The Passion for Life

by Joseph Hocking

  III

  THE CHURCHES' ANSWER

  I suppose my long journey must have tired me, for I slept soundly, andon the following morning when I awoke the sun was shining through thewindows, while the splash of the waves sounded pleasantly to my ears. Afew minutes later I was up and dressed. Walking to the edge of thecliff, I looked towards the spot where, the previous night, I fancied Ihad seen dim forms moving; but in the light of the sun nothing wasvisible. The shadows, too, of a few hours before had entirely passedaway. The fresh, pure spring air exhilarated me in spite of myself. Ialmost forgot Dr. Rhomboid's verdict. Indeed, so far did I ignore hisinstructions that I found my way to the highest point of the cliff andlooked seaward. Never in my whole life had I been so entranced as onthat morning. The blue sky was reflected in the water in such a way thatI felt I had never really seen the sea until then. To the right and tothe left of me stretched the giant cliffs until they were lost in thehorizon. At their feet rolled great waves. Landward, hill rose uponhill, and the whole countryside was fast assuming its garments of summerglory.

  In a sense, Cornwall did not seem a beautiful county to me at all. Atleast, it did not possess the beauty I had expected. Compared withSurrey, it looked bare, and in some senses almost drear, and yet itpossessed a charm which I could associate with no other place. There wassomething in the air one breathed, some strange charm, something in thevery essence of the county which differentiated it from the rest of theworld. Cornwall is as different from other counties as England isdifferent from Spain. I felt my blood tingle as I looked, and realizedthat a mysterious hand had been laid upon me. Perhaps it was becausethere was Cornish blood in my veins, and that for many generations myancestors had lived amidst associations similar to these. In any case,my heart thrilled its recognition, and I knew that I was a part of whatI saw, that the spirit of my county was speaking to me, and that theinnermost depths of my being realized my homeland.

  Years seemed to slip from me, and with a recrudescence of youth came apassionate desire for life--more life. While I had been in London Iseemed to be largely indifferent to the doctor's pronouncement, evenalthough I was beginning to sip from the goblet of the world's success.But a numbness had possessed my being, and I had been able to speculategrimly upon my approaching demise. Now, however, it was different. Theworld seemed wider, the sky higher, and life promised infinite things. Icould not formulate them into words; nevertheless, they surged up in mybeing like a mighty torrent, and I longed to live. My whole soulrevolted against cessation of life, and all the time I knew that a dreaddisease was slowly working within me.

  But I would not think of it. By an effort I threw my forebodings fromme, and, seeing a precipitous pathway down to the beach, made my waythitherward. I wanted to interest myself in the happenings of the world.

  A little later I found my way to the base of the cliffs where, on theprevious night, I thought I had seen living beings. No marks of themwere evident. The hard, yellow sand was smooth and trackless. There wasa stretch of a hundred yards between the foot of the cliffs and thefoam-crested waves, and, calling to my mind my impressions of theprevious night, I determined to put them to test. Without avail,however.

  The great heap of debris caused by the working of the mine which Simpsonhad mentioned had now become covered with verdure. I saw the greenstains on the cliff which Simpson had said betokened copper, but nowherecould I see the level which he had mentioned. I peered curiously around,but in vain.

  Presently I saw a fissure in the rocks which ended in a cave. This Ientered and made my way for a few yards, peering curiously around me.Nothing of importance struck my eye. I reflected that this might bealmost immediately under my house, and it was here, according to myfancies, I had heard voices on the previous night. I fancied, too, that,except in the case of very high tides, this cave would always be dry. Ilit a match, and, looking at the sand at my feet, discerned footmarks.This struck me as somewhat curious, especially as these footprints wereapparently fresh, and some of them gave evidence that they had been madeby a woman. Still, there was nothing to wonder about. I had frequentlyheard that the Cornish cliffs were honey-combed by caves, and thatpleasure-parties visited them out of pure curiosity.

  Then something bright caught my eye, and, stooping down, I picked up awoman's brooch. I went outside and examined it, and saw immediately thatit was apparently of value. It was quaintly formed, and suggested greatage. I concluded that it was composed of dull gold fashioned centuriesago, while two stones of considerable value had been set in it. Ispeculated a little to whom it might belong, and, thinking that I mighthear of some one who had lost such a valuable trinket, I placed itcarefully in my pocket so that I might be able to return it to itsowner.

