Father Damon came dangerously near to being popular. The austerity
of his life and his known self-chastening vigils contributed to this
effect. His severely formal, simple ecclesiastical dress, coarse in
material but perfect in its saintly lines, separated him from the world
in which he moved so unostentatiously and humbly, and marked him as
one who went about doing good. His life was that of self-absorption and
hardship, mortification of the body, denial of the solicitation of the
senses, struggling of the spirit for more holiness of purpose--a life
of supplication for the perishing souls about him. And yet he was so
informed with the modern spirit that he was not content, as a zealot
formerly might have been, to snatch souls out of the evil that is in
the world, but he strove to lessen the evil. He was a reformer. It was
probably this feature of his activity, and not his spiritual mission,
that attracted to him the little group of positivists on the East
Side, the demagogues of the labor lodges, the practical workers of the
working-girls' clubs, and the humanitarian agnostics like Dr. Leigh,
who were literally giving their lives without the least expectation of
reward. Even the refined ethical-culture groups had no sneer for Father
Damon. The little chapel of St. Anselm was well known. It was always
open. It was plain, but its plainness was not the barrenness of a
non-conformist chapel. There were two confessionals; a great bronze lamp
attached to one of the pillars scarcely dispelled the obscurity, but
cast an unnatural light upon the gigantic crucifix that hung from a
beam in front of the chancel. There were half a dozen rows of backless
benches in the centre of the chapel. The bronze lamp, and the candles
always burning upon the altar, rather accented than dissipated the heavy
shadows in the vaulted roof. At no hour was it empty, but at morning
prayer and at vespers the benches were apt to be filled, and groups
of penitents or spectators were kneeling or standing on the floor. At
vespers there were sure to be carriages in front of the door, and among
the kneeling figures were ladies who brought into these simple services
for the poor something of the refinement of grace as it is in the higher
circles. Indeed, at the hour set apart for confession, there were in the
boxes saints from up-town as well as sinners from the slums. Sometimes
the sinners were from up-town and the saints from the slums.
When the organ sounded, and through a low door in the chancel the priest
entered, preceded by a couple of acolytes, and advanced swiftly to the
reading-desk, there was an awed hush in the congregation. One would not
dare to say that there was a sentimental feeling for the pale face and
rapt expression of the devotee. It was more than that. He had just come
from some scene of suffering, from the bed of one dying; he was weary
with watching. He was faint with lonely vigils; he was visibly carrying
the load of the poor and the despised. Even Ruth Leigh, who had dropped
in for half an hour in one of her daily rounds--even Ruth Leigh, who had
in her stanch, practical mind a contempt for forms and rituals, and
no faith in anything that she could not touch, and who at times was
indignant at the efforts wasted over the future of souls concerning
which no one knew anything, when there were so many bodies, which had
inherited disease and poverty and shame, going to worldly wreck before
so-called Christian eyes--even she could scarcely keep herself from
adoring this self-sacrificing spirit. The woes of humanity grieved
him as they grieved her, and she used to say she did not care what he
believed so long as he gave his life for the needy.
It was when he advanced to the altar-rail to speak that the man best
appeared. His voice, which was usually low and full of melody, could be
something terrible when it rose in denunciation of sin. Those who had
traveled said that he had the manner of a preaching friar--the simple
language, so refined and yet so homely and direct, the real, the
inspired word, the occasional hastening torrent of words. When he had
occasion to address one of the societies of ladies for the promotion of
something among the poor, his style and manner were simplicity itself.
One might have said there was a shade of contempt in his familiar and
not seldom slightly humorous remarks upon society and its aims and
aspirations, about which he spoke plainly and vigorously. And this was
what the ladies liked. Especially when he referred to the pitifulness
of class distinctions, in the light of the example of our Lord, in our
short pilgrimage in this world. This unveiling and denunciation made
them somehow feel nearer to their work, and, indeed, while they sat
there, co-workers with this apostle of righteousness.
