The New Collected Short Stories (22 page)

‘No, I am a Believer. But you are a Moslem, surely?’

‘I am not,’ said Mr Andrews. ‘I am a Believer.’

The two souls floated upwards in silence, but did not release each other’s hands. ‘I am broad church,’ he added gently. The word ‘broad’ quavered strangely amid the inter-spaces.

‘Relate to me your career,’ said the Turk at last.

‘I was born of a decent middle-class family, and had my education at Winchester and Oxford. I thought of becoming a missionary, but was offered a post in the Board of Trade, which I accepted. At thirty-two I married, and had four children, two of whom have died. My wife survives me. If I had lived a little longer I should have been knighted.’

‘Now I will relate my career. I was never sure of my father, and my mother does not signify. I grew up in the slums of Salonika. Then I joined a band and we plundered the villages of the infidel. I prospered and had three wives, all of whom survive me. Had I lived a little longer I should have had a band of my own.’

‘A son of mine was killed travelling in Macedonia. Perhaps you killed him.’

‘It is very possible.’

The two souls floated upward, hand in hand. Mr Andrews did not speak again, for he was filled with horror at the approaching tragedy. This man, so godless, so lawless, so cruel, so lustful, believed that he would be admitted into Heaven. And into what a heaven – a place full of the crude pleasures of a ruffian’s life on earth! But Mr Andrews felt neither disgust nor moral indignation. He was only conscious of an immense pity, and his own virtues confronted him not at all. He longed to save the man whose hand he held more tightly, who, he thought, was now holding more tightly on to him. And when he reached the Gate of Heaven, instead of saying ‘Can I enter?’ as he had intended, he cried out, ‘Cannot he enter?’

And at the same moment the Turk uttered the same cry. For the same spirit was working in each of them.

From the gateway a voice replied, ‘Both can enter.’ They were filled with joy and pressed forward together.

Then the voice said, ‘In what clothes will you enter?’

‘In my best clothes,’ shouted the Turk, ‘the ones I stole.’ And he clad himself in a splendid turban and a waistcoat embroidered with silver, and baggy trousers, and a great belt in which were stuck pipes and pistols and knives.

‘And in what clothes will you enter?’ said the voice to Mr Andrews.

Mr Andrews thought of his best clothes, but he had no wish to wear them again. At last he remembered and said, ‘Robes.’

‘Of what colour and fashion?’ asked the voice.

Mr Andrews had never thought about the matter much. He replied, in hesitating tones, ‘White, I suppose, of some flowing soft material,’ and he was immediately given a garment such as he had described. ‘Do I wear it rightly?’ he asked.

‘Wear it as it pleases you,’ replied the voice. ‘What else do you desire?’

‘A harp,’ suggested Mr Andrews. ‘A small one.’

A small gold harp was placed in his hand.

‘And a palm – no, I cannot have a palm, for it is the reward of martyrdom; my life has been tranquil and happy.’

‘You can have a palm if you desire it.’

But Mr Andrews refused the palm, and hurried in his white robes after the Turk, who had already entered Heaven. As he passed in at the open gate, a man, dressed like himself, passed out with gestures of despair.

‘Why is he not happy?’ he asked.

The voice did not reply.

‘And who are all those figures, seated inside on thrones and mountains? Why are some of them terrible, and sad, and ugly?’

There was no answer. Mr Andrews entered, and then he saw that those seated figures were all the gods who were then being worshipped on the earth. A group of souls stood round each, singing his praises. But the gods paid no heed, for they were listening to the prayers of living men, which alone brought them nourishment. Sometimes a faith would grow weak, and then the god of that faith also drooped and dwindled and fainted for his daily portion of incense. And sometimes, owing to a revivalist movement, or to a great commemoration, or to some other cause, a faith would grow strong, and the god of that faith grow strong also. And, more frequently still, a faith would alter, so that the features of its god altered and became contradictory, and passed from ecstasy to respectability, or from mildness and universal love to the ferocity of battle. And at times a god would divide into two gods, or three, or more, each with his own ritual and precarious supply of prayer.

Mr Andrews saw Buddha, and Vishnu, and Allah, and Jehovah, and the Elohim. He saw little ugly determined gods who were worshipped by a few savages in the same way. He saw the vast shadowy outlines of the neo-Pagan Zeus. There were cruel gods, and coarse gods, and tortured gods, and, worse still, there were gods who were peevish, or deceitful, or vulgar. No aspiration of humanity was unfulfilled. There was even an intermediate state for those who wished it, and for the Christian Scientists a place where they could demonstrate that they had not died.