  The sun by this time had increased in power, and, as the place was warmand sheltered, I sat on a great rock near, and gave myself up to fancy.How long I sat there I have no conception, but presently I was awakenedto the fact that Simpson had become anxious about me.

  "It's all right, Simpson," I shouted in reply to his call. "I will comeimmediately."

  "Breakfast is quite ready, sir," I heard him say, "and I have beenwondering where you had gone."

  As I made my way towards the lower part of the cliffs, where I thought Isaw an easier way to my house than that by which I had descended, Ihappened to look back, and there, seated in a crevice at nearly thehighest point of the cliff, I saw what seemed the form of a woman, andthat she appeared to be watching me. A few seconds later I was hiddenfrom her view by the copse into which I had entered. When I haddescended half-way towards my house I was able to catch another glimpseof the place where she had been sitting, but she was no longer there.

  "I hope you haven't been anxious about me, Simpson?" I said, when Ireturned to the house.

  "Well, sir, I was a bit worried. You see, the cliffs are dangerous, andyou didn't tell me you were going out. I am glad you are all right, sir.Breakfast is quite ready, sir. I cooked some more of that ham, as youseemed to like it so much last night, sir."

  "That's all right, Simpson; but before I have breakfast I must haveanother wash at the fountain." When I had taken off my coat I looked atmy arms, and was shocked at their thinness. I looked into the littlepond and saw the reflection of a tall, thin, attenuated man. I waspositively ghastly. When I had finished my toilet I again glanced in thedirection where I had seen the woman's form, but the place was hiddenfrom my view. Nearer to me, however, and swayed by the breeze, I sawwhat I thought was like a woman's dress fluttering. It might be that shewas interested in my movements. "I expect the people of the village havefears about me, as they had about Father Abraham," was my thought as Ientered the house.

  No visitors called to see me, and I spent several days in absolutequietness. Although I had at first made up my mind to do so, I paid novisits to the village, and beyond the furtive watcher I have mentioned,I saw no one but Simpson.

  My first feelings of exhilaration had passed away, and I settled down,in spite of my resolve, to a kind of hermit's life. I still rejoiced inthe beauty of the scene and took short walks in the neighborhood of mylittle dwelling-place, but saw no one.

  When I had been there a week a bad attack of my malady sent me to bedfor three days. Simpson urged me to send for the doctor, but this Iwould not do. Rhomboid, who was at the head of his profession, hadwarned me that I should be subject to these attacks, and that they wouldcome to me with increasing frequency until the end. He had also given megeneral instructions as to what I must do. What was the use, then, ofcalling in a local practitioner who would be utterly ignorant as to whatto do in such a case as mine?

  At the end of three days I was better, and informed Simpson that Iintended getting up.

  "Simpson," I said, as I sat in the comfortable chair which he hadprepared for me, "you told me on the night we came here that you hadbeen brought up a Wesleyan Methodist."

  "Yes, sir," was Simpson's reply.

  "Are you of that persuasion still?"

  "Well, yes, sir; I suppos
e so, sir."

  "Have you been to any of their chapels lately?"

  "Not very often, sir."

  "Is there a Wesleyan minister who lives at St. Issey?"

  "No, sir. You see, St. Issey Chapel is only one of the little places inthe circuit. A minister, sir, lives five miles from here, and only comesabout twice a quarter. I have the circuit plan here, sir. Would you liketo see it?"

  "It would be a curiosity, anyhow," I replied, and a little later Simpsonput a sheet of printed paper in my hand. This sheet informed me that St.Issey was in the Lanhydrock Circuit, and, with twelve other chapels, wassupplied by two ministers and a number of other men called localpreachers.

  "I see that the superintendent minister is called Mr. Bendle. Have youever met him?" I asked.

  "No, sir; but I have heard that he is a very good man. When I was a boy,sir, St. Issey Chapel was crowded; but people don't go to Chapel as theyused to."

  "No? How is that?" I asked.

  "Well, sir, it seems as though people have become very worldly, and manyhave given up Chapel-going altogether."

  "And the Parish Church--do many people go there?"

  "Just a few, sir; but not many, I am afraid."

  "I should like to know," I said.

  "Indeed, sir?"

