CHAPTER XVI:  PROFESSOR HANKY PREACHES A SERMON, IN THE COURSE OF WHICH MY FATHER DECLARES HIMSELF TO BE THE SUNCHILD

Professor Hanky then went up into the pulpit, richly but soberly robed in vestments the exact nature of which I cannot determine.  His carriage was dignified, and the harsh lines on his face gave it a strong individuality, which, though it did not attract, conveyed an impression of power that could not fail to interest.  As soon as he had given attention time to fix itself upon him, he began his sermon without text or preliminary matter of any kind, and apparently without notes.

He spoke clearly and very quietly, especially at the beginning; he used action whenever it could point his meaning, or give it life and colour, but there was no approach to staginess or even oratorical display.  In fact, he spoke as one who meant what he was saying, and desired that his hearers should accept his meaning, fully confident in his good faith.  His use of pause was effective.  After the word “mistake,” at the end of the opening sentence, he held up his half-bent hand and paused for full three seconds, looking intently at his audience as he did so.  Every one felt the idea to be here enounced that was to dominate the sermon.

The sermon—­so much of it as I can find room for—­was as follows:-

“My friends, let there be no mistake.  At such a time, as this, it is well we should look back upon the path by which we have travelled, and forward to the goal towards which we are tending.  As it was necessary that the material foundations of this building should be so sure that there shall be no subsidence in the superstructure, so is it not less necessary to ensure that there shall be no subsidence in the immaterial structure that we have raised in consequence of the Sunchild’s sojourn among us.  Therefore, my friends, I again say, ‘Let there be no mistake.’  Each stone that goes towards the uprearing of this visible fane, each human soul that does its part in building the invisible temple of our national faith, is bearing witness to, and lending its support to, that which is either the truth of truths, or the baseless fabric of a dream.

“My friends, this is the only possible alternative.  He in whose name we are here assembled, is either worthy of more reverential honour than we can ever pay him, or he is worthy of no more honour than any other honourable man among ourselves.  There can be no halting between these two opinions.  The question of questions is, was he the child of the tutelary god of this world—­the sun, and is it to the palace of the sun that he returned when he left us, or was he, as some amongst us still do not hesitate to maintain, a mere man, escaping by unusual but strictly natural means to some part of this earth with which we are unacquainted.  My friends, either we are on a right path or on a very wrong one, and in a matter of such supreme importance—­there must be no mistake.

“I need not remind those of you whose privilege it is to live in Sunch’ston, of the charm attendant on the Sunchild’s personal presence and conversation, nor of his quick sympathy, his keen intellect, his readiness to adapt himself to the capacities of all those who came to see him while he was in prison.  He adored children, and it was on them that some of his most conspicuous miracles were performed.  Many a time when a child had fallen and hurt itself, was he known to make the place well by simply kissing it.  Nor need I recall to your minds the spotless purity of his life—­so spotless that not one breath of slander has ever dared to visit it.  I was one of the not very many who had the privilege of being admitted to the inner circle of his friends during the later weeks that he was amongst us.  I loved him dearly, and it will ever be the proudest recollection of my life that he deigned to return me no small measure of affection.”

My father, furious as he was at finding himself dragged into complicity with this man’s imposture, could not resist a smile at the effrontery with which he lowered his tone here, and appeared unwilling to dwell on an incident which he could not recall without being affected almost to tears, and mere allusion to which, had involved an apparent self-display that was above all things repugnant to him.  What a difference between the Hanky of Thursday evening with its “never set eyes on him and hope I never shall,” and the Hanky of Sunday morning, who now looked as modest as Cleopatra might have done had she been standing godmother to a little blue-eyed girl—­Bellerophon’s first-born baby.

Having recovered from his natural, but promptly repressed, emotion, the Professor continued:-

“I need not remind you of the purpose for which so many of us, from so many parts of our kingdom, are here assembled.  We know what we have come hither to do:  we are come each one of us to sign and seal by his presence the bond of his assent to those momentous changes, which have found their first great material expression in the temple that you see around you.

“You all know how, in accordance with the expressed will of the Sunchild, the Presidents and Vice-Presidents of the Musical Banks began as soon as he had left us to examine, patiently, carefully, earnestly, and without bias of any kind, firstly the evidences in support of the Sunchild’s claim to be the son of the tutelar deity of this world, and secondly the precise nature of his instructions as regards the future position and authority of the Musical Banks.

