“I know you mean kindly. When I say we’re beaten I guess I mean we’re beaten for the present. But we’ve given Hulda something too, you know. We’ve given her the source of all real strength. And we pray—we pray every night, for as much as an hour, sometimes—that she will come back to that before it’s too late. God’s mercy is infinite, but if you kick Him in the face enough, He can be pretty stern. We’ll bring our girl back to God if prayer can do it.”
“You don’t despair, then,” said Maria.
“Certainly not. Despair is one of the worst sins. It questions God’s intentions and His power. We don’t despair. But we are human, and weak. We can’t help being hurt.”
That was that. After a few more exchanges in which Schnakenburg yielded nothing, while remaining perfectly polite, the couple left.
There was heavy silence in the room. Arthur and Maria seemed greatly put down, but Darcourt was in good spirits. He went to the bar-cupboard in the corner and set to work to make the drinks they had not thought it polite to have while the Schnakenburgs, obviously dry types, were present. As he poured, he sang under his breath:
“Simon, don’t be facetious,” said Maria.
“I’m only trying to cheer you up. Why are you so down in the mouth?”
“Those two have made me feel absolutely rotten,” said Arthur. “The unfeeling, fancy-pants rich man, childless and obsessed with vanities, steals away the jewel of their lives.”
“She stole herself away long before you heard of her,” said Darcourt.
“You know what I mean. The overbearingness of the rich and privileged.”
“Arthur, you are not well. You are open to subtle psychological attack. And that’s what you’ve had. That man Schnakenburg knows every trick in the book to make people feel rotten who don’t share his attitude toward life. It’s an underdog’s revenge. You are not supposed to kick the underdog, but it’s perfectly okay for the underdog to bite you. One of the insoluble injustices of society. Pay no heed. Just go right on as before.”
“I’m surprised at you, Simon. That man was talking from the depths of a profound religious feeling. We don’t share it, but we must in decency respect it.”
“Look, Arthur. I’m the expert on religion here. Don’t bother your head about it.”
“You are a High Church ritualist, and you despise their simplicity. I didn’t think you were such a snob, Simon.” Maria spoke angrily.
“In your heart you are still a superstitious Gypsy girl, and when anybody talks about God you go all of a doodah. I don’t despise anybody’s simplicity. But I know when a pretence of simplicity is a clever play for power.”
“What power has that man?” said Arthur.
“Obviously the power to make you feel rotten,” said Darcourt.
“You’re unjust, Simon,” said Maria; “he talked with such certainty and trust about God. It made me feel like a frivolous ninny.”
“Look, children—listen to old Abbé Darcourt and stop hating yourselves. I’ve listened to hundreds of people like that. They have certainty and depth of belief but they buy it at the price of a joyless, know-nothing attitude toward life. All they ask of God is a kind of spiritual Minimum Wage and in return they are ready to give up the sweets of life—which God also made, let me remind you. I call believers like that the Friends of the Minimum. God, who is an incorrigible joker, has landed them with a daughter who wants to join the Friends of the Maximum, and you can help her. Her parents’ faith is like a little candle, burning in the night; your Cornish Foundation is, let’s say for the sake of modesty, a forty-watt bulb which may light her to a better life. Don’t switch off the forty-watt bulb because the candle looks so pitiably weak. Schnak is in a mess. Indeed, Schnak looks like a mess, and is an odious little creature. But the only path for Schnak is forward, not backward toward a good job, a nice husband like Daddy, and kids born in the same chains. Father Schnakenburg is very tough. You’ve got to be tough, too.”
“I didn’t know you were a stoic, Simon,” said Arthur.
“I’m not a stoic. I’m that very unfashionable thing, an optimist. Give Schnak her chance.”
“Of course we will. We must, now. We’re committed to it. But I don’t like feeling that I’m trampling on the weak.”
“Oh, Arthur! You sentimental mutt! Can’t you see that being trampled on is victuals and drink to Schnakenburg? In the great electoral contest of life he is running for martyr, and you are helping him. He has his depth and certainty of belief. Where’s yours? You are running for the satisfaction of being a great patron. That’s a reasonable cause for certainty and belief. What ails you?”
“I suppose it’s money,” said Maria.
“Of course it is! You people both have the guilt that our society demands of the rich. Don’t give in to it! Show ‘em that money can do fine things.”
“By God, I believe you really are an optimist,” said Arthur.
“Well, that’s a start. Join me in my optimism and in time you may believe a few other things that I believe, which I never mention to you, because one thing I have learned in my work as a priest is that preaching to the poor is easy work compared with preaching to the rich. They have so much guilt, and they are so bloody pig-headed.”
“We’re not pig-headed! We are the ones who feel for the Schnakenburgs. You, the Abbé Darcourt, are sneering at them and urging us to sneer. You Anglican! You ritualist! You pompous professorial poop! You disgust me!”
“That is not argument. That is vulgar abuse, for which I will not even stoop to forgive you. I’ve played a part in the sort of scene we have just gone through more times than you can imagine. The jealousy of the humble parents for the gifted child! Old, stale goods, to me. The hitting below the belt because somebody has a bigger bank account than you, and must therefore be a moral inferior! The favourite weapon of the self-righteous poor. The use of a mean form of religion to gain a status denied to the unbeliever: they tell you the Old, Old Story, and expect you to cave in. And you do. Real religion, my friends, is evolutionary and revolutionary and that’s what your Cornish Foundation had better be or it will be nothing.”
“You could have been a popular preacher, Simon,” said Maria.
“I’ve never fancied that sort of work; it inflates the ego and can lead to ruin.”
“You’ve made me feel rather better. I don’t know about Arthur.”
“You’re a good friend, Simon,” said Arthur. “I’m sorry I was nasty to you. I withdraw pompous and even poop. But you are professorial. Let’s forget the Schnakenburgs, in so far as we can. Are you making any headway with that book about Uncle Frank?”
“At last I think I am. I think I may be on to something.”
“Good. We want to see the book published, you know. I joke about it, but you understand. We trust you, Simon.”
“Thanks. I’m going ahead. By the way, you won’t see me for a week or so. I’m going hunting.”
“You can’t. It’s out of season.”
“Not for what I’m hunting. The season has just begun.”
Darcourt finished his drink, and departed, singing as he left the room,
But the tone of his voice was ironic.
“A really good friend, the old Abbé,” said Arthur.
“I love him.”
“Platonically, I hope.”
“Of course. Can you doubt it?”
“In love I can doubt anything. I never take you for granted.”
“You could, you know.”
“By the way, you never told me what Mamusia told Simon while I was in hospital.”
“Just that we’ll all get our lumps, really.”
“I think I’ve had my lumps for a while. My mumps-lumps. But I’m coming round, at last. I think I’ll sleep in your bed tonight.”