by John Buchan
This conversation did little to reassure me. So far as Goodeve was concerned, it was not the actual validity of Moe’s doctrine that mattered, but his own reactions to the experience. And an incident in the last week of October rather shook the scepticism which I had been trying to cultivate. For I opened the newspaper one morning to learn that young Molsom had been appointed a Lord of Appeal straight from the Bar, a most unexpected choice. Yet I had expected it, for in my efforts to throw my mind a year forward under Moe’s direction I had had a vision of the future House of Lords tribunal. The figure on the Woolsack had been blurred, but Molsom had been perfectly clear, with his big nose and his habit of folded arms.
In the beginning of November Sir Thomas Twiston died, and Goodeve, the prospective candidate, had to face a by-election. The Marton division of Dorset was reckoned one of the safest Tory seats in the land, but this contest had not the dullness of the usual political certainty. Goodeve was opposed, and though the opposition was futile, the election gave an opportunity for some interesting propaganda. It fell just after Geraldine had concluded his tour in the North, where he had made a feature of unemployment and his new emigration policy — a policy which, as I have already mentioned, was strongly disliked by many of his own party. Goodeve, who had always been an eager Imperialist, saw his chance. He expounded his leader’s views with equal eloquence and far greater knowledge. The press reported him at length, for his speeches were excellent copy; he dealt wittily and faithfully with both Waldemar and the Liberals and the “big business” group in his own party. Before the contest was over he had become a considerable personality in politics.
In fulfilment of an old promise I went down to speak for him on the eve of the poll. We had three joint meetings, and I was much impressed by his performance. Here was a new voice and a new mind, a man who could make platitudes seem novelties, and convince his hearers that the most startling novelties were platitudes. He looked vigorous and fit, and his gusto seemed to dispose of my former anxieties.
But at the hotel on the evening of the election day I realised that he had been trying himself high. His fine, dark face was too sharp for health, and his wholesome colour had gone. He was so tired that he could scarcely eat a mouthful of supper, but when I wanted him to go to bed he declared that it was no good, since he could not sleep. He kept me up till the small hours, but he did not talk much — not a word about the election and its chances. Next day he looked better, but I was glad when the declaration of the poll was over. He was in by an immense majority, nearly fourteen thousand, and there was the usual row in the streets and a tour of committee rooms. I had meant to get back to Town for luncheon, but something in his face made me change my plans. “Won’t you spare me one night?” he begged. “Come back with me to Goodeve. I implore you, Leithen. You do me more good than anybody else on earth, and I need you to help me to recover my balance.” I could not resist the appeal in his eyes, so I sent off a few telegrams, and in the late afternoon escaped with him from Marton.
It was a drive of about forty miles through a misty November twilight. He scarcely uttered a word, and I respected his mood and also kept silence. The man was clearly dog-tired. His house received us with blazing fires and the mellow shadows of the loveliest hall in England. He went straight upstairs, announcing that he would have a bath and lie down till dinner.
At dinner his manner was brisker. He seemed to feel the comfort of release from the sickening grind of an election, and I realised that the thing had been for him a heavy piece of collar work. Goodeve was not the man to enjoy the debauch of half-truths inevitable in platform speeches. I expected him to talk about politics, which at the time were in a considerable mess. I told him that he was entering Parliament at a dramatic moment with a reputation already made, and said the sort of encouraging things which the ordinary new member would have welcomed. But he did not seem much interested in the gossip which I retailed. When I speculated on Geraldine’s next move he yawned.
He was far more inclined to talk about his house. I had never stayed at Goodeve before, and had fallen at once under the spell of its cloudy magnificence. I think I used that very phrase, for such was my main impression. It had an air of spaciousness far greater than its actual dimensions warranted, for all its perspectives seemed to end in shadows, to fade away into a world where our measurements no longer held . . . When I had first talked with him at Flambard he had been in revolt against the dominance of the old house which was always trying to drag him back into the past, and had spoken of resisting the pull of his ancestors. Now he seemed to welcome it. He had been making researches in its history, and was full of curious knowledge about his forbears. After dinner he had the long gallery on the first floor lit up, and we made a tour of inspection of the family portraits.
I was struck, I remember, by the enduring physical characteristics of his race. Most of his ancestors were dark men with long faces, and that odd delicacy about mouth and chin which one sees in the busts of Julius Caesar. Not a strong stock, perhaps, but a fine one. Goodeve himself, with his straight brows, had a more masterful air than the pictures, but when I looked at him again I thought I saw the same slight over-refinement, something too mobile in the lips, too anxious in the eyes. “Tremulous, impressional,” Emerson says that the hero must be, and these were the qualities of the old Goodeves which leaped at once from their portraits. Many had been heroes — notably the Sir Robert who fell at Naseby and the Sir Geoffrey who died with Moore at Corunna — but it was a heroism for death rather than for life. I wondered how the race had managed to survive so long.
