Chapter the Third — The Journey of Sargon Underneath the World
§ 1
It has been said in an earlier chapter that Mr. Preemby, after his wife’s death, was like some seed which germinates and thrusts out bold and unexpected things. A new phase in that belated germination began as he walked through the London streets beside his captor policeman. If the thing had happened to Mr. Preemby while he was still Mr. Preemby, it would have been merely a dreadful, shameful horror. It would have been an insupportable experience, a thing to regret, a thing to get through and conceal and if possible obliterate from record and memory. If, again, it had happened in the early days of Sargon’s dreams it would have been an occasion for an immense dramatic improvisation. He would have thought of the effect upon the spectators and passers-by, he would have posed and gesticulated and said profound, memorable words. But some power of growth had taken possession of him now and he did none of these things. He posed now neither to the world without nor to himself within. For the first time in his life almost he was looking directly at himself and at what he had done and what had befallen him, and so full of wonder was he at this ultimate discovery of reality that he forgot all the vast fabric of make-believe, imaginative response, and deliberate self-delusion, up which he had clambered to this new phase of vision. He walked so quietly through the lit streets that only the most observant noted he was in charge and that the policeman was on duty; to the rest he might have been any casual companion of a home-going policeman.
One determination had been released in this renascent mind with an extraordinary strength and clearness, that he was not, and never would again be, that Albert Edward Preemby who had launched him into existence. He was a being called, it mattered not what, in reality, but for his present purposes, Sargon, Sargon the Magnificent King. The first concrete visions of Sumeria and his ancient glories had passed now into the background of his mind. He had not lost his belief in them at all, but they were now ancient history to him, and even the revelation at the boarding house seemed very far away. His ideas had travelled long distances and gathered much in the past week. The expectation of an immediate sensational splendour had been rudely shattered. The Power that had called him had surprised him exceedingly, but had not overwhelmed him. He knew quite clearly that he had to be Sargon who lived not for himself but for the Whole World, and that to relinquish or deny that was to perish utterly. It had not seemed to be necessary to him that his own faith should be tried, but manifestly the Power had determined that it should be tried. And manifestly he was to be put through some austere process of preparation before he entered into his Empire. He was to know what prison was and to stand a trial. He would be asked to deny himself.
What should he say to them? I am not He—I am not Him—which was it? I am not Him you suppose I am. He muttered it to himself.
“Whassay?” said the policeman.
“Nothing. Is it much further?” asked Sargon.
It was just round the corner. Sargon found himself in a little austere room with half a dozen quite amiable but slightly disrespectful men in uniform. He was asked his name and address by one who sat at a table. “Sargon,” he said. “Sargon the First.”
“No Christian name?”
“Pre-Christian,” said Sargon.
“No given name, I mean,” said the questioner.
“No.”
“And the address?”
“None at present.”
“Just anywhere?”
Sargon did not answer.
“Case for Gifford Street,” said a voice behind him.
“Memory case or something,” said the man at the table. “Anyhow, it’s Gifford Street.”
Sargon reflected. “What’s Gifford Street?” he asked.
“’Ospital. Where they’ll give you a bit of a rest and quiet.”
“But I want to meet a magistrate in open court. I have a message. I am in no need of rest or quiet.”
“They’ll tell you all about that at Gifford Street. Buxton, will you take ’im round?”
“But I am perfectly well! Why should I go to hospital?”
“Routine I suppose,” said the seated policeman and gave his mind to other things.