He did not play his harp for long, but hunted vainly for one of his dead friends. And though souls were continually entering Heaven, it still seemed curiously empty. Though he had all that he expected, he was conscious of no great happiness, no mystic contemplation of beauty, no mystic union with good. There was nothing to compare with that moment outside the gate, when he prayed that the Turk might enter and heard the Turk uttering the same prayer for him. And when at last he saw his companion, he hailed him with a cry of human joy.

The Turk was seated in thought, and round him, by sevens, sat the virgins who are promised in the Koran.

‘Oh, my dear friend!’ he called out. ‘Come here and we will never be parted, and such as my pleasures are, they shall be yours also. Where are my other friends? Where are the men whom I love, or whom I have killed?’

‘I, too, have only found you,’ said Mr Andrews. He sat down by the Turk, and the virgins, who were all exactly alike, ogled them with coal black eyes.

‘Though I have all that I expected,’ said the Turk, ‘I am conscious of no great happiness. There is nothing to compare with that moment outside the gate when I prayed that you might enter, and heard you uttering the same prayer for me. These virgins are as beautiful and good as I had fashioned, yet I could wish that they were better.’

As he wished, the forms of the virgins became more rounded, and their eyes grew larger and blacker than before. And Mr Andrews, by a wish similar in kind, increased the purity and softness of his garment and the glitter of his harp. For in that place their expectations were fulfilled, but not their hopes.

‘I am going,’ said Mr Andrews at last. ‘We desire infinity and we cannot imagine it. How can we expect it to be granted? I have never imagined anything infinitely good or beautiful excepting in my dreams.’

‘I am going with you,’ said the other.

Together they sought the entrance gate, and the Turk parted with his virgins and his best clothes, and Mr Andrews cast away his robes and his harp.

‘Can we depart?’ they asked.

‘You can both depart if you wish,’ said the voice, ‘but remember what lies outside.’

As soon as they passed the gate, they felt again the pressure of the world soul. For a moment they stood hand in hand resisting it. They they suffered it to break in upon them, and they, and all the experience they had gained, and all the love and wisdom they had generated, passed into it, and made it better.

‘Don’t thump,’ said Miss Haddon. ‘And each run ought to be like a string of pearls. It is not. Why is it not?’

‘Ellen, you beast, you’ve got my note.’

’No, I haven’t. You’ve got mine.’

‘Well, whose note is it?’

Miss Haddon looked between their pigtails. ‘It is Mildred’s note,’ she decided. ‘Go back to the double bars. And don’t thump.’

The girls went back, and again the little finger of Mildred’s right hand disputed for middle G with the little finger of Ellen’s left.

‘It can’t be done,’ they said. ‘It’s the man who wrote it’s fault.’

‘It can easily be done if you don’t hold on so long, Ellen,’ said Miss Haddon.

Four o’clock struck. Mildred and Ellen went, and Rose and Enid succeeded them. They played the duet worse than Mildred, but not as badly as Ellen. At four-fifteen Margaret and Jane came. They played worse than Rose and Enid, but not as badly as Ellen. At four-thirty Dolores and Violet came. They played worse than Ellen. At four-forty-five Miss Haddon went to tea with the Principal, who explained why she desired all the pupils to learn the same duet. It was part of her new co-ordinative system. The school was taking one subject for the year, only one – Napoleon – and all the studies were to bear on that one subject. Thus – not to mention French and History – the Repetition class was learning Wordsworth’s political poems, the literature class was reading extracts from
War and Peace
, the drawing class copied something of David’s, the needlework class designed Empire gowns, and the music pupils – they, of course, were practising Beethoven’s ‘Eroica’ Symphony, which had been begun (though not finished) in honour of the Emperor. Several of the other mistresses were at tea, and they exclaimed that they loved co-ordinating, and that it was a lovely system: it made work so much more interesting to them as well as to the girls. But Miss Haddon did not respond. There had been no co-ordination in her day, and she could not understand it. She only knew that she was growing old, and teaching music worse and worse, and she wondered how soon the Principal would find this out and dismiss her.

