The Ivory Gate, a new edition

CHAPTER XXXIII

PLENARY CONFESSION

Early on Sunday afternoon Elsie started upon her mission. She was anxious, because she was entering upon a most important business, and one requiring the greatest delicacy in the handling. It was enough – more than enough – that her witnesses should be able, one after the other, to identify Mr. Dering with Mr. Edmund Gray: but how much more would her hands be strengthened if she could produce a full and complete narrative of the whole affair, written by the hand which had done it all? To get that narrative was her business with the Master that afternoon. But she was hopeful, partly because she knew her power over the philosopher; and partly because, like every woman who respects herself, she had always been accustomed to get exactly what she wanted, either by asking, coaxing, flattering, or taking.

The Master was waiting for her – one should never keep a Master waiting – and she was a little late: he was impatient: he had so much to talk about and to teach: one point suggested another in his mind: so much to say: he grudged the least delay: he walked about the room chafing because the hour appointed was already five minutes in the past: he would scold her: she must really learn to be punctual: they had only about five short hours before them for all he had to say. Was this the zeal of a student? But at that point she opened the door and ran in, breathless, smiling, eager, holding out both her hands, a dainty delicate maiden all his own – his disciple – his daughter – the daughter of the New Humanity – and he forgot his irritation, and took her hands in his and kissed her forehead. 'Child,' he sighed, 'you are late. But never mind. You are here. Why, you have grown so precious to me that I cannot bear you to be a minute late. It is such a happiness – such a joy in the present – such a promise for the future – that I have such a disciple! Now sit down – take off your bonnet. I have put a chair for you at the window – and a table for you to write. Here is your note-book. – Now – you have thought over what I taught you last? – That is well. Let us resume at the point where we left off – the rise of the co-operative spirit, which is the rise of the New Humanity.'

He talked for two hours – two long eloquent hours: he walked about the room: or he stopped before his disciple emphasising with the forefinger of admonition – repeating – illustrating by anecdote and memory – he had a prodigious memory. The Scholar listened intelligently. Sometimes she asked a question: sometimes she made notes. You must not think that she was a sham scholar; her interest in the Master's system was not simulated. Above all things, she loved to hear this enthusiast talk – who would not love to hear of the New Jerusalem? Always he made her heart to glow with the Vision that he conjured up before her eyes of a world where there should be no more sorrow nor crying nor any more pain, nor any of the former things. He made her actually see – what others only read of – the Four-square City itself with its gates open night and day, its jasper walls, and its twelve foundations of precious stones. – 'Why,' he said, 'the gates are open night and day because there is no Property to defend; and the walls are of jasper because it is the most beautiful of minerals, and because it can be polished like a mirror, so that the country around is reflected on its surface, which shows that it all belongs to the City; and the precious stones are the twelve cardinal virtues of Humanity, on which the order of the future shall rest – namely, Faith, Brotherly Love, Obedience, Patience, Loyalty, Constancy, Chastity, Courage, Hope, Simplicity, Tenderness, and Industry. It is an allegory – the whole book is an allegory – of Humanity.' And she saw, beside the City, the river of life with the tree of life for the healing of all nations.

Then she clean forgot the purpose for which she had come: she was carried away: her heart beat – her cheek glowed. Oh! Lovely Vision! Oh! Great and glorious Prophet! He made a Heaven, and placed it on this earth. Now the mind of man can conceive of no other happiness but that which humanity can make out of the actual materials found upon this earthly ball. The Heaven, even of the most spiritual, is a glorified world; the Hell, even of the most gentle, is a world of fleshly pain: no other Heaven attracts: no other Hell terrifies: there is no promise, or hope, or prospect, or inheritance that man desires or poet can feign or visionary can preach but an earthly Heaven: it must be a Heaven containing sunshine and shower, kindly fruits in due season, love and joy and music and art, and men and women who love each other and labour for each other. Such a world – such a New Jerusalem – the Master drew every day; he loved it, and lingered over it; he painted over and over again this splendid Vision. He was never tired of painting it, or his hearers of gazing upon it. But to-day he spoke with greater fulness, more clearly, more brilliantly, more joyously than ever. Was the Prophet really a man of seventy years and more? For his mind was young – the enthusiast, like the poet, never grows old. His voice might have been the voice of a boy – a marvellous boy – a Shelley – preaching the glories of the world when Property should be no more.

He ceased. And the Vision which he had raised quickly faded away. They were back again in the dingy old Inn; they were among the solicitors and the money-lenders and the young fellows who have their Chambers in the place. The Inn is about as far from the New Jerusalem as any place under the sun; it is made over bodily and belongs – every stair – every chamber – to the interests of Property.