  "Yes. The truth is, Simpson, seeing that the doctor tells me I have todie very soon, I should like to know whether any one could tell me aboutwhat happens after death."

  "I have a Bible here, sir," said Simpson. "It tells you all about itthere."

  "Indeed," I said, "I have not read the Bible for years. I don't think Ihave looked inside one since I left Oxford. Do you read it, Simpson?"

  "Yes, sir. I read a chapter every night before going to bed."

  "Are you a Christian, Simpson?"

  "I hope so, sir," and he looked at me curiously.

  "Excuse me for asking," I said, "but as you are a Christian you willhave ideas about these things."

  Simpson hesitated a few seconds, and then called to his aid his oldformula, "Yes, sir; thank you, sir."

  "That being so, Simpson," I continued, "I want your opinion. Supposing Iwere to die to-night, what would become of me?"

  Simpson gave no answer. I think he wanted to be polite, but could not betruthful at the same time.

  "You see, Simpson," I interposed, "I have just had a severe shaking up,and, as Rhomboid told me that these attacks would come with increasingfrequency and hasten the end, I have a natural curiosity as to what willhappen when the end comes. It is not pleasant to think of becomingnothing, and as a belief in a future life is one of the tenets of theChristian faith, and as you tell me you are a Christian, I want to know,from your standpoint, what you think my destiny will be."

  "Excuse me, sir," said Simpson, "but you will not be offended if I asksomething?"

  "Oh, no," I said, "go on."

  "Well, then, sir, have you ever been converted? Forgive me for asking,sir; I know you have always been a well-conducted young gentleman, andyou have never gone wild like lots I know of, but all the same, sir, Ihave been taught that there are two places to which people go when theydie--heaven and hell. The sheep which are on the right hand go straightto Abraham's bosom, and the goats which are on the left go into outerdarkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. The question is,sir, whether you belong to the sheep or the goats."

  "Exactly," I said; "but what constitutes the sheep and what constitutesthe goats?"

  "That is where the question of conversion comes in," replied Simpson."Except we become converted we cannot go to heaven."

  "Then your opinion is, Simpson, that as I have not been converted I mustgo to hell?"

  "Yes, sir; thank you, sir. I don't mean to offend, sir."

  "No, I am sure you don't, Simpson. Besides, I wanted a straight answer.Just now, however, the question of heaven and hell does not trouble meat all. It is rather a question as to whether there is anything at allafter the grave."

  "Do you doubt it, sir?"

  "I am afraid I have had no opinions about it in the past, Simpson. Yousee, I have been so busy with my work that I have had no time to thinkabout it. Now, however, when death stares me in the face, I am--well, alittle bit curious. How do I know, and how do you know, that themillions of people who are dying every week in this world do not diejust like flies? How can we prove that we are any better than they? Dowe not sport in the sunshine during a brief space and then cease to be?"

  "Life would be a miserable one-sided business if it were so, sir.Wouldn't it?"

  "That is the question, Simpson. Did you ever read Omar Khayyam?"

  "What is it, sir?"

  "Ah, I see you have not read him. Omar Khayyam was an old Eastern poetwho, in his philosophy and poetry, taught that we are just a part of aneternal round of things. We are born, we live, we propagate our species,we die, and so the thing goes on. But it is not a very cheerfuldoctrine, Simpson, and that was why I wondered if you, who profess to bea Christian, could give me some information."

  Simpson was silent.

  "Ah! I see," I said with a sigh. "You have a sort of traditional hopethat there may be a sort of future life, and that you may get to what iscalled heaven, but you are not sure about it."

  "Well, sir, I am a very ignorant man on such matters," replied Simpson,"and, to tell you the truth, religion doesn't seem to be the fashionnowadays. All the same, it would be a grand thing if it were true."

  "Just so," I said, and for the first time I realized the necessity forsome sort of faith which should be an anchor amid the storms of life.

  "Are you better now, sir?" asked Simpson.

  "Oh yes, considerably better," I replied. "I shall be able to walk aboutfor the next few weeks, I hope."

  "Then, sir, may I advise you to go to Church or Chapel? The preachersthere might be able to tell you."

  "A good idea," I cried. "I have not been to Church or Chapel since Ileft Oxford, and while there I only went because I was obliged to. I didenjoy the singing, though. Yes, Simpson, I will take your hint. I willgo to Church on Sunday."

