South Wind(Fiscle Part-3), Norman Douglas [most important books of all time .TXT] 📗

A Religious

Lunatic,  Or A Vegetarian,  He Is Sure To Be Touched In Some Other

Department As Well; He Will Be An Anti-Vivisectionist,  A Nutfooder,

Costume-Maniac,  Stamp-Collector,  Or A Spiritualist Into The Bargain.

Haven't You Ever Noticed That? And Isn't He Dirty? Where Is The

Connection Between Piety And Dirt? I Suggest They Are Both Relapses

Into Ancestral Channels And The One Drags The Other Along With It. When

I See A Thing Like This,  I Want To Hew It In Pieces. Agag,  Mr. Heard;

Agag. I Must Have Another Look At This Specimen; One Does Not See Such

A Sight Every Day. He Is A Living Fossil--Post-Pleistocene."

 

He Drew Off; Keith And The Count,  Engaged In Some Deep Conversation,

Had Also Moved A Few Paces Away.

 

Mr. Heard Stood Alone,  His Back Turned To The Master. Moonlight Still

Flooded The Earth,  The Lanterns Were Flickering And Sputtering. Some

Had Gone Out,  Leaving Gaps Of Darkness In The Lighted Walls. Many Of

The Guests Retired Without Bidding Farewell To Their Host; He Liked

Them To Feel At Their Ease,  To Take "French Leave" Whenever So

Disposed--To Depart "A L'anglaise," As The French Say. The Garden Was

Nearly Empty. A Great Quietude Had Fallen Upon Its Path And Thickets.

From Afar Resounded The Boisterous Chorus Of A Party Of Revellers Loth

To Quit The Scene; It Was Suddenly Broken By A Terrific Crash And

Bursts Of Laughter. Some Table Had Been Knocked Over.

 

Standing There,  The Bishop Could Not But Listen To Keith,  Who Had

Raised His Voice In Emphasis And Was Saying To The Count,  In His Best

Keithean Manner:

 

"I Am Just Coming To That Point. A Spring-Board Is What Humanity Needs.

What Better One Can Be Contrived Than This Pure Unadulterated

Byzantianism. Cretinism,  I Call It. Look At The Orthodox Church. A

Repository Of Apocalyptic Nonsense Such As No Sane Man Can Take

Seriously. Nonsense Of The Right Kind,  The Uncompromising Kind. That Is

My Point. The Paralysing,  Sterilizing Cult Of These People Offers A Far

Better Spring-Board Into A Clean Element Of Thought Than Our English

Church,  Whose Demi-Vierge Concessions To Common Sense Afford Seductive

Resting-Places To The Intellectually Weak-Knee'd. Do I Make Myself

Clear? I'm Getting Infernally Thirsty."

 

"I Quite Agree With You,  My Friend. The Russians Have Got A Better

Spring-Board Than The English. The Queer Thing Is,  That The Russians

Won't Jump,  Whereas The Englishman Often Does. Well,  Well! We Cannot

Live Without Fools."

 

Mr. Heard Was Slightly Perturbed By These Words. A Good Fellow Like

Keith! "Demi-Vierge Concessions To Common Sense"; What Did He Mean By

That? Did His Church Really Make Such Concessions?

 

"I'll Think About It To-Morrow," He Decided.

 

The Master,  When They Returned To Him,  Had Not Budged From His

Resting-Place. The Fingers Still Lay,  Starfish-Wise,  Upon The Folds Of

That Soiled Homespun; His Eyes Still Stared Out Of The Leafy Bower; His

Face Still Wore Its Mask Of Placid Imbecility.

 

The Glass Was Empty.

 

Slowly,  As On A Pivot,  His Head Turned In The Direction Of The

Bodyguard.

 

Forthwith Some Favourite Disciple--Not Krasnojabkin,  Who Happened To Be

Escorting Madame Steynlin To Her Villa Just Then--Darted To His Side;

With The Help Of Two Lady-Apostles Known,  Respectively,  As The

"Goldfinch" And The "Red Apple," They Conveyed Him Out Of That Shelter

Into The Deserted,  Moonlit Garden. He Leaned Heavily On The Arm Of The

Youth; Peevish Sounds,  Quasi-Human,  Proceeded From His Colourless Lips.

And Now He Was Almost Speaking; Desirous,  It Seemed,  Of Formulating

Some Truth Too Deep For Human Utterance.

 

"I Bet I Know What He Is Saying," Whispered Keith. "It's Something

About The Man-God."

 

 

Chapter 11

 

 

 

 

The Russian Government Is Notoriously Tender-Hearted. But Even The Worm

Will Turn. . . .

