Bless me! Now what _was_ I . . .
MANSON. Something about your sacred obligations, I believe.
BISHOP. May I trouble you again?
[MANSON gravely fixes the ear-trumpet in his ear.]
ROBERT. That's right: stick the damned thing in 'is ear-'ole,
comride!
MANSON [through the trumpet]. Your sacred obligations.
BISHOP. Precisely, precisely! Er-- Shall we sit?
[They do so. The BISHOP looks to MANSON to begin. MANSON, failing
him, the spirit begins to work within himself.]
Well--er---speaking of that, of course, my dearly-beloved brother,
I feel very seriously on the matter, very seriously--as I am sure
you do. The restoration of a church is a tremendous, an
overwhelming responsibility. To begin with, it--it costs quite a
lot. Doesn't it?
MANSON. It does: quite a lot.
BISHOP. Hm, yes--yes! . . . You mentioned _Sacred obligations_
just now, and I think that on the whole I am inclined to agree with
you. It is an admirable way of putting it. We must awaken people
to a sense of their _sacred obligations_. This is a work in which
everybody can do something: the rich man can give of the abundance
with which it has pleased Providence specially to favour him: the
poor man with his slender savings need have no fear for the poverty
of his gift-- Let him give all: it will be accepted. Those of us
who, like yourself, my dear brother--and I say it in all modesty,
perhaps _my_self--are in possession of the endowments of learning,
of influence, of authority--we can lend our _names_ to the good
work. As you say so very beautifully: _sacred obligations_.
By-the-way, I don't think I quite caught your views as to the
probable cost. Eh, what do you think?
MANSON. I think that should depend upon the obligations; and then,
of course, the sacredness might count for something.
BISHOP. Yes, yes, we've discussed all that. But bringing it down
to a _practical_ basis: how much could we manage with?
MANSON. What do you say to--everything you have?
BISHOP. My dear sir, I'm not talking about myself!
MANSON. Well--everything the others have?
BISHOP. My dear sir, they're not fools! Do discuss the matter
like a man of the world!
MANSON. _God's not watching: let's give as little, and grab as
much as we can_!
BISHOP. Ssh! My dear brother! Remember who's present! [He
glances toward Robert.] However . . . [Coughs.] We will return to
this later. I begin to understand you.
ROBERT. Yus: you think you do!
BISHOP. At the same time, I do think we ought to come to some
general understanding; we must count the cost. Now, from all
accounts, you have had some experience of church-building out in
India--not that I think the extravagance for which you are credited
would be either possible or desirable in this country--oh, no!
Thank God, we know how to worship in spirit and in truth, without
the aid of expensive buildings! However, I should like to hear
your views. How did you manage it?
MANSON. Sacrifice.
BISHOP. Of course, of course; but _practically_. They say it's an
enormous concern!
MANSON. So it is.
BISHOP. Well, what would such an establishment as that represent?
In round numbers, now?
MANSON [calmly]. Numberless millions.
BISHOP. Numberless mil . . . ! [He drops his fork.] My dear sir,
absurd! . . . Why, the place must be a palace--fit for a king!
MANSON. It is!
BISHOP. Do you mean to tell me that one man alone, on his own
naked credit, could obtain numberless millions for such an object
as that? How could you possibly get them together?
MANSON. They came freely from every quarter of the world.
BISHOP. On the security of your own name alone?
MANSON. No other, I assure you.
BISHOP. For Heaven's sake, tell me all about it! What sort of a
place is it?
MANSON [seriously]. Are you quite sure you can hear?
BISHOP. Perhaps your voice is _not_ quite so clear as it was.
However . . .
[He wipes the inside of the ear-trumpet, and fixes it afresh.]
Now! Tell me about your church.
[During the following speech the BISHOP is occupied with his own
thoughts: after the first few words he makes no attempt at
listening: indeed, the trumpet goes down to the table again in no
time. On the other hand, ROBERT, at first apathetic, gradually
awakens to the keenest interest in what MANSON says.]
MANSON [very simply]. I am afraid you may not consider it an
altogether substantial concern. It has to be seen in a certain
way, under certain conditions. Some people never _see_ it at all.
You must understand, this is no dead pile of stones and unmeaning
timber. _It is a living thing_.
BISHOP [in a hoarse whisper, self-engrossed]. Numberless millions!
MANSON. When you enter it you hear a sound--a sound as of some
mighty poem chanted. Listen long enough, and you will learn that
it is made up of the beating of human hearts, of the nameless music
of men's souls--that is, if you have ears. If you have eyes, you
will presently see the church itself--a looming mystery of many
shapes and shadows, leaping sheer from floor to dome. The work of
no ordinary builder!
