“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.”