 

Scholars Who Have Treated The Life Of The Ex-Monk Bazhakuloff Divide It

Into Five Clearly Marked Periods: The Probationary,  Dialectical,

Political,  Illumined And Expiatory.

 

The First Began In Youth When,  Being Driven From His Father's House By

Reason Of His Vagrant Habits And Other Incorrigible Vices,  He Entered A

Monastery Near Kasan. Despite Occasional Lapses Prompted By The Hot

Blood Of His Years And Punished With Harsh Disciplinary Measures,  He

Seems To Have Performed His Monkish Duties With Sufficient Zeal. It Was

Observed,  However,  That With Increasing Years He Became Unduly

Interested In Questions Of Dogma. He Talked Too Freely; He Was Always

Arguing. Being Unable To Read Or Write,  He Developed An Astonishing

Memory For Things He Had Heard And Faces He Had Seen; He Brought Them

Up At Inconvenient Moments. He Grew Factious,  Obstreperous,  Declaring

That There Was Much In The Constitution Of The Holy Russian Church

Which Ought To Be Amended And Brought Up To Date. What People Wanted,

He Said,  Was A New Jerusalem. A Violent Altercation With His Superior

Touching The Attributes Of The Holy Ghost Ended In A Broken Jaw-Bone On

The Part Of The Older Man,  And The Expulsion Of The Younger. The

Dialectical Period Had Set In. The Convent Inmates,  On The Whole,  Were

Glad To See The Last Of Him--Particularly The Father Superior.

 

We Next Find Him Living In A Large Barn About Fifteen Miles From

Moscow. The Superior Being Unwilling To Publish The True Facts Of The

Broken Jaw-Bone,  A Certain Fame,  The Fame Of An Earnest But

Misunderstood Religious Innovator,  Had Preceded Him. Adherents,  Barely

Twenty At First,  Gathered To His Side. These Disciples,  Humble

Analphabetics Like Himself,  Have Left Us No Word Of What Passed At

Those Long Discussions. Certain It Is That He Now Began To Formulate

The Rules Of His Revised Church. They Were To Live On Charity,  To Go

Bare-Headed,  And To Wear Red Blouses--Like The Christians Of Old. The

Charm Of These Simple Regulations Spread Abroad,  And Gained Him Fresh

Recruits. There Were Now Some Cultured Folk Among Them,  Who Collected

His Saying Into The Golden Book. He Decided To Limit His Disciples To

The "Sacred Number 63," And To Call Them "Little White Cows." Asked Why

He Chose This Title,  He Answered That Cows Were Pure And Useful Animals

Without Which Humanity Could Not Live; Even So Were His Disciples. The

Innate Good Sense Of This Speech Increased His Reputation. About This

Time,  Too,  He Would Sometimes Prophesy,  And Undergo Long Periods Of

Motionless Self-Abstraction. At The End Of One Of These Latter,  After

Tasting No Food Or Drink For Three And A Half Hours,  He Gave Utterance

To What Was Afterwards Known As The First Revelation. It Ran To This

Effect: "The Man-God Is The Man-God,  And Not The God-Man." Asked How He

Arrived At So Stupendous An Aphorism,  He Answered That It Just Came To

Him. There Were Troubles In The Neighbourhood Over The Audacity Of This

Utterance; Some Called It A Divine Inspiration,  To The Majority It Was

Known As The Unnamable Heresy. For A Brief While The Town Was Formed

Into Two Camps,  And The Chief Of Police,  A Prudent Official,  Was At His

Wit's End What To Do With These Inflammable Elements,  Seeing That The

Ex-Monk's Followers Had Now Swelled To Several Hundreds And Contained

Not A Few Of The More Influential Aristocrats Of The City. In This

Dilemma,  He Applied For Instruction To The Procurator Of The Holy

Synod. That Gentleman,  Having Considered The Case,  Rashly Decided That

A Visionary Of This Stamp Might Be Useful For Furthering Certain

Projects Of His Own. He Hoped,  By Placing Under An Obligation,  To

Fashion Out Of The Young Reformer An Amenable Instrument--A

Miscalculation Which He Lived (Though Not For Long) To Repent. Under

The Procurator's Aegis,  Bazhakuloff Was Summoned To The Capital. The

Political Period Was Beginning. Moscow,  On The Whole,  Was Glad To See

The Last Of Him--Particularly The Chief Of Police.

