The Listener Read Free

the other a little larger. The white marble slabs rose to a flat roof. The gardens expanded, dying trees were replaced with tall young saplings, red gravel paths laid out, flower beds enlarged. “A kind of little church,” said some neighbors disdainfully. “Is he going to preach in there?” But no one knew.
     
    The curious, peering through the doorway — there were no windows at all — saw that the floor of the smaller room was being covered with a deep blue carpet, thick and sort, and filled with comfortable chairs, tables and lamps, all quite expensive. They could not see beyond this room, which had a wide, tall oaken door. The front door, of bronze, imported from the old country, was set in place, and over it, in an arch, was inlaid in gold letters: ‘The Man who Listens’.
     
    And set deeply in the white marble floor was a brass plate: ‘In Memory of Stella Godfrey’.
     
    Now it was complete, and John Godfrey let the press enter, for it was necessary that the public know. The young reporters surged into the pleasant and serene room with its glowing lamps, its glass tables covered with magazines and flowers in pots and vases, its white marble walls on which there were no murals or pictures, its thickly carpeted floor. It was very restful here, and quiet, and waiting. But for whom did it wait?
     
    John, smiling, touched a bell near the oaken door at the end of the room. It chimed gently. He pointed out a slot near the door. “For requests to be heard,” he said. The door automatically opened after ten minutes, while the reporters fumed with eager impatience. Then they entered the room beyond and stared.
     
    There was nothing whatsoever in the room but a tall marble chair covered with blue velvet cushions. The chair faced an arched alcove hidden by thick blue curtains. At the side of the alcove was a brass plate: ‘If you wish to see the man who has listened to you, touch the button above. You will see his face. He will be glad if you thank him, but it is not necessary’.
     
    So the reporters asked, “A clergyman? Shifts around the clock?” They knew that the building would never be closed. John did not answer except with a smile. The newsmen flashed their cameras on him, the sitting room, the empty marble room which was lighted obliquely by a soft and muted light falling from the white ceiling. One reporter, very young and brash, went to the button near the thick blue curtains, but John said with unusual sternness: “No! Not yet, not yet, for you.”
     
    He showed the reporters the box which lay below the slit that opened in the sitting room. “People may deposit their requests here, to be heard. Then, after touching the bell, they must wait ten minutes. Then the door will be opened, for one at a time. He then leaves by the rear entrance.”
     
    “A lawyer, perhaps, or a social worker, or a psychiatrist?” wheedled the young reporter. But John only smiled. “Of course,” said the reporters, “the people who come here will tell us all about it. It won’t be a mystery very long, you know, Mr. Godfrey.” John only smiled.
     
    “What do you expect people to say in here?” asked another reporter, taking another flash of the old man. “They will know before they come,” said John. He paused and said gently, “One of the most terrible aspects of this world today is that nobody listens to anyone else. If you are sick, or even dying, nobody listens. If you are bewildered, or frightened, or lost, or bereaved, or alone, or lonely — nobody really listens. Even the clergy are hurried and harassed; they do their best and work endlessly. But time has taken on a fragmented character; it doesn’t seem to have any substance any longer. Nobody has time to listen to anyone, not even those who love you and would die for you. Your parents, your children, your friends: they have no time. That’s a very terrible thing, isn’t it? Whose fault is it? I don’t know. But there doesn’t seem to be any