“My friends, it is easy to understand why the Sunchild should have given us these instructions.  With that foresight which is the special characteristic of divine, as compared with human, wisdom, he desired that the evidences in support of his superhuman character should be collected, sifted, and placed on record, before anything was either lost through the death of those who could alone substantiate it, or unduly supplied through the enthusiasm of over-zealous visionaries.  The greater any true miracle has been, the more certainly will false ones accrete round it; here, then, we find the explanation of the command the Sunchild gave to us to gather, verify, and record, the facts of his sojourn here in Erewhon.  For above all things he held it necessary to ensure that there should be neither mistake, nor even possibility of mistake.

“Consider for a moment what differences of opinion would infallibly have arisen, if the evidences for the miraculous character of the Sunchild’s mission had been conflicting—­if they had rested on versions each claiming to be equally authoritative, but each hopelessly irreconcilable on vital points with every single other.  What would future generations have said in answer to those who bade them fling all human experience to the winds, on the strength of records written they knew not certainly by whom, nor how long after the marvels that they recorded, and of which all that could be certainly said was that no two of them told the same story?

“Who that believes either in God or man—­who with any self-respect, or respect for the gift of reason with which God had endowed him, either would, or could, believe that a chariot and four horses had come down from heaven, and gone back again with human or quasi-human occupants, unless the evidences for the fact left no loophole for escape?  If a single loophole were left him, he would be unpardonable, not for disbelieving the story, but for believing it.  The sin against God would lie not in want of faith, but in faith.

“My friends, there are two sins in matters of belief.  There is that of believing on too little evidence, and that of requiring too much before we are convinced.  The guilt of the latter is incurred, alas! by not a few amongst us at the present day, but if the testimony to the truth of the wondrous event so faithfully depicted on the picture that confronts you had been less contemporaneous, less authoritative, less unanimous, future generations—­and it is for them that we should now provide—­would be guilty of the first-named, and not less heinous sin if they believed at all.

“Small wonder, then, that the Sunchild, having come amongst us for our advantage, not his own, would not permit his beneficent designs to be endangered by the discrepancies, mythical developments, idiosyncracies, and a hundred other defects inevitably attendant on amateur and irresponsible recording.  Small wonder, then, that he should have chosen the officials of the Musical Banks, from the Presidents and Vice-Presidents downwards to be the authoritative exponents of his teaching, the depositaries of his traditions, and his representatives here on earth till he shall again see fit to visit us.  For he will come.  Nay it is even possible that he may be here amongst us at this very moment, disguised so that none may know him, and intent only on watching our devotion towards him.  If this be so, let me implore him, in the name of the sun his father, to reveal himself.”

Now Hanky had already given my father more than one look that had made him uneasy.  He had evidently recognised him as the supposed ranger of last Thursday evening.  Twice he had run his eye like a searchlight over the front benches opposite to him, and when the beam had reached my father there had been no more searching.  It was beginning to dawn upon my father that George might have discovered that he was not Professor Panky; was it for this reason that these two young special constables, though they gave up their places, still kept so close to him?  Was George only waiting his opportunity to arrest him—­not of course even suspecting who he was—­but as a foreign devil who had tried to pass himself off as Professor Panky?  Had this been the meaning of his having followed him to Fairmead?  And should he have to be thrown into the Blue Pool by George after all?  “It would serve me,” said he to himself, “richly right.”

These fears which had been taking shape for some few minutes were turned almost to certainties by the half-contemptuous glance Hanky threw towards him as he uttered what was obviously intended as a challenge.  He saw that all was over, and was starting to his feet to declare himself, and thus fall into the trap that Hanky was laying for him, when George gripped him tightly by the knee and whispered, “Don’t—­you are in great danger.”  And he smiled kindly as he spoke.

My father sank back dumbfounded.  “You know me?” he whispered in reply.

“Perfectly.  So does Hanky, so does my mother; say no more,” and he again smiled.

George, as my father afterwards learned, had hoped that he would reveal himself, and had determined in spite of his mother’s instructions, to give him an opportunity of doing so.  It was for this reason that he had not arrested him quietly, as he could very well have done, before the service began.  He wished to discover what manner of man his father was, and was quite happy as soon as he saw that he would have spoken out if he had not been checked.  He had not yet caught Hanky’s motive in trying to goad my father, but on seeing that he was trying to do this, he knew that a trap was being laid, and that my father must not be allowed to speak.

Almost immediately, however, he perceived that while his eyes had been turned on Hanky, two burly vergers had wormed their way through the crowd and taken their stand close to his two brothers.  Then he understood, and understood also how to frustrate.

