Then with one of his abrupt transitions Benham had written, "This brings me to God.""The devil it does!" said White, roused to a keener attention.
"By no feat of intention can we achieve courage in loneliness so long as we feel indeed alone.An isolated man, an egoist, an Epicurean man, will always fail himself in the solitary place.
There must be something more with us to sustain us against this vast universe than the spark of life that began yesterday and must be extinguished to-morrow.There can be no courage beyond social courage, the sustaining confidence of the herd, until there is in us the sense of God.But God is a word that covers a multitude of meanings.When I was a boy I was a passionate atheist, I defied God, and so far as God is the mere sanction of social traditions and pressures, a mere dressing up of the crowd's will in canonicals, Ido still deny him and repudiate him.That God I heard of first from my nursemaid, and in very truth he is the proper God of all the nursemaids of mankind.But there is another God than that God of obedience, God the immortal adventurer in me, God who calls men from home and country, God scourged and crowned with thorns, who rose in a nail-pierced body out of death and came not to bring peace but a sword."With something bordering upon intellectual consternation, White, who was a decent self-respecting sceptic, read these last clamberings of Benham's spirit.They were written in pencil; they were unfinished when he died.
(Surely the man was not a Christian!)
"You may be heedless of death and suffering because you think you cannot suffer and die, or you may be heedless of death and pain because you have identified your life with the honour of mankind and the insatiable adventurousness of man's imagination, so that the possible death is negligible and the possible achievement altogether outweighs it."...
White shook his head over these pencilled fragments.
He was a member of the Rationalist Press Association, and he had always taken it for granted that Benham was an orthodox unbeliever.
But this was hopelessly unsound, heresy, perilous stuff; almost, it seemed to him, a posthumous betrayal....
11
One night when he was in India the spirit of adventure came upon Benham.He had gone with Kepple, of the forestry department, into the jungle country in the hills above the Tapti.He had been very anxious to see something of that aspect of Indian life, and he had snatched at the chance Kepple had given him.But they had scarcely started before the expedition was brought to an end by an accident, Kepple was thrown by a pony and his ankle broken.He and Benham bandaged it as well as they could, and a litter was sent for, and meanwhile they had to wait in the camp that was to have been the centre of their jungle raids.The second day of this waiting was worse for Kepple than the first, and he suffered much from the pressure of this amateurish bandaging.In the evening Benham got cool water from the well and rearranged things better; the two men dined and smoked under their thatched roof beneath the big banyan, and then Kepple, tired out by his day of pain, was carried to his tent.Presently he fell asleep and Benham was left to himself.
Now that the heat was over he found himself quite indisposed to sleep.He felt full of life and anxious for happenings.
He went back and sat down upon the iron bedstead beneath the banyan, that Kepple had lain upon through the day, and he watched the soft immensity of the Indian night swallow up the last lingering colours of the world.It left the outlines, it obliterated nothing, but it stripped off the superficial reality of things.The moon was full and high overhead, and the light had not so much gone as changed from definition and the blazing glitter and reflections of solidity to a translucent and unsubstantial clearness.The jungle that bordered the little encampment north, south, and west seemed to have crept a little nearer, enriched itself with blackness, taken to itself voices.
(Surely it had been silent during the day.)A warm, faintly-scented breeze just stirred the dead grass and the leaves.In the day the air had been still.
Immediately after the sunset there had been a great crying of peacocks in the distance, but that was over now; the crickets, however, were still noisy, and a persistent sound had become predominant, an industrious unmistakable sound, a sound that took his mind back to England, in midsummer.It was like a watchman's rattle--a nightjar!
So there were nightjars here in India, too! One might have expected something less familiar.And then came another cry from far away over the heat-stripped tree-tops, a less familiar cry.It was repeated.Was that perhaps some craving leopard, a tiger cat, a panther?--"HUNT, HUNT"; that might be a deer.
Then suddenly an angry chattering came from the dark trees quite close at hand.A monkey?...
These great, scarce visible, sweeping movements through the air were bats....
Of course, the day jungle is the jungle asleep.This was its waking hour.Now the deer were arising from their forms, the bears creeping out of their dens amidst the rocks and blundering down the gullies, the tigers and panthers and jungle cats stalking noiselessly from their lairs in the grass.Countless creatures that had hidden from the heat and pitiless exposure of the day stood now awake and alertly intent upon their purposes, grazed or sought water, flitting delicately through the moonlight and shadows.The jungle was awakening.Again Benham heard that sound like the belling of a stag....
This was the real life of the jungle, this night life, into which man did not go.Here he was on the verge of a world that for all the stuffed trophies of the sportsman and the specimens of the naturalist is still almost as unknown as if it was upon another planet.What intruders men are, what foreigners in the life of this ancient system!
