“As far as one can. But to me he seems to have precious little in the way of mind to get at the back of. As far as one’s own limited intelligence will allow one to judge, the mind of John Smith seems a half-baked morass, a mere hotch-potch of moonstruck transcendentalisms, overlaid with a kind of Swedenborgian mysticism, if one may so express oneself. To me it seems a case where a little regular training at a university and the clear thinking it induces would have been of enormous value.”
Brandon smiled. “Have you seen his poem?” he asked.
“No.” The answer was short; and then the vicar asked in a tone which had a tinge of disgust, “Written a poem, has he?”
“He brought it to me the other day.” Again Brandon closed his eyes. “To my mind it is very remarkable,” he said half to himself.
“It would be, no doubt,” said the vicar, half to himself also.
“I should like you to read it.”
“I prefer not to do so,” said the vicar after a pause. “My mind is quite made up about him. It would only vex me further to read anything he may have written. We live by deeds, not by words, and never more so than in this stern time.”
“To my mind, it is a very wonderful poem,” said the stricken man. “I don’t think I am morbidly impressionable—I hope I’m not—but that poem haunts me. It is even changing my outlook. It is an extravagant thing to say, but the feeling it leaves on one’s mind is that if a spectator of all time and all existence, a sort of Cosmostheorus, were to visit the planet at this moment, it is the way in which he might be expected to deliver himself.”
“Neoplatonism of the usual brand, I presume.” There was a slight curl of a thin lip.
“Of a very unusual brand, I assure you. It may be neoplatonism, and yet—no—one cannot give it a label. There is the Something Else behind it.” Once more the stricken man closed his eyes. “Yes, there is the Something Else. The thing infolds me like a dream, a passion. I feel it changing me.”