We went some considerable distance, after leaving our intellectual
friends, through very beautiful wooded country, and as we went we talked
with much animation about the intellectual life and its dangers. It had
always, I confess, appeared to me a harmless life enough; not very
effective, perhaps, and possibly liable to encourage a man in a trivial
sort of self-conceit; but I had always looked upon that as an
instinctive kind of self-respect, which kept an intellectual person from
dwelling too sorely upon the sense of ineffectiveness; as an addiction
not more serious in its effects upon character than the practice of
playing golf, a thing in which a leisurely person might immerse himself,
and cultivate a decent sense of self-importance. But Amroth showed me
that the danger of it lay in the tendency to consider the intellect to
be the basis of all life and progress. "The intellectual man," he said,
"is inclined to confuse his own acute perception of the movement of
thought with the originating impulse of that movement. But of course
thought is a thing which ebbs and flows, like public opinion, according
to its own laws, and is not originated but only perceived by men of
intellectual ability. The danger of it is a particularly arid sort of
self-conceit. It is as if the Lady of Shalott were to suppose that she
created life by observing and rendering it in her magic web, whereas her
devotion to her task simply isolates her from the contact with other
minds and hearts, which is the one thing worth having. That is, of
course, the danger of the artist as well as of the philosopher. They
both stand aside from the throng, and are so much absorbed in the aspect
of thought and emotion that they do not realise that they are separated
from it. They are consequently spared, when they come here, the
punishment which falls upon those who have mixed greedily, selfishly,
and cruelly with life, of which you will have a sight before long. But
that place of punishment is not nearly so sad or depressing a place as
the paradise of delight, and the paradise of intellect, because the
sufferers have no desire to stay there, can repent and feel ashamed, and
therefore can suffer, which is always hopeful. But the artistic and
intellectual have really starved their capacity for suffering, the one
by treating all emotion as spectacular, and the other by treating it as
a puerile interruption to serious things. It takes people a long time to
work their way out of self-satisfaction! But there is another curious
place I wish you to visit. It is a dreadful place in a way, but by no
means consciously unhappy," and Amroth pointed to a great building which
stood on a slope of the hill above the forest, with a wide and beautiful
view from it. Before very long we came to a high stone wall with a gate
carefully guarded. Here Amroth said a few words to a porter, and we went
up through a beautiful terraced park. In the park we saw little knots of
people walking aimlessly about, and a few more solitary figures. But in
each case they were accompanied by people whom I saw to be warders. We
passed indeed close to an elderly man, rather fantastically dressed, who
looked possessed with a kind of flighty cheerfulness. He was talking to
himself with odd, emphatic gestures, as if he were ticking off the
points of a speech. He came up to us and made us an effusive greeting,
praising the situation and convenience of the place, and wishing us a
pleasant sojourn. He then was silent for a moment, and added, "Now there
is a matter of some importance on which I should like your opinion." At
this the warder who was with him, a strong, stolid-looking man, with an
expression at once slightly contemptuous and obviously kind, held up his
hand and said, "You will, no doubt, sir, remember that you have
undertaken--" "Not a word, not a word," said our friend; "of course you
are right! I have really nothing to say to these gentlemen."
We went up to the building, which now became visible, with its long and
stately front of stone. Here again we were admitted with some
precaution, and after a few minutes there came a tall and
benevolent-looking man, to whom Amroth spoke at some length. The man
then came up to me, said that he was very glad to welcome me, and that
he would be delighted to show us the place.
We went through fine and airy corridors, into which many doors, as of
cells, opened. Occasionally a man or a woman, attended by a male or a
female warder, passed us. The inmates had all the same kind of air--a
sort of amused dignity, which was very marked. Presently our companion
opened a door with his key and we went in. It was a small,
pleasantly-furnished room. Some books, apparently of devotion, lay on
the table. There was a little kneeling-desk near the window, and the
room had a half-monastic air about it. When we entered, an elderly man,
with a very serene face, was looking earnestly into the door of a
cupboard in the wall, which he was holding open; there was, so far as I
could see, nothing in the cupboard; but the inmate seemed to be
struggling with an access of rather overpowering mirth. He bowed to us.
Our conductor greeted him respectfully, and then said, "There is a
stranger here who would like a little conversation with you, if you can
spare the time."