He ceased his prophecy, and began to argue, to reason, to chop logic, which was not by any means so interesting. At last he stopped this as well. 'You have now, dear child,' he said, 'heard quite as much as you can profitably absorb. I have noticed for the last two or three minutes your eyes wandering and your attention wearied. Let us stop – only remember what I have just said about the diseases of the Body Politic. They are akin to those that affect the human body. By comparing the two we may learn not only cause, but also effect. We have our rheumatisms, gouts, asthmas, neuralgias, colds and coughs, fevers and other ills. So has the Body Politic. Whence come our diseases? From the ignorance, the follies, the vices, the greed and gluttony of our forefathers. So those of the Body Politic. Take away Property and you destroy greed. With that, half the diseases vanish.'

Elsie heard and inclined her head. It did occur to her that perhaps Property in the Body Politic might be represented by food in the Body Human, but she forbore. The Master was one who did not invite argument. Nearly all the great Teachers of the world, if you think of it, have conveyed their wisdom in maxims and aphorisms.

He took out his watch. 'It is nearly four,' he said. 'Shall we go on to the Hall?'

'Not yet. There is no need for us to be there before six. We have two good hours before us. Let us use them more pleasantly than in sitting alone in the Hall – you must own that it is stuffy. We will talk about other things – about ourselves – not about me, because I am quite an insignificant person, but about you, dear Master.' She was now about to enter upon her plan of duplicity. She felt horribly ashamed, but it had to be done. She strengthened herself: she resolved: she suppressed the voice of conscience.

'About me?' asked the Master. 'But what is there to talk about?'

'Oh! there is ever so much.' She took his right hand in her own and held it, knowing that this little caress pleased and moved him. 'Master – what a wonderful chance it was that brought me here! I can never sufficiently wonder at it. I have told George – George Austin – my lover, you know: and Athelstan – he is my brother.' She looked at him sharply, but there was no sign of recognition of those two names. Edmund Gray had never heard of either. 'I have told them about you and of your great work, and how you are teaching me and everything. But when they ask me who you are, where you have lived, and all about you, I can tell them nothing. Oh! I know it matters nothing about me and my own friends; but, my dear Master, we have to think of the future. When the Cause has spread, and spread, and spread, till it covers the whole world, people will want to know all about the man who first preached its principles. Who will be able to tell them? No one. You are alone; you have no wife or children. Your name will remain for ever attached to the Cause itself. But you – you – the man – what will you be? Nothing. Nothing but a name. You ought to write an autobiography.'

'I have sometimes thought I would do so' – his face became troubled; 'but – but – '

'But you are always occupied with working for the world. You have no time, of course. I quite understand that; and it worries you – does it not? – to be called upon to turn your thoughts from the present back to the past.'

'Yes – yes; it does – it does. Elsie, you exactly express the difficulty.'

'And yet – you must own – you must confess – it is natural for the world to want to know all about you. Who was the great Edmund Gray? Why, they will want to know every particular – every single particular: where you were born – where you were educated – who were your masters – what led you to the study of Humanity and its problems – where you lived; if you were married and to whom – what you read – who were your friends. Oh! there is no end to the curiosity of the world about their great men.'

'Perhaps.' He rose and looked out of the window. When men are greatly pleased they must always be moving. 'I confess that I have never thought of these things at all. Yet, to be sure – you are right.' He murmured and purred.

'No, but I have thought of them, ever since I had the happiness of being received by you. Master, will you trust me? Shall I become your biographer? You cannot find one more loving. You have only to give me the materials. Now – let me ask you a few questions just for a beginning – just to show you the kind of thing I shall want to know.'

He laughed and sat down again. 'Why, my life has not got in it one single solitary incident, or episode, or adventure. There are no misfortunes in it. There is not such a thing as a disease in it. I have always been perfectly well. There is not even a love episode or a flirtation in it. There are not even any religious difficulties in it. Without love, ill-health, misfortune, religious doubts – where is the interest in the life, and what is there to tell?'

'Well, a life that has no incident in it must be the life of a student. It is only a student who never falls in love.'

'Or,' said the Philosopher, 'a money-getter.'

'Happily, there are not many students or we women should be disconsolate indeed. Do you know, Master, that you can only be excused such a dreadful omission in your history by that one plea? Sit down again, Master,' for again he was walking about restlessly, partly disturbed by her questions, and partly flattered and pleased by her reasons. She opened her note-book and began to ask questions about himself – very simple questions, such as would not introduce any disturbing points. He answered readily, and she observed with interest that he gave correctly the facts of his own – Edward Dering's – history.

