Morning broke in bitter silver along the grey and level plain; and
almost as it did so Turnbull and MacIan came out of a low, scrubby wood
on to the empty and desolate flats. They had walked all night.
They had walked all night and talked all night also, and if the subject
had been capable of being exhausted they would have exhausted it.
Their long and changing argument had taken them through districts and
landscapes equally changing. They had discussed Haeckel upon hills so
high and steep that in spite of the coldness of the night it seemed as
if the stars might burn them. They had explained and re-explained
the Massacre of St. Bartholomew in little white lanes walled in with
standing corn as with walls of gold. They had talked about Mr. Kensit
in dim and twinkling pine woods, amid the bewildering monotony of
the pines. And it was with the end of a long speech from MacIan,
passionately defending the practical achievements and the solid
prosperity of the Catholic tradition, that they came out upon the open
land.
MacIan had learnt much and thought more since he came out of the
cloudy hills of Arisaig. He had met many typical modern figures under
circumstances which were sharply symbolic; and, moreover, he had
absorbed the main modern atmosphere from the mere presence and chance
phrases of Turnbull, as such atmospheres can always be absorbed from the
presence and the phrases of any man of great mental vitality. He had at
last begun thoroughly to understand what are the grounds upon which the
mass of the modern world solidly disapprove of her creed; and he threw
himself into replying to them with a hot intellectual enjoyment.
“I begin to understand one or two of your dogmas, Mr. Turnbull,” he had
said emphatically as they ploughed heavily up a wooded hill. “And every
one that I understand I deny. Take any one of them you like. You hold
that your heretics and sceptics have helped the world forward and handed
on a lamp of progress. I deny it. Nothing is plainer from real history
than that each of your heretics invented a complete cosmos of his own
which the next heretic smashed entirely to pieces. Who knows now exactly
what Nestorius taught? Who cares? There are only two things that we know
for certain about it. The first is that Nestorius, as a heretic, taught
something quite opposite to the teaching of Arius, the heretic who came
before him, and something quite useless to James Turnbull, the heretic
who comes after. I defy you to go back to the Free-thinkers of the past
and find any habitation for yourself at all. I defy you to read
Godwin or Shelley or the deists of the eighteenth century of the
nature-worshipping humanists of the Renaissance, without discovering
that you differ from them twice as much as you differ from the Pope. You
are a nineteenth-century sceptic, and you are always telling me that
I ignore the cruelty of nature. If you had been an eighteenth-century
sceptic you would have told me that I ignore the kindness and
benevolence of nature. You are an atheist, and you praise the deists of
the eighteenth century. Read them instead of praising them, and you will
find that their whole universe stands or falls with the deity. You are a
materialist, and you think Bruno a scientific hero. See what he said and
you will think him an insane mystic. No, the great Free-thinker,
with his genuine ability and honesty, does not in practice destroy
Christianity. What he does destroy is the Free-thinker who went before.
Free-thought may be suggestive, it may be inspiriting, it may have as
much as you please of the merits that come from vivacity and
variety. But there is one thing Free-thought can never be by any
possibility--Free-thought can never be progressive. It can never be
progressive because it will accept nothing from the past; it begins
every time again from the beginning; and it goes every time in a
different direction. All the rational philosophers have gone along
different roads, so it is impossible to say which has gone farthest. Who
can discuss whether Emerson was a better optimist than Schopenhauer was
pessimist? It is like asking if this corn is as yellow as that hill is
steep. No; there are only two things that really progress; and they both
accept accumulations of authority. They may be progressing uphill and
down; they may be growing steadily better or steadily worse; but they
have steadily increased in certain definable matters; they have steadily
advanced in a certain definable direction; they are the only two things,
it seems, that ever _can_ progress. The first is strictly physical
science. The second is the Catholic Church.”
“Physical science and the Catholic Church!” said Turnbull sarcastically;
“and no doubt the first owes a great deal to the second.”
“If you pressed that point I might reply that it was very probable,”
answered MacIan calmly. “I often fancy that your historical
generalizations rest frequently on random instances; I should not be
surprised if your vague notions of the Church as the persecutor of
science was a generalization from Galileo. I should not be at all
surprised if, when you counted the scientific investigations and
discoveries since the fall of Rome, you found that a great mass of them
had been made by monks. But the matter is irrelevant to my meaning. I
say that if you want an example of anything which has progressed in
the moral world by the same method as science in the material world, by
continually adding to without unsettling what was there before, then I
say that there _is_ only one example of it. And that is Us.”
“With this enormous difference,” said Turnbull, “that however elaborate
be the calculations of physical science, their net result can be tested.
Granted that it took millions of books I never read and millions of men
I never heard of to discover the electric light. Still I can see the
electric light. But I cannot see the supreme virtue which is the result
of all your theologies and sacraments.”
“Catholic virtue is often invisible because it is the normal,” answered
MacIan. “Christianity is always out of fashion because it is always
sane; and all fashions are mild insanities. When Italy is mad on art
the Church seems too Puritanical; when England is mad on Puritanism the
Church seems too artistic. When you quarrel with us now you class us
with kingship and despotism; but when you quarrelled with us first it
was because we would not accept the divine despotism of Henry VIII. The
Church always seems to be behind the times, when it is really beyond the
times; it is waiting till the last fad shall have seen its last summer.
It keeps the key of a permanent virtue.”
“Oh, I have heard all that!” said Turnbull with genial contempt. “I have
heard that Christianity keeps the key of virtue, and that if you read
Tom Paine you will cut your throat at Monte Carlo. It is such rubbish
that I am not even angry at it. You say that Christianity is the prop
of morals; but what more do you do? When a doctor attends you and could
poison you with a pinch of salt, do you ask whether he is a Christian?
