The uninterrupted preaching of the revivalist had wrought the whole population into a state of strained expectation. Even those who scoffed at his claims were affected by the atmosphere of the time; and there was in most minds an uneasy questioning: “Suppose that it should all be true?”
At half-past eleven, I went to Nordenholt’s office as I had promised. He was alone, seated at his huge desk. The usual mass of papers had been cleared away and I noticed that their place had been taken by a small piece of apparatus like a telephone in some respects and an ordinary electric bell-push on a wooden stand. Temporary wires ran from these to the window.
“Come in, Jack. You’re just in time for the curtain.”
“It seems to me, Nordenholt, that the curtain ought to have been rung down on this thing long ago. You’ve waited far too long, if you ask me.”
“I don’t think I’ve miscalculated. And to tell you the truth, Jack, this is the biggest thing I’ve had to think out so far. It’s make or break with us this time; and we’ve never been as near disaster before. But I’ve thought it out; and I believe I’m right. Have a cigar.”
He pushed a box across to me and I cut and lit one mechanically.
“This thing here,” he tapped the instrument, “is a dictaphone. The transmitter’s fixed up in the statue over there.”
He nodded in the direction of the Park below our windows. I got up and looked out. As far as my view reached, the ground was concealed by a closely-packed crowd of people, all standing motionless and intent upon the group on the open space around the statue. There had been some singing of hymns earlier in the morning; but now the vast concourse had fallen silent as their expectation rose to fever-heat and the hour of the miracle drew near.
“I’m going to give him every chance,” said Nordenholt’s voice behind me. “Let him pull off his miracle if he can. If he can’t, then I expect trouble; and at the first word of danger I hear, I’ll settle with him at last. I don’t mind his preaching suicide; but if he starts to threaten the work of the Area, it will be on his own head.”
The three-quarters had struck from the great bells above our heads; and, a few minutes later, Nordenholt switched on the dictaphone. Suddenly the clarion voice of the revivalist seemed to fill the room in which we stood.
“My brothers! In a few brief moments I shall leave you, ascending in glory to the skies. While I am yet with you, heed my words. Turn from this idle show which blinds your eyes. Turn from this heavy labour and unceasing toil. Turn from this valley of sin and sorrow. Turn from the lusts of the flesh and the lures of material things. Long and weary has been the way; life after life have we suffered, but when we pass into Nirvana there is rest for you, rest for each of you, eternal rest! O my brothers, all that are worn with the bearing of burdens, all that are taxed beyond your powers, all that are a-faint and borne down, follow after me into Nirvana, where none shall be a-weary and where all shall rest. There shall be no more toil, no more fatigue, no more striving and no more labour. There shall be rest, everlasting rest, a long sweet slumber under the trees, while the river flows by your feet and its murmur lulls you in your eternal rest.”
Even in the harsh reproduction of the dictaphone I could feel the magic of the cadences of that splendid voice, soothing, comforting, promising the multitude the prize which to them must have seemed the most desirable of all. And through it all the steady repetition of “Rest” ran with an almost hypnotic effect. Incoherent though it was, the appeal struck at the very centre of each over-driven being in that throng.
“Rest, rest for all. Surcease of toil. Do you not feel it already, my brothers? Languor creeps over you; you faint as you stand. And I promise rest to you all. Follow me and you shall rest in those fields; there where you may dream away the long, long days among the flowers, lying at ease. There where the songs of birds shall but stir you faintly in your dreams, and all the tumult of the world shall be stilled within your ears.”
He paused; and the silence seemed almost like a continuation of his speech. The multitude seemed frozen into stone. Then came an isolated phrase:
“Into Nirvana; Nirvana where there is rest. …”
The voice died away in a soothing murmur which yet had its compelling power. Nordenholt looked at his watch.
“Two minutes yet. So far, he hasn’t been actively objectionable; but I can guess what is coming.”
Again the dictaphone sounded.
“But a few moments now, my brothers, then I and my Elect shall ascend into the skies. Look well, O my brothers. Mark our passage to our rest.”
His voice ceased. There was a dead silence. Then, suddenly, with a preliminary vibration of machinery, the clock above us struck. Four double chimes for the quarters and then the heavy note of the hour-strokes. Nordenholt listened grimly until all twelve had been rung. Then I heard his voice, even as ever, without the faintest tinge of irony:
“The passing bell!”
With the twelfth stroke there came through the windows a great wave of indescribable sound, the loosing of breath among the thousands who were gathered far below us in the Kelvin valley.