He was born, he said, in that class which upholds Property – the Better Class – meaning the Richer. His father was a wealthy solicitor, who lived in Bedford Row. He was born in the year 1815 – Waterloo year. He was the eldest of a family of five – three daughters and two sons. He was educated at Westminster. On leaving school, his father offered him the advantage of a University course, but he refused, being anxious to begin as early as possible his life's work – as he thought – in the defence of Property. He was therefore articled to his father; and at the age of twenty-two he passed his examination and was admitted.

'And then you were young – you were not yet a student – you went into society. You saw girls and danced with them. Yet you never fell in love, and were never married. How strange! I thought everybody wanted love. A man's real life only begins, I have always been taught, with love and marriage. Love means everything.'

'To you, my child, no doubt it does. Such as you are born for love,' he added gallantly. 'Venus herself smiles in your eyes and sits upon your lips. But as for me I was always studious more or less, though I did not for long find out my true line. I worked hard – I went out very little. I was cold by nature, perhaps. I had no time to think about such things. Now, when it is too late, I regret the loss of the experience. Doubtless if I had that experience I should have gained greatly in the power of persuasion. I should have a much more potent influence over the women among my hearers. If I were a married man I should be much more in sympathy with them.'

'No – n – no.' Elsie hesitated a little. 'Perhaps women – especially the younger kind – get on better with unmarried men. However, you were not married.'

'At first, then, I was a solicitor with my father. Then – presently – ' His face put on the troubled look again.

'You continued,' Elsie interrupted quickly, 'to work at your profession, though you took up other studies.'

'No – no – not quite that.'

'You began to take up Social problems, and gradually abandoned your profession.'

'No – no – not that either – quite.'

'You found you could not reconcile your conscience any longer to defending Property.'

'No – I forget exactly. It is strange that one should forget a thing so simple. I am growing old, I suppose. – Well – it matters not. I left the profession. That is the only important thing to remember. That I did so these Chambers prove. I came out of it. Yes, that was it. Just at the moment, my head being full of other things, I cannot remember the exact time, or the manner of my leaving the profession. I forget the circumstances, probably because I attached so little importance to it. The real point is that I came out of it and gave myself up to these studies.'

She noted this important point carefully and looked up for more.

'There, my dear child, is my whole life for you. Without an incident or an episode. I was born: I went to school: I became a solicitor: I gave up my profession: I studied social economy: I made my great discovery: I preached it. Then – did I say my life was without an episode and without love? No – no – I was wrong. My daughter – I have at last found love and a child – and a disciple. What more have I to ask?'

'My Master!' No daughter could be more in sympathy with him than this girl.

'It is all most valuable and interesting,' she said, 'though the facts are so few. Books will be written, in the future, on these facts, which will be filled out with conjecture and inference. Even the things that you think of so little importance will be made the subject of comment and criticism. Well – but my Biography of you will be the first and best and most important. I shall first make a skeleton life out of the facts, and then fill in the flesh and blood and put on the clothes, and present you, dear Master, just as you are.'

'Ask me what you will, but not too often. It worries me to remember the past. My dear, I am like a man who has made himself – who has risen from the gutter. He cannot deny the fact, but he doesn't like to be talking about it; and he is insulted if anyone charges him with the fact or alludes to it in any way in his presence. That is my case exactly. I have made myself. I have raised myself from the gutter – the gutter of Property. I actually worked in defence of Property till I was sixty years old and more. Now I am rather ashamed of that fact. I do not deny it – you must put it into your Biography – but I do not like talking about it.'

'You were once a solicitor, and you are now a Prophet. What a leap! What a wonderful leap! I quite understand. Yet sometimes, now and then, for the sake of the curious impertinent world, look back and tell me what you see.'

'I suppose it is because I am so absorbed in my work that it is difficult for me to remember things. Why, Elsie, day after day, from morning to evening, I sit here at work. And in the evening I remember nothing of the flight of time. The hours strike, but I hear them not. Only the books on the table show what has been my occupation. And you want me to go back, not to yesterday, but ten, twenty, thirty years ago. My dear child, I cannot. Some of the past is clear to me – a day here and there I remember clearly – all my evenings at the Hall of Science: my lessons with you; those I remember. But to recall days passed in meditation and absorbing study is not possible. No – no – I cannot even try.'