“Mind you, that is not all.” And the vicar gave an account of his own visit to the common, his conversation with the man, his subsequent visit to the mother and the remarkable statement she had made to him.
“She has always been very religious,” said the doctor, “but up till now I have not questioned her sanity.”
“Nor I,” said the vicar. “But she is not important. She is practically bed-ridden. It is this son of hers we have to think about. I have already made up my mind that he must go. And that being the case, the problem arises as to what is the best means of getting rid of him.”
Dr. Joliffe, a worldly-wise man within his sphere, stroked his chin solemnly but offered no advice.
“Of course,” said the vicar, “it is in the public interest that whatever steps we may take should not excite attention. It is sufficiently disagreeable to have that sort of lunatic in one’s parish, without having busybodies and maliciously inclined people making a fuss. The readiest and simplest means, no doubt, would be to institute a prosecution for blasphemy. He would most certainly be detained during his Majesty’s pleasure. But such a proceeding might play into the hands of the enemies of the Established Church, in which, unfortunately, the country seems to abound. We might have Voltaires arising in the Cocoa Press or something equally revolting.”
“Quite so, vicar.” Dr. Joliffe compressed his lips. “You’ll be wise to go slow in a matter of this kind, believe me, or you might easily find public opinion against you.”
“As though one cared that for public opinion.” The vicar snapped heroic fingers. “Still, I see your point. And broadly speaking, I agree with it. Now to pass to the second alternative. The man said to me—let me give his precise words if I can—‘At two o’clock this morning a presence entered my room and said, ”I am Goethe and I have come to pray for Germany.” And I answered him, “Certainly I shall be very glad to pray for Germany,” and we knelt and prayed together; and then he arose and I embraced him and he showed me the little town with its gables and turrets where he sleeps at night and then he left me, promising to return.’”
“Perfectly preposterous,” said the doctor. “I quite agree that the man ought to be locked up. But of course he doesn’t intend to be taken literally. Obviously it is his idea of a poetic fancy.”
“No doubt. But a man must be taught to curb such poetic fancies in a time like the present. Now the point which arises”—the vicar raised a dogmatic forefinger—“is that a person who makes such statements in public renders himself amenable to the Defense of the Realm Regulations. And there is no doubt that any bench of magistrates that knew its business would know how to deal with him.”
“Personally, I’m not altogether clear that they would,” said Dr. Joliffe cautiously. “I agree with you, of course, that a man who talks in that way needs a strait waistcoat—one wonders what would happen to a man in Germany who went about saying he was praying for England! At the same time one ought not to forget that nowadays even the county bench is not composed exclusively of people as clear-sighted as you and I.”