A Tender Victory

by Taylor Caldwell

  Johnny quietly laid down his fork. He fixed his eyes intently on the good-natured plumber. “Minority?” he asked, in a tone of wonder and perplexity. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. What is a minority? Do you mean a political party?”

  Dr. McManus rolled a chewed wad of meat between his lower molars and his cheek and smirked. The men exchanged baffled glances, and the ladies listened with an intensity that alarmed the minister. Mr. Krantz waved his hand helplessly. “No, I don’t exactly mean a political party, though I guess you could call the losing party a minority. Don’t know. You hear so much of stuffed ballot boxes these days, and monkeyshines around the voting machines. Don’t know. No, I was meaning these here minority groups, like religious, and races, and—er—churches, and such, and labor and capital and big business, and professions, teachers and such, and doctors and lawyers, and small business. You know. Minorities.”

  Johnny’s hands clenched on the table, but he spoke quietly for all the passionate blue blaze of his eyes. “I take it you mean you are a member of the majority, then, Mr. Krantz, and not a member of a minority?”

  “Well, yes,” replied Mr. Krantz uncertainly.

  “You’ve named minority groups, Mr. Krantz. And now, will you tell me what group outside those you’ve named you belong to?”

  “Well,” began Mr. Krantz. Then he stopped. He searched his mind, and was silent.

  Johnny’s voice, though still insistent, was kinder. “Profession? Small business? A certain race? A certain church? A certain background?”

  “Well,” muttered Mr. Krantz.

  Johnny smiled. He was breathing a little fast. “I think you are wondering now which minority group you belong to, Mr. Krantz.” He turned to the other men. “And what minority group do you other gentlemen belong to?”

  “None,” Mr. Wolfe blurted with astonishment. “Or”—and he too was silent.

  “Exactly,” said Johnny, and leaned back in his chair. “No one in the world belongs to a minority group. No one belongs to a majority group, either. You are logical people. Take apart the question of minorities with the help of logic; think about the question for just one minute. And you’ll see, almost at once, that it is a delusion, a lie. You’ll see that the idea of minorities was thought up by the enemies of men, to divide them, to raise up unnatural and illogical hatred between them, to create nonexistent delusions about classes and other nations, in order to foment internal and external strife. These enemies have only one object: to confuse, to destroy, to seize power. They hate us all.”

  There was a deep silence in the hall. Every fork halted; hands lifting coffee cups paused in the very act. Every brow wrinkled; every mouth pursed; every head bent in thought. Dr. McManus sniffled loudly. No one looked at him. Johnny’s eye traveled about the table.

  He said with great gentleness, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God.’ Logos, the Word, also means logic, reason as manifested by speech. Using logic, which is of God, we know there are no minorities. Using the Word, which is of God, we know that there are no real divisions among men, only evil delusions born of minds swirling in hell.”

  They looked up at him then, sharply. They saw him sitting there, tall and with a new majesty and authority, for all the blue and vigorous kindness of his eyes, for all his youth.

  “Kind of theological reasoning I don’t like,” said Dr. McManus, watching the others closely. “Never mind. Johnny, what’s this hell business? You ain’t the kind of parson who’s going to insult us on Sundays talking about medieval hell, are you? You, a modern minister? What is hell, anyway?” He gave the table a patronizing wink.

  “Hell?” asked Johnny thoughtfully. “Of course there’s a hell. What has being modern got to do with it? Does being modern reject the idea of the undiscovered universes, the invisible microscopic world, the mysterious powers of the mind, which are unseen, the uncharted ebbs and flows of human emotions, the passions of the spirit which have created civilizations and beauties and schools of thought, and philosophy, and cultures and infinite varieties? But if you come down to concrete facts, all these things don’t exist, because they aren’t visible. Yet we know they exist.

  “Hell?” he repeated, after a long pause. “Certainly. And what is hell? The complete absence of God. A place, a state of mind or spirit, in which God is not. Think of it, if only for one minute. A place where God is not. Think of the cold anguish of such a place, of such a mind or spirit; think of the bitter, sad rage of such a state, the endless despair, the hatred, the madness. That is hell.”

  No one answered him. Dr. McManus regarded him in stony silence.