As for my father, George’s ascendancy over him—­quite felt by George—­was so absolute that he could think of nothing now but the exceeding great joy of finding his fears groundless, and of delivering himself up to his son’s guidance in the assurance that the void in his heart was filled, and that his wager not only would be held as won, but was being already paid.  How they had found out, why he was not to speak as he would assuredly have done—­for he was in a white heat of fury—­what did it all matter now that he had found that which he had feared he should fail to find?  He gave George a puzzled smile, and composed himself as best he could to hear the continuation of Hanky’s sermon, which was as follows:-

“Who could the Sunchild have chosen, even though he had been gifted with no more than human sagacity, but the body of men whom he selected?  It becomes me but ill to speak so warmly in favour of that body of whom I am the least worthy member, but what other is there in Erewhon so above all suspicion of slovenliness, self-seeking, preconceived bias, or bad faith?  If there was one set of qualities more essential than another for the conduct of the investigations entrusted to us by the Sunchild, it was those that turn on meekness and freedom from all spiritual pride.  I believe I can say quite truly that these are the qualities for which Bridgeford is more especially renowned.  The readiness of her Professors to learn even from those who at first sight may seem least able to instruct them—­the gentleness with which they correct an opponent if they feel it incumbent upon them to do so, the promptitude with which they acknowledge error when it is pointed out to them and quit a position no matter how deeply they have been committed to it, at the first moment in which they see that they cannot hold it righteously, their delicate sense of honour, their utter immunity from what the Sunchild used to call log-rolling or intrigue, the scorn with which they regard anything like hitting below the belt—­these I believe I may truly say are the virtues for which Bridgeford is pre-eminently renowned.”

The Professor went on to say a great deal more about the fitness of Bridgeford and the Musical Bank managers for the task imposed on them by the Sunchild, but here my father’s attention flagged—­nor, on looking at the verbatim report of the sermon that appeared next morning in the leading Sunch’ston journal, do I see reason to reproduce Hanky’s words on this head.  It was all to shew that there had been no possibility of mistake.

Meanwhile George was writing on a scrap of paper as though he was taking notes of the sermon.  Presently he slipped this into my father’s hand.  It ran:-

“You see those vergers standing near my brothers, who gave up their seats to us.  Hanky tried to goad you into speaking that they might arrest you, and get you into the Bank prisons.  If you fall into their hands you are lost.  I must arrest you instantly on a charge of poaching on the King’s preserves, and make you my prisoner.  Let those vergers catch sight of the warrant which I shall now give you.  Read it and return it to me.  Come with me quietly after service.  I think you had better not reveal yourself at all.”

As soon as he had given my father time to read the foregoing, George took a warrant out of his pocket.  My father pretended to read it and returned it.  George then laid his hand on his shoulder, and in an undertone arrested him.  He then wrote on another scrap of paper and passed it on to the elder of his two brothers.  It was to the effect that he had now arrested my father, and that if the vergers attempted in any way to interfere between him and his prisoner, his brothers were to arrest both of them, which, as special constables, they had power to do.

Yram had noted Hanky’s attempt to goad my father, and had not been prepared for his stealing a march upon her by trying to get my father arrested by Musical Bank officials, rather than by her son.  On the preceding evening this last plan had been arranged on; and she knew nothing of the note that Hanky had sent an hour or two later to the Manager of the temple—­the substance of which the reader can sufficiently guess.  When she had heard Hanky’s words and saw the vergers, she was for a few minutes seriously alarmed, but she was reassured when she saw George give my father the warrant, and her two sons evidently explaining the position to the vergers.

Hanky had by this time changed his theme, and was warning his hearers of the dangers that would follow on the legalization of the medical profession, and the repeal of the edicts against machines.  Space forbids me to give his picture of the horrible tortures that future generations would be put to by medical men, if these were not duly kept in check by the influence of the Musical Banks; the horrors of the inquisition in the middle ages are nothing to what he depicted as certain to ensue if medical men were ever to have much money at their command.  The only people in whose hands money might be trusted safely were those who presided over the Musical Banks.  This tirade was followed by one not less alarming about the growth of materialistic tendencies among the artisans employed in the production of mechanical inventions.  My father, though his eyes had been somewhat opened by the second of the two processions he had seen on his way to Sunch’ston, was not prepared to find that in spite of the superficially almost universal acceptance of the new faith, there was a powerful, and it would seem growing, undercurrent of scepticism, with a desire to reduce his escape with my mother to a purely natural occurence.