Meanwhile, high up in heaven Beethoven sat, and all around him, ranged on smaller clouds, sat his clerks. Each made entries in a ledger, and he whose ledger was entitled ‘“Eroica” Symphony: arranged for four hands, by Carl Muller’, was making the following entries: ‘3·45, Mildred and Ellen; conductor, Miss Haddon. 4·0, Rose and Enid; conductor, Miss Haddon. 4·15, Margaret and Jane; conductor, Miss Haddon. 4·30——’

Beethoven interrupted. ‘Who is this Miss Haddon,’ he asked, ‘whose name recurs like the beat of a drum?’

‘She has interpreted you for many years.’

‘And her orchestra?’

‘They are maidens of the upper middle classes, who perform the “Eroica” in her presence every day and all day. The sound of it never ceases. It floats out of the window like a continual incense, and is heard up and down the street.’

‘Do they perform with insight?’

Since Beethoven is deaf, the clerk could reply, ‘With most intimate insight. There was a time when Ellen was further from your spirit than the rest, but that has not been the case since Dolores and Violet arrived.’

‘New comrades have inspired her. I understand.’

The clerk was silent.

‘I approve,’ continued Beethoven, ‘and in token of my approval I decree that Miss Haddon and her orchestra and all in their house shall this very evening hear a perfect performance of my A minor quartette.’

While the decree was being entered, and while the staff was wondering how it would be executed, a scene of even greater splendour was taking place in another part of the empyrean. There Napoleon sat, surrounded by his clerks, who were so numerous that the thrones of the outermost looked no larger than cirrocumuli clouds. They were busy entering all the references made on earth to their employer, a task for which he himself had organized them. Every few moments he asked, ‘And what is our latest phase?’

The clerk whose ledger was entitled ‘Hommages de Wordsworth’ answered: ‘5·0, Mildred, Ellen, Rose, Enid, Margaret and Jane, all recited the sonnet, “Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee”. Dolores and Violet attempted to recite it, but failed.’

‘The poet there celebrates my conquest of the Venetian Republic,’ said the Emperor, ‘and the greatness of the theme overcame Violet and Dolores. It is natural that they should fail. And the next phase?’

Another clerk said, ‘5·15, Mildred, Ellen, Rose, Enid, Margaret and Jane, are sketching in the left front leg of Pauline Buonaparte’s couch. Dolores and Violet are still learning their sonnet.’

‘It seems to me,’ said Napoleon, ‘that I have heard these charming names before.’

‘There are in my ledger, too,’ said a third clerk. ‘You may remember, sire, that about an hour ago they performed Beethoven’s “Eroica”——’

‘Written in my honour,’ concluded the Emperor. ‘I approve.’

‘5·30,’ said a fourth clerk, ‘with the exception of Dolores and Violet, who have been sent to sharpen pencils, the whole company sings the “Marseillaise”.’

‘It needed but that,’ cried Napoleon, rising to his feet. ‘Ces demoiselles ont un vrai élan vers la gloire. I decree in recompense that they and all their house shall participate tomorrow morning in the victory of Austerlitz.’

The decree was entered.

Evening prep. was at 7·30. The girls settled down gloomily, for they were already bored to tears by the new system. But a wonderful thing happened. A regiment of cavalry rode past the school, headed by the most spiffing band. The girls went off their heads with joy. They rose from their seats, they sang, they advanced, they danced, they pranced, they made trumpets out of paper and used the blackboard as a kettledrum. They were able to do this because Miss Haddon, who ought to have been supervising, had left the room to find a genealogical tree of Marie Louise; the history mistress had asked her particularly to take it to prep. for the girls to climb about in, but she had forgotten it. ‘I am no good at all,’ thought Miss Haddon, as she stretched out her hand for the tree; it lay with some other papers under a shell which the Principal had procured from St Helena. ‘I am stupid and tired and old; I wish that I was dead.’ Thus thinking, she lifted the shell mechanically to her ear; her father, who was a sailor, had often done the same to her when she was young . . .

She heard the sea; at first it was the tide whispering over mud-flats or chattering against stones, or the short, crisp break of a wave on sand, or the long, echoing roar of a wave against rocks, or the sounds of the central ocean, where the waters pile themselves into mountains and part into ravines; or when fog descends and the deep rises and falls gently; or when the air is so fresh that the big waves and the little waves that live in the big waves all sing of joy, and send one another kisses of white foam. She heard them all, but in the end she heard the sea itself, and knew that it was hers for ever.