The Fall of Doctor Onslow

by Frances Vernon

  I have told myself that I lost my faith because of my personal misfortunes. I have told myself that had I succeeded in becoming a bishop, there would have been no question of my doubting His existence, His justice, His mercy – but even self-mockery has been of no avail. My new vision of this world is as immoveable as a mountain, and Martin, I do not think that it will ever change. I despair of winning back my faith, but I long for it more than I have ever longed for anything in the whole course of my life. For though, as I have said, my Christianity was never that of the heart, but only that of the will, such as it was it was my greatest stay and comfort. How should it not be? I knew myself to be deserving of the fires of hell, but yet I trusted in His mercy. But Martin, I know now that had my Christianity been as deep as yours, I never would have sinned as I did.

  Do not think, that because I can no longer give intellectual assent to the Christian faith, I have come to despise its morality. On the contrary, I am more sensible than ever I was of the fact that I am a sinner. Do you remember once saying to me that my sin lay not in giving way to fleshly lust, but in the fact that I had gravely misused my authority? I did not understand you then, but I understand you now. I am loaded with my burden of sin, and can seek no relief, no forgiveness, for there is no Christ to forgive me.

  I am determined, wholly determined, to sin no more – not only in that manner (as of course I have no choice but to do) but in all others. I used to be a monster of arrogance. I used to despise the whole world and everyone in it, yourself excluded, but I do so no longer. I never knew how proud I was, how full of the worst kind of spiritual pride, until I lost my faith. And now, if I cannot believe in Christ, I can nonetheless attempt to follow His way. When did I ever forgive those who trespassed against me? Never, and I never knew it till now. When was I ever thankful for my daily bread? Never, but as the merest form.

  I have no longer the slightest wish to be a great man in the eyes of the world. That gnawing passion of mine is a thing of the past. I wish only to try to be a good man – for the first time in my life I can say that with all sincerity. If we have nothing in this universe but our own selves, then, it seems to me, it is of the utmost importance that we should obey the dictates of our consciences, in order that this world, which is all we have, be not a vale of suffering. We sin against humanity, not against God. I used to believe that to own that was to deny all morality, that the absence of a Judge in Heaven would mean the collapse of all moral order: but it is not so. God does not exist, but yet we must be good.

  But how I wish, Martin, that I could be a Christian once more: a true Christian this time, with a more than nominal awareness of sin. Faith in God, though it was so inadequate a faith, has supported me through these last five unhappy years, and how hard I find it now to live without it! If I could only believe, truly believe, as you do. Every Sunday since the calamity befell, I have preached sermons, sermons in which I cannot believe. Am I the worst of hypocrites? Martin, may I, because I strive to recapture my lost faith, remain a clergyman even though I do not believe? Or is it my duty to resign my living and declare that I am an atheist? The thought of the scandal makes me shudder, but of course, that must not deter me.

  I am a coward, but not so great a coward as I would be had I concealed my loss of faith from you. Will you, Martin, decide for me? I know how great a burden I am placing on your shoulders, but I beg you, on my knees, to do so. I am all unfit to guide myself, I cannot trust my own judgement. But I can trust yours. Please, do not fail me.

  It seemed to Onslow appropriate to let a Primrose decide his future. At the last crisis of his life the sister had decided; now he turned to the brother. The Primroses were the most Christian family in England, though not one of them held by a stern, dogmatic faith, and the old Bishop of Ipswich had been suspected of Sabellianism.

  I have read through this letter, and how poor a thing it seems, how feeble an expression of what has happened to me. But I can do no more. I shall wait anxiously for your reply, for the decision as to my fate, and I am, as ever, yours affectionately, George Onslow.

  *

  A week later the reply from Primrose came. It was very brief.

  My dear George, he wrote, It is unnecessary for me to tell you that your letter has caused me very great distress. Yet I still have a little hope. Are you perfectly sure you are not simply passing through a period of painful spiritual dryness, such as we all of us endure from time to time?

