Lost Horizon (17 page)

Conway answered: “As good a word as most, no doubt. I don’t know whether you classify the people who come here, but if so, you can label me ‘1914-18.’ That makes me, I should think, a unique specimen in your museum of antiquities—the other three who arrived along with me don’t enter the category. I used up most of my passions and energies during the years I’ve mentioned, and though I don’t talk much about it, the chief thing I’ve asked from the world since then is to leave me alone. I find in this place a certain charm and quietness that appeals to me, and no doubt, as you remark, I shall get used to things.”

“Is that all, my son?”

“I hope I am keeping well to your own rule of moderation.”

“You are clever—as Chang told me, you are very clever. But is there nothing in the prospect I have outlined that tempts you to any stronger feeling?”

Conway was silent for an interval and then replied: “I was deeply impressed by your story of the past, but to be candid, your sketch of the future interests me only in an abstract sense. I can’t look so far ahead. I should certainly be sorry if I had to leave Shangri-La to-morrow or next week, or perhaps even next year; but how I shall feel about it if I live to be a hundred isn’t a matter to prophesy. I can face it, like any other future, but in order to make me keen it must have a point. I’ve sometimes doubted whether life itself has any; and if not, long life must be even more pointless.”

“My friend, the traditions of this building, both Buddhist and Christian, are very reassuring.”

“Maybe. But I’m afraid I still hanker after some more definite reason for envying the centenarian.”

“There
is
a reason, and a very definite one indeed. It is the whole reason for this colony of chance-sought strangers living beyond their years. We do not follow an idle experiment, a mere whimsy. We have a dream and a vision. It is a vision that first appeared to old Perrault when he lay dying in this room in the year 1789. He looked back then on his long life, as I have already told you, and it seemed to him that all the loveliest things were transient and perishable, and that war, lust, and brutality might some day crush them until there were no more left in the world. He remembered sights he had seen with his own eyes, and with his mind he pictured others; he saw the nations strengthening, not in wisdom, but in vulgar passions and the will to destroy; he saw their machine power multiplying until a single-weaponed man might have matched a whole army of the Grand Monarque. And he perceived that when they had filled the land and sea with ruin, they would take to the air …. Can you say that his vision was untrue?”

“True indeed.”

“But that was not all. He foresaw a time when men, exultant in the technique of homicide, would rage so hotly over the world that every precious thing would be in danger, every book and picture and harmony, every treasure garnered through two millenniums, the small, the delicate, the defenseless—all would be lost like the lost books of Livy, or wrecked as the English wrecked the Summer Palace in Pekin.”

“I share your opinion of that.”

“Of course. But what are the opinions of reasonable men against iron and steel? Believe me, that vision of old Perrault will come true. And that, my son, is why
I
am here, and why
you
are here, and why we may pray to outlive the doom that gathers around on every side.”

“To outlive it?”

“There is a chance. It will all come to pass before you are as old as I am.”

“And you think that Shangri-La will escape?”

“Perhaps. We may expect no mercy, but we may faintly hope for neglect. Here we shall stay with our books and our music and our meditations, conserving the frail elegancies of a dying age, and seeking such wisdom as men will need when their passions are all spent. We have a heritage to cherish and bequeath. Let us take what pleasure we may until that time comes.”

“And then?”

“Then, my son, when the strong have devoured each other, the Christian ethic may at last be fulfilled, and the meek shall inherit the earth.”

A shadow of emphasis had touched the whisper, and Conway surrendered to the beauty of it; again he felt the surge of darkness around, but now symbolically, as if the world outside were already brewing for the storm. And then he saw that the High Lama of Shangri-La was actually astir, rising from his chair, standing upright like the half-embodiment of a ghost. In mere politeness Conway made to assist; but suddenly a deeper impulse seized him, and he did what he had never done to any man before; he knelt, and hardly knew why he did.

“I understand you, Father,” he said.