"By all means," said the inmate, with a very ingratiating smile. "It is
very kind of him to call upon me, and my time is entirely at his
disposal."
Our conductor said to me that he and Amroth had some brief business to
transact, and that they would call for me again in a moment. The inmate
bowed, and seemed almost impatient for them to depart. He motioned me to
a chair, and the moment they left us he began to talk with great
animation. He asked me if I was a new inmate, and when I said no, only a
visitor, he looked at me compassionately, saying that he hoped I might
some day attain to the privilege. "This," he said, "is the abode of
final and lasting peace. No one is admitted here unless his convictions
are of the firmest and most ardent character; it is a reward for
faithful service. But as our time is short, I must tell you," he said,
"of a very curious experience I have had this very morning--a spiritual
experience of the most reassuring character. You must know that I held a
high official position in the religious world--I will mention no
details--and I found at an early age, I am glad to say, the imperative
necessity of forming absolutely impregnable convictions. I went to work
in the most business-like way. I devoted some years to hard reading and
solid thought, and I found that the sect to which I belonged was lacking
in certain definite notes of divine truth, while the weight of evidence
pointed in the clearest possible manner to the fact that one particular
section of the Church had preserved absolutely intact the primitive
faith of the Saints, and was without any shadow of doubt the perfectly
logical development of the principles of the Gospel. Mine is not a
nature that can admit of compromise; and at considerable sacrifice of
worldly prospects I transferred my allegiance, and was instantly
rewarded by a perfect serenity of conviction which has never faltered.
"I had a friend with whom I had often discussed the matter, who was much
of my way of thinking. But though I showed him the illogical nature of
his position, he hung back--whether from material motives or from mere
emotional associations I will not now stop to inquire. But I could not
palter with the truth. I expostulated with him, and pointed out to him
in the sternest terms the eternal distinctions involved. I broke off all
relations with him ultimately. And after a life spent in the most
solemn and candid denunciation of the fluidity of religious belief,
which is the curse of our age, though it involved me in many of the
heart-rending suspensions of human intercourse with my nearest and
dearest so plainly indicated in the Gospel, I passed at length, in
complete tranquillity, to my final rest. The first duty of the sincere
believer is inflexible intolerance. If a man will not recognise the
truth when it is plainly presented to him, he must accept the eternal
consequences of his act--separation from God, and absorption in guilty
and awestruck regret, which admits of no repentance.
"One of the privileges of our sojourn here is that we have a strange and
beautiful device--a window, I will call it--which admits one to a sight
of the spiritual world. I was to-day contemplating, not without pain,
but with absolute confidence in its justice, the sufferings of some of
these lost souls, and I observed, I cannot say with satisfaction, but
with complete submission, the form of my friend, whom my testimony might
have saved, in eternal misery. I have the tenderest heart of any man
alive. It has cost me a sore struggle to subdue it--it is more unruly
even than the will--but you may imagine that it is a matter of deep and
comforting assurance to reflect that on earth the door, the one door, to
salvation is clearly and plainly indicated--though few there be that
find it--and that this signal mercy has been vouchsafed to me. I have
then the peace of knowing, not only that my choice was right, but that
all those to whom the truth is revealed have the power to choose it. I
am a firm believer in the uncovenanted mercies vouchsafed to those who
have not had the advantages of clear presentment, but for the
deliberately unfaithful, for all sinners against light, the sentence is
inflexible."
He closed his eyes, and a smile played over his features.
I found it very difficult to say anything in answer to this monologue;
but I asked my companion whether he did not think that some clearer
revelation might be made, after the bodily death, to those who for some
human frailty were unable to receive it.
"An intelligent question," said my companion, "but I am obliged to
answer in the negative. Of course the case is different for those who
have accepted the truth loyally, even if their record is stained by the
foulest and most detestable of crimes. It is the moral and intellectual
adhesion that matters; that once secured, conduct is comparatively
unimportant, if the soul duly recurs to the medicine of penitence and
contrition so mercifully provided. I have the utmost indulgence for
every form of human frailty. I may say that I never shrank from contact
with the grossest and vilest forms of continuous wrong-doing, so long as
I was assured that the true doctrines were unhesitatingly and
submissively accepted. A soul which admits the supremacy of authority
can go astray like a sheep that is lost, but as long as it recognises
its fold and the authority of the divine law, it can be sought and
found.