  I am not going to write at length, for I think we had best discuss this matter face to face. I shall come up to Hinterton as soon as I may. But meanwhile, I must tell you that it is quite impossible for me to decide whether or not you should continue as a clergyman. It is a decision which only you can make, according to the dictates of your conscience, and I can advance no opinion. I am, my dear George, yours as ever, Martin Primrose.

  Onslow had not counted on being rebuffed by Primrose. He had been certain that his friend would decide for him, and to know that he refused was very painful.

  Onslow’s conscience told him that in spite of the scandal, in spite of Anstey-Ward, even in spite of the effect on Louisa, he ought to resign his living, decare himself an unbeliever, and struggle to live on his two hundred a year. Yet he began his career as a good man by refusing to obey these stern inner promptings, telling himself that to struggle to lead a Christian life was much the same thing as to be a believing Christian.

  Thus Onslow remained for nearly twenty years the beloved rector of Hinterton, and throughout those twenty years he was conscious of the fact that Anstey-Ward’s triumph and his own fall were both complete.

  33

  In the year 1892, a party consisting of a man, a woman and a girl was on its way to the Deanery, where old Dr Onslow was giving a dinner for ten people.

  ‘I suppose we may expect a very dull evening,’ said the woman, Mrs Chumley, the wife of a solicitor, ‘but Dr Onslow is such a dear old man. They say he was a perfect tartar when he was headmaster of Charton, isn’t it hard to imagine?’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said her husband. ‘I never knew a man more extraordinarily tolerant of others’ weaknesses, I can only imagine him indulging the boys shamefully. Think of all he did for that gardener’s boy of his who was caught pilfering from his desk! Really, if everyone were like him I should be out of work.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘But he is very old-fashioned, Gwendolen, so no Girton slang.’

  Gwendolen said: ‘Tolerant of larceny but not of university women?’

  ‘Nonsense! Why, when Miss Ramsay did so well in the Tripos he told me that if a woman could shame the men so she deserved to be granted a degree, and he hoped the Senate would do something about it. But I admit,’ he added, ‘that he looked pretty much concerned. Men do not enjoy having the prejudices of a lifetime overturned.’

  Gwendolen smirked.

  ‘I think it is brave of him to be giving a dinner-party at his age, and with no hostess,’ said Mrs Chumley. ‘I hope the food will be good.’

  Their carriage rattled into the Deanery yard, and they alighted, and were taken up to the drawing-room.

  Six people were already assembled there, four men and two women, and Dr Onslow came forward to greet them. Gwendolen Chumley, who could not remember him, saw a small, white-haired, bent man, indistinguishable from many other clergymen of seventy-odd: though it occurred to her that the lines on his face did not seem to have been formed by tender and happy emotions. He said: ‘How glad I am that you could come. Mrs Chumley, I hope I find you in better health than the last time we met? Miss Chumley, I have not seen you since you were quite a little girl. I hope you will not find this too dull an evening, so many old people – but to be sure, what can you possibly reply to that? Now, allow me introduce you to Mr Mountjoy, who is to take you in to dinner.’

  *

  For nearly twenty years now, Onslow had had the reputation of being a dear, good old man, and he wished he honestly deserved it. It was guilt that made him behave like one. He could not believe in
God, but the Church of England supported him, and he repaid it not only by scrupulously performing his duties, but by being as agreeable as he could. He had behaved throughout exactly as he decided to do when he told Primrose that he had lost his faith.

  Seven years ago, he had stopped being agreeable at Hinterton, and had come to be equally agreeable as Dean of Maidstone. He accepted the deanery not because his old, fierce ambition still moved him, but because he could not stand the loneliness of life in the north without Louisa, who had died in 1883, six months before her brother. Anstey-Ward was also dead by that time, and so nothing stood in his way, not even the consideration that people would not imagine him to be quite so saintly and humble as before. That reputation oppressed him; it hardly ever made him laugh as it once did, and he would have been glad to lose it. But people in fact thought it only right that such a good and once-distinguished old man should have the ease of a deanery after many years of being a hard-working parish clergyman. A bishopric might perhaps have been another matter.

