Chapter 14

One morning when he was sitting in his rooms at Cambridge, Hugh heard a knock at the door; there presently entered a clergyman, whom at first sight Hugh thought to be a stranger, but whom he almost immediately recognised as an old school-fellow, called Ralph Maitland, whom he had not seen for more than twenty years. Maitland had been an idle, good-humoured boy, full of ideas, a great reader and a voluble talker. Hugh had never known him particularly well; but he remembered to have heard that Maitland had fallen under religious impulses at Oxford, had become serious, had been ordained, and had eventually become a devoted and hard-working clergyman in a northern manufacturing town. He had been lately threatened with a break-down in health, and had been ordered abroad; he had come to Cambridge to see some friends, and hearing that Hugh was in residence there, had called upon him. Hugh was very much interested to see him, and gradually began to discern the smooth-faced boy he had known, under the worn and hard-featured mask of the priest. They spent most of that day together, and went out for a long walk. Hugh thought he perceived a touch of fanaticism about Maitland, who found it difficult to talk except on matters connected with his parish. But eventually he began to talk of the religious life, and Hugh gradually perceived that Maitland held a very ardent and almost fierce view of the priestly vocation; he drew a picture of the joys of mortification and self-denial, which impressed Hugh, partly because of its intensity, and partly also from an uneasy sense of strain and self-consciousness which it gave him. Maitland's idea seemed to be that all impulses, except the religious impulse in its narrowest sense, needed to be sternly repressed; that the highest life was a severe detachment from all earthly things; that the Christian pilgrim marched along a very narrow way, bristling with pitfalls both of opinion and practice; that the way was defined, hazily by Scripture and precisely by the Church, along which the believer must advance; "Few there be that find it!" said Maitland, with a kind of menacing joy. He was full of the errors of other sects and communions. The Roman doctrine was over-developed, not primitive enough; the Protestant nonconformists were neglectful of ecclesiastical ordinances. The only people, it seemed, who were in the right path were a small band of rather rigid Anglicans, who appeared to Maitland to be the precise type of humanity that Christ had desired to develop.

As he spoke, his eye became bright, his lip intolerant, and Hugh was haunted by the text, "The zeal of Thine house hath ever eaten me." Maitland seemed to be literally devoured by an idea, which, like the fox in the old story of the Spartan boy, appeared to prey on his vitals. Hugh became gradually nettled by the argument, but he was no match for Maitland in scholastic disputation. Maitland felled his arguments with an armoury of texts, which he used like cudgels. Hugh at last said that what he thought was the weak point in Maitland's argument was this--that in every sect and every church there were certainly people who held with the same inflexible determination to the belief that they were absolutely in the right, and had unique possession of the exact faith delivered to the saints; and that each of these persons would be able to justify themselves by a rigid application of texts. Hugh said that it seemed to him to be practically certain that no one of them was infallibly in the right, and that the truth probably lay in certain wide religious ideas which underlay all forms of Christian faith. Maitland rejected this with scorn as a dangerous and nebulous kind of religion--"nerveless and flabby, without bone or sinew." They then diverged on to a wider ground, and Hugh tried to defend his theory that God called souls to Himself by an infinite variety of appeal, and that the contest was not between orthodoxy on the one hand and heterodoxy on the other, but between pure and unselfish emotion on the one hand and hard and self-centred materialism on the other. To this Maitland replied by saying that such vagueness was one of the darkest temptations that beset cultured and intellectual people, and that the duty of a Christian was to follow precise and accurate religious truth, as revealed in Scripture and interpreted by the Church, however much reason and indolence revolted from the conclusions he was forced to draw. They parted, however, in a very friendly way, and pledged themselves to meet again and continue their discussion on Maitland's return.

A few days afterwards Hugh was surprised to receive a letter from Maitland from Paris which ran as follows:--

"_MY DEAR NEVILLE,--It was a great pleasure to see you and to revive the memories of old days. I have thought a good deal over our conversation, and have made up my mind that I ought to write to you. But first let me ask your pardon, if in the heat of argument I allowed my zeal to outrun my courtesy. I was over-tired and over-strained, and in the mood when any opposition to one's own cherished ideals is deeply and perhaps unreasonably distressing._

"_You seemed to me--I will freely grant this--to be a real and candid seeker after truth; but the sheltered and easy life that you have led disguises from you the urgency of the struggle. If you had wrestled as I have for years with infidelity and wickedness, and had seen, as I have a thousand times, how any laxity of doctrinal opinion is always visited upon its victim by a corresponding laxity of moral action, you would feel very differently._