  “Yet,” said Johnny, “God descended into hell. No pastor has ever quite answered the question why. Not logically, anyway. Did He go there, after He died on the cross, to warn the realm of evil that it could no longer rule the world? Or—and I think myself this is a more reasonable answer—did He go there to bring hope to the hopeless?”

  Mrs. Wolfe, a fundamentalist lady, bridled. She coughed. “Mr. Fletcher, hell, I believe, according to the Bible, is eternal.”

  Johnny became very somber. “Of course it is. As long as a soul permits it to be.”

  He let them ponder that for a few moments. Here and there a tired face suddenly brightened, as if a wisp of light had passed over it. So, he thought compassionately, there are some here tonight who have despaired of being saved.

  He thought the time had come to speak of that of which he must speak. He said, and his voice startled them out of their bemusement, “Now that we’ve finished dinner I must tell you something. You know that I have brought five children from Europe with me. But you don’t know their history. I will tell it now.”

  He told them, in vivid phrases, with vivid gestures. They listened, fascinated, absorbed. Horror leaped across some of the women’s faces; reservation pouted some of the women’s mouths. The men were incredulous, disgusted, sympathetic, or embarrassed. They twiddled their silver; they ran fingers around their necks. They avoided each other’s eyes. One or two flushed. But they could not turn away from Johnny’s face, and his glowing eyes, however they tried.

  “And so,” he concluded, “here are these children with me. I am their father. I am adopting them. I have given them my name in advance. I am the only hope they have. What I have done for them I have done, and will continue to do. But the rest is your responsibility.”

  Mrs. McGee, who had become crimson with emotion and whose eyes were filled with tears, said impulsively, “Mr. Fletcher, you know we’ll do what we can. Ladies,” and she turned to her friends, “we can promise Mr. Fletcher that, can’t we? We’ll sort of adopt the children ourselves. We’ll clothe them. We’ll put them in Sunday school. Civilize them. Be mothers to them.”

  The ladies nodded vigorously at their president. Mr. Krantz cleared his throat. “Maybe we can have a little fund, putting a couple dollars in the bank every month in their names, so they can get educations. Huh?” The men hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. Mr. McGee was the last to nod. He was still thinking of labor and capital, which the parson said did not really exist. He’d have to go over that in his mind tonight, when he was in bed. It was very confusing.

  Mrs. Wolfe said, “I heard the children range from five to twelve, Mr. Fletcher. I’m assistant to the superintendent of the Sunday school—my husband. I’ll take a personal interest in the children.”

  Aha, thought Dr. McManus with glee. Now comes the revolution. Johnny was coloring. He regarded them with grave sadness.

  “I have just been talking to you about the artificial concept of minorities. I think you agree with me. But there are, I must admit, different schools of thought, a subjective world. None of these are dangerous unless we permit them to be, unless we give them an objective existence.”

  He looked at them anxiously, praying that they followed him. They were simple, insular people. Yet God had made such people understand, with His parables. They might be slow, but they came to solid understanding at last.

/>   “When we make our subjective opinions, which are part of the infinite variety of the human soul, objective reality, we commit a profound logical error. Here is a late rose. I call it red; we all agree it is red. Yet, if we had the power this instant to look at this rose with the eyes of others, we might see a color which we do not call red. Who can tell us the subjective color we see is objective? Who shall dare to tell us that we are wrong? Suppose others might decide we were dangerous to call this color an entirely different color, and oppress us accordingly? How can a soul, which is subjective, be made to conform to objective illusions?”

  They followed him intuitively, but they were also bewildered. Johnny turned to Dr. McManus, who was grinning nastily. “Doctor,” he said, “you perform many operations every week. You will agree that though the structure of the human body is roughly the same, it is in its various parts, entirely unique and different from any other human body. You will agree that not a single human being reacts to any situation, either mental or physical, with exactly the same intensity or in the same way as another.”

  “All right. I agree,” said Dr. McManus, lighting another cigarette. He winked at Johnny. “A good lecture you just gave. Get on with it.”

  Johnny sighed. A feeling of gray exhaustion was beginning to pervade him. He closed his eyes for an instant, and prayed for help.