  Maidstone had been Primrose’s home, and having visited him frequently, Onslow had many friendly acquaintances among the local people. Accepting the deanery had been a good move, a sensible move, and Onslow had made it for modest and understandable reasons. He had been quiet and contented after making it. He knew he was doing well, even if under false pretences: but his new, gentle personality was in fact more genuine than he sometimes supposed. The belief that this life and this world were all had encouraged kindliness, if not virtue. As a Christian he had supposed that indulgence, especially of boys, would lead to ruin, but now he doubted this was so. No one was now in his power for good or evil, but he could be indulgent and tolerant of others in speech, and he was so: even of university women, as Mr Chumley had said.

  Just at present, Onslow was feeling unhappy. As he looked round his dinner-table, he thought it was a terrible thing that not a single person present knew what he was really like. Deep inside him an old, half-forgotten feeling began to stir: contempt for others’ blindness. He knew a wish to reveal himself to them; to reveal not his sins and his atheism, but merely his personality as it had been in the days of his vigour. He turned to Mrs Chumley on his right, who was quietly eating her roast saddle of mutton, and said:

  ‘Madam, it is a sad thing to outlive nearly all one’s own generation.’ She was astonished by this sudden observation, but quickly smiled.

  ‘Your thoughts have been wandering back to the past, have they, Dr Onslow?’

  ‘I am afraid so,’ said Onslow, and began to talk to her about Christmas services in the cathedral.

  *

  After dinner, the woman sitting next to Onslow in the drawing-room raised the topic of schools with him: as people did from time to time, even now. She was about to send her young son to Marlborough.

  ‘Do you think it is a good school, Dr Onslow? I had such difficulty in deciding between Marlborough and Lancing. I would have liked to send him to Charton, of course, but what with one thing and another –’

  Onslow thought briefly of how at least since Louisa died, he had never voiced his true opinion of modern public schools. He was going to do so now. Colour came into his loose cheeks and he said quietly:

  ‘Madam, all schools are alike. They exist in order to produce young men out of a single mould, and pressure of numbers only requires there to be many schools, not one.’

  ‘Indeed!’ said Mrs Brownlow, taken aback by his combination of a silky voice and cold, dismissive words.

  ‘Do not regret your inability to send your boy to Charton,’ Onslow continued. ‘It is in no way different from any other school: the man who succeeded me as headmaster saw to that.’

  ‘Did he?’

  Onslow talked on without looking at her.

  ‘You are aware perhaps that in my day Charton was most unusual in encouraging football and cricket? Many schools barely tolerated them, and as for masters’ involvement in them! Well, my successor, Dr Robertson, decided to move with the times. Some fifteen years ago he made them compulsory for all boys not twice a week as they had been, but six days a week, leaving them no holidays without exercise whatsoever. Now why, may you ask, has this monomania about games gripped the public schools of England?’

  ‘Games are so healthy …’ murmured Mrs Brownlow, glancing round for support: four people were now listening to Onslow.

  ‘Not at all, madam, the monomania has nothing to do with concern for boys’ health, it all began as a pandering first to stupidity and second to doubt. It was Muscular Christianity started it all. The attitude of the Muscular Christians, you see, was: cricket is manly, let us have cricket in Christ’s name, for really any more complex religion is so vulnerable in these days that it had best be ignored for its own protection.’

  He glanced at his increasing audience, and energy rushed through him, tingling in his fingers, as the words perfect for his purpose rushed into his brain. Picking up his coffee-cup with an unsteady hand, he spilt some of its lukewarm contents over his trousers, but not even bothering to dab at the spill with his handkerchief, he went on:

  ‘They say in effect in their sermons: Brethren, let us not trouble our English heads with the intricate debates which led Froude to infidelity and Newman to Rome. Let us love instead the Manliness of Christ, who was manly, yea, even though he never scored a century at Lord’s.’

