"He did not. If He had mentioned hell on that occasion I should not now
dispute its existence. But He did not. This is what He said to Adam--the
very words: 'In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou
return unto the ground: for out of it thou wast taken: for dust thou
art, and unto dust shalt thou return.' You see He did not say 'Unto hell
shalt thou return.' He said, 'Unto dust.' That isn't hell, is it?"
"Well," I said, "there are in my experience a great many different kinds
of hells. There are almost as many kinds of hells as there are men and
women upon this earth. Now, your hell wouldn't terrify me in the least.
My own makes me no end of trouble. Talk about burning pitch and
brimstone: how futile were the imaginations of the old fellows who
conjured up such puerile torments. Why, I can tell you of no end of
hells that are worse--and not half try. Once I remember, when I was
younger----"
I happened to glance around at my companion. He sat there looking at me
with horror--fascinated horror.
"Well, I won't disturb your peace of mind by telling _that_ story," I
said.
"Do you believe that we shall go to hell?" he asked in a low voice.
"That depends," I said. "Let's leave out the question of 'we'; let's be
more comfortably general in our discussion. I think we can safely say
that some go and some do not. It's a curious and noteworthy thing," I
said, "but I've known of cases--There are some people who aren't really
worth good honest tormenting--let alone the rewards of heavenly bliss.
They just haven't anything to torment! What is going to become of such
folks? I confess I don't know. You remember when Dante began his journey
into the infernal regions----"
"I don't believe a word of that Dante," he interrupted excitedly; "it's
all a made up story. There isn't a word of truth in it; it is a
blasphemous book. Let me read you what I say about it in here."
"I will agree with you without argument," I said, "that it is not _all_
true. I merely wanted to speak of one of Dante's experiences as an
illustration of the point I'm making. You remember that almost the first
spirits he met on his journey were those who had never done anything in
this life to merit either heaven or hell. That always struck me as being
about the worst plight imaginable for a human being. Think of a creature
not even worth good honest brimstone!"
Since I came home, I've looked up the passage; and it is a wonderful
one. Dante heard wailings and groans and terrible things said in many
tongues. Yet these were not the souls of the wicked. They were only
those "who had lived without praise or blame, thinking of nothing but
themselves." "Heaven would not dull its brightness with those, nor would
lower hell receive them."
"And what is it," asked Dante, "that makes them so grievously suffer?"
"Hopelessness of death," said Virgil, "Their blind existence here, and
immemorable former life, make them so wretched that they envy every
other lot. Mercy and Justice alike disdain them. Let us speak of them
no more. Look, and pass!"
But Mr. Purdy, in spite of his timidity, was a man of much persistence.
"They tell me," he said, "when they try to prove the reasonableness of
hell, that unless you show sinners how they're goin' to be tormented,
they'd never repent. Now, I say that if a man has to be scared into
religion, his religion ain't much good."
"There," I said, "I agree with you completely."
His face lighted up, and he continued eagerly:
"And I tell 'em: You just go ahead and try for heaven; don't pay any
attention to all this talk about everlasting punishment."
"Good advice!" I said.
It had begun to grow dark. The brown cow was quiet at last. We could
hear small faint sounds from the calf. I started slowly through the
bracken. Mr. Purdy hung at my elbow, stumbling sideways as he walked,
but continuing to talk eagerly. So we came to the place where the calf
lay. I spoke in a low voice:
"So boss, so boss."
I would have laid my hand on her neck but she started back with a wild
toss of her horns. It was a beautiful calf! I looked at it with a
peculiar feeling of exultation, pride, ownership. It was red-brown, with
a round curly pate and one white leg. As it lay curled there among the
ferns, it was really beautiful to look at. When we approached, it did
not so much as stir. I lifted it to its legs, upon which the cow
uttered a strange half-wild cry and ran a few steps off, her head thrown
in the air. The calf fell back as though it had no legs.
"She is telling it not to stand up," said Mr. Purdy.