“It is not enough,” said Hanky, “that the Sunchild should have ensured the preparation of authoritative evidence of his supernatural character.  The evidences happily exist in overwhelming strength, but they must be brought home to minds that as yet have stubbornly refused to receive them.  During the last five years there has been an enormous increase in the number of those whose occupation in the manufacture of machines inclines them to a materialistic explanation even of the most obviously miraculous events, and the growth of this class in our midst constituted, and still constitutes, a grave danger to the state.

“It was to meet this that the society was formed on behalf of which I appeal fearlessly to your generosity.  It is called, as most of you doubtless know, the Sunchild Evidence Society; and his Majesty the King graciously consented to become its Patron.  This society not only collects additional evidences—­indeed it is entirely due to its labours that the precious relic now in this temple was discovered—­but it is its beneficent purpose to lay those that have been authoritatively investigated before men who, if left to themselves, would either neglect them altogether, or worse still reject them.

“For the first year or two the efforts of the society met with but little success among those for whose benefit they were more particularly intended, but during the present year the working classes in some cities and towns (stimulated very much by the lectures of my illustrious friend Professor Panky) have shewn a most remarkable and zealous interest in Sunchild evidences, and have formed themselves into local branches for the study and defence of Sunchild truth.

“Yet in spite of all this need—­of all this patient labour and really very gratifying success—­the subscriptions to the society no longer furnish it with its former very modest income—­an income which is deplorably insufficient if the organization is to be kept effective, and the work adequately performed.  In spite of the most rigid economy, the committee have been compelled to part with a considerable portion of their small reserve fund (provided by a legacy) to tide over difficulties.  But this method of balancing expenditure and income is very unsatisfactory, and cannot be long continued.

“I am led to plead for the society with especial insistence at the present time, inasmuch as more than one of those whose unblemished life has made them fitting recipients of such a signal favour, have recently had visions informing them that the Sunchild will again shortly visit us.  We know not when he will come, but when he comes, my friends, let him not find us unmindful of, nor ungrateful for, the inestimable services he has rendered us.  For come he surely will.  Either in winter, what time icicles hang by the wall and milk comes frozen home in the pail—­or in summer when days are at their longest and the mowing grass is about—­there will be an hour, either at morn, or eve, or in the middle day, when he will again surely come.  May it be mine to be among those who are then present to receive him.”

Here he again glared at my father, whose blood was boiling.  George had not positively forbidden him to speak out; he therefore sprang to his feet, “You lying hound,” he cried, “I am the Sunchild, and you know it.”

George, who knew that he had my father in his own hands, made no attempt to stop him, and was delighted that he should have declared himself though he had felt it his duty to tell him not to do so.  Yram turned pale.  Hanky roared out, “Tear him in pieces—­leave not a single limb on his body.  Take him out and burn him alive.”  The vergers made a dash for him—­but George’s brothers seized them.  The crowd seemed for a moment inclined to do as Hanky bade them, but Yram rose from her place, and held up her hand as one who claimed attention.  She advanced towards George and my father as unconcernedly as though she were merely walking out of church, but she still held her hand uplifted.  All eyes were turned on her, as well as on George and my father, and the icy calm of her self-possession chilled those who were inclined for the moment to take Hanky’s words literally.  There was not a trace of fluster in her gait, action, or words, as she said—­

“My friends, this temple, and this day, must not be profaned with blood.  My son will take this poor madman to the prison.  Let him be judged and punished according to law.  Make room, that he and my son may pass.”

Then, turning to my father, she said, “Go quietly with the Ranger.”

Having so spoken, she returned to her seat as unconcernedly as she had left it.

Hanky for a time continued to foam at the mouth and roar out, “Tear him to pieces! burn him alive!” but when he saw that there was no further hope of getting the people to obey him, he collapsed on to a seat in his pulpit, mopped his bald head, and consoled himself with a great pinch of a powder which corresponds very closely to our own snuff.

George led my father out by the side door at the north end of the western aisle; the people eyed him intently, but made way for him without demonstration.  One voice alone was heard to cry out, “Yes, he is the Sunchild!” My father glanced at the speaker, and saw that he was the interpreter who had taught him the Erewhonian language when he was in prison.

George, seeing a special constable close by, told him to bid his brothers release the vergers, and let them arrest the interpreter—­this the vergers, foiled as they had been in the matter of my father’s arrest, were very glad to do.  So the poor interpreter, to his dismay, was lodged at once in one of the Bank prison-cells, where he could do no further harm.