  "It's Sunday to-morrow, sir," was Simpson's reply.

  "Is it? I had forgotten. Then I will go to-morrow."

  "Where will you go, sir, to the Established Church or the WesleyanChapel?"

  "I will go to both, and hear what they have to say at both places."

  The next day was gloriously fine. A cool breeze blew, and out at sea"white horses" rode on the crests of the waves. Near the coast-line,too, was a long streak of foam. The air was pure and invigorating. Insheltered places it was warm and gracious.

  I allowed myself plenty of time to reach St. Issey by eleven o'clock,and, if the truth must be told, I was a little excited. I felt as thoughI was going on a tour of exploration.

  I had never been what is called a religious boy, and though I inheritedfrom my father a high code of honor, religion made no appeal to me. Isuppose that at the back of my mind I had an impression that there mightbe a life other than this, and that some great Eternal Force, whichmight or might not be personal, had created this and all other worlds.As to whether this Eternal Force had any interest in created life I didnot trouble. The question was too remote, and, as far as I could see,admitted of only a conjectural answer. After leaving Oxford, I was tooabsorbed in my plans and ambitions to trouble about what seemed to me tobe something really apart from life.

  I had never been a bad fellow. I had, as my acquaintances said of me,gone straight. Not that I had been a recluse in any way. For two orthree years I went a good deal into society. I never had any seriouslove affairs, although I am afraid I indulged in some mild flirtations.I had a fair knowledge of current literature, and, although far frombeing a scholar, I had at the same time scholarly instincts. I hadtravelled on the Continent of Europe, had a fair knowledge of German andFrench, and during a long visit to Italy had managed to pick up thelanguage of the people.

  I had also visited the old churches on the Continent, but had nevertroubled about what
these churches stood for. As far as I could see, theold, stately cathedrals represented something that might have been apower at one time, but which had now passed away. They were interestingfrom an architectural and from an historical point of view; but as foranything deeper, it never came within the horizon of my vision. I wasyoung, and, as I thought, healthy, and death seemed a long way off.Therefore, why should I trouble?

  But now death had come near. I do not know that I was frightened, and Iwas able calmly to face the prospect of annihilation. Nevertheless, thatprospect was grim. I longed for life, more life, the completion of life.The life I had lived was, it seemed to me, fragmentary, incomplete, and,to a certain extent, chaotic.

  I do not know that I attached very much importance to my visit to thelittle Wesleyan Chapel. All the same, I was curious. If there should beanything beyond, if the man who got up to preach could tell me somethingwhich had been hidden from me, I would like to hear what he had to say.

  I walked very slowly and rejoiced in the glorious morning. As I drewnear the village I noted the quiet restfulness of everything. The Churchbells were ringing, and a few people were wending their way towards theold time-honored building. Very few people seemed to be making for theWesleyan Chapel. Groups of youths were lounging around the lanes,smoking cigarettes and passing rustic jokes. Women were gossiping witheach other from their cottage doors. There was no squalor anywhere, nopoverty visible. Every one seemed to have enough to eat and drink. Everyone seemed to be comfortably housed.

  I entered the little Chapel--a square, plain building, capable ofseating perhaps three or four hundred people. It was five minutes toeleven when I entered, and not a soul was there, except a man whom Itook to be the Chapel-keeper. He looked at me curiously. By eleveno'clock there might be, all told, thirty people there, mostly elderlymen and women. Some young girls were there, and a few children; youngmen were conspicuous by their absence. When eleven o'clock came perhapsa dozen more came from some vestry, and entered what I took to be thechoir-seats. They were nearly all young women. Perhaps during the firstten minutes of the service half a score more came into the Chapel. I amgiving these details because I want to tell exactly what I saw,especially as I have discovered that from a religious standpoint St.Issey village is typical of hundreds more all over the county. At aboutthree minutes after eleven a man entered the pulpit. As far as I couldjudge he was a working man, or he might be a farmer, a carpenter, or atradesman of some sort.

  Let it be understood that I came to this place of worship hungering toknow something of the deeper things of life. I wanted to be assured thatthere was another life greater than this, a life which should be theconsummation and explanation of this.