He was not perfectly aware of how at last he took his leave; he was in a dream from which he did not emerge till long afterwards. He remembered the night air icy after the heat of those upper rooms, and Chang’s presence, a silent serenity, as they crossed the starlit courtyards together. Never had Shangri-La offered more concentrated loveliness to his eyes; the valley lay imaged over the edge of the cliff, and the image was of a deep unrippled pool that matched the peace of his own thoughts. For Conway had passed beyond astonishments. The long talk, with its varying phases, had left him empty of all save a satisfaction that was as much of the mind as of the emotions, and as much of the spirit as of either; even his doubts were now no longer harassing, but part of a subtle harmony Chang did not speak, and neither did he. It was very late, and he was glad that all the others had gone to bed.

I
N THE MORNING HE
wondered if all that he could call to mind were part of a waking or a sleeping vision.

He was soon reminded. A chorus of questions greeted him when he appeared at breakfast. “You certainly had a long talk with the boss last night,” began the American. “We meant to wait up for you, but we got tired. What sort of a guy is he?”

“Did he say anything about the porters?” asked Mallinson eagerly.

“I hope you mentioned to him about having a missionary stationed here,” said Miss Brinklow.

The bombardment served to raise in Conway his usual defensive armament. “I’m afraid I’m probably going to disappoint you all,” he replied, slipping easily into the mood. “I didn’t discuss with him the question of missions; he didn’t mention the porters to me at all; and as for his appearance, I can only say that he’s a very old man who speaks excellent English and is quite intelligent.”

Mallinson cut in with irritation: “The main thing to us is whether he’s to be trusted or not. Do you think he means to let us down?”

“He didn’t strike me as a dishonorable person.”

“Why on earth didn’t you worry him about the porters?”

“It didn’t occur to me.”

Mallinson stared at him incredulously. “I can’t understand you, Conway. You were so damned good in that Baskul affair that I can hardly believe you’re the same man. You seem to have gone all to pieces.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No good being sorry. You ought to buck up and look as if you cared what happens.”

“You misunderstand me. I meant that I was sorry to have disappointed you.”

Conway’s voice was curt, an intended mask to his feelings, which were, indeed, so mixed that they could hardly have been guessed by others. He had slightly surprised himself by the ease with which he had prevaricated; it was clear that he intended to observe the High Lama’s suggestion and keep the secret. He was also puzzled by the naturalness with which he was accepting a position which his companions would certainly and with some justification think traitorous; as Mallinson had said, it was hardly the sort of thing to be expected of a hero. Conway felt a sudden half-pitying fondness for the youth; then he steeled himself by reflecting that people who hero-worship must be prepared for disillusionments. Mallinson at Baskul had been far too much the new boy adoring the handsome games-captain, and now the games-captain was tottering if not already fallen from the pedestal. There was always something a little pathetic in the smashing of an ideal, however false; and Mallinson’s admiration might have been at least a partial solace for the strain of pretending to be what he was not. But pretense was impossible anyway. There was a quality in the air of Shangri-La—perhaps due to its altitude—that forbade one the effort of counterfeit emotion.

He said: “Look here, Mallinson, it’s no use harping continually on Baskul. Of course I was different then—it was a completely different situation.”

“And a much healthier one in my opinion. At least we knew what we were up against.”

“Murder and rape—to be precise. You can call that healthier if you like.”

The youth’s voice rose in pitch as he retorted: “Well, I
do
call it healthier—in one sense. It’s something I’d rather face than all this mystery business.” Suddenly he added: “That Chinese girl, for instance—how did
she
get here? Did the fellow tell you?”

“No. Why should he?”

“Well, why shouldn’t he? And why shouldn’t you ask, if you had any interest in the matter at all? Is it usual to find a young girl living with a lot of monks?”

That way of looking at it was one that had scarcely occurred to Conway before. “This isn’t an ordinary monastery,” was the best reply he could give after some thought.

“My God, it isn’t!”