Perhaps there was something in the priestly dress that affected not only
the congregation in the chapel, but all the neighborhood in which Father
Damon lived. There was in the long robe, with its feminine lines, an
assurance to the women that he was set apart and not as others
were; and, on the other hand, the semi-feminine suggestion of the
straight-falling garment may have had for the men a sort of appeal for
defense and even protection. It is certain, at any rate, that Father
Damon had the confidence of high and low, rich and poor. The forsaken
sought him out, the hungry went to him, the dying sent for him, the
criminal knocked at the door of his little room, even the rich reprobate
would have opened his bad heart to him sooner than to any one else. It
is evident, therefore, that Father Damon was dangerously near to being
popular. Human vanity will feed on anything within its reach, and there
has been discovered yet no situation that will not minister to its
growth. Suffering perhaps it prefers, and contumely and persecution.
Are not opposition, despiteful anger, slander even, rejection of men,
stripes even, if such there could be in these days, manna to the devout
soul consciously set apart for a mission? But success, obsequiousness,
applause, the love of women, the concurrent good opinion of all
humanitarians, are these not almost as dangerous as persecution? Father
Damon, though exalted in his calling, and filled with a burning zeal,
was a sincere man, and even his eccentricities of saintly conduct
expressed to his mind only the high purpose of self-sacrifice. Yet he
saw, he could not but see, the spiritual danger in this rising tide of
adulation. He fought against its influence, he prayed against it, he
tried to humiliate himself, and his very humiliations increased the
adulation. He was perplexed, almost ashamed, and examined himself to
see how it was that he himself seemed to be thwarting his own work.
Sometimes he withdrew from it for a week together, and buried himself in
a retreat in the upper part of the island. Alas! did ever a man escape
himself in a retreat? It made him calm for the moment. But why was it,
he asked himself, that he had so many followers, his religion so few?
Why was it, he said, that all the humanitarians, the reformers, the
guilds, the ethical groups, the agnostics, the male and female knights,
sustained him, and only a few of the poor and friendless knocked, by his
solicitation, at the supernatural door of life? How was it that a woman
whom he encountered so often, a very angel of mercy, could do the things
he was doing, tramping about in the misery and squalor of the great city
day and night, her path unilluminated by a ray from the future life?
Perhaps he had been remiss in his duty. Perhaps he was letting a vague
philanthropy take the place of a personal solicitude for individual
souls. The elevation of the race! What had the land question to do with
the salvation of man? Suppose everybody on the East Side should become
as industrious, as self-denying, as unselfish as Ruth Leigh, and yet
without belief, without hope! He had accepted the humanitarian situation
with her, and never had spoken to her of the eternal life. What
unfaithfulness to his mission and to her! It should be so no longer.
It was after one of his weeks of retreat, at the close of vesper
service, that Dr. Leigh came to him. He had been saying in his little
talk that poverty is no excuse for irreligion, and that all aid in the
hardship of this world was vain and worthless unless the sinner laid
hold on eternal life. Dr. Leigh, who was laboring with a serious
practical problem, heard this coldly, and with a certain contempt for
what seemed to her a vague sort of consolation.
“Well,” he said, when she came to him in the vestry, with a drop from
the rather austere manner in which he had spoken, “what can I do for
you?”
“For me, nothing, Father Damon. I thought perhaps you would go round
with me to see a pretty bad case. It is in your parish.”
“Ah, did they send for me? Do they want spiritual help?”
“First the natural, then the spiritual,” she replied, with a slight tone
of sarcasm in her voice. “That's just like a priest,” she was thinking.
“I do not know what to do, and something must be done.”
“Did you report to the Associated Charities?”
“Yes. But there's a hitch somewhere. The machine doesn't take hold. The
man says he doesn't want any charity, any association, treating him
like a pauper. He's off peddling; but trade is bad, and he's been away a
week. I'm afraid he drinks a little.”
“Well?”
“The mother is sick in bed. I found her trying to do some fine
stitching, but she was too weak to hold up the muslin. There are five
young children. The family never has had help before.”
Father Damon put on his hat, and they went out together, and for some
time picked their way along the muddy streets in silence.
At length he asked, in a softened voice, “Is the mother a Christian?”