"_I think you are treading a very dangerous path. To me it is clear that our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, in His recorded utterances, in a world of incredible wickedness and vague speculation, deliberately narrowed the issues of life and death. He originated a society, to which He promised the guidance of the Spirit, and woe to the man who tries to find a religion outside of that Church._

"_You seem to me, if you will forgive the expression, to be more than half a Pagan; to put Christianity on a level--though you allow it a certain pre-eminence--with other refining influences. You spoke of art and poetry as if they could bring men to God, and that in spite of the fact that, as I reminded you, there is not a syllable in our Lord's words that could be construed into the least sympathy with art or poetry at all. You called yourself a Christian, and I have no doubt that you sincerely believe yourself to be one; but to me you seemed to be more like one of those, cultured Greeks who gave St. Paul an interested hearing on the Acropolis. And yet you seemed to me so genuinely anxious to do what was right, that I am going to ask you, faithfully and sincerely, to reconsider your position. You are drifting into a kind of vague and epicurean optimism. You spoke of the message of God through nature; there is no direct message through that channel, it is only symbolical of the inner divine processes._

"_I am not going to argue with you; but I implore you to give some time to a careful study of the New Testament and the Fathers. I feel sure that light will be sent you. Pray earnestly for it, if you have not, as I more than half suspect, given up prayer in favour of a vague aspiration. And be sure of this, that I shall not forget you in my own prayers. I shall offer the Holy Sacrifice in your intention; I shall make humble intercession for you, for you seem to me to be so near the truth and yet so far away. Forgive my writing thus, but I feel called upon to warn you of what is painfully clear to me.--Believe me, ever sincerely yours,_

"_RALPH MAITLAND_"

This letter touched Hugh very much with a kind of melancholy pathos. He contented himself with writing back that he did indeed, he believed, desire to see the truth, and that he deeply appreciated Maitland's sympathy and interest.

"_No impulse of the heart, on behalf of another, is ever thrown away, I am sure of that. But you would be the first to confess, I know, that a man must advance by whatever light he has; that no good can come of accepting the conclusions of another, if the heart and mind do not sincerely assent; and that if I differ from yourself as to the precise degree of certainty attainable in religious matters, it is not because I despise the Spirit, but because I think that I discern a wider influence than you can admit._"

He received in reply a short note to say that Maitland felt that Hugh was making the mistake of trusting more to reason than to divine guidance, but adding that he would not cease to pray for him day by day.

Hugh reflected long and seriously over this strange episode; but he did not experience the smallest temptation to desert a rational process of inquiry. He read the Gospels again, and they seemed to confirm him in his belief that a wide and simple view of life was there indicated. He seemed to see that the spirit which Christ inculcated was a kind of mystical uplifting of the heart to God, not a doctrinal apprehension of His nature. It seemed indeed to him that Christ's treatment of life was profoundly poetical, that it tended to point men to the aim of discerning a beautiful quality in action and life. Those delicate and moving stories that He told--how little they dealt with sacramental processes or ecclesiastical systems! They rather expressed a vivid and ardent interest in the simplest emotions of life. They taught one to be humble, forgiving, sincere, honest, affectionate; there was, it was true, an absence of intellectual and artistic appeal in them, though there were parables, like the parable of the talents, which seemed to point to the duty of exercising faithfully a diversity of gifts; but it was not, Hugh thought, due to a want of sympathy with the things of the mind, but seemed to arise from an intense and burning desire to prove that the secret lay rather in one's relations to humanity, and even to nature, than in one's intellectual processes and conceptions.

And then as to the point that Christ enforced upon men a fierce ideal of mortification and self-denial, Hugh could see no trace of it. Christ did not turn his back upon the world; He loved and enjoyed beautiful sights and sounds, such as birds and flowers. He did indeed clearly assert that one must not be at the mercy of material conditions, and that it was the privilege of man to live among the things of the soul. It was the path of simplicity, not the path of asceticism, that was indicated. Christ seemed to Hugh to be entirely preoccupied with one idea--that love was the strongest and most beautiful thing in the world; and that if one recognised that love alone could be victorious over evil and pain and death, one might be certain that its source and origin lay deepest of all in the vast heart of God, however sadly and strangely that seemed to be contradicted by actual experience. And so Hugh felt that whatever befell him, he would not be persuaded to desert the broad highway of love and beauty and truth, for the narrow and muddy alley of ecclesiastical opinion. The kingdom of God seemed to him to have suffered more disastrous violence from the hands of bigoted ecclesiastics than it had ever suffered from the onslaughts of the world. Ecclesiastics polluted the crystal stream at its very source by confining the river of life to a small and crooked channel. Hugh prayed with all his heart that he might escape from any system that led him to judge others harshly, to condemn their beliefs, to define their errors. That seemed to him to be the one spirit against which the Saviour had uttered denunciations of an almost appalling sternness. The Lord's Prayer and not the Athanasian Creed seemed to him to sum up the essential spirit of Christ. He believed himself to be following the will of God in yielding to every emotional impulse that made life more sacred, more beautiful, more tender, more hopeful. He believed himself, no less sincerely, to be slighting and despising the tender love of God for all the sheep of His hand, when he made religion into either a subtle and metaphysical thing on the one hand, or a conventional and ceremonious business on the other. The peace that the world cannot give--how desirable, how remote that seemed! How large and free a quality it was! But the peace promised him by his friend seemed to him the apathy of a soul crushed and confined in the narrowest of dungeons, and denying the existence of the free air and the sun because of the streaming walls and shapen stones which hemmed it round.

