Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  Vicar.

  Look in your own heart and say if you are not conscious of grievous, terrible sin.

  John.

  Frankly, I’m not.

  Vicar.

  Do you mean to say that you have nothing to reproach yourself with?

  John.

  I’ve done a certain number of things which I think were rather foolish, but I can’t think of anything that I’m particularly ashamed of.

  Vicar.

  Do you mean to tell me that you’ve always been perfectly chaste?

  John.

  I’m normal and healthy. I’ve been no more chaste than any other man of my age.

  Vicar.

  And isn’t that sin?

  John.

  I don’t think so. I think it’s human nature.

  Vicar.

  We’re arguing at cross-purposes. If when you say “white” you mean what the rest of the world calls “black,” all words are futile.

  John.

  [With a smile.] The singular thing is that if I’d answered your question with a “yes,” you would probably have thought me a liar or a fool.

  Vicar.

  This terrible condition of humanity, which seems to cry out against the very idea either of man’s dignity, or of God’s justice, has but one explanation, and that is sin.

  John.

  You’re referring to the war? It needs some explaining, doesn’t it?

  Vicar.

  Every Christian must have asked himself why God allows the infamous horror of war. I’m told the padres are constantly being asked by the brave lads at the Front why the Almighty allows it to continue. I can’t blame anyone for being puzzled. I’ve wrestled with the question long and anxiously.... I can’t believe that God would leave His children to suffer without a clue to His intention.

  Mrs. Poole.

  The ways of God are inscrutable. How can we tell what are the aims of the eternal? We only know that they are good.

  John.

  Meanwhile men are being killed like flies, their wives and mothers are left desolate, and their children fatherless.

  Vicar.

  You mustn’t forget exactly what is meant by “Almighty.” It means not so much able to do all things as powerful over all things.

  John.

  Ah, the padre of my regiment told me that. I may be very stupid, but I think the distinction rather fine. For the plain man the difficulty remains. Either God can’t stop the war even if He wants to, or He can stop it and won’t.

  Mrs. Poole.

  In my opinion there can be no hesitation. It is written: “Not a sparrow shall fall on the ground without your Father.”

  Vicar.

  Remember that we have free will and God makes use of our free will to punish us and to teach us and to make us more worthy of His grace and mercy. Man, born in sin, justly brought this long-drawn disaster on himself as surely as Adam brought on himself the divine punishment which we all inherit.

  John.

  If I saw two small boys fighting I’d separate them, even though one was a lazy little beggar and the other had stolen Farmer Giles’ apples. I wouldn’t sit by and let them seriously hurt one another so that they should be better boys in future.

  Mrs. Poole.

  But you speak as though all this suffering must be useless. We all know how suffering can purify and elevate. I’ve seen it myself over and over again.

  Dr. Macfarlane.

  People say that. They’re generally thinking of elderly ladies in comfortable circumstances who with the aid of a very good doctor show a becoming resignation in a chronic disease.

  John.

  I should like some of those people who talk about the purifying influence of suffering to have a mouthful of gas and see how they liked it.

  Vicar.

  The war is terrible. Its cruelty is terrible. The suffering it has caused is terrible. There is only one explanation for it; and that is the loving kindness and the infinite mercy of our heavenly Father.

  John.

  Can you bring yourself to believe that?

  Vicar.

  We were given over to drunkenness and lust, to selfishness and flippancy and pride. It needed this tremendous trial to purify us. It will be a nobler England that comes out of the furnace. Oh, I pray to God that all this blood may wash our souls clean so that we may once more be found worthy in His sight.

  Mrs. Poole.

  Amen.

  John.

  You must evidently know much more about it than I do. When the men in my company did things I thought were wrong I used to jolly them a bit. I fancy I got better results than if I’d bashed them on the head with a sledge-hammer.

  Vicar.

  Sin began with the beginning of the human story and has continued through all its course. The motive of the divine redemption lies in the fact that men, though created for so lofty a purpose, have plunged so deep into sin and have so deeply defaced in themselves the image of God, that only the self-sacrificing act of God in redeeming them can raise them from ruin.

  John.

  I wish you’d been a company-commander and had seen how gaily a man can give his life for his friend.

  Vicar.

  But I know, my dear boy, I know. And do you think God will be unmindful of their sacrifice? I pray and believe that they will find mercy in His sight. I am sure He is more ready to pardon than to punish. After all, our Lord came to call sinners to repentance, and who should know better than the Ministers of God that to err is human, to forgive, divine?

  [The piquet players have played their game with a certain distraction, and during the last few speeches have made no more pretence of playing at all. Mrs. Littlewood has listened attentively. Now she puts down her cards, gets up, and walks up to the Vicar.

  Mrs. Littlewood.

  And who is going to forgive God?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  [With horror.] Charlotte!

  Vicar.

  [With grave disapproval.] Don’t you think that is rather blasphemous?

  Mrs. Littlewood.