You ask whether he is a gentleman, whether he is an M.D.--anything but
that. When a soldier enlists to die for his country or disgrace it, do
you ask whether he is a Christian? You are more likely to ask whether
he is Oxford or Cambridge at the boat race. If you think your creed
essential to morals why do you not make it a test for these things?”
“We once did make it a test for these things,” said MacIan smiling, “and
then you told us that we were imposing by force a faith unsupported
by argument. It seems rather hard that having first been told that our
creed must be false because we did use tests, we should now be told that
it must be false because we don't. But I notice that most anti-Christian
arguments are in the same inconsistent style.”
“That is all very well as a debating-club answer,” replied Turnbull
good-humouredly, “but the question still remains: Why don't you confine
yourself more to Christians if Christians are the only really good men?”
“Who talked of such folly?” asked MacIan disdainfully. “Do you suppose
that the Catholic Church ever held that Christians were the only good
men? Why, the Catholics of the Catholic Middle Ages talked about the
virtues of all the virtuous Pagans until humanity was sick of the
subject. No, if you really want to know what we mean when we say that
Christianity has a special power of virtue, I will tell you. The Church
is the only thing on earth that can perpetuate a type of virtue and make
it something more than a fashion. The thing is so plain and historical
that I hardly think you will ever deny it. You cannot deny that it is
perfectly possible that tomorrow morning, in Ireland or in Italy, there
might appear a man not only as good but good in exactly the same way
as St. Francis of Assisi. Very well, now take the other types of human
virtue; many of them splendid. The English gentleman of Elizabeth was
chivalrous and idealistic. But can you stand still here in this meadow
and _be_ an English gentleman of Elizabeth? The austere republican of
the eighteenth century, with his stern patriotism and his simple life,
was a fine fellow. But have you ever seen him? have you ever seen an
austere republican? Only a hundred years have passed and that volcano of
revolutionary truth and valour is as cold as the mountains of the moon.
And so it is and so it will be with the ethics which are buzzing down
Fleet Street at this instant as I speak. What phrase would inspire
the London clerk or workman just now? Perhaps that he is a son of the
British Empire on which the sun never sets; perhaps that he is a prop of
his Trades Union, or a class-conscious proletarian something or other;
perhaps merely that he is a gentleman when he obviously is not. Those
names and notions are all honourable; but how long will they last?
Empires break; industrial conditions change; the suburbs will not last
for ever. What will remain? I will tell you. The Catholic Saint will
remain.”
“And suppose I don't like him?” said Turnbull.
“On my theory the question is rather whether he will like you: or
more probably whether he will ever have heard of you. But I grant the
reasonableness of your query. You have a right, if you speak as the
ordinary man, to ask if you will like the saint. But as the ordinary man
you do like him. You revel in him. If you dislike him it is not because
you are a nice ordinary man, but because you are (if you will excuse me)
a sophisticated prig of a Fleet Street editor. That is just the funny
part of it. The human race has always admired the Catholic virtues,
however little it can practise them; and oddly enough it has admired
most those of them that the modern world most sharply disputes. You
complain of Catholicism for setting up an ideal of virginity; it did
nothing of the kind. The whole human race set up an ideal of virginity;
the Greeks in Athene, the Romans in the Vestal fire, set up an ideal of
virginity. What then is your real quarrel with Catholicism? Your
quarrel can only be, your quarrel really only is, that Catholicism has
_achieved_ an ideal of virginity; that it is no longer a mere piece
of floating poetry. But if you, and a few feverish men, in top hats,
running about in a street in London, choose to differ as to the ideal
itself, not only from the Church, but from the Parthenon whose name
means virginity, from the Roman Empire which went outwards from the
virgin flame, from the whole legend and tradition of Europe, from the
lion who will not touch virgins, from the unicorn who respects them, and
who make up together the bearers of your own national shield, from the
most living and lawless of your own poets, from Massinger, who wrote the
_Virgin Martyr_, from Shakespeare, who wrote _Measure for Measure_--if
you in Fleet Street differ from all this human experience, does it never
strike you that it may be Fleet Street that is wrong?”
“No,” answered Turnbull; “I trust that I am sufficiently fair-minded to
canvass and consider the idea; but having considered it, I think Fleet
Street is right, yes--even if the Parthenon is wrong. I think that as
the world goes on new psychological atmospheres are generated, and in
these atmospheres it is possible to find delicacies and combinations
which in other times would have to be represented by some ruder symbol.
Every man feels the need of some element of purity in sex; perhaps
they can only typify purity as the absence of sex. You will laugh if I
suggest that we may have made in Fleet Street an atmosphere in which
a man can be so passionate as Sir Lancelot and as pure as Sir
Galahad. But, after all, we have in the modern world erected many such
atmospheres. We have, for instance, a new and imaginative appreciation
of children.”
“Quite so,” replied MacIan with a singular smile. “It has been very well
put by one of the brightest of your young authors, who said: 'Unless
you become as little children ye shall in no wise enter the kingdom of
heaven.' But you are quite right; there is a modern worship of children.
And what, I ask you, is this modern worship of children? What, in the
name of all the angels and devils, is it except a worship of virginity?
Why should anyone worship a thing merely because it is small or
immature? No; you have tried to escape from this thing, and the very
thing you point to as the goal of your escape is only the thing again.
Am I wrong in saying that these things seem to be eternal?”
And it was with these words that they came in sight of the great
plains. They went a little way in silence, and then James Turnbull said
suddenly, “But I _cannot_ believe in the thing.” MacIan answered nothing
to the speech; perhaps it is unanswerable. And indeed they scarcely
spoke another word to each other all that day.