XXVI

Activity--Work--Isolation

Hugh went once to spend a few days with an old friend who had held an important living in a big country town. It was a somewhat bewildering experience. His friend was what would be called a practical person, and loved organisation--the word was often on his lips--with a consuming passion. Hugh saw that he was a very happy man; he was a big fellow, with a sanguine complexion and a resonant voice. He was always in high spirits: he banged doors behind him, and when he hurried upstairs, the whole house seemed to shake. Every moment of his day was full to the brim of occupation. He could be heard shouting directions in the garden and stables at an early hour; he received and wrote a great many letters; he attended many committees and meetings. He hurried about the country, he made speeches, he preached. Hugh heard one of his sermons, which was delivered with abundant geniality. It consisted of a somewhat obvious paraphrase of a Scripture scene--the slaughter of the prophets of Baal by Elijah. The preacher described the ugly carnage with much gusto. He then invited his hearers to stamp out evil with similar vigour, and ended with drawing a highly optimistic picture of the world, representing evil and sin as a kind of skulking and lingering contagion, which God was doing His best to get rid of, and which was indeed only kept alive by the foolish perversity of a few abandoned persons, and would soon be extirpated altogether if only enough committees would meet and take the thing up in a businesslike way. It was in a sense a vigorous performance, and Hugh thought that though there was little attempt to bind up the broken-hearted, yet he could conceive its having an inspiriting effect on people who felt themselves on the right side.

His friend found time one evening, as they sat smoking together, to inquire into Hugh's occupations, and read him a friendly lecture on the subject of making himself more useful. Hugh felt that it was useless to argue the question; but when he came away, somewhat dizzied and wearied by the tumultuous energy of his friend's life, he found himself wondering exactly how much resulted from this buzzing and humming organisation. There was not a marked difference between his friend's parish and other parishes, except that there were certainly more meetings. Hugh had indeed an uneasy sense that a man with less taste for organisation, and more leisure for pastoral intercourse with his flock, might have effected more. The vicar's chief concern indeed seemed to be with the prosperous and healthy members of his parish; if there was a case of destitution, of illness, of sorrow, it was certainly inquired into; some hard-featured lady, with a strong sense of rectitude and usefulness, would be commissioned to go and look into the matter. She generally returned saying cheerfully that she had put things straight, and that it turned out to be all their own fault.

But Hugh found his reflections taking a still more sceptical turn. The vicar's theory was that we were all put into the world to be of use to other people. But his idea of helping other people was not to help them to what they desired, but to what he thought it was right that they should desire. He had very little compassion, Hugh saw, for failure and error. If a parishioner was in trouble, the vicar tended to say he had no one to blame but himself for it. Hugh felt that he did not wish to be in his friend's parish. If one was able-bodied and sensible, one was put on a committee or two; if one was unfortunate or obscure, one was invaded by a district visitor. If one was a Dissenter, one would be treated with a kind of gloomy courtesy--for the vicar was great on not alienating Dissenters, but bringing them in, as he phrased it; and if a Dissenter became an Anglican, the vicar rejoiced with what he believed to be the joy of the angels over a repentant sinner, and made him a parish worker at once.

Then Hugh went further and deeper, and tried to ascertain what he really felt on the subject of usefulness. Tracing back the constitution of society to its origin, he saw that it was clear that every one owed a certain duty of work to the community. A society could not exist in idleness; and every one who was capable of work must work to support himself; and then a certain amount of work must be done by the able-bodied to support those who were either too old or too young to support themselves. But the labouring class, the producers, were forced by the constitution of things to work even more than that; because there were a certain number of persons in the community, capitalists and leisurely people, who lived in idleness on the labour of the workers.