  [Quietly and deliberately at first, but with ever-increasing excitement.] Ever since I was a child I’ve served God with all my might, and with all my heart, and with all my soul. I’ve tried always to lead my life in accordance with His will. I never forgot that I was as nothing in His sight. I’ve been weak and sinful, but I’ve tried to do my duty.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  Yes, dear, you’ve been an example to us all.

  Mrs. Littlewood.

  [Taking no notice.] Honestly, I’ve done everything I could that I thought was pleasing in His sight. I’ve praised Him and magnified His name. You’ve heard that my husband deserted me when I’d borne him two children, and I was left alone. I brought them up to be honest, upright and God-fearing men. When God took my eldest son I wept, but I turned to the Lord and said: “Thy will be done.” He was a soldier, and he took his chance, and he died in a good cause.

  Vicar.

  A great and a good cause.

  Mrs. Littlewood.

  But why did God take my second? He was the only one I had left, the only comfort of my old age, my only joy, the only thing I had to prevent me from seeing that my life had been wasted and it would have been better if I had never been born. I haven’t deserved that. When a horse has served me long and faithfully till he’s too old to work I have the right to send him to the knacker’s yard, but I don’t, I put him out to grass. I wouldn’t treat a dog as my Father has treated me. I’ve been cheated. You say that God will forgive us our sins, but who is going to forgive God? Not I. Never. Never!

  [In a height of frenzy she rushes out into the garden. There is silence in the room.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  Don’t be angry with her, Vicar. She’s beside herself with grief.

  Vicar.

  She’ll come back. She’s like a petulant child that has been thwarted for its good. It cries and stamps, but in a little while it throws itself into its mother’s
arms, and begs, all tears, for forgiveness.

  Mrs. Poole.

  [With a little sigh of relief.] I knew you’d take it like that, Norman. You’re so tolerant and broad-minded.

  Vicar.

  I think I see my way to help her, poor soul.

  John.

  I wonder how. Your only explanation of evil is sin. I daresay you can get people to acknowledge that they’ve deserved their own suffering. But you’ll never prevent them from being revolted at the suffering of others. Why is evil permitted in the world by an all-good God?

  Vicar.

  I can hardly hope that any answer of mine will satisfy you. By God’s grace I am a Christian. You are an atheist.

  [There is a moment’s embarrassment. John realises that his mother or Sylvia has repeated what he has said.

  John.

  That suggests a very dogmatic attitude. I don’t see how anyone can positively assert that there is no God. It would be as reasonable as to assert that there’s nothing on the other side of a wall that you can’t look over.

  Vicar.

  Do you believe in God?

  John.

  I don’t think it’s quite your business to ask me. [With a smile.] Wasn’t it St. Paul who said: “Be not zealous overmuch.”

  Vicar.

  You can’t be unaware that by certain statements of yours the other day you gave the greatest pain to those nearest and dearest to you.

  Sylvia.

  What you said made me very unhappy, John. I didn’t know what to do. I went to the Vicar and asked his advice.

  John.

  Don’t you think that a man’s belief is his own affair? I don’t want to interfere with other people’s. Why can’t they leave me quietly to mine?

  Sylvia.

  It can’t be entirely your affair, John. You and I propose to be married to-morrow. It’s only reasonable that I should know exactly how you stand in a matter that concerns me so closely.

  John.

  I hadn’t thought of that. I daresay there’s something in what you say. I’m willing to do my best to explain to you and to father and mother. But I really think we needn’t drag strangers in.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  I think it would be much better if you would talk with the Vicar, John. We don’t pretend to be very clever, and it wouldn’t mean much if you asked us questions that we couldn’t answer.

  Vicar.

  When you’re ill you send for a doctor, he prescribes for you, and you get well.

  John.

  [With a smile.] What do you think of that, doctor?

  Dr. Macfarlane.

  It is an idea that we do our little best to spread about the world.

  Vicar.

  Anyhow, you take a doctor’s advice and you don’t argue with him. Why? Because he’s an expert, and you presume that he knows his business. Why should the science of the immortal soul be a less complicated affair than the science of the perishable body?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  Look upon us as very silly, old-fashioned people, and be kind to us. If various doubts are troubling you, put them frankly before the Vicar. Perhaps he can help you.

  Vicar.

  [Sincerely.] Believe me, I’ll do everything in my power.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  And if he can convince you that you were wrong, I know you too well to dream that pride would stop you from confessing it. It would give us such heartfelt joy, my dear, if you could believe again as you did when you were a little child and used to say your prayers kneeling on my lap.

  Vicar.

  I really think I can help you. Won’t you forget that I’m a stranger and let me try?

  Dr. Macfarlane.

  Perhaps you’d like me to leave you. I was only waiting till the Colonel had finished his game so that I might take him upstairs and have a look at him. But I can come back later.

  John.

  I don’t mind your staying at all. [To the Vicar.] What is it you wish to ask me?

  Vicar.

  Do you believe in the God in whose name you were baptised into the Church?

  John.

  No!

  Vicar.