Oddly enough it was their deaths that seemed chiefly to interest Goodeve. He had all the details of them — this one had died in his bed at sixty-three, that in the hunting-field at forty, another in a drinking bout in the early twenties. They appeared for the most part to have been a short-lived race and tragically fated . . .
By and by this mortuary tale began to irritate me. I preferred to think of the cuirassed, periwigged or cravated gentlemen, the hooped and flounced ladies, as in the vigour of life in which the artist had drawn them. And then I saw that in Goodeve’s face which set me wondering. On his own account he was trying to puzzle out some urgent thing — urgent for himself. He was digging into his family history and interrogating the painted faces on his walls to find an answer to some vital problem of his own.
What it might be I could not guess, but it disquieted me, and I lent an inattentive ear to his catalogue. And then I suddenly got enlightenment.
We had left the gallery and were making our way to the library through a chain of little drawing-rooms. All had been lit up, and all were full of pictures, mostly Italian, collected by various Goodeves during the Grand Tour. They were cheerful rooms, papered not panelled, with a pleasant Victorian complacency about them. But in the last the walls were dark oak, and above the fireplace was a picture which arrested me. Goodeve seemed to wish to hurry me on, but when he saw my interest he too halted.
It was a Spanish piece, painted I should think by someone who had come under El Greco’s influence, and had also studied the Dutch school. I am no authority on art, but if it be its purpose to make an instant and profound impression on a beholder, then this was a masterpiece. It represented a hall in some great house, paved with black and white marble. There was a big fire burning in an antique fireplace, and the walls blazed with candles. But the hangings were a curious dusky crimson, so that in spite of the brilliant lighting the place was sombre, suggesting more a church than a dwelling. The upper walls and the corners were in deep shadow. On the floor some ten couples were dancing, an ordered dance in which there was no gaiety, and the dancers’ faces were all set and white. Other people were sitting round the walls, rigidly composed as if they were curbing some strong passion. At the great doors at the far end men-at-arms stood on guard, so that none should pass. On every face, in every movement was fear — fear, and an awful expectation of something which was outside in the night. You felt that at any moment the
composure might crack, that the faces would become contorted with terror and the air filled with shrieks.
The picture was lettered “La Peste,” but I did not need the words to tell me the subject. It was a house in a city where the plague was raging. These people were trying to forget the horror. They had secluded themselves in a palace, set guards at the door, and tried to shut out the world. But they had failed, for the spectre rubbed shoulders with each. They might already have the poison in their blood, and in an hour be blue and swollen. One heard the rumble of the dead-cart on the outer cobbles making a dreadful bass to the fiddles.
I have never received a stronger impression from any picture. I think I must have cried out, for Goodeve came close to me.
“My God, what a thing!” I said. “The man who painted that was a devil!”
“He understood the meaning of fear,” was the answer.
“Not honest human fear,” I said. “That is the panic of hell.”
Goodeve shook his head.
“Only fear. Everybody there has still a hope that they may escape. They are still only fearful and anxious. Panic will come when the first yellow pustules show on the skin. For panic you must have a certainty.”
Something in his tone made me turn my eyes from the picture to his face. He had become like all his ancestors; the firm modern moulding had slackened into something puzzled and uncertain, as of a man groping in a dim world. And in his eyes and around his lips was the grey shadow of a creeping dread.
My mind flew back to Flambard. I knew now that on that June morning Goodeve had received some fateful message. I thought I could guess what the message had been.
II
We drifted to the library, and dropped into chairs on each side of the hearth. It was a chilly night, so the fire had been kept high, and the room was so arranged that the light was concentrated around where we sat, and the rest left in shadow. So I had a good view of Goodeve’s face against a dusky background. He had lit a pipe, and was staring at the logs, his whole body relaxed like a tired man’s. But I caught him casting furtive glances in my direction. He wanted to tell me something; perhaps he saw that I had guessed, and wanted me to ask a question, but I felt oddly embarrassed and waited.
He spoke first.
“Moe is dead,” he said simply, and I nodded.
“It is a pity,” he went on. “I should have liked another talk with him. Did you understand his theories?”
I shook my head.
“No more did I,” he said. “I don’t think I ever could. I have been reading Paston and Crevalli and all round the subject, but I can’t get the hang of it. My mind hasn’t been trained that way.”
“Nor mine,” I replied. “Nor, as far as I can gather, that of anybody living. Moe seems to have got into a world of his own where no one could keep up with him.”
“It’s a pity,” he said again. “If one could have followed his reasoning and been able to judge for one’s self its value, it would have made a difference . . . perhaps.”
“I ought to tell you,” I said, “that I’ve been making enquiries, and I find that our best people are not inclined to take Moe as gospel.”
“So I gather. But I’m not sure that that helps. Even if his theories were all wrong, the fact would still remain that he could draw back the curtain a little. It may have been an illusion, of course, but we can’t tell . . . yet.”
He stared into the fire, and then said very gently, “You see — I got a glimpse inside.”
“I know,” I said.
