The eternal moment, and other stories
atmosphere presses upon rising bubbles, striving to vanquish them, to
break their thin envelope of personality, to mingle their virtue with
its own. But they resisted, remembering their glorious individual life
on earth, and hoping for an individual life to come.
Among them ascended the soul of a Mr. Andrews who, after a beneficent
and honourable life, had recently deceased at his house in town.
He knew himself to be kind, upright and religious, and though he
approached his trial with all humility, he could not be doubtful of
its result. God was not now a jealous God. He would not deny salvation
merely because it was expected. A righteous soul may reasonably be
conscious of its own righteousness and Mr. Andrews was conscious of his.
"The way is long," said a voice, "but by pleasant converse the way
becomes shorter. Might I travel in your company?"
"Willingly," said Mr. Andrews. He held out his hand, and the two souls
floated upwards together.
"I was slain fighting the infidel," said the other exultantly, "and I
go straight to those joys of which the Prophet speaks."
"Are you not a Christian?" asked Mr. Andrews gravely.
"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 interspaces.
"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.
Then 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.
CO-ORDINATION
"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 Müller," 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?"