  The preacher commenced by announcing a hymn; a lad at the harmoniumplayed over the tune, and the people sang. Let me confess here that thesinging moved me. The Cornish people, whatever their defects or virtues,possess the gift of song. They had sweet, musical voices, and they sangheartily. The words, as I remember them, were of an emotional nature,and were evidently written by some one who deeply believed in what hewrote; but it was evident that very few of the congregation realized themeaning of the words they were singing. There was no sense of reality,no great assurance, no vision. It seemed to be a repetition of somethingwhich had been, rather than the expression of something that was vitalto them then.

  Still, I was interested. The hymn made me think of far-away things. Atany rate, while no mighty conviction possessed the singers, theyaccepted the words as containing a kind of traditional truth. Ireflected that the hymn _had_ meant something, whatever it might meannow.

  While the last verse was being sung, I noticed that the congregationturned round, as if some one of importance had entered. I also turned,and saw a man and woman just making their way into a back pew. The manwas about fifty years of age, and was evidently a personality. At firstI did not know how to classify him. He might be the Squire of theparish, but I was sure he was not. There was something lacking in him;something positive, too, which did not suggest an old landed proprietor.That he was prosperous and important there could be no doubt. He lookedlike one accustomed to command, and suggested a big banking account.

  His companion was, as I imagined, his daughter, a young woman of, say,twenty-three or twenty-four years of age. I saw by her dress that shedid not belong to the class of which the rest of the congregation wascomposed. Although by no means a connoisseur of such things, I knewenough of woman's attire to be sure that her clothes had been made by anartist, and probably came either from London or Paris. During the nextfew minutes I gave furtive glances towards her, and was not impressedfavorably. She was good-looking, almost strikingly so; but she seemed tome to have no soul. She looked around the building as though she hadcome there under protest. She gave not the slightest evidence that theservice meant anything to her.

  The man in the pulpit was, I suppose, of more intelligence than theordinary man of his class, and having said that, I have said all. I didnot want to be critical. I hungered for food, for light. I reflectedthat Simpson had told me that congregations had fallen off and thatthere seemed to be no eagerness about religion as there had been thirtyyears before. I did not wonder at that if this man was a fair exponentof it. By what right or by what authority he was there I do not know,and how he dared to pretend to tell people about the deep things of lifeI could not imagine. After he had been preaching a few minutes heappeared to get, according to the phraseology which I have since heard,"warmed to his subject." This meant that he shouted, and on two or threeoccasions struck the Bible; but, taken as a whole, it was theparrot-like utterance of an ignorant man. I am almost tempted to give adetailed description of his discourse, but I will not do so. I am tooheart-sore at the thought of it. What help was there for me, a poorwretch with his death-warrant signed? What help was there for the peoplewho sat stolidly in their pews? Why should the boys and girls of thevillages or the toil-worn laboring men and women go there? I could seeno reason.

  As far as I could judge, the presence of the man and his daughter in theback pew and I myself, the stranger who had taken up his abode in awooden hut, attended only by a man-servant, was of far more interest tothe people than what the man had to say.

  I left with a heavy heart. At any rate, I received no assurance of anylife after death. I was no nearer conviction of anything which goes bythe name of spiritual. As I made my way to the door an old man came upand spoke to me.

  "Mornin', sir. Glad to see you."

  "Thank you," I said.

  "You bean't from these parts, be you?" he asked curiously.

  "No," I replied.

  "I hope you enjoyed the service," he ventured.

  "I enjoyed the singing very much," was my reply.

  The old man's eyes twinkled. I saw that he understood.

  "You ded'n feel the presence of the Maaster, ded 'ee, then, sir?"

  I was silent. He seemed to be on the point of saying something more, buthe refrained. Perhaps he thought he would be taking too great a liberty.As I left the building and walked quietly away, I noticed that the manand the girl whom I took to be his daughter were watching me. Theyevidently wondered who I was.

  I did not say anything to Simpson on my return about my experiences atthe Chapel, and he asked no questions.