  That at all events is frank and honest. But aren’t you a little out of date? One of the most gratifying occurrences of recent years has been the revival of belief among thoughtful men.

  John.

  I should have thought it was a revival of rhetoric rather than of religion. I’m not enormously impressed by the cultured journalist who uses God to balance a sentence or adorn a phrase.

  Vicar.

  But it hasn’t only been among educated men. Not the least remarkable thing about the war has been the return of our brave lads at the Front to the faith which so many of us thought they had forgotten. What is your explanation of that?

  John.

  Fear with the most part. Perplexity with the rest.

  Vicar.

  Don’t you think it very rash to reject a belief that all the ablest men in the world have held since the dawn of history?

  John.

  When you’re dealing with a belief, neither the number nor the ability of those who hold it makes it a certainty. Only proof can do that.

  Mrs. Poole.

  Are you quite sure that at the bottom of your heart it’s not conceit that makes you think differently from the rest of us?

  Vicar.

  No, my dear, let us not ascribe unworthy motives to our antagonist.

  John.

  [Smiling.] At all events, not yet.

  Vicar.

  What makes you think that the existence of God can’t be proved?

  John.

  I suppose at this time of day people wouldn’t still be proving it if proof were possible.

  Vicar.

  My dear fellow, the fact that there is no people on the face of the earth, however barbarous and degraded, without some belief in God, is the most conclusive proof you can want.

  John.

  What of? It’s conclusive proof that the desire for His existence is universal. It’s not proof that the desire is fulfilled.

  Vicar.

  I see you have the usual Rationalistic arguments at your fingers’ ends. Believe me, they’re old friends, and if I’ve answered them once I’ve answered them a thousand times.

  John.

  And have you ever convinced anyone who wasn’t convinced before?

  Vicar.

  I can’t make the blind to see, you know.

  John.

  I wonder that hasn’t suggested to you a very obvious conclusion.

  Vicar.

  What?

  John.

  Why, that arguments are futile. Think for a minute. You don’t believe in God for any of the reasons that are given for His existence. You believe in Him because with all your heart you feel that He exists. No argument can ever touch that feeling. The heart is independent of logic and its rules.

  Vicar.

  I daresay there’s something in what you say.

  John.

  Well, it’s the same with me. If you ask me why I don’t believe in the existence of God I suppose I can give you a certain number of reasons, but the real one, the one that gives all the others their force, is that I feel it in my heart.

  Vicar.

  What is the cause of your feeling?

  John.

  I’m sure you’ll think it very insufficient. I had a friend and he was killed.

  Vicar.

  I’m afraid one must be prepared to lose one’s friends in a war like this.

  John.

  I daresay it’s very silly and sentimental of me. One gets used to one’s pals dying. Someone says to you: “So-and-So’s knocked out.” And you answer: “Is he really? Poor chap.” And you don’t think very much more about it. Robbie Harrison wasn’t quite an ordinary man.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  I was afraid you’d feel his death very much. You never mentioned it in your letters. I felt it was because you couldn’t bear to speak
of it.

  John.

  He was one of those lucky beggars who do everything a little better than anybody else. He was clever and awfully nice-looking and amusing. I never knew anyone who loved life so much as he did.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  Yes, I remember his saying to me once: “Isn’t it ripping to be alive?”

  John.

  But there was something more in him than that. He had one quality which was rather out of the ordinary. It’s difficult to explain what it was like. It seemed to shine about him like a mellow light. It was like the jolly feeling of the country in May. And do you know what it was? Goodness. Just goodness. He was the sort of man that I should like to be.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  He was a dear.

  John.

  I was awfully excited when war was declared. I was in India at the time. I moved heaven and earth to get out to the Front. I thought war the noblest sport in the world. I found it a dreary, muddy, dirty, stinking, bloody business. And I suppose Robbie’s death was the last straw. It seemed so unjust. I don’t know that it was grief so much that I felt as indignation. I was revolted by all the horror and pain and suffering.

  Mrs. Poole.

  You must have seen some dreadful things.

  John.

  Perhaps it’s Christianity that has shown us the possibility of a higher morality than Christianity teaches. I daresay I’m quite wrong. I can only tell you that all that’s moral in my soul revolts at the thought of a God who can permit the monstrous iniquity of war. I can’t believe that there is a God in heaven.

  Vicar.

  But do you realise that if there isn’t, the world is meaningless?

  John.

  That may be. But if there is it’s infamous.

  Vicar.

  What have you got to put in the place of religion? What answer can you give to the riddle of the universe?

  John.

  I may think your answer wrong and yet have no better one to put in its place.

  Vicar.

  Have you nothing to tell us at all when we ask you why man is here and what is his destiny? You are like a rudderless ship in a stormy sea.

  John.

  I suppose the human race has arisen under the influence of conditions which are part of the earth’s history, and under the influence of other conditions it will come to an end. I don’t see that there is any more meaning in life than in the statement that two and two are four.

  Sylvia.

  [With suppressed passion.] Then you think that all our efforts and struggles, our pain and sorrow, our aims, are senseless?