He put aside the great majority of simple workers, the labouring classes, because there was no doubt about their position. If a man did his work honestly, and supported himself and his family, living virtuously, and endeavouring to bring up his children virtuously, that was a fine simple life. Then came the professional classes, who were necessary too, doctors, lawyers, priests, soldiers, sailors, merchants, even writers and artists; all of them had a work to do in the world.

This then seemed the law of one's being: that men were put into the world, and the one thing that was clear was that they were meant to work; did duty stop there? had a man, when his work was done, a right to amuse and employ himself as he liked, so long as he did not interfere with or annoy other people? or had he an imperative duty laid upon him to devote his energies, if any were left, to helping other people?

What in fact _was_ the obscure purpose for which people were sent into the world? It was a pleasant place on the whole for healthy persons, but there was still a large number of individuals to whom it was by no means a pleasant place. No choice was given us, so far as we knew, as to whether we would enter the world or not, nor about the circumstances which were to surround us. Our lives indeed were strangely conditioned by an abundance of causes which lay entirely outside our control, such as heredity, temperament, environment. One supposed oneself to be free, but in reality one was intolerably hampered and bound.

The only theory that could satisfactorily account for life as we found it was, that either it was an educational progress, and that we were being prepared for some further existence, for which in some mysterious way our experience, however mean, miserable, and ungentle, must be intended to fit us; or else it was all a hopeless mystery, the work of some prodigious power who neither loved or hated, but just chose to act so. In any case it was a very slow process; the world was bound with innumerable heavy chains. There was much cruelty, stupidity, selfishness, meanness abroad; all those ugly things decreased very slowly, if indeed they decreased at all. Yet there seemed, too, to be a species of development at work. But the real mystery lay in the fact that, while our hopes and intuitions pointed to there being a great and glorious scheme in the background, our reason and experience alike tended to contradict that hope. How little one changed as the years went on! How ineradicable our faults seemed! how ineffectual our efforts! God indeed seemed to implant in us a wish to improve, and then very often seemed steadily and deliberately to thwart that wish.

And then, too, how difficult it seemed really to draw near to other people; in what a terrible isolation one's life was spent; even in the midst of a cheerful and merry company, how the secrets of one's heart hung like an invisible veil between us and our dearest and nearest. The most one could hope for was to be a pleasant and kindly influence in the lives of other people, and, when one was gone, one might live a little while in their memories. The fact that some few healthily organised people contrived to live simply and straightforwardly in the activities of the moment, without questioning or speculating on the causes of things, did not make things simpler for those on whom these questions hourly and daily pressed. The people whom one accounted best, did indeed spend their time in helping the happiness of others; but did one perhaps only tend to think them so, because they ministered to one's own contentment?

The only conclusion for Hugh seemed to be this: that one must have a work to be faithfully and resolutely fulfilled; and that, outside of that, one must live tenderly, simply, and kindly, adding so far as one might to the happiness of others; and that one might resolutely eschew all the busy multiplication of activities, which produced such scanty results, and were indeed mainly originated in order that so-called active people might feel themselves to be righteously employed.

XXVII

Progress--Country Life--Sustained Happiness--The Twilight

One hot still summer day Hugh went far afield, and struck into a little piece of country that was new to him. He seemed to discern from the map that it must have once been a large, low island almost entirely surrounded by marshes; and this turned out to be the case. It was approached along a high causeway crossing the fen, with rich black land on either hand. No high-road led through or out of the village, nothing but grass-tracks and drift-ways. The place consisted of a small hamlet, with an old church and two or three farmhouses of some size and antiquity; it was all finely timbered with an abundance of ancient elm-trees everywhere; they stood that afternoon absolutely still and motionless, with the sun hot on their towering green heads; and Hugh remembered how, long ago, as a boy at school, he used to watch, out of the windows of a stuffy class-room, the great elms of the school close rising just thus in the warm summer air, while his thoughts wandered from the dull lesson into a region of delighted, irrecoverable reverie. To-day he sate for a long time in the little churchyard, the bees humming about the limes with a soft musical note, that rose and fell with a lazy cadence, while doves hidden somewhere in the elms lent as it were a voice to the trees. That soft note seemed to brim over from a spring of measureless content; it seemed like the calling of the spirit of summer, brooding in indolent joy and innocent satisfaction over the long sweet hours of sunshine, while the day stood still to listen. Hugh resigned himself luxuriously to the soft influences of the place, and felt that for a short space he need neither look backwards nor forwards, but simply float with the golden hour.

At last he bestirred himself, realising that he had yet far to go. It was now cool and fresh, and the shadows of the trees lay long across the grass. Hugh struck down on to the fen and walked for a long time in the solitary fields, by a dyke, passing a big ancient farm that lay very peacefully among its wide pastures.