Part 24 (2/2)
Mahony was one of them. The ”development theory” did not repel him. He could see no impiety in believing that life, once established on the earth, had been left to perfect itself. Or hold that this would represent the Divine Author of all things as, after one master-stroke, dreaming away eternal ages in apathy and indifference. Why should the perfect functioning of natural law not be as convincing an expression of G.o.d's presence as a series of cataclysmic acts of creation?
None the less it was a time of crisis, for him, as for so many. For, if this were so, if science spoke true that, the miracle of life set a-going, there had been no further intervention on the part of the Creator, then the very head-and-corner stone of the Christian faith, the Bible itself, was shaken. More, much more would have to go than the Mosaic cosmogony of the first chapter of Genesis. Just as the Elohistic account of creation had been stretched to fit the changed views of geologists, so the greater part of the scriptural narratives stood in need of a wider interpretation. The fable of the Eternal's personal mediation in the affairs of man must be accepted for what it was--a beautiful allegory, the fondly dreamed fulfilment of a world-old desire. And bringing thus a sharpened critical sense to bear on the Scriptures, Mahony embarked on his voyage of discovery. Before him, but more as a warning than a beacon, shone the example of a famous German savant, who, taking our Saviour's life as his theme, demolished the sacred idea of a Divine miracle, and retold the Gospel story from a rationalistic standpoint. A savagely unimaginative piece of work this, thought Mahony, and one that laid all too little weight on the deeps of poetry, the mysteries of symbols, and the power the human mind drew from these, to pierce to an ideal truth. His own modest efforts would be of quite another kind.
For he sought, not to deny G.o.d, but to discover Him anew, by freeing Him from the drift of error, superst.i.tion and dead-letterism which the centuries had acc.u.mulated about Him. Far was it from His servant's mind to wish to decry the authority of the Book of Books. This he believed to consist, in great part, of inspired utterances, and, for the rest, to be the wisest and ripest collection of moral precept and example that had come down to us from the ages. Without it, one would be rudderless indeed--a castaway in a c.o.c.klesh.e.l.l boat on a furious sea--and from one's lips would go up a cry like to that wrung from a famous infidel: ”I am affrighted and confounded with the forlorn solitude in which I am placed by my philosophy ... begin to fancy myself in the most deplorable condition imaginable, environed by the deepest darkness.”
No, Mahony was not one of those who held that the Christian faith, that fine flower of man's spiritual need, would suffer detriment by the discarding of a few fabulous tales; nor did he fear lest his own faith should become undermined by his studies. For he had that in him which told him that G.o.d was; and this instinctive certainty would persist, he believed, though he had ultimately to admit the whole fabric of Christianity to be based on the Arimathean's dream. It had already survived the rejection of externals: the surrender of forms, the a.s.surance that ceremonials were not essential to salvation belonged to his early student-days. Now, he determined to send by the board the last hampering relics of bigotry and ritual. He could no longer concede the tenets of election and d.a.m.nation. G.o.d was a G.o.d of mercy, not the blind, jealous Jahveh of the Jews, or the inhuman Sabbatarian of a narrow Protestantism. And He might be wors.h.i.+pped anywhere or anyhow: in any temple built to His name--in the wilderness under the open sky--in silent prayer, or according to any creed.
In all this critical readjustment, the thought he had to spare for his fellow-men was of small account: his fate was not bound to theirs by the altruism of a later generation. It was a time of intense individualism; and his efforts towards spiritual emanc.i.p.ation were made on his own behalf alone. The one link he had with his fellows--if link it could be termed--was his earnest wish to avoid giving offence: never would it have occurred to him to noise his heterodoxy abroad. Nor did he want to disturb other people's convictions. He respected those who could still draw support from the old faith, and, moreover, had not a particle of the proselytiser in him. He held that religion was either a matter of temperament, or of geographical distribution; felt tolerantly inclined towards the Jews, and the Chinese; and did not even smile at processions to the Joss-house, and the provisioning of those silent ones who needed food no more.
But just as little as he intermeddled with the convictions of others would he brook interference with his own. It was the concern of no third person what paths he followed in his journeyings after the truth--in his quest for a panacea for the ills and delusions of life.
For, call it what he would--Biblical criticism, scientific inquiry--this was his aim first and last. He was trying to pierce the secret of existence--to rede the riddle that has never been solved.--What am I? Whence have I come? Whither am I going? What meaning has the pain I suffer, the evil that men do? Can evil be included in G.o.d's scheme?--And it was well, he told himself, as he pressed forward, that the flame in him burnt unwaveringly, which a.s.sured him of his kins.h.i.+p with the Eternal, of the kins.h.i.+p of all created things; so unsettling and perplexing were the conclusions at which he arrived.
Summoned to dinner, he sat at table with stupid hands and evasive eyes.
Little Johnny, who was, as Polly put it, ”as sharp as mustard,” was prompt to note his uncle's vacancy.
”What you staring at, Nunkey?” he demanded, his mouth full of roly-pudding, which he was stuffing down with all possible dispatch.
”Hush, Johnny. Don't tease your uncle.”
”What do you mean, my boy?”
”I mean ...” Young John squeezed his last mouthful over his windpipe and raised his plate. ”I mean, you look just like you was seein' a emeny.--More puddin', Aunt Polly!”
”What does the child mean? An anemone?”
”NO!” said John with the immense contempt of five years. ”I didn't say anner emeny.” Here, he began to tuck in anew, aiding the slow work of his spoon with his more habile fingers. ”A emeny's d emeny. Like on de pickshur in Aunt Polly's room. One ... one's de English, an' one's de emeny.”
”It's the Battle of Waterloo,” explained Polly. ”He stands in front of it every day.”
”Yes. An' when I'm a big man, I'm goin' to be a sojer, an' wear a red coat, an' make 'bung'!” and he shot an imaginary gun at his sister, who squealed and ducked her head.
”An ancient wish, my son,” said Mahony, when Johnny had been reproved and Trotty comforted. ”Tom-thumbs like you have voiced it since the world--or rather since war first began.”
”Don't care. Nunkey, why is de English and why is de emeny?”
But Mahony shrank from the gush of whats and whys he would let loose on himself, did he attempt to answer this question. ”Come, shall uncle make you some boats to sail in the wash-tub?”
”Wiv a mast an' sails an' everyfing?” cried John wildly; and throwing his spoon to the floor, he scrambled from his chair. ”Oh yes, Nunkey--dear Nunkey!”
”Dea Unkey!” echoed the shadow.
”Oh, you cupboard lovers, you!” said Mahony as, order restored and sticky mouths wiped, two pudgy hands were thrust with a new kindness into his.
He led the way to the yard; and having whittled out for the children some chips left by the builders, he lighted his pipe and sat down in the shade of the house. Here, through a veiling of smoke, which hung motionless in the hot, still air, he watched the two eager little mortals before him add their quota to the miracle of life.
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