  “Not a leaf, a tree, a mountain, a world, or man, is just like any other leaf, tree, mountain, world, or man. That is the beauty of God’s creation. No uniformity, no conforming. Uniformity is the death of the soul. And that is why we have so many seemingly—and I say seemingly—different religions in the world. But in reality they are not different. They are only aspects, among the countless aspects, of God, whether Christian, Jewish, Mohammedan, Buddhist, or anything else. There has never been anything else but one Shepherd. It is up to us, spiritually, to be one Fold.”

  He stood up now, and gathered all the eyes together toward him.

  “And that is why I must tell you something. That is why, in all justice to you, I must tell you something you don’t know, and wait on your decision as to whether or not you’ll keep me here, as your pastor.”

  They were astonished. They sat upright in their chairs.

  “Why,” stammered Mr. Long, “I thought that was all settled.”

  Johnny smiled sorrowfully, and shook his head. “I don’t think so.

  “Let me tell you. I’ve had these children almost a year now. I’ve listened to them in their nightmares. I’ve listened to the very few hints they’ve dropped, unknowingly, about their origins.” He drew a deep breath. “I have an unshakable respect for the individuality of man, for his individual roots. Children, above all things, must feel their roots, for without them they have no subjective security.

  “And so I have discovered that Kathy and little Emilie had Protestant roots. I have found out that Jean and Pietro had Catholic roots. And Max, the most frightfully injured of them all, is a Jew. All of these terms are subjective, but the children have a right to have their roots, to have a frame of reference, to know that though they have a variety of belief, they have only one Shepherd, only one God.”

  Mr. Krantz spluttered, “One’s a Jew? Two are Catholics?” He was aghast.

  “You mean,” asked Mr. Lovitt, outraged, “that you, a Protestant minister, are actually planning to let three of those kids not be Protestants? Don’t you believe in your religion?”

  A buzz of indignation and affront filled the hall. Every man turned to his neighbor noisily. Exclamations rose like a swarm of gnats. Hands fluttered, gestured. Johnny waited in silence, and Dr. McManus watched his saddened face.

  “Can’t have it,” said Mr. Krantz decidedly.

  “Course not,” said Mr. McGee.

  “Ridiculous,” said Mr. Wolfe.

  “Wouldn’t even think of it,” said Mrs. Sherwood, with new indignation. “What would the congregation say?”

  “It’s insulting,” said Mrs. Williams. “An insult to our church.”

  Suddenly they paused. They turned accusingly to Dr. McManus. “You haven’t said a word!” exclaimed Mrs. Sherwood. “And you the President of the church Board.”

  But Dr. McManus looked at Johnny jeeringly. He spread out his hands. “Well, that’s the end of your subjective lecture, boy. Better start packing.”

  He turned to the others, who were flushing. “I knew he wasn’t for us. I told him. Imagine what he thought about us! He insulted us by thinking we were decent human beings, with decent sympathy and understanding! He actually thought we were different from all other people. Insulting, I call it.”

  They all became very still. Only their stiff eyes blinked. Under his breath the doctor chuckled.

  “Well?” said Johnny, after the silence became too oppressive.

  The men turned to one another speechlessly, and the women also.

  “We don’t want a parson who thinks we’re better than other folks,” Dr. McManus went on. “We want a parson who knows we’re liars, and that we lie in our teeth when we talk about the Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of Man. We want somebody who won’t bother us, and won’t make us practice our religion of tolerance and kindness and love. Because we know we don’t have such a religion.”

  Mrs. McGee, president of the Ladies’ Aid, turned a vivid scarlet. She turned on the doctor furiously. “We are so Christians!” she cried.

  “Are you?” asked Dr. McManus. “Who told you you were? Haven’t seen any manifestations of it yet. A wise old feller once said, ‘There was only one Christian, and He was crucified.’ True. Read your papers; think over history. Christians? Naturally we’re not, and we never were. Not a mother’s son of us.”

  He lit still another cigarette, while they watched him with ashamed anger.

  “And that’s why I want to pull down this church. Got a big mortgage on it. We need a parking lot hereabouts. Good income. Can always use more income. So. I’m going to pull down this church. Den of hypocrisy. Hate hypocrisy more than anything else in the world.”