  When evening came I made my way to the Established Church. Somehow, thememory of the old man's eyes when he spoke to me at the Chapel doorremained with me. I had a feeling that he knew more than the preacher.Directly I entered the time-honored building, which had stood theresince pre-Reformation days, a feeling of restfulness came into my heart.Architecture has always made a strong appeal to me, and this low-roofed,many-pillared edifice, with its worm-eaten pews, its granite flooringand its sense of age, brought a kind of balm to my troubled spirit. Inoticed that time had eaten away even the old gray granite of which thepillars were composed, that the footsteps of many generations had wornthe hard Cornish granite slabs which floored the aisles. The eveninglight was subdued as it shone thr
ough the stained-glass windows. The ivywhich grew outside, and partially covered some of the leaded lights,somehow gave a feeling of restfulness to everything. I heard the birdstwittering in the tree-branches in the churchyard, while the bell whichcalled the people to Church was reminiscent of olden time. In myimagination I saw people who lived hundreds of years before, with thelight of unquestioning faith in their eyes, coming to worship in theChurch of their fathers.

  A few people entered, and my vision vanished. This old Churchrepresented only something that _had_ been; something that had had itsday, and was gone; something that was maintained because of its past,and because nothing better had appeared to take its place.

  A dozen choir-boys found their way into their stalls. The clergymanassumed his appointed place. The congregation was very small. Allcounted, I suppose there would not be forty people present, and most ofthese looked to me like servant lads and girls.

  I remembered the clergyman's name. Simpson had told me he was calledTrelaske. A good old Cornish name, and I reflected that, anyhow, hewould be a gentleman. I watched him closely, and I saw a fine,aristocratic-looking man, with a clean-cut, almost classical face. Heconducted the service with dignity. He read the sentences of which theChurch service is composed correctly and with intelligence. While heread in his natural voice, I was interested; when he intoned, a sense ofunreality possessed me.

  As we went through the service a thousand memories flooded my mind. Ihad heard these prayers, and read the Psalms a hundred times at Oxfordand at Winchester. Memories of old days came flashing back to me, and Iwas a boy again in the school chapel, listening to old "Thunder andLightning," as we used to call him, preaching to us. Presently Mr.Trelaske entered the pulpit and gave out his text: "If a man die, shallhe live again?"

  "Now," I thought to myself, "I am going to get something. Here is a manwho is set apart to teach people the Christian faith, and he is going todeal with that phase of his faith in which I am really interested."

  I think he noticed me in his congregation, for he looked curiouslytowards me more than once. I rather liked him, too. As I said, he wasevidently a gentleman, and doubtless had been to Oxford or Cambridge.Possibly he had been at my own College.

  In about ten minutes his homily was finished. When I try to rememberwhat he said, I am reminded of a story I have since heard. A popularpreacher came to Cornwall and preached to a crowded congregation. On thefollowing day this popular preacher saw an old miner, to whom he spokein a familiar fashion.

  "Well, Tommy," he said, "what did you think about my sermon last night?"

  "What ded I think about it?" repeated Tommy.

  "Yes," said the popular preacher, "what did you think about it?"

  "I ded'n think there was nothin' to think about," was Tommy's reply.

  That was my summing-up of Mr. Trelaske's sermon. There was nothing tothink about. I had come to Church curious to know--ay, and more thancurious; I was longing to know if life promised anything beyond thegrave, but the Church gave no answer to my question. In place of burningconviction, there were empty platitudes. In place of vision, there wasonly the sound of a child crying in the night.

  "In God's name," I asked myself as I went back to my little habitation,"why should people go to Church or to Chapel? What is there for them butboredom?"

  I did not want argument, I did not want learning; but I wantedconviction, light, vision--and there were none of these things.

  When I got back to my house I found that Simpson had returned.

  "Have you been to Chapel, Simpson?" I asked.

  "Yes, sir; thank you, sir. People have been asking a lot of questionsabout you, sir."

  "Oh, indeed!"

  "Yes, sir. Mr. Josiah Lethbridge asked me about you, sir. He lives inthat big house up by Trecarrel Lane. He is a great mine-owner andship-owner, sir."

  "Indeed," I said. "Has he any children?"

  "Yes, sir. One son and one daughter. Is that all you need, sir?" AndSimpson gave the finishing touches to his arrangement of mysupper-table.

  Before I went to bed that night I stood under the veranda of my littlehouse and looked seaward. In the dying light of the day I could stillsee the giant cliffs stretching away northward. I could also see thelong line of foam where the waves broke upon the shore. I heard thesea-birds crying, too. "If a man die, shall he live again?" I said,repeating the words of the text I had heard that night, but no answercame. I went to bed wondering.