pigheadedness.
Good night. I am sure that Sarah will be sitting up for me."
"Silly old idiot!" Bickley would say, shaking his fist after him. "The
only way to get him to see the truth would be to saw his head open and
pour it in."
Then we would both laugh.
Such were my two most intimate friends, although I admit it was rather
like the equator cultivating close relationships with the north and
south poles. Certainly Bastin was as far from Bickley as those points
of the earth are apart, while I. as it were, sat equally distant between
the two. However, we were all very happy together, since in certain
characters, there are few things that bind men more closely than
profound differences of opinion.
Now I must turn to my more personal affairs. After all, it is impossible
for a man to satisfy his soul, if he has anything of the sort about him
which in the remotest degree answers to that description, with the husks
of wealth, luxury and indolence, supplemented by occasional theological
and other arguments between his friends; Becoming profoundly convinced
of this truth, I searched round for something to do and, like Noah's
dove on the waste of waters, found nothing. Then I asked Bickley and
Bastin for their opinions as to my best future course. Bickley proved a
barren draw. He rubbed his nose and feebly suggested that I might go
in for "research work," which, of course, only represented his own
ambitions. I asked him indignantly how I could do such a thing without
any scientific qualifications whatever. He admitted the difficulty, but
replied that I might endow others who had the qualifications.
"In short, become a mulch cow for sucking scientists," I replied, and
broke off the conversation.
Bastin's idea was, first, that I should teach in a Sunday School;
secondly, that if this career did not satisfy all my aspirations, I
might be ordained and become a missionary.
On my rejection of this brilliant advice, he remarked that the only
other thing he could think of was that I should get married and have a
large family, which might possibly advantage the nation and ultimately
enrich the Kingdom of Heaven, though of such things no one could
be quite sure. At any rate, he was certain that at present I was in
practice neglecting my duty, whatever it might be, and in fact one of
those cumberers of the earth who, he observed in the newspaper he took
in and read when he had time, were "very happily named--the idle rich."
"Which reminds me," he added, "that the clothing-club finances are in
a perfectly scandalous condition; in fact, it is £25 in debt, an amount
that as the squire of the parish I consider it incumbent on you to make
good, not as a charity but as an obligation."
"Look here, my friend," I said, ignoring all the rest, "will you answer
me a plain question? Have you found marriage such a success that you
consider it your duty to recommend it to others? And if you have, why
have you not got the large family of which you speak?"
"Of course not," he replied with his usual frankness. "Indeed, it is in
many ways so disagreeable that I am convinced it must be right and for
the good of all concerned. As regards the family I am sure I do not
know, but Sarah never liked babies, which perhaps has something to do
with it."
Then he sighed, adding, "You see, Arbuthnot, we have to take things as
we find them in this world and hope for a better."
"Which is just what I am trying to do, you unilluminating old donkey!" I
exclaimed, and left him there shaking his head over matters in general,
but I think principally over Sarah.
By the way, I think that the villagers recognised this good lady's
vinegary nature. At least, they used to call her "Sour Sal."
Chapter III. Natalie
Now what Bastin had said about marriage stuck in my mind as his
blundering remarks had a way of doing, perhaps because of the grain
of honest truth with which they were often permeated. Probably in my
position it was more or less my duty to marry. But here came the rub;
I had never experienced any leanings that way. I was as much a man as
others, more so than many are, perhaps, and I liked women, but at the
same time they repelled me.
My old fastidiousness came in; to my taste there was always something
wrong about them. While they attracted one part of my nature they
revolted another part, and on the whole I preferred to do without their
intimate society, rather than work violence to this second and higher
part of me. Moreover, quite at the beginning of my career I had
concluded from observation that a man gets on better in life alone,
rather than with another to drag at his side, or by whom perhaps he must
be dragged. Still true marriage, such as most men and some women have
dreamed of in their youth, had always been one of my ideals; indeed it
was on and around this vision that I wrote that first book of mine which
was so successful. Since I knew this to be unattainable in our imperfect
conditions, however, notwithstanding Bastin's strictures, again I
dismissed the whole matter from my mind as a vain imagination.
As an alternative I reflected upon a parliamentary career which I was
not too old to begin, and even toyed with one or two opportunities that
offered themselves, as these do to men of wealth and advanced views.
They never came to anything, for in the end I decided that Party
politics were so hateful and so dishonest, that I could not bring myself
to put my neck beneath their yoke. I was sure that if I tried to do
so, I should fail more completely than I had done at the Bar and in
Literature. Here, too, I am quite certain that I was right.
The upshot of it all was that I sought refuge in that last expedient of
weary Englishmen, travel, not as a globe-trotter, but leisurely and with
an inquiring mind, learning much but again finding, like the ancient
writer whom I have quoted already, that there is no new thing under the
sun; that with certain variations it is the same thing over and over
again.
No, I will make an exception, the East did interest me enormously. There
it was, at Benares, that I came into touch with certain thinkers who
opened my eyes to a great deal. They released some hidden spring in
my nature which hitherto had always been striving to break through the
crust of our conventions and inherited ideas. I know now that what I
was seeking was nothing less than the Infinite; that I had "immortal
longings in me." I listened to all their solemn talk of epochs and years
measureless to man, and reflected with a thrill that after all man might
have his part in every one of them. Yes, that bird of passage as he
seemed to be, flying out of darkness into darkness, still he might have
spread his wings in the light of other suns millions upon millions of
years ago, and might still spread them, grown radiant and glorious,
millions upon millions of years hence in a time unborn.