“I didn't ask,” she replied shortly. “I found her crying because the
children were hungry.”
Father Damon, still under the impression of his neglect of duty, did not
heed her warning tone, but persisted, “You have so many opportunities,
Dr. Leigh, in your visits of speaking a word.”
“About what?” she asked, refusing to understand, and hardened at the
slightest sign of what she called cant.
“About the necessity of repentance and preparation for another life,” he
answered, softly but firmly. “You surely do not think human beings are
created just for this miserable little experience here?”
“I don't know. I have too much to do with the want and suffering I
see to raise anxieties about a world of which no one can possibly know
anything.”
“Pardon me,” he persisted, “have you no sense of incompleteness in
this life, in your own life? no inward consciousness of an undying
personality?”
The doctor was angry for a moment at this intrusion. It had seemed
natural enough for Father Damon to address his exhortations to the poor
and sinful of his mission. She admired his spirit, she had a certain
sympathy with him; for who could say that ministering to minds diseased
might not have a physical influence to lift these people into a more
decent and prosperous way of living? She had thought of herself as
working with him to a common end. But for him now to turn upon her,
absolutely ignoring the solid, rational, and scientific ground on which
he knew, or should know, she stood, and to speak to her as one of the
“lost,” startled her, and filled her with indignation. She had on her
lips a sarcastic reply to the effect that even if she had a soul, she
had not taken up her work in the city as a means of saving it; but
she was not given to sarcasm, and before she spoke she looked at her
companion, and saw in the eyes a look of such genuine humble feeling,
contradicting the otherwise austere expression of his face, that her
momentary bitterness passed away.
“I think, Father Damon,” she said, gently, “we had better not talk
of that. I don't have much time for theorizing, you know, nor much
inclination,” she added.
The priest saw that for the present he could make no progress, and after
a little silence the conversation went back to the family they were
about to visit.
They found the woman better--at least, more cheerful. Father Damon
noticed that there were medicines upon the stand, and that there were
the remains of a meal which the children had been eating. He turned to
the doctor. “I see that you have been providing for them.”
“Oh, the eldest boy had already been out and begged a piece of bread
when I came. Of course they had to have something more at once. But it
is very little that I can do.”
He sat down by the bed, and talked with the mother, getting her story,
while the doctor tidied up the room a bit, and then, taking the youngest
child in her lap and drawing the others about her, began to tell a story
in a low voice. Presently she was aware that the priest was on his knees
and saying a prayer. She stopped in her story, and looked out through
the dirty window into the chill and dark area.
“What is he doing?” whispered one of the children.
“I don't know,” she said, and a sort of chill came over her heart. It
all seemed a mockery, in these surroundings.
When he rose he said to the woman, “We will see that you do not want
till your husband comes back.”
“And I will look in tomorrow,” said the doctor.
When they were in the street, Father Damon thanked her for calling his
attention to the case, thanked her a little formally, and said that
he would make inquiries and have it properly attended to. And then he
asked: “Is your work ended for the day? You must be tired.”
“Oh, no; I have several visits to make. I'm not tired. I rather think it
is good for me, being out-of-doors so much.” She thanked him, and said
good-by.
For a moment he stood and watched the plain, resolute little woman
threading her way through the crowded and unclean street, and then
slowly walked away to his apartment, filled with sadness and perplexity.
The apartment which he occupied was not far from the mission chapel,
and it was the one clean spot among the ill-kept tenements; but as to
comfort, it was not much better than the cell of an anchorite. Of this,
however, he was not thinking as he stretched himself out on his pallet
to rest a little from the exhausting labors of the day. Probably it did
not occur to him that his self-imposed privations lessened his strength
for his work.
He was thinking of Ruth Leigh. What a rare soul! And yet apparently she
did not think or care whether she had a soul. What could be the spring
of her incessant devotion? If ever woman went about doing good in an
unselfish spirit it was she. Yet she confessed her work hopeless. She
had no faith, no belief in immortality, no expectation of any reward,
nothing to offer to anybody beyond this poor life. Was this the
enthusiasm of humanity, of which he heard so much? But she did not seem
to have any illusions, or to be burned up by enthusiasm. She just kept
on. Ah, he thought, what a woman she would be if she were touched by the
fire of faith!
