The little chapel at Dalmatian Heights sat upon a hill, among a grove
of pines, the most romantic of all trees. Life, a powerful but clumsy
dramatist, does not reject the most claptrap “situations,” which a
sophisticated playwright would discard as too obvious. For this sandy
plateau, strewn with satiny pine-needles, was the very horizon that had
looked so blue and beckoning from the little house by the pond. Not far
away was the great Airedale estate, which Gissing had known only at an
admiring distance--and now he was living there as an honoured guest.
The Bishop had taken him to call upon the Airedales; and they, delighted
that the chapel was to be re-opened, had insisted upon his staying with
them. The chapel, in fact, was a special interest with Mr. Airedale, who
had been a leading contributor toward its erection. Gissing was finding
that life seemed to be continually putting him into false positions;
and now he discovered, somewhat to his chagrin, that the lovely little
shrine of St. Spitz, whose stained windows glowed like rubies in its
cloister of dark trees, was rather a fashionable hobby among the wealthy
landowners of Dalmatian Hills. It had been closed all summer, and they
had missed it. The Bishop, in his airy and indefinite way, had not made
it quite plain that Gissing was only a lay reader; and in spite of his
embarrassed disclaimers, he found himself introduced by Mr. Airedale to
the country-house clique as the new “vicar.”
But at any rate it was lucky that the Airedales had insisted on taking
him in as a guest; for he had learned from the Bishop (just as the
latter was leaving) that there was no stipend attached to the office of
lay reader. Fortunately he still had much of the money he had saved from
his salary as General Manager. And whatever sense of anomaly he felt
was quickly assuaged by the extraordinary comfort and novelty of his
environment. In the great Airedale mansion he experienced for the first
time that ultimate triumph of civilization--a cup of tea served in bed
before breakfast, with slices of bread-and-butter of tenuous and amazing
fragile thinness. He was pleased, too, with the deference paid him as a
representative of the cloth, even though it compelled him to a
solemnity he did not inwardly feel. But most of all, undoubtedly, he was
captivated by the loveliness and warmth of Miss Airedale.
The Bishop had not erred. Admiring the aristocratic Roman trend of
her brow and nose; the proud, inquisitive carriage of her somewhat
rectangular head, her admirable, vigorous figure and clear topaz
eyes, Gissing was aware of something he had not experienced before--a
disturbance both urgent and agreeable, in which the intellect seemed to
play little part. He was startled by the strength of her attractiveness,
amazed to learn how pleasing it was to be in her company. She was very
young and brisk: wore clothes of a smart sporting cut, and was
(he thought) quite divine in her riding breeches. But she was also
completely devoted to the chapel, where she played the music on Sundays.
She was a volatile creature, full of mischievous surprise: at their
first music practice, after playing over some hymns on the pipe-organ,
she burst into jazz, filling the quiet grove with the clamorous syncope
of Paddy-Paws, a favourite song that summer.
So into the brilliant social life of the Airedales and their friends
he found himself suddenly pitchforked. In spite of the oddity of the
situation, and of occasional anxiety when he considered the possibility
of Mr. Poodle finding him out, he was very happy. This was not quite
what he had expected, but he was always adaptable. Miss Airedale was an
enchanting companion. In the privacy of his bedroom he measured himself
for a pair of riding breeches and wrote to his tailor in town to have
them made as soon as possible. He served the little chapel assiduously,
though he felt it better to conceal from the Airedales the fact that he
went there every day. He suspected they would think him slightly mad if
they knew, so he used to pretend that he had business in town. Then he
would slip away to the balsam-scented hilltop and be perfectly happy
sweeping the chapel floor, dusting the pews, polishing the brasswork,
rearranging the hymnals in the racks. He arranged with the milkman to
leave a bottle of milk and some cinnamon buns at the chapel gate
every morning, so he had a cheerful and stealthy little lunch in
the vestry-room, though always a trifle nervous lest some of his
parishioners should discover him.
