A Second Coming
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 18: The Young Man
The fame of these things passed from the frequenters of the streets and the hunters of notoriety to those in high places. The matter was discussed at a dinner which was given that night by a Secretary of State to certain dignitaries, both spiritual and temporal. There was no Mr. Treadman there. The atmosphere was sacrosanct. There was an absence of enthusiasm on any subject beneath the sun which, to minds of a certain order, is proper to sanctity. The conversation wandered from Shakespeare to the musical glasses; until at last something was said of the subject of the day.
It was the host who began. He was a person who had risen to his high position by a skilful manipulation of those methods which have made of politics a thing apart. A clever man, shrewd, versatile, desirous of being in the van of any movement which promised to achieve success.
‘The evening papers are full of strange stories of what took place this morning at Maida Vale. They make one think.’
‘I understand,’ said Sir Robert Farquharson, known in the House of Commons as ‘the Member for India,’ ‘that the people are quite excited. Indeed, one can see for oneself that there are an unusual number of people in the streets, and that they all seem talking of the same thing. It reminds one of the waves of religious frenzy which in India temporarily drive a whole city mad.’
‘We don’t go quite so far as that in London, fortunately. Still, the affair is odd. Either these things have been done, or they haven’t. In either case, I confess myself puzzled.’
The Archbishop looked up from his plate.
‘There seems to be nothing known about the person of any sort or kind--neither who he is, nor what he is, nor whence he comes. The most favourable supposition seems to be that he is mentally deranged.’
‘Suppose he were the Christ?’ The Archbishop looked down; his face wore a shocked expression. The Secretary smiled; he has not hesitated to let it be known that he is in bondage to no creed. ‘That would indeed be to bring religion into the sphere of practical politics.’
‘Not necessarily. It was a Roman blunder which placed it there before.’
This was the Earl of Hailsham, whose fame as a diplomatist is politically great.
‘You think that Christ might come and go without any official notice being taken of the matter?’
‘Certainly. Why not? That might, and would, have been the case before had Pontius Pilate been a wiser and a stronger man.’
‘That point of view deserves consideration. Aren’t you ignoring the fact that this is a Christian country?’
‘In a social sense, Carruthers, most decidedly. I hope that we are all Christians in England--I know I am--because to be anything else would be the height of impropriety.’
The Secretary laughed outright.
‘Your frankness shocks the Archbishop.’
Again the Archbishop looked up.
‘I am not easily shocked at the difference of opinion on questions of taste. It is so easy to jeer at what others hold sacred.’
‘My dear Archbishop, I do implore your pardon a thousand times; nothing was farther from my intention. I merely enunciated what I supposed to be a truism.’
‘I am unfortunately aware, my lord, that Christianity is to some but a social form. But I believe, from my heart, that, relatively, they are few. I believe that to the great body of Englishmen and Englishwomen Christianity is still a vital force, probably more so to-day than it was some years ago. To the clergy I know it is; by their lives they prove it every hour of every day.’
‘In a social or a spiritual sense? Because, as a vital force, it may act in either direction. Let me explain to you exactly what I mean. That it is nothing offensive you will see. My own Rector is a most estimable man; he, his curates, and his family are untiring in their efforts to increase the influence of the Church among the people. There is not a cottager in the parish who does not turn towards the Rectory in time of trouble--he would rather turn there than towards heaven. In that sense I say that the Rector’s is a social, rather than a spiritual, influence; he himself would be the first to admit it. The work which the Church is doing in the East of London is social. The idea seems to be that if you improve the social conditions, spiritual improvement will follow. Does it? I wonder. Christianity is a vital force in a social sense, thank goodness! But my impression is that its followers await the Second Coming of their Founder with the same dilettante interest with which the Jews anticipate the rebuilding of Jerusalem. Both parties would be uncomfortably surprised if their anticipations were fulfilled. They would be confronted with a condition for which they were not in any way prepared. Candidly, wouldn’t they? What would you yourself do if this person who is turning London topsy-turvy were actually the Christ?’
‘I am unable to answer so very serious a question at a moment’s notice.’
‘In other words, you don’t believe that he is the Christ; and nothing would make you believe. You know such things don’t happen--if they ever did.’
‘You would not believe even though one rose from the dead--eh, Archbishop?’
The question came from Sir William Braidwood, the surgeon. The Earl of Hailsham looked towards him down the table.
‘By the way, what is the truth about that woman at the hospital?’
‘The woman was dead; living, she was cancerous. He restored her to life; healed of her cancer. No greater miracle is recorded of the Christ of tradition. This afternoon a woman came to me who has been paralysed for nearly five years, unable to move hand or foot, to raise herself on her bed, or to do anything for herself whatever. She came on her own feet, ran up the stairs, radiant with life, health, and good spirits, in the full enjoyment of all her limbs. She was one of those who were at Maida Vale, whither she had been borne upon her bed. You should hear her account of what took place. The wonder to me is that the crowd was not driven stark, staring mad!’
‘These things cause one to think furiously.’ The Secretary sipped his wine. He addressed the Archbishop. ‘Have you received any official intimation of what is taking place?’
‘I have had letters, couched in the most extraordinary language, and even telegrams. Also verbal reports, full of the wildest and most contradictory statements. I occupy a position of extreme responsibility, in which my slightest word or action is liable to misconstruction.’
‘Has it been clearly proved,’ asked Farquharson, ‘that he himself claims to be the Christ?’ No one seemed to know; no one answered. ‘Do I understand, Braidwood, that you are personally convinced that this person is possessed of supernatural powers?’
‘I am; though it does not necessarily follow on that account that he is the Christ, any more than that he is Gautama Siddartha or Mahomet. I believe that we are all close to what is called the supernatural, that we are divided from it by something of no more definite texture than a membrane. We have only to break through that something to find such powers are. Possibly this person has performed that feat. My own impression is that he’s a public danger.’
‘A public danger? How?’
‘Augustus Jebb called to see me before I came away--the social science man, I mean. He followed close on the heels of the woman of whom I told you. He was himself in Mrs. Powell’s house at the time, and from a window saw all that occurred. He corroborates her story, with additions of his own. A few moments before he, with others, had an interview with the miracle-worker. He says that he was afraid of him, mentally, physically, morally, because of the possibilities which he saw in the man. He justifies his fear by two facts. As you are aware, this person stopped last night at the house of Mrs. Miriam Powell, the misguided creature who preaches what she calls social purity. She was a hale, hearty woman, in the prime of life, as late as yesterday afternoon. She was, however, a terrible bore. The probability is that, during the night, for some purpose of her own, she forced herself into her guest’s presence; with the result that this morning she was a thing of horror.’
‘In what sense?’
‘Age had prematurely overtaken her--unnatural age. She looked and moved like a hag of ninety. She was mentally affected also, seeming haunted by an unceasing causeless terror. She kept repeating: “I have seen Him face to face!”--significant words. Jebb’s other fact referred to Robins, the Salvation Army man. When Robins came into this person’s presence he was attacked as with paralysis, and transformed into a nerveless coward. Jebb says that he is a pitiable object. His inference--which I am disposed to endorse--is, that if that person can do good he can also do evil, and that it is dependent upon his mood which he does. A man who can perform wholesale cures with a word may, for all we know, also strike down whole battalions with a word. His powers may be new to him, or the probability is that we should have heard of him before. As they become more familiar, to gratify a whim he may strike down a whole cityful. And there is another danger.’
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