If only I could know the truth. Was Life (according to Bickley) merely
a short activity bounded by nothingness before and behind; or (according
to Bastin) a conventional golden-harped and haloed immortality, a word
of which he did not in the least understand the meaning?
Or was it something quite different from either of these, something vast
and splendid beyond the reach of vision, something God-sent, beginning
and ending in the Eternal Absolute and at last partaking of His
attributes and nature and from aeon to aeon shot through with His light?
And how was the truth to be learned? I asked my Eastern friends, and
they talked vaguely of long ascetic preparation, of years upon years of
learning, from whom I could not quite discover. I was sure it could not
be from them, because clearly they did not know; they only passed on
what they had heard elsewhere, when or how they either could not or
would not explain. So at length I gave it up, having satisfied myself
that all this was but an effort of Oriental imagination called into life
by the sweet influences of the Eastern stars.
I gave it up and went away, thinking that I should forget. But I did
not forget. I was quick with a new hope, or at any rate with a new
aspiration, and that secret child of holy desire grew and grew within
my soul, till at length it flashed upon me that this soul of mine was
itself the hidden Master from which I must learn my lesson. No wonder
that those Eastern friends could not give his name, seeing that whatever
they really knew, as distinguished from what they had heard, and it was
little enough, each of them had learned from the teaching of his own
soul.
Thus, then, I too became a dreamer with only one longing, the longing
for wisdom, for that spirit touch which should open my eyes and enable
me to see.
Yet now it happened strangely enough that when I seemed within myself
to have little further interest in the things of the world, and least
of all in women, I, who had taken another guest to dwell with me,
those things of the world came back to me and in the shape of Woman the
Inevitable. Probably it was so decreed since is it not written that no
man can live to himself alone, or lose himself in watching and nurturing
the growth of his own soul?
It happened thus. I went to Rome on my way home from India, and stayed
there a while. On the day after my arrival I wrote my name in the book
of our Minister to Italy at that time, Sir Alfred Upton, not because I
wished him to ask me to dinner, but for the reason that I had heard of
him as a man of archeological tastes and thought that he might enable me
to see things which otherwise I should not see.
As it chanced he knew about me through some of my Devonshire neighbours
who were friends of his, and did ask me to dinner on the following
night. I accepted and found myself one of a considerable party, some of
them distinguished English people who wore Orders, as is customary when
one dines with the representative of our Sovereign. Seeing these, and
this shows that in the best of us vanity is only latent, for the first
time in my life I was sorry that I had none and was only plain Mr.
Arbuthnot who, as Sir Alfred explained to me politely, must go in to
dinner last, because all the rest had titles, and without even a lady as
there was not one to spare.
Nor was my lot bettered when I got there, as I found myself seated
between an Italian countess and a Russian prince, neither of whom could
talk English, while, alas, I knew no foreign language, not even French
in which they addressed me, seeming surprised that I did not understand
them. I was humiliated at my own ignorance, although in fact I was not
ignorant, only my education had been classical. Indeed I was a good
classic and had kept up my knowledge more or less, especially since I
became an idle man. In my confusion it occurred to me that the Italian
countess might know Latin from which her own language was derived, and
addressed her in that tongue. She stared, and Sir Alfred, who was not
far off and overheard me (he also knew Latin), burst into laughter and
proceeded to explain the joke in a loud voice, first in French and
then in English, to the assembled company, who all became infected with
merriment and also stared at me as a curiosity.
Then it was that for the first time I saw Natalie, for owing to
a mistake of my driver I had arrived rather late and had not been
introduced to her. As her father's only daughter, her mother being dead,
she was seated at the end of the table behind a fan-like arrangement of
white Madonna lilies, and she had bent forward and, like the others, was
looking at me, but in such a fashion that her head from that distance
seemed as though it were surrounded and crowned with lilies. Indeed the
greatest art could not have produced a more beautiful effect which was,
however, really one of naked accident.
An angel looking down upon earth through the lilies of Heaven--that was
the rather absurd thought which flashed into my mind. I did not quite
realise her face at first except that it seemed to be both dark and
fair; as a fact her waving hair which grew rather low upon her forehead,
was dark, and her large, soft eyes were grey. I did not know, and to
this moment I do not know if she was really beautiful, but certainly the
light that shone through those eyes of hers and seemed to be reflected
upon her delicate features, was beauty itself. It was like that glowing
through a thin vase of the purest alabaster within which a lamp is
placed, and I felt this effect to arise from no chance, like that of the
lily-setting, but, as it were, from the lamp of the spirit within.
Our eyes met, and I suppose that she saw the wonder and admiration
in mine. At any rate her amused smile faded, leaving the face rather
serious, though still sweetly serious, and a tinge of colour crept over
it as the first hue of dawn creeps into a pearly sky. Then she withdrew
herself behind the screen of lilies and for the rest of that dinner
which I thought was never coming to an end, practically I saw her no
more. Only I noted as she passed out that although not tall, she
was rounded and graceful in shape and that her hands were peculiarly
delicate.