He practiced reading the lessons aloud at the brass lectern, and
discovered how easy is dramatic elocution when you are alone. He wished
it were possible to hold a service daily. For the first time he was able
to sing hymns as loud as he liked. Miss Airedale played the organ with
emphatic fervour, and the congregation, after a little hesitation,
enjoyed the lusty sincerity of a hymn well trolled. Some of his flock,
who had previously relished taking part in the general routine of the
service, were disappointed by his zeal, for Gissing insisted on doing
everything himself. He rang the bell, ushered the congregation to their
seats, read the service, recited the Quadrupeds' Creed, led the
choir, gave out as many announcements as he could devise, took up the
collection, and at the close skipped out through the vestry and was
ready and beaming in the porch before the nimblest worshipper had
reached the door. On his first Sunday, indeed, he carried enthusiasm
rather too far: in an innocent eagerness to prolong the service as much
as possible, and being too excited to realize quite what he was doing,
he went through the complete list of supplications for all possible
occasions. The congregation were startled to find themselves praying
simultaneously both for rain and for fair weather.
In a cupboard in the vestry-room he had found an old surplice hanging;
he took it down, tried it on before the mirror, and wistfully put it
back. To this symbolic vestment his mind returned as he sat solitary
under the pine-trees, looking down upon the valley of home. It was the
season of goldenrod and aster on the hillsides: a hot swooning silence
lay upon the late afternoon. The weight and closeness of the air had
struck even the insects dumb. Under the pines, generally so murmurous,
there was something almost gruesome in the blank stillness: a suspension
so absolute that the ears felt dull and sealed. He tried, involuntarily,
to listen more clearly, to know if this uncanny hush were really so.
There was a sense of being imprisoned, but only most delicately, in a
spell, which some sudden cracking might disrupt.
The surplice tempted him strongly, for it suggested the sermon he felt
impelled to deliver, against the Bishop's orders. For the beautiful
chapel in the piny glade was, somehow, false: or, at any rate, false for
him. The architect had made it a dainty poem in stone and polished wood,
but somehow God had evaded the neat little trap. Moreover, the God
his well-bred congregation worshipped, the old traditionally imagined
snow-white St. Bernard with radiant jowls of tenderness, shining dewlaps
of love; paternal, omnipotent, calm--this deity, though sublime in its
way, was too plainly an extension of their own desires. His prominent
parishioners--Mr. Dobermann-Pinscher, Mrs. Griffon, Mrs. Retriever;
even the delightful Mr. Airedale himself--was it not likely that they
esteemed a deity everlastingly forgiving because they themselves felt
need of forgiveness? He had been deeply shocked by the docility with
which they followed the codes of the service: even when he had committed
his blunder of the contradictory prayers, they had murmured the words
automatically, without protest. To the terrific solemnities of the
Litany they had made the responses with prompt gabbling precision, and
with a rapidity that frankly implied impatience to take the strain off
their knees.
Somehow he felt that to account for a world of unutterable strangeness
they had invented a God far too cheaply simple. His mood was certainly
not one of ribald easy scoff. It was they (he assured himself) whose
theology was essentially cynical; not he. He was a little weary of
this just, charitable, consoling, hebdomadal God; this God who might be
sufficiently honoured by a decorously memorized ritual. Yet was he
too shallow? Was it not seemly that his fellows, bound on this dark,
desperate venture of living, should console themselves with decent
self-hypnosis?
No, he thought. No, it was not entirely seemly. If they pretended that
their God was the highest thing knowable, then they must bring to
His worship the highest possible powers of the mind. He had a strange
yearning for a God less lazily conceived: a God perhaps inclement,
awful, master of inscrutable principles. Yet was it desirable to shake
his congregation's belief in their traditional divinity? He thought of
them--so amiable, amusing, spirited and generous, but utterly untrained
for abstract imaginative thought on any subject whatever. His own
strange surmisings about deity would only shock and horrify them And
after all, was it not exactly their simplicity that made them lovable?