There was a silence, for the argument had evidently reached a dead-end. To Conway the history of Lo-Tsen seemed rather far from the point; the little Manchu lay so quietly in his mind that he hardly knew she was there. But at the mere mention of her Miss Brinklow had looked up suddenly from the Tibetan grammar which she was studying even over the breakfast table (just as if, thought Conway, with secret meaning, she hadn’t all her life for it). Chatter of girls and monks reminded her of those stories of Indian temples that men missionaries told their wives, and that the wives passed on to their unmarried female colleagues. “Of course,” she said between tightened lips, “the morals of this place are quite hideous—we might have expected that.” She turned to Barnard as if inviting support, but the American only grinned. “I don’t suppose you folks’d value my opinion on a matter of morals,” he remarked dryly. “But I should say myself that quarrels are just as bad. Since we’ve gotter be here for some time yet, let’s keep our tempers and make ourselves comfortable.”

Conway thought this good advice, but Mallinson was still unplacated. “I can quite believe you find it more comfortable than Dartmoor,” he said meaningly.

“Dartmoor? Oh, that’s your big penitentiary?—I get you. Well, yes, I certainly never did envy the folks in them places. And there’s another thing too—it don’t hurt when you chip me about it. Thick-skinned and tender-hearted, that’s my mixture.”

Conway glanced at him in appreciation, and at Mallinson with some hint of reproof; but then abruptly he had the feeling that they were all acting on a vast stage, of whose background only he himself was conscious; and such knowledge, so incommunicable, made him suddenly want to be alone. He nodded to them and went out into the courtyard. In sight of Karakal misgivings faded, and qualms about his three companions were lost in an uncanny acceptance of the new world that lay so far beyond their guesses. There came a time, he realized, when the strangeness of everything made it increasingly difficult to realize the strangeness of anything; when one took things for granted merely because astonishment would have been as tedious for oneself as for others. Thus far had he progressed at Shangri-La, and he remembered that he had attained a similar though far less pleasant equanimity during his years at the War.

He needed equanimity, if only to accommodate himself to the double life he was compelled to lead. Thenceforward, with his fellow exiles, he lived in a world conditioned by the arrival of porters and a return to India; at all other times the horizon lifted like a curtain; time expanded and space contracted, and the name Blue Moon took on a symbolic meaning, as if the future, so delicately plausible, were of a kind that might happen once in a blue moon only. Sometimes he wondered which of his two lives were the more real, but the problem was not pressing; and again he was reminded of the War, for during heavy bombardments he had had the same comforting sensation that he had many lives, only one of which could be claimed by death.

Chang, of course, now talked to him completely without reserve, and they had many conversations about the rule and routine of the lamasery. Conway learned that during his first five years he would live a normal life, without any special regimen; this was always done as Chang said, “to enable the body to accustom itself to the altitude, and also to give time for the dispersal of mental and emotional regrets.”

Conway remarked with a smile: “I suppose you’re certain, then, that no human affection can outlast a five-year absence?”

“It can, undoubtedly,” replied the Chinese, “but only as a fragrance whose melancholy we may enjoy.”

After the probationary five years, Chang went on to explain, the process of retarding age would begin, and if successful, might give Conway half a century or so at the apparent age of forty—which was not a bad time of life at which to remain stationary.

“What about yourself?” Conway asked. “How did it work out in your case?”

“Ah, my dear sir, I was lucky enough to arrive when I was quite young—only twenty-two. I was a soldier, though you might not have thought it; I had command of troops operating against brigand tribes in the year 1855. I was making what I should have called a reconnaissance if I had ever returned to my superior officers to tell the tale, but in plain truth I had lost my way in the mountains, and of my men only seven out of over a hundred survived the rigors of the climate. When at last I was rescued and brought to Shangri-La I was so ill that extreme youth and virility alone could have saved me.”

“Twenty-two,” echoed Conway, performing the calculation. “So you’re now ninety-seven?”

“Yes. Very soon, if the lamas give their consent, I shall receive full initiation.”

“I see. You have to wait for the round figure?”

“No, we are not restricted by any definite age limit, but a century is generally considered to be an age beyond which the passions and moods of ordinary life are likely to have disappeared.”