"The little window of which I spoke has given me indubitable testimony
of this. There was a man I knew in the flesh, who was regarded as a
monster of cruelty and selfishness. He ill-treated his wife and misused
his children; his life was spent in gross debauchery, and his conduct on
several occasions outstepped the sanctions of legality. He was a forger
and an embezzler. I do not attempt to palliate his faults, and there
will be a heavy reckoning to pay. But he made his submission at the
last, after a long and prostrating illness; and I have ocular
demonstration of the fact that, after a mercifully brief period of
suffering, he is numbered among the blest. That is a sustaining
thought."
He then with much courtesy invited me to partake of some refreshment,
which I gratefully declined. Once or twice he rose, and opening the
little cupboard door, which revealed nothing but a white wall, he drank
in encouragement from some hidden sight. He then invited me to kneel
with him, and prayed fervently and with some emotion that light might be
vouchsafed to souls on earth who were in darkness. Just as he concluded,
Amroth appeared with our conductor. The latter made a courteous inquiry
after my host's health and comfort. "I am perfectly happy here," he
said, "perfectly happy. The attentions I receive are indeed more than I
deserve; and I am specially grateful to my kind visitor, whose
indulgence I must beg for my somewhat prolonged statement--but when one
has a cause much at heart," he added with a smile, "some prolixity is
easily excused."
As we re-entered the corridor, our conductor asked me if I would care to
pay any more visits. "The case you have seen," he said, "is an extremely
typical and interesting one."
"Have you any hope," said Amroth, "of recovery?"
"Of course, of course," said our conductor with a smile. "Nothing is
hopeless here; our cures are complete and even rapid; but this is a
particularly obstinate one!"
"Well," said Amroth, "would you like to see more?"
"No," I said, "I have seen enough. I cannot now bear any more."
Our conductor smiled indulgently.
"Yes," he said, "it is bewildering at first; but one sees wonderful
things here! This is our library," he added, leading us to a great airy
room, full of books and reading-desks, where a large number of inmates
were sitting reading and writing. They glanced up at us with friendly
and contented smiles. A little further on we came to another cell,
before which our conductor stopped, and looked at me. "I should like,"
he said, "if you are not too tired, just to take you in here; there is
a patient, who is very near recovery indeed, in here, and it would do
him good to have a little talk with a stranger."
I bowed, and we went in. A man was sitting in a chair with his head in
his hands. An attendant was sitting near the window reading a book. The
patient, at our entry, removed his hands from his face and looked up,
half impatiently, with an air of great suffering, and then slowly rose.
"How are you feeling, dear sir?" said our conductor quietly.
"Oh," said the man, looking at us, "I am better, much better. The light
is breaking in, but it is a sore business, when I was so strong in my
pride."
"Ah," said our guide, "it is indeed a slow process; but happiness and
health must be purchased; and every day I see clearly that you are
drawing nearer to the end of your troubles--you will soon be leaving us!
But now I want you kindly to bestir yourself, and talk a little to this
friend of ours, who has not been long with us, and finds the place
somewhat, bewildering. You will be able to tell him something of what is
passing in your mind; it will do you good to put it into words, and it
will be a help to him."
"Very well," said the man gravely, "I will do my best." And the others
withdrew, leaving me with the man. When they had gone, the man asked me
to be seated, and leaning his head upon his hand he said, "I do not know
how much you know and how little, so I will tell you that I left the
world very confident in a particular form of faith, and very much
disposed to despise and even to dislike those who did not agree with me.
I had lived, I may say, uprightly and purely, and I will confess that I
even welcomed all signs of laxity and sinfulness in my opponents,
because it proved what I believed, that wrong conduct sprang naturally
from wrong belief. I came here in great content, and thought that this
place was the reward of faithful living. But I had a great shock. I was
very tenderly attached to one whom I left on earth, and the severest
grief of my life was that she did not think as I did, but used to plead
with me for a wider outlook and a larger faith in the designs of God.