The great laws of truth would work their own destinies without
assistance from him! Even if these pleasant creatures did not genuinely
believe the rites they so politely observed (he knew they did not, for
BELIEF is an intellectual process of extraordinary range and depth), was
it not socially useful that they should pretend to do so?
And yet--with another painful swing of the mind--was it necessary
that Truth should be worshipped with the aid of such astonishingly
transparent formalisms, hoaxes, and mummeries? Alas, it seemed that this
was an old, old struggle that must be troublesomely fought out, again
and again down the generations. Prophets were twice stoned--first in
anger; then, after their death, with a handsome slab in the graveyard.
But words uttered in sincerity (he thought) never fail of some response.
Though he saw his fellows leashed with a heavy chain of ignorance,
stupidity, passion, and weakness, yet he divined in life some
inscrutable principle of honour and justice; some unreckonable essence
of virtue too intimate to understand; some fumbling aspiration toward
decency, some brave generosity of spirit, some cheerful fidelity to
Beauty. He could not see how, in a world so obviously vast and uncouth
beyond computation, they could find a puny, tidy, assumptive, scheduled
worship so satisfying. But perhaps, since all Beauty was so staggering,
it was better they should cherish it in small formal minims. Perhaps
in this whole matter there was some lovely symbolism that he did not
understand.
The soft brightness was already lifting into upper air, a mingled tissue
of shadows lay along the valley. In the magical clarity of the evening
light he suddenly felt (as one often does, by unaccountable planetary
instinct) that there was a new moon. Turning, he saw it, a silver
snipping daintily afloat; and not far away, an early star. He had found
no creed in the prayer-book that accounted for the stars. Here at
the bottom of an ocean of sky, we look aloft and see them
thick-speckled--mere barnacles, perhaps, on the keel of some greater
ship of space. He remembered how at home there had been a certain
burning twinkle that peeped through the screen of the dogwood tree.
As he moved on his porch, it seemed to flit to and fro, appearing and
vanishing. He was often uncertain whether it was a firefly a few yards
away, or a star the other side of Time. Possibly Truth was like that.
There was a light swift rustle behind him, and Miss Airedale appeared.
“Hullo!” she said. “I wondered where you were. Is this how you spend
your afternoons, all alone?”
Stars, creeds, cosmologies, promptly receded into remote perspective
and had to shift for themselves. It was true that Gissing had somewhat
avoided her lately, for he feared her fascination. He wished nothing
else to interfere with his search for what he had not yet found.
Postpone the female problem to the last, was his theory: not because
it was insoluble, but because the solution might prove to be less
interesting than the problem itself. But side by side with her, she was
irresistible. A skittish brightness shone in her eyes.
“Great news!” she exclaimed. “I've persuaded Papa to take us all down to
Atlantic City for a couple of days.”
“Wonderful!” cried Gissing. “Do you know, I've never been to the
seashore.”
“Don't worry,” she replied. “I won't let you see much of the ocean.
We'll go to the Traymore, and spend the whole time dancing in the
Submarine Grill.”
“But I must be back in time for the service on Sunday,” he said.
“We're going to leave first thing in the morning. We'll go in the car,
and I'll drive. Will you sit with me in the front seat?”
“Watch me!” replied Gissing gallantly.
“Come on then, or you'll be late for dinner. I'll race you home!” And
she was off like a flash.
But in spite of Miss Airedale's threat, at Atlantic City they both fell
into a kind of dreamy reverie. The wine-like tingle of that salty air
was a quiet drug. The apparently inexhaustible sunshine was sharpened
with a faint sting of coming autumn. Gissing suddenly remembered that it
was ages since he had simply let his mind run slack and allowed life to
go by unstudied. Mr. and Mrs. Airedale occupied a suite high up in the
terraced mass of the huge hotel; they wrapped themselves in rugs and
basked on their private balcony. Gissing and the daughter were left
to their own amusements. They bathed in the warm September surf; they
strolled the Boardwalk up beyond the old Absecon light, where the green
glimmer of water runs in under the promenade. They sat on the deck
of the hotel--or rather Miss Airedale sat, while Gissing, courteously
attentive, leaned over her steamer-chair. He stood so for hours,
apparently in devoted chat; but in fact he was half in dream. The smooth
flow of the little rolling shays just below had a soothing hypnotic
erect. But it was the glorious polished blue of the sea-horizon that
bounded all his thoughts. Even while Miss Airedale gazed archly up at
him, and he was busy with cheerful conversation, he was conscious of
that broad band of perfect colour, monotonous, comforting, thrilling.
For the first time he realized the great rondure of the world. His mind
went back to the section of the prayer-book that had always touched him
most pointedly--the “Forms of Prayer to be Used at Sea.” In them he had
found a note of sincere terror and humility. And now he viewed the sea
for the first time in this setting of notable irony. The open dazzle of
placid elements, obedient only to some cosmic calculus, lay as a serene
curtain against which the quaint flamboyance of the Boardwalk was all
the more amusing. The clear rim of sea curving off into space drew him
with painful curiosity. Here at last was what he had needed. The proud
waters went over his soul. Here indeed the blue began.
He looked down at Miss Airedale, who had gone to sleep while waiting for
him to say something. He tiptoed away and went to his room to write down
some ideas. Against the wide challenge of that blue hemisphere, where
half the world lay open and free to the eye, the Bishop's prohibition
lost weight. He was resolved to preach a sermon.
At dusk he met Miss Airedale on the high balcony that runs around the
reading-room of the hotel. They were quite alone up there. Along the
Boardwalk, in the pale sentimental twilight, the translucent electric
globes shone like a long string of pearls. She was very tempting in
a gay evening frock, and reproached him for having neglected her. She
shivered a little in the cool wind coming off the darkening water. The
weakness of the hour was upon him. He put his arm tenderly round her as
they leaned over the parapet.
“See those darling children down on the sand,” she said. “I do adore
puppies, don't you?”
He remembered Groups, Bunks, and Yelpers. Nothing is so potent as the
love of children when you are away from them. She gazed languishing
at him; he responded with a generous pressure. But his alarmed soul
thrilled with panic.
“You must excuse me a moment, while I dress for dinner,” he said. He was
strangely terrified by the look of secret understanding in her beautiful
eyes. It seemed to imply some subtle, inexpressible pact. As a matter of
truth, she was unconscious of it: it was only the old demiurge speaking
in her; the old demiurge which was pursuing him just as ardently as he
was trailing the dissolving blue of his dream. But he was much agitated
as he went down in the elevator.
“Heavens,” he said to himself; “are we all only toys in the power of
these terrific instincts?”
For the first time he was informed of the infinite feminine capacity for
being wooed.
That night they danced in the Submarine Grill. She floated in his
embrace with triumphant lightness. Her eyes, utilized as temporary lamps
by a lighting-circuit of which she was quite unaware, beamed with happy
lustre. The lay reader, always docile to the necessities of occasion,
murmured delightful trifles. But his private thoughts were as aloof
and shining and evasive as the goldfish that twinkled in the glass pool
overhead. He picked up her scarf and her handkerchief when she dropped
them. He smiled vaguely when she suggested that she thought she could
persuade Mr. Airedale to stay in Atlantic City over the week-end, and
why worry about the service on Sunday? But when she and the yawning Mrs.
Airedale had retired, he hastened to his chamber and packed his bag.
Stealthily he went to the desk and explained that he was leaving
unexpectedly on business, and that the bill should go to Mr. Airedale,
whose guest he had been. He slipped away out of the side door, and
caught the late train. Mrs. Airedale chafed her daughter that night for
whining in her sleep.