Trilby Part 30

"And if we're naughty and disobedient, everlasting torment for us; torture of so hideous a kind that we wouldn't inflict it on the basest criminal, not for one single moment!

"Or else, if we're good and do as we are bid, an eternity of bliss so futile, so idle, and so tame that we couldn't stand it for a week, but for thinking of its one horrible alternative, and of our poor brother for ever and ever roasting away, and howling for the drop of water he never gets.

"Everlasting flame, or everlasting dishonor--nothing between!

"Isn't it ludicrous as well as pitiful--a thing to make one sn.i.g.g.e.r through one's tears? Isn't it a grievous sin to believe in such things as these, and go about teaching and preaching them, and being paid for it--a sin to be heavily chastised, and a shame? What a legacy!

"They were shocking bad artists, those conceited, narrow-minded Jews, those poor old doting monks and priests and bigots of the grewsome, dark age of faith! They couldn't draw a bit--no perspective, no chiaro-oscuro; and it's a woful image they managed to evolve for us out of the depths of their fathomless ignorance, in their zeal to keep us off all the forbidden fruit we're all so fond of, because we were built like that! And by whom? By our Maker, I suppose (who also made the forbidden fruit, and made it very nice--and put it so conveniently for you and me to see and smell and reach, Tray--and sometimes even pick, alas!).

"And even at that it's a failure. Only the very foolish little birds are frightened into good behavior. The naughty ones laugh and wink at each other, and pull out its hair and beard when n.o.body's looking, and build their nests out of the straw it's stuffed with (the naughty little birds in black, especially), and pick up what they want under its very nose, and thrive uncommonly well; and the good ones fly away out of sight; and some day, perhaps, find a home in some happy, useful father-land far away, where the Father isn't a bit like this. Who knows?

"And I'm one of the good little birds, Tray--at least, I hope so. And that unknown Father lives in me whether I will or no, and I love Him whether He be or not, just because I can't help it, and with the best and bravest love that can be--the perfect love that believeth no evil, and seeketh no reward, and casteth out fear. For I'm His father as much as He's mine, since I've conceived the thought of Him after my own fashion!

"And He lives in you too, Tray--you and all your kind. Yes, good dog, you king of beasts, I see it in your eyes....

"Ah, bon Dieu Pere, le Dieu des bonnes gens! Oh! if we only knew for _certain_, Tray! what martyrdom would we not endure, you and I, with a happy smile and a grateful heart--for sheer _love_ of such a father! How little should _we_ care for the things of this earth!

"But the poor parson?

"He must w.i.l.l.y-nilly go on believing, or affecting to believe, just as he is told, _word for word_, or else good-bye to his wife and children's bread and b.u.t.ter, his own preferment, perhaps even his very gentility--that gentility of which his Master thought so little, and he and his are apt to think so much--with possibly the Archbishopric of Canterbury at the end of it, the baton de marechal that lies in every clerical knapsack.

"What a temptation! one is but human!

"So how can he be honest without believing certain things, to believe which (without shame) one must be as simple as a little child; as, by-the-way, he is so cleverly told to be in these matters, and so cleverly tells us--and so seldom is himself in any other matter whatever--his own interests, other people's affairs, the world, the flesh, and the devil! And that's clever of him too....

"And if he chooses to be as simple as a little child, why shouldn't I treat him as a little child, for his own good, and fool him to the top of his little bent for his dear daughter's sake, that I may make her happy, and thereby him too?

"And if he's _not_ quite so simple as all that, and makes artful little compromises with his conscience--for a good purpose, of course--why shouldn't I make artful little compromises with mine, and for a better purpose still, and try to get what I want in the way _he_ does? I want to marry his daughter far worse than he can ever want to live in a palace, and ride in a carriage and pair with a mitre on the panels.

"If he _cheats_, why shouldn't I cheat too?

"If _he_ cheats, he cheats everybody all round--the wide, wide world, and something wider and higher still that can't be measured, something in himself. _I_ only cheat _him_!

"_If_ he cheats, he cheats for the sake of very worldly things indeed--t.i.thes, honors, influence, power, authority, social consideration and respect--not to speak of bread and b.u.t.ter! _I_ only cheat for the love of a lady fair--and cheating for cheating, I like my cheating best.

"So, whether he cheats or not, I'll--

"Confound it! what would old Taffy do in such a case, I wonder?...

"Oh, bother! it's no good wondering what old Taffy would do.

"Taffy never wants to marry _anybody's_ daughter; he doesn't even want to paint her! He only wants to paint his beastly ragam.u.f.fins and thieves and drunkards, and be left alone.

"Besides, Taffy's as simple as a little child himself, and couldn't fool any one, and wouldn't if he could--not even a parson. But if any one tries to fool _him_, my eyes! don't he cut up rough, and call names, and kick up a shindy, and even knock people down! That's the worst of fellows like Taffy. They're too good for this world and too solemn.