Meantime, Ruth Leigh went on her round. One day was like another, except
that every day the kaleidoscope of misery showed new combinations,
new phases of suffering and incompetence, and there was always a fresh
interest in that. For years now this had been her life, in the chill of
winter and the heat of summer, without rest or vacation. The amusements,
the social duties, the allurements of dress and society, that so much
occupied the thoughts of other women, did not seem to come into her
life. For books she had little time, except the books of her specialty.
The most exciting novels were pale compared with her daily experiences
of real life. Almost her only recreation was a meeting of the
working-girls, a session of her labor lodge, or an assembly at the
Cooper Union, where some fiery orator, perhaps a priest, or a clever
agitator, a working-man glib of speech, who had a mass of statistics at
the end of his tongue, who read and discussed, in some private club of
zealots of humanity, metaphysics, psychology, and was familiar with the
whole literature of labor and socialism, awoke the enthusiasm of the
discontented or the unemployed, and where men and women, in clear but
homely speech, told their individual experiences of wrong and injustice.
There was evidence in all these demonstrations and organizations that
the world was moving, and that the old order must change.
Years and years the little woman had gone on with her work, and she
frankly confessed to Edith, one day when they were together going her
rounds, that she could see no result from it all. The problem of poverty
and helplessness and incapacity seemed to her more hopeless than when
she began. There might be a little enlightenment here and there, but
there was certainly not less misery. The state of things was worse than
she thought at first; but one thing cheered her: the people were better
than she thought. They might be dull and suspicious in the mass, but she
found so much patience, unselfishness, so many people of good hearts and
warm affections.
“They are the people,” she said, “I should choose for friends. They are
natural, unsophisticated. And do you know,” she went on, “that what most
surprises me is the number of reading, thoughtful people among those
who do manual labor. I doubt if on your side of town the best books, the
real fundamental and abstruse books, are so read and discussed, or the
philosophy of life is so seriously considered, as in certain little
circles of what you call the working-classes.”
“Isn't it all very revolutionary?” asked Edith.
“Perhaps,” replied the doctor, dryly. “But they have no more fads than
other people. Their theories seem to them not only practical, but they
try to apply them to actual legislation; at any rate, they discriminate
in vagaries. You would have been amused the other night in a small
circle at the lamentations over a member--he was a car-driver--who was
the authoritative expositor of Schopenhauer, because he had gone off
into Theosophy. It showed such weakness.”
“I have heard that the members of that circle were Nihilists.”
“The club has not that name, but probably the members would not care
to repudiate the title, or deny that they were Nihilists
theoretically--that is, if Nihilism means an absolute social and
political overturning in order that something better may be built up.
And, indeed, if you see what a hopeless tangle our present situation is,
where else can the mind logically go?”
“It is pitiful enough,” Edith admitted. “But all this movement you speak
of seems to me a vague agitation.”
“I don't think,” the doctor said, after a moment, “that you appreciate
the intellectual force that is in it all, or allow for the fermenting
power in the great discontented mass of these radical theories on the
problem of life.”
This was a specimen of the sort of talk that Edith and the doctor often
drifted into in their mission work. As Ruth Leigh tramped along late
this afternoon in the slush of the streets, from one house of sickness
and poverty to another, a sense of her puny efforts in this great mass
of suffering and injustice came over her anew. Her indignation rose
against the state of things. And Father Damon, who was trying to save
souls, was he accomplishing anything more than she? Why had he been so
curt with her when she went to him for help this afternoon? Was he just
a narrow-minded, bigoted priest? A few nights before she had heard him
speak on the single tax at a labor meeting. She recalled his eloquence,
his profound sympathy with the cause of the people, the thrilling,
pathetic voice, the illumination of his countenance, the authority, the
consecration in his attitude and dress; and he was transfigured to her
then, as he was now in her thought, into an apostle of humanity. Alas!
she thought, what a leader he would be if he would break loose from his
superstitious traditions!