BISHOP [trumpet down]. On the security of one man's name!
MANSON. The pillars of it go up like the brawny trunks of heroes:
the sweet human flesh of men and women is moulded about its
bulwarks, strong, impregnable: the faces of little children laugh
out from every corner-stone: the terrible spans and arches of it
are the joined hands of comrades; and up in the heights and spaces
there are inscribed the numberless musings of all the dreamers of
the world. It is yet building--building and built upon. Sometimes
the work goes forward in deep darkness: sometimes in blinding
light: now beneath the burden of unutterable anguish: now to the
tune of a great laughter and heroic shoutings like the cry of
thunder. [Softer.] Sometimes, in the silence of the night-time,
one may hear the tiny hammerings of the comrades at work up in the
dome--the comrades that have climbed ahead.
[There is a short silence, broken only by the champing jaws of the
BISHOP, who has resumed his sausages. ROBERT speaks first.]
ROBERT [slowly]. I think I begin to understand you, comride:
especially that bit abaht . . . [his eyes stray upwards] . . .
the 'ammerins' an' the--the harches--an' . . . Humph! I'm only an
'og! . . .
S'pose there's no drain 'ands wanted in that there church o' yours?
MANSON. Drains are a very important question there at present.
ROBERT. Why, I'd be cussin' over every stinkin' pipe I laid.
MANSON. I should make that a condition, comrade.
ROBERT [rising, he pulls off the cassock; goes to fire for his
coat: returns: drags it on]. I don't know! Things 'av' got in a
bit of a muck with me! I'm rather like a drain-pipe myself.
[With sudden inspiration]. There's one thing I _can_ do!
MANSON. What's that?
ROBERT. Renahnce ole Beelzebub an' all 'is bloomin' wirks! 'And
us that brarss-band!
[He alludes to the ear-trumpet. MANSON obeying, ROBERT jabs it
into the ear of the BISHOP, who seems quite surprised.]
'Ere! 'Av' you ever 'eard of 'ell?
BISHOP. Of what?
ROBERT. 'Ell. [Spelling.] H, E, double L, 'ell.
BISHOP. Well, my dear sir, I think I ought to!
ROBERT. Then, go there! Aymen . . .
Now I'll go an' 'av' a look at our Bill's drains, damn 'is eyes!
[He goes out through the main door, repentant.]
BISHOP. The scoundrel! Did you hear what he said? I shall
certainly report him to his bishop!
MANSON. I don't think I should. _His_ bishop doesn't mind a
little plain speech now and again.
BISHOP. A little plain speech! Do you think it's right for a
clergyman to--to direct me to perdition?
MANSON. I think you are making a mistake: the man who gave you
your--direction is not a clergyman. He's a scavenger.
BISHOP. A scavenger!
MANSON. Yes--looks after drains.
BISHOP. Do you mean to tell me that I've been sitting down to
breakfast with a common working-man?
MANSON. Yes; have you never done that before?
BISHOP. My dear sir, whatever do you take me for?
MANSON. A bishop of God's church.
BISHOP. Precisely! Is it _your_ custom to breakfast with
working-men?
MANSON. Every morning. You see, I'm prejudiced: I was one myself,
once.
BISHOP. You? . . .
MANSON. Yes--a long time ago, though: people have forgotten.
BISHOP. But, my dear brother, I am perfectly sure you never told
people to go to . . .
MANSON. Oh yes, quite frequently: it would shock you to learn the
language I really did use. Perhaps, under the circumstances, it
might be advisable to drop the subject at this point.
BISHOP [emphatically]. I most certainly agree with you there!
After all, it is a digression from the purpose for which we are
here! . . . Let me see, then: where were we? . . . Oh yes, I
remember-- Although, by the way, it was very ill-advised of you to
speak your mind so openly in that man's presence! However . . .
To resume our--how shall I call it ?--our--little understanding, eh?
MANSON. That describes it most accurately.
BISHOP. Now, you said, _Let's give as little, and grab as much as
we can_. Of course, that is a playful way of putting it; but
between ourselves, it expresses my sentiments exactly.
MANSON. I knew that when I said it.
BISHOP [delighted]. My dear brother, your comprehension makes my
heart warm. I trust our relations may always remain as warm.
MANSON. Oh, warmer, warmer!
BISHOP. Very well then, to business! I tell you, candidly, I
agree with you, that there is no necessity for sinking anything of
our own in the concern: nothing ever comes of that sort of reckless
generosity! If people want a church, let them make some sacrifice
for it! Why should _we_ do anything?