  Everyone was staring at the Onslow they had never known, for his voice had been growing slowly louder and clearer, though his tone was still the opposite of agitated. Onslow saw Miss Chumley smiling at him with startled interest. The only young man present, who was entertaining Miss Chumley, said quickly:

  ‘I don’t think that’s quite fair, Dr Onslow.’

  ‘Did you enjoy your schooldays, Mr Mountjoy?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, blushing as he frowned.

  ‘Well, I am nonetheless sure you will agree with me when I say that it is now considered almost effeminate for a boy to love learning.’

  ‘That’s not quite fair either, if I may say so.’

  Onslow took no notice. ‘Games have replaced both learning and religion, and what is the result?’ he asked the silent company. ‘Young men of nineteen differ not at all from children of twelve, because both are supervised by masters turned into moral policemen.’ Dark rumours had reached Onslow of fierce campaigns against masturbation, a topic rarely hinted at in his time. ‘They have no time now for their own interests – natural history, and brass-rubbing, and collecting pieces of rubbish, and so forth. They are kept in swaddling-bands, and they emerge from their schools mere swaggering babies, whose true religion is the cultivation of good form.’

  Onslow got up from his chair, clutching his coffee-cup, thinking of how both when he was a schoolboy and when he was a master, religion had been a subject of absorbing importance to all intelligent boys, whatever their views on it. He had never regained a particle of faith, but he had kept all his wish to live in a religious world, a learned world, where people talked of things that mattered.

  ‘Do you know,’ he said, stirring his cup’s remaining contents, ‘in my day I was criticised for allowing older boys too much power over their juniors. But has that altered? No, that old supposed evil is in full force – the masters have merely pressed their weight down upon the young ones also.’

  ‘Dear me,’ said Mr Chumley dryly, hoping that Onslow would not excite himself further, for he was convinced that he must be excited, despite the fact he did not look or sound it.

  ‘Mrs Brownlow,’ said Onslow, turning to her, ‘my concluding advice to you is: Keep your boy at home with a tutor, unless you wish him to turn into a fool with none but pre-conceived opinions, incapable either of intellectual effort or of spontaneous feeling.’ He hesitated, and for the first time his expression became troubled, angry. ‘I think perhaps that is the worst of all: this hatred and fear of emotion which they call possession of a manly character, though Homer’s heroes and Our Lord himself knew and showed grief and passion.’
It was over twenty years since Onslow had mentioned Christ so easily and sincerely: he had achieved the brief wish he had felt at the dinner table, and had become again a young man, a Christian, talking as he might have talked to Primrose. ‘Oh, it used to be thought unmanly to cry for a physical hurt, but now it is thought so even for two boys to hold hands, to show their love for each other as the best of men have done since the beginning of time. In my opinion, it is a vile, atrocious thing, an impoverishment of the human spirit, this command to carry a stiff upper lip, of which we knew nothing.’ But I knew it, he thought, I was forced to know it – I was different, always different.

  Stopping at last, and looking at the stunned faces of those about him, he laughed.

  ‘I am sorry. I appear to have shocked you all very much.’

  ‘Not at all!’ someone managed to say.

  ‘Well sir,’ said young Mr Mountjoy bravely, ‘I suppose that in your day schools were better places for people with a lot of brains.’

  ‘They were indeed.’

  ‘But most of us don’t have many brains.’

  ‘Exactly so, sir. But it is the business of schools to cultivate those you have. You think not? Well, how shall I blame you for being a young man of your time? There, I fear I have offended you. Indeed, I have been shockingly rude to you! I don’t know what came over me – pray forgive me,’ he said, as sweetly as his audience was accustomed to hearing him speak.

  ‘Oh – mm – mustn’t mention it,’ the other muttered, pulling at his tie.

  Onslow sat down again, moving once more like an old man. He was feeling both exhausted and exhilarated. He would be an object of wonder in Maidstone for days. He was, he thought, extremely grateful to Mrs Brownlow for giving him his opportunity; and he treated her with tender courtesy for the rest of the evening.