 

There Began The Most Brilliant Epoch Of His Life. By Steps Which It Is

Needless To Trace,  He Fought And Wormed His Way Into The Favour Of The

Court. A Good Deal Of His Worldly Success May Well Have Been Due,  As

His Enemies Assert,  To An Incredible Mixture Of Cringing,  Astuteness,

And Impudence. It Stands To Reason,  However,  That A Man Of This Type

Must Have Possessed Sterling Qualities Of His Own To Be Found

Occupying--All This Was Years And Years Ago--A Suite Of Apartments In The

Palace,  Where He Lived In Splendour,  A Power Behind The Throne,  The

Confidental Adviser Of The Highest Circles. His Monkish Garb Was Soon

Encrusted With Orders And Decorations,  No State Function Was Complete

Without His Presence,  No Official Appointment,  From The Highest And

Lowest Sphere Of Government,  Was Held To Be Valid Without His Sanction.

Red Blouses,  One Of Several Keys To His Favour,  Could Be Counted By

Thousands. He Crushed Opposition With An Iron Hand. He Wrought A

Miracle Or Two; But What Chiefly Accounted For The Almost Divine

Veneration In Which He Was Held Was A Succession Of Lucky

Prophecies--None Luckier Than That Wherein,  During One Of His Moments Of

Inspired Self-Abstraction,  He Foretold The Early And Violent Death Of

The Former Protector,  The Man To Whom He Owed This Rise To The

Pinnacles Of Fame. For Even So It Fell Out. Not Many Days Later The

Procurator Of The Holy Synod Was Found Murdered In Bed By An Unknown

Hand. A Certain Journalist,  Writing From Switzerland,  Boldly States

That The Procurator Was Murdered At The Instigation Of Bazhakuloff And

Claims To Have Heard,  From An Eye-Witness Whom He Does Not Name,  Of A

Bitter Quarrel Between The Two On The Subject Of A Certain Lady As To

Whose Identity We Are Also Left In Doubt. It May Be True; Such Things

Have Happened Ere Now. This Particular Writer's Credibility,  However,

Is None Of The Best; He Has Been Convicted Over And Over Again Of

Forcing The Note In His Diatribes Against What He Calls "Retrogression

Into Idolatry." There Was Certainly A Good Deal Of Unrest In The

Country During The Period Of The Ex-Monk's Ascendency; No Less Than

13,783 Persons Had Been Banished To Siberia,  And 3,756 Executed At His

Orders. Yet Nothing,  It Seemed,  Could Shatter His Position When,  With

Appalling Suddenness,  A Thunderbolt Descended. Nobody Knows To This Day

What Took Place. It Was Something Russian; Some Scandal In The Highest

Spheres Which May See The Light Of Day,  Centuries Hence,  When The

Imperial Archives Are Disclosed As Musty Court History To The Eyes Of

Students Curious In Such Matters. At This Crisis,  When 44,323 Persons,

Mostly Liberals,  Were Awaiting Trial In The Prisons Of The Capital,  The

Ex-Monk Would Doubtless Have Been Quietly Removed After The Fashion Of

Court Favourites,  Not By His Adherents,  Now Numbering Many Hundred

Thousands,  Threatened A Revolution. A Secret Compromise Was Effected.

He Was Banished,  With Every Outward Mark Of Disgrace,  To A Monastery In

The Remote And Inhospitable Region Of Viatka,  There To Meditate Upon

The Instability Of Human Affairs. The Illumined Period Was Drawing

Nigh. The Capital,  On The Whole,  Was Glad To See The Last Of

Him--Particuarly The Prisoners Awaiting Trial.

 

The Diet And Discipline Nearly Killed Him At First. He Was Consoled By

Knowing That His Fame Had Spread Far And Wide. The Court Being

Unwilling To Publish The True Facts Of His Disgrace,  He Was Regarded As

A Martyr,  A Victim Of Political Intrigue,  An Injured Saint. Disciples

Multiplied. The Golden Book Was Filled With Priceless Sayings--Wise And

Salutary Maxims Which Echoed From End To End Of The Country. The New

Jerusalem Took On A Definite Shape; The Nucleus Of The Movement,  The

Initiated Among His Followers,  Were Retained As The "Sacred 63"; He

Called Them His Apostles And Himself Their Messiah,  Which Some People

Thought Rather Presumptuous Of Him. His Reputation For Sanctity Became

Such That He Was Once More A Power To Be Reckoned With; The Court,  In

Fact,  Was On The Verge Of Receiving Him Into Favour Again,  When The

Second Revelation Was Announced. It Ran To This Effect: Flesh And Blood

Of Warm-Blooded Beasts Is Abomination To The Little White Cows. Asked

How He Contrived To Formulate So Novel And Tremendous A Proposition,  He

Answered That It Just Came To Him. His Followers--There Were About Three

Million Of Them Now--Instantly Refused To Touch The Unclean Thing,  And

All Would Have Gone Well But For The Fact That The Army Was Tinctured

With The New Faith,  And That The Grand Dukes Had Recently Become

Involved In Extensive And