She used to say to me that she felt that God had different ways of
saving different people, and that people were saved by love and not by
doctrine. And this I combated with all my might. I used to say,
'Doctrine first, and love afterwards,' to which she often said, 'No,
love is first!'
"Well, some time ago I had a sight of her; she had died, and entered
this world of ours. She was in a very different place from this, but she
thought of me without ceasing, and her desire prevailed. I saw her,
though I was hidden from her, and looked into her heart, and discerned
that the one thing which spoiled her joy was that I was parted from her.
"And after that I had no more delight in my security. I began to suffer
and to yearn. And then, little by little, I began to see that it is
love after all which binds us together, and which draws us to God; but
my difficulty is this, that I still believe that my faith is true; and
if that is true, then other faiths cannot be true also, and then I fall
into sad bewilderment and despair." He stopped and looked at me fixedly.
"But," I said, "if I may carry the thought further, might not all be
true? Two men may be very unlike each other in form and face and
thought--yet both are very man. It would be foolish arguing, if a man
were to say, 'I am indeed a man, and because my friend is unlike
me--taller, lighter-complexioned, swifter of thought--therefore he
cannot be a man.' Or, again, two men may travel by the same road, and
see many different things, yet it is the same road they have both
travelled; and one need not say to the other, 'You cannot have travelled
by the same road, because you did not see the violets on the bank under
the wood, or the spire that peeped through the trees at the folding of
the valleys--and therefore you are a liar and a deceiver!' If one
believes firmly in one's own faith, one need not therefore say that all
who do not hold it are perverse and wilful. There is no excuse, indeed,
for not holding to what we believe to be true, but there is no excuse
either for interfering with the sincere belief of another, unless one
can persuade him he is wrong. Is not the mistake to think that one holds
the truth in its entirety, and that one has no more to learn and to
perceive? I myself should welcome differences of faith, because it shows
me that faith is a larger thing even than I know. What another sees may
be but a thought that is hidden from me, because the truth may be seen
from a different angle. To complain that we cannot see it all is as
foolish as when the child is vexed because it cannot see the back of the
moon. And it seems to me that our duty is not to quarrel with others who
see things that we do not see, but to rejoice with them, if they will
allow us, and meanwhile to discern what is shown to us as faithfully as
we can."
The man heard me with a strange smile. "Yes," he said, "you are
certainly right, and I bless the goodness that sent you hither; but when
you are gone, I doubt that I shall fall back into my old perplexities,
and say to myself that though men may see different parts of the same
thing, they cannot see the same thing differently."
"I think," I said, "that even that is possible, because on earth things
are often mere symbols, and clothe themselves in material forms; and it
is the form which deludes us. I do not myself doubt that grace flows
into us by very different channels. We may not deny the claim of any one
to derive grace from any source or symbol that he can. The only thing we
may and must dare to dispute is the claim that only by one channel may
grace flow. But I think that the words of the one whom you loved, of
whom you spoke, are indeed true, and that the love of each other and of
God is the force which draws us, by whatever rite or symbol or doctrine
it may be interpreted. That, as I read it, is the message of Christ, who
gave up all things for utter love."
As I said this, our guide and Amroth entered the cell. The man rose up
quickly, and drawing me apart, thanked me very heartily and with tears
in his eyes; and so we said farewell. When we were outside, I said to
the guide, "May I ask you one question? Would it be of use if I remained
here for a time to talk with that poor man? It seemed a relief to him to
open his heart, and I would gladly be with him and try to comfort him."
The guide shook his head kindly. "No," he said, "I think not. I
recognise your kindness very fully--but a soul like this must find the
way alone; and there is one who is helping him faster than any of us can
avail to do; and besides," he added, "he is very near indeed to his
release."
So we went to the door, and said farewell; and Amroth and I went
forward. Then I said to him as we went down through the terraced garden,
and saw the inmates wandering about, lost in dreams, "This must be a sad
place to live in, Amroth!"
"No, indeed," said he, "I do not think that there are any happier than
those who have the charge here. When the patients are in the grip of
this disease, they are themselves only too well content; and it is a
blessed thing to see the approach of doubt and suffering, which means
that health draws near. There is no place in all our realm where one
sees so clearly and beautifully the instant and perfect mercy of God,
and the joy of pain." And so we passed together out of the guarded gate.