“Yes,” he went on, “and I believe you have guessed what I saw.”
I nodded.
“Let me tell you everything. It’s a comfort to me to be able to tell you . . . You’re the only man I could ever confide in . . . You were there yourself and saw enough to take it seriously . . . I read, for about a quarter of a second, my own obituary. One takes in a good deal in a flash of time if the mind is expectant. It was a paragraph about two inches long far down on the right-hand side of The Times page opposite the leaders — the usual summary of what is given at length in the proper obituary pages. It regretted to announce the death of Sir Robert Goodeve, Baronet, of Goodeve, MP for the Marton division of Dorset. There was no doubt about the man it meant . . . Then it said something about a growing political reputation and a maiden speech which would not be soon forgotten. I have the exact words written down.”
“Nothing more?”
“No . . . yes. There was another dead man in the paragraph, a Colonel Dugald Chatto, of Glasgow . . . That was all.”
Goodeve knocked out his pipe and got to his feet. He stretched himself, as if his legs had cramped, and I remember thinking how fine a figure of a man he was as he stood tensely in the firelight. He was staring away from me into a dim corner of the room. He seemed to be endeavouring by a bodily effort to shake himself free of a burden.
I tried to help.
“I’m in the confidence of only one of the others,” I said. “Reggie Daker. He read the announcement of his departure for Yucatan on a scientific expedition. Reggie knows nothing about science and hates foreign parts, and he declares that nothing will make him budge from England. He says that forewarned is forearmed, and that he is going to see that The Times next June is put in the cart. He has already forgotten all about the thing . . . There seems to me to be some sense in that point of view. If you know what’s coming you can take steps to avoid it . . . For example, supposing you had given up your parliamentary candidature, you could have made The Times wrong on that point, so why shouldn’t you be able to make it wrong on others?”
He turned and bent his strong dark brows on me.
“I thought of that. I can’t quite explain why, but it seemed to me scarcely to be playing the game. Rather like funking. No. I’m not going to alter my plan of life out of fear. That would be giving in like a coward.”
But there was none of the boisterousness of defiance in his voice. He spoke heavily, as if putting into words an inevitable but rather hopeless resolution.
“Look here, Goodeve,” I said. “You and I are rational men of the world and we can’t allow ourselves to be the sport of whimsies. There are two ways of looking at this Flambard business. It may have been pure illusion caused by the hypnotic powers of a tremendous personality like Moe, with no substance of reality behind it. It may have been only a kind of dream. If you dreamed you were being buried in Westminster Abbey next week you wouldn’t pay the slightest attention.”
“That is a possible view,” he said. But I could see that it was not the view he took himself. Moe’s influence upon him had been so profound, that, though he could not justify his faith on scientific grounds, he was a convinced believer.
I had a sudden idea.
“Listen to me. I can prove that it is illusion. Moe told us that our minds could get a larger field of observation, which would include part of the future. Yes, but the observing thing was still our mind, and that presupposes a living man. Therefore for a man to see the report of his death is a contradiction in terms.”
He turned his unquiet eyes on me.
“Curious that you should say that, for I raised the very point with Moe. His answer was that the body of the observer might be dead, but that the mind did not die . . . I was bound to admit his argument, for, you see, I, too, believe in the immortality of the soul.”
There was such complete conviction in his tone that I had to give up my point, though I was not convinced, even on Goodeve’s hypothesis.
“Very well. The other view is that, by some unknown legerdemain, you actually saw what will be printed in The Times on the next tenth of June. But it may be a hoax or some journalistic blunder. False news of a man’s death has often been published. You remember Billy Devereux seven years ago. Reggie Daker isn’t going to Yucatan, and there’s no more reason why you should be dead.”
He smiled, and his voice was a little more cheerful. “I would point out,” he said, “that there is a considerable difference between th
e cases. Going to Yucatan is a voluntary act which, requires the actor’s co-operation, while dying is usually an involuntary affair.”
“Never mind,” I cried. “We are bound to believe in free will up to a point. It’s the condition on which life is conducted. What you must try to do is to banish the whole thing from your mind. Defy that damned oracle. You’ve begun right by getting into Parliament. Go on and make the best maiden speech of the day. Fate will always yield if you stand up to it.”
“Thank you, Leithen,” he said. “I think that is sound advice. I’m ashamed to have let you see that the thing worried me. Nobody else in the world has the slightest notion . . . But you’re an understanding fellow. If you’re willing, you can be a wonderful stand-by to me, for I’m a lonely bird and apt to brood . . . I’ve another comfort, for there’s that second man in the same case. I told you that I read the name of Colonel Dugald Chatto. I’ve made enquiries about him. He’s a Glasgow wine merchant, who was a keen Territorial, and commanded a battalion in the War. Man about forty-seven, the hard, spare, scratch-man-at-golf type that never was ill in its life. Health is important, for The Times would have said ‘killed,’ if it had been death by accident. I’ve noticed that that’s its custom.”