  “Your father’s church!” said Mr. Schoeffel weakly.

  Dr. McManus nodded gloomily. “That’s right. Come to think of it, maybe he was a Christian. Or as near as he could come to being one. But he wouldn’t want a church to stand that wasn’t a Christian church, and so it comes down.”

  “If you think you can bully us”—said Mrs. Sherwood, with tears in her eyes.

  “I’m not bullying you, madam. I’m just telling you the truth.”

  “Yes, you are! You’re telling us that if we disageee with Mr. Fletcher about the children’s religion you’ll pull down the church.”

  He shook his finger irately at the poor woman. “I never said that at all! I don’t give a damn whether he and his brats stay here or not. Frankly, I never wanted him here, don’t want him now. He and his Christianity! Make everybody too damn uncomfortable. I vote against him.” He looked at them slowly, thoroughly. “Well? What’s your vote?”

  Johnny squeezed his eyes shut, and the gray exhaustion flowed away from him. He heard rustlings about him, mutters, snorts, whispers, flutterings, the scraping of chairs. “Come on, vote,” said the doctor irascibly. “I’ve got five hospital calls to make tonight. One vote for no. That’s me.”

  “But what of the rest of the congregation?” demanded Mr. Wolfe.

  “Well, sir, you’re the Board. And the ladies are the Ladies’ Aid. That’s your job. You got your positions here by being a little brighter—but only a little brighter—than the rest of the dumb bas—I mean, sheep.” The doctor shrugged, and pulled a mighty cloud on his cigarette. Mrs. Sherwood angrily waved it aside.

  Johnny opened his eyes. He looked on each face, piercingly, but gently and compassionately. The ladies gulped. The men blew their noses.

  Then Mr. McGee shouted, “Yes!” And he struck his fist so mightily on the table that the dishes plopped.

  “Yes!” cried the others, men and women alike.

  They beamed, they shone with joy
and affection, resolution filled their eyes. They turned their full smiles upon Johnny, and they reached their hands across the table to shake his. “We’ll help,” said Mr. Krantz. “Hell, I’m a Christian, ain’t I?”

  “Yes,” said Johnny. “We all are.” He looked at Dr. McManus, and repeated, “We all are.”

  A kind of elation filled the ladies and the gentlemen. They glowed with delight and love. Each looked at the other, as if discovering a delightful stranger, deserving of tenderness and understanding. Hand touched hand, shyly. Tears ran down the ladies’ cheeks, tears of joy and exaltation.

  Johnny stood up, and they rose with him, in simple unanimity.

  “Dear God, Our Father,” he prayed, “look upon Thy children with love, for we have been delivered from darkness, from hatred, from ignorance. Bless us, Father, and give us strength and courage, and accept our contrition and our penances. Be merciful to us, Almighty God, and be our Rock in a weary land. In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  The people stood about him afterward, trying to get closer to him, feeling comfort in him. Hands touched his shoulders, his arms, his hands. He had never seen such a brightness in all his life, and his heart was humble. “Grant me the grace to lead Thy sheep, O God,” he prayed inwardly.

  He walked with them to the door. Dr. McManus was beside him. He bent to the old man to whisper hastily, and with a smile, “Who is the hypocrite now?” he asked, and laughed a little.

  9

  The rain had stopped, but the sun did not shine. The foreboding of autumn hung in the air like a sad fog, though the trees stood in strenuous green and the small lawn about the rectory of the Reverend John Kanty Krupszyk had the poisonous brilliance of artificial grass. Johnny could see the bleak street, gaunt in the early autumn gloom, through the long windows of the astonishingly large library. He shrewdly came to the conclusion that this room was not only library, but the study and the parlor too, and there were faint marks on the ceiling which indicated partitions had been removed. Nevertheless the library was impressive, every wall lined with books in crimson, blue, brown, and black, the almost bare floor darkly and highly polished, the chairs sparse but covered with leather cushions. Father Krupszyk’s desk was undoubtedly his own personal possession, of which he was proud. Leather-topped, of almost black wood, it had gilt handles and carved sides.