They're impossible, and lack all sense of humor. In point of fact, Taffy's a _gentleman_--poor fellow! _et puis voila!_

"I'm not simple--worse luck; and I can't knock people down--I only wish I could! I can only paint them! and not even _that_ 'as they really are!' ... Good old Taffy!...

"Faint heart never won fair lady!

"Oh, happy, happy thought--I'll be brave and win!

"I can't knock people down, or do doughty deeds, but I'll be brave in my own little way--the only way I can....

"I'll simply lie through thick and thin--I must--I will--n.o.body need ever be a bit the wiser! I can do more good by lying than by telling the truth, and make more deserving people happy, including myself and the sweetest girl alive--the end shall justify the means: that's my excuse, my only excuse! and this lie of mine is on so stupendous a scale that it will have to last me for life. It's my only one, but its name is _Lion_!

and I'll never tell another as long as I live.

"And now that I know what temptation really is, I'll never think any harm of any parson any more ... never, never, never!"

So the little man went on, as if he knew all about it, had found it all out for himself, and n.o.body else had ever found it out before! and I am not responsible for his ways of thinking (which are not necessarily my own).

It must be remembered, in extenuation, that he was very young, and not very wise: no philosopher, no scholar--just a painter of lovely pictures; only that and nothing more. Also, that he was reading Mr.

Darwin's immortal book for the third time, and it was a little too strong for him; also, that all this happened in the early sixties, long ere Religion had made up her mind to meet Science half-way, and hobn.o.b and kiss and be friends. Alas! before such a lying down of the lion and the lamb can ever come to pa.s.s, Religion will have to perform a larger share of the journey than half, I fear!

Then, still carried away by the flood of his own eloquence (for he had never had such an innings as this, no such a listener), he again apostrophized the dog Tray, who had been growing somewhat inattentive (like the reader, perhaps), in language more beautiful than ever:

"Oh, to be like you, Tray--and secrete love and good-will from morn till night, from night till morning--like saliva, without effort! with never a moment's cessation of flow, even in disgrace and humiliation! How much better to love than to be loved--to love as you do, my Tray--so warmly, so easily, so unremittingly--to forgive all wrongs and neglect and injustice so quickly and so well--and forget a kindness never! Lucky dog that you are!

"'Oh! could I feel as I have felt, or be as I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene, As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish tho' they be, So 'midst this withered waste of life those tears would flow to me!'

"What do you think of those lines, Tray? I _love_ them, because my mother taught them to me when I was about your age--six years old, or seven! and before the bard who wrote them had fallen; like Lucifer, son of the morning! Have you ever heard of Lord Byron, Tray? He too, like Ulysses, loved a dog, and many people think that's about the best there is to be said of him nowadays! Poor Humpty Dumpty! Such a swell as he once was! 'Not all the king's horses, nor all the--'"

Here Tray jumped up suddenly and bolted--he saw some one else he was fond of, and ran to meet him. It was the vicar, coming out of his vicarage.

A very nice-looking vicar--fresh, clean, alert, well tanned by sun and wind and weather--a youngish vicar still; tall, stout, gentlemanlike, shrewd, kindly, wordly, a trifle pompous, and authoritative more than a trifle; not much given to abstract speculation, and thinking fifty times more of any sporting and orthodox young country squire, well-inched and well-acred (and well-whiskered), than of all the painters in Christendom.

"'When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war,'" thought Little Billee; and he felt a little uncomfortable. Alice's father had never loomed so big and impressive before, or so distressingly nice to look at.

"Welcome, my Apelles, to your ain countree, which is growing quite proud of you, I declare! Young Lord Archie Waring was saying only last night that he wished he had half your talent! He's _crazed_ about painting, you know, and actually wants to be a painter himself! The poor dear old marquis is quite sore about it!"

With this happy exordium the parson stopped and shook hands; and they both stood for a while, looking seaward. The parson said the usual things about the sea--its blueness; its grayness; its greenness; its beauty; its sadness; its treachery.

"'Who shall put forth on thee, Unfathomable sea!'"

"Who indeed!" answered Little Billee, quite agreeing. "I vote _we_ don't, at all events." So they turned inland.

The parson said the usual things about the land (from the country-gentleman's point of view), and the talk began to flow quite pleasantly, with quoting of the usual poets, and capping of quotations in the usual way--for they had known each other many years, both here and in London. Indeed, the vicar had once been Little Billee's tutor.

And thus, amicably, they entered a small wooded hollow. Then the vicar, turning of a sudden his full blue gaze on the painter, asked, sternly:

"What book's that you've got in your hand, Willie?"

"A--a--it's the _Origin of Species_, by Charles Darwin. I'm very f-f-fond of it. I'm reading it for the third time.... It's very g-g-good. It _accounts_ for things, you know."

Then, after a pause, and still more sternly:

"What place of worship do you most attend in London--especially of an evening, William?"

Then stammered Little Billee, all self-control forsaking him: