This Was Ivor Trent полностью

Intent on his activities, he proceeded with punctilious care. He studied each cup, every spoon, jugs, and so on till convinced of their cleanliness. They were then arranged in logical sequence. At a precise moment, cups, teapot and jugs were warmed. Ingredients were exactly measured. He might have been a priest performing a rite.

Finally, China tea was prepared for himself—and a cup of black coffee handed to Rendell with the statement:

“I know you find this poison innocuous, so I give it to you with equanimity.”

Rendell was astonished. First the cigarettes—and now the black coffee! There could be only one explanation. This was Wrayburn’s method of stating that he welcomed him and wanted him to come again.

This discovery revealed the extent and degree of Wrayburn’s isolation. Rendell lacked vanity, and therefore realised that it could only be his physical presence that Wrayburn needed. Mentally, they spoke different languages. That was definite. What Wrayburn regarded as truisms were nightmares to Rendell. To listen to him was to watch the solid shrink to the spectral—the sane dissolve into the mad—and the living stiffen into the petrified. Yet this wisp of humanity, this mental waif, this unique being wanted him—Rendell!—to sit in his room and to listen to him!

“He wants a human gas-fire as well as the other one,” was Rendell’s private analysis of the situation.

But, aloud, he said:

“Devilish good of you to remember I like black coffee. It’s first-class, too. Better not spoil me, or I shall be here too often.”

“It’s all right then, is it? Really? Excellent! You’d better have the cigarettes near you.”

Wrayburn curled up in his chair and looked round approvingly.

“I like this—just this! Everything shut out. Yes, very pleasant—eminently satisfactory!”

He looked at his watch.

“Nine-twenty-two. You said you weren’t in a hurry. That’s all right then.”

There was silence for some minutes. Wrayburn seemed to be exploring the rare sensation of satisfaction in much the same manner as a frozen tramp—suddenly finding himself before a fire—surrenders to the investigating warmth.

“Coming to Trent,” Rendell said at last, but was instantly interrupted.

“I was coming to him. The essential quality in him can be stated in a sentence. Potentially, he is the New Man.”

“The what?”

“The New Man,” Wrayburn repeated coldly. “Even to you it must be a commonplace that the only deliverance for humanity lies in a new order of consciousness. Everybody knows that nowadays. The old consciousness and all its works is toppling to ruin. Nothing can be done with that. It will just go—and it is going.”

Wrayburn paused, but as Rendell said nothing, he went on:

“The only salvation lies in the coming of the New Men. Four-dimensional men, if that phrase helps you. Potentially, Trent is one of them.”

“But—well—damn it!” Rendell exploded. “I’m quite out of my depth, of course, but—well—what will these New Men be like?”

“They will think and feel from a new centre. They will have new motives, new aims. They will be priests of a new vision. They will possess a cosmic consciousness. But, frankly, Rendell, I wouldn’t try to understand, if I were you. I’d just accept the idea. You’ll find it simpler.”

“That’s undoubtedly true,” Rendell agreed. “So tell me what you meant when you said earlier on that Trent’s friends represent only his time-killing activities.”

“So they do—so does his writing, on another level. Trent is strong. He has Being. But he evades his spiritual destiny by amusing himself with that hulking Vera—who is as repressed as a bomb—and dear Peter Marsden, to whom he once gave two ideas. Our Peter rattles them about in his empty skull like two sixpenny-bits in a money-box.”

Rendell laughed, somewhat against his will.

“You’ve heard him rattle them, haven’t you?” Wrayburn inquired judicially. “He rattles them, and then looks at you as if to say: ‘Hear what I’ve got’”

“You couldn’t say what they are, I suppose?”

“Definitely! One is something about the spiritual structure of a book. He’s always rattling that one. The other one is Trent’s belief that man contains in himself the potentiality of a new being. Our Peter doesn’t rattle that one so often. He’s not certain that he knows what it means. Also, I gave him an idea once. I told him that Trent’s books were only a by-product of an intense interior activity.”

Rendell was too startled to reply. He remembered that Marsden had used these three phrases when he had dined with him—exactly a week ago.

His thoughts ran on till eventually he asked:

“What about Rosalie Vivian?”

“She’s a point better,” Wrayburn conceded grudgingly. “At any rate, she feels what is going on in the world, although she knows none of the facts. She’s rather like a seismograph. She vibrates when there’s an earthquake, although she does not know what an earthquake is. That’s why she’s a psychic invalid.”

“But is she a—psychic invalid?”