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17
The Padre had become harder and more cu
As silk-worms secrete silk, so human beings secrete sin. There is a normal quantity of sin which, for their everlasting punishment, any community of erring humans ca
He heard a footstep in the darkness. For a moment he thought that it must be Fleury himself, guided like a ram into a thicket. But it was the Collector carrying a spade. He had come to lend a hand.
“Three again tonight?”
“Alas!”
The Collector tried to remember who had died during the preceding night and day. One of these would be Peterson whose remains had been retrieved after dark; although only a few hours had passed the pariah dogs and vultures had already cleaned away the soft parts of Peterson’s face and the flesh from his arms, leaving only the hands; these hands on the end of his outstretched, skeletal arms, had the appearance of gloves and lent the corpse an air of ghastly masquerade. Another of the bodies would be that of Jackson, the soldier who had been singing the song about the Crimea in order to keep his spirits up in the hospital. Day by day his bursts of singing had become more infrequent until at last they had been silenced altogether. Jackson had spent his last days lying with flies fighting over his staring eyes in the middle of the stench and horror of the hospital. The Collector had tried to speak to him but had got no reply. He was not sorry that Jackson was dead at last. The other shrouded corpse was that of Mr Do
“We only need to dig two, Padre. Father O’Hara will be here presently to dig the other one in his own plot.”
The Padre paid no attention; he was digging energetically. The Collector could see of him only the faint glimmer of his face and hands as he worked; his long clerical habit had rendered the rest of him invisible in the thick darkness.
“By the way, do we know which one is Do
But the Padre remained engrossed in his own thoughts. His puny arms had become as strong again as when he had been a rowing-man at Brasenose; now the Collector, whose own hands had roughened like those of a member of the labouring classes, had to struggle to keep up with him.
“That could be a bit of a problem,” mused the Collector.
“I believe, Mr Hopkins,” said the Padre presently, “though as yet I have found no direct evidence of it, that there may be German rationalism at work within our midst. I hope I am mistaken.”
“Ah?” The Collector’s tired mind resisted the prospect of becoming excited over a possible invasion by German nationalism.
“Perhaps you are not aware of how the Church is ravaged in Germany, Mr Hopkins. In the universities there I have heard that unbelief is rife. Men who style themselves scholars do not hesitate to lead the young astray by directing them to study the Bible as if it were the work of man and not the revelation of God. It is said that a certain Herr de Wette denies that the first five books of the Bible were written by Moses and maintains that they were written at a period long after his death.”
“Oh, the Germans, you know …” The Collector with a shovelful of earth dismissed the Germans. But this attempt to soothe the Padre and render further theological exchanges u
“True, compared with the simple, healthy British mind the German mind is sickly and delights to feed on such morbid fantasies. But still, we must not forget how quickly unsound ideas can spread, particularly among the young and impressionable. They spread among the young like cholera! The German Church has no discipline; for its ministers it requires no adherence to the Thirty-nine Articles or to the Prayer Book. In Germany a clergyman can believe and teach whatever he wants, a disgraceful state of affairs. I hear there is a man called Schleiermacher who does not subscribe to many of the fundamental teachings of Christianity such as the Fall and the Atonement, but who is yet allowed to call himself a minister of the Prussian Church!”
“I don’t think we in England need be anxious …” began the Collector, but the Padre cut him short, waving his spade in the darkness.
“Rationalism! A vain belief in the power of the reason to investigate religious matters. Ah, Mr Hopkins, the abuse of man’s power of reason is the curse of our day.”
The Collector remained mute. He did not believe this last remark to be true. But he saw no prospect of the Padre listening sympathetically to his reservations and considered it fruitless to antagonize him.
“I say, you don’t happen to know which of these bodies is Do
“As we read in the Book of Isaiah: ‘Thy wisdom and thy knowledge, it hath perverted thee’!”
“Well, of course, there are some ways in which no doubt…” mumbled the Collector. At the same time he realized with a shock how much his own faith in the Church’s authority, or in the Christian view of the world in which he had hitherto lived his life, had diminished since he had last inspected them. From the farmyard in which his certitudes perched like fat chickens, every night of the siege, one or two were carried off in the jaws of nationalism and despair.
Another footstep sounded in the darkness. The Padre paused, leaning on his spade, his eyes feverishly searching for the identity of the newcomer. This time he knew it must be Fleuny, guided to an appointment with him so that his heretical notions might be extirpated. The Collector noticed that while he himself was scarcely ankle deep in the grave he was digging, the Padre had already lowered himself to the level of his knees, for while the Padre argued, he dug.
Meanwhile, the burly form of Father O’Hara had loomed out of the shadows. He had a spade over his shoulder. “Glory be to God!” he muttered as he tripped over something in the darkness. “Did ye ever see such a dark? I’ve no mind for this at all at all. Are ye there, Mr Hopkins, sor?”
“Just at your side, Father O’Hara. Mind you don’t fall into the… ah … Here, let me give you a hand up.”
“Now then, show me the lads and I’ll be after taking mine to his eternal rest, God help him.”
“Hm, Padre? Perhaps you could tell Father O’Hara which is Mr Do
The Padre knelt on the path beside the three dark forms and peered at them uncertainly in the dim light afforded by the stars. After a pause for consideration he said: “Mr Do
“What! This little lad Jim Do
“The small one is Do
“Not at all. Sure, I’ve known him all me life.”
“I fear you are mistaken.”