Sunday evening.
I have made a fool of myself; and yet I am happier to-night than I
have been this many a day, for I have at least shown myself honest.
I did it foolishly, thoughtlessly, I know, and yet,--well, I don't
regret it.
I went to church this morning for the last time. I went with Aunt
Caroline, as usual, but, as I knelt beside her on entering the pew,
I was seized with a great horror of myself. There was I, hypocrite,
with silent lips and silent heart, feigning to share in the simple
fervour around me, denying my own faith, insulting that of another.
However, I sat and knelt and stood and went through all the forms
along with the rest. The sunlight streamed in at the windows, and
lay coloured on the dusty floor, on bowed head and Sunday bonnet;
through one little white window, just opposite me, I could see a
sparrow bobbing up and down on the ivy. Then away sailed my spirit,
through the church wall, over the meadows, and into the copse; I
pushed my way through the underwood, and picked up a leaf here and
there, listening to the gentle voice of the wood-pigeon. And
then--you know there is one thought into which all thoughts
resolve--I walked with you, dearest, on the hilltops by Fiesole;
she, too, was there, and you both laughed at me because I tried to
dig up a wild orchid with a flint, and got my hands so dirty.
Then we had that long talk about the possibility of an after-life,
which began with the bulb of the orchid--do you remember?
"Nothing is lost in Nature," said my mother. "There is no such thing
as annihilation; death is surely transubstantiation."
"Perhaps then, after all," said I, "the noblest part of us, the
self, that invisible core which we call soul, is just a drop, as it
were, in a great soul-ocean, whose waves wrap creation, and into
which we shall fall. What's the matter, Constantia?"
"I can't listen to you any more, you prosy things; you make me
melancholy. Go and be waves if you like, you two; I'm going to have
white wings and be an angel!"
* * * * *
"I believe in God Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth."
These words roused me with a hard and sudden shock. I had completely
forgotten where I was; I looked about me, half dazed, and saw
everyone standing except myself. Must I, too, rise and say the
Creed? I did not hesitate, because I did not think. I simply stood
up and left the church.
After dinner I went to the rectory; I felt that my former hypocrisy
and cowardice must be atoned for without delay. Besides, as Goethe's
mother used to say, there is no need to stare at the devil, it is
better to swallow him whole. Well, I went to Mr. Dobb, and confessed
myself. He was less shocked at my disbelief than I had expected, but
my profession of it troubled him considerably. He spoke a great deal
about example, about the leading of the masses, and altogether seems
to hold avowed lack of faith, a greater sin than feigned belief.
Of course he had plenty to say on the subject; he seems to be an
honest man, and I must admit that much of what I heard impressed me.
I envied him the ease with which he spoke, the ready-coined language
he was free to use. I could find no words in which to prove that I,
too, had a religion. I wonder, shall I ever be able to tell another
what it is that I feel, as by means of a sixth sense, when earth and
heaven are fairest, when poets sing their best and music is most
divine, when the souls of men and women leap to their eyes and their
hearts lie bare; then something within me smiles and shivers, and I
say, "This--this is God!"
Oh, it is all very well to talk of being sincere! Again and yet
again I must say it. For the lips cannot speak what the spirit
feels. And then,--why, I spoiled my truthful day by a lie at the
end. How could I go to those two old dears and say, "I cannot pray
with you or go to church any more, I am an infidel." How could I? I
said instead, "My mother brought me up in a different faith; I tried
to go to your church, but I cannot, and I think you would not wish
me to act against my conscience in so sacred a matter, so we will go
our ways."
Oh, what a struggling world it is! And how weary one becomes of the
incessant strife when those upon whose hearts one might lean are far
away, unknown, or dead! Oh, I am very lonely. What is life without
love? It is not to be borne. Do you remember what it was to lie in
your cot, to watch the firelight on the ceiling, feeling the
darkness without; and, as you lay snug in your little world within
the world, to see your mother lean over your pillow, a great
Heaven-roof of love,--to be lifted, weak and small and trustful, in
her arms, to feel your weary head pressed close against her breast?
O Constance, I would give all--my very eyesight--to feel an arm
about me in the dark, to yield up Self, to rest. We women are poor
wretches; no man would ever feel so, I think.
Good night; my candle has burned low in the socket, the paper is
flaring already, I shall have to undress in the dark.
Good night, dearest.
E