It occurred neither to Hayward nor to Weeks that the conversations which
helped them to pass an idle evening were being turned over afterwards in
Philip's active brain. It had never struck him before that religion was a
matter upon which discussion was possible. To him it meant the Church of
England, and not to believe in its tenets was a sign of wilfulness which
could not fail of punishment here or hereafter. There was some doubt in
his mind about the chastisement of unbelievers. It was possible that a
merciful judge, reserving the flames of hell for the heathen--Mahommedans,
Buddhists, and the rest--would spare Dissenters and Roman Catholics
(though at the cost of how much humiliation when they were made to realise
their error!), and it was also possible that He would be pitiful to those
who had had no chance of learning the truth,--this was reasonable enough,
though such were the activities of the Missionary Society there could not
be many in this condition--but if the chance had been theirs and they had
neglected it (in which category were obviously Roman Catholics and
Dissenters), the punishment was sure and merited. It was clear that the
miscreant was in a parlous state. Perhaps Philip had not been taught it in
so many words, but certainly the impression had been given him that only
members of the Church of England had any real hope of eternal happiness.
One of the things that Philip had heard definitely stated was that the
unbeliever was a wicked and a vicious man; but Weeks, though he believed
in hardly anything that Philip believed, led a life of Christian purity.
Philip had received little kindness in his life, and he was touched by the
American's desire to help him: once when a cold kept him in bed for three
days, Weeks nursed him like a mother. There was neither vice nor
wickedness in him, but only sincerity and loving-kindness. It was
evidently possible to be virtuous and unbelieving.
Also Philip had been given to understand that people adhered to other
faiths only from obstinacy or self-interest: in their hearts they knew
they were false; they deliberately sought to deceive others. Now, for the
sake of his German he had been accustomed on Sunday mornings to attend the
Lutheran service, but when Hayward arrived he began instead to go with him
to Mass. He noticed that, whereas the Protestant church was nearly empty
and the congregation had a listless air, the Jesuit on the other hand was
crowded and the worshippers seemed to pray with all their hearts. They had
not the look of hypocrites. He was surprised at the contrast; for he knew
of course that the Lutherans, whose faith was closer to that of the Church
of England, on that account were nearer the truth than the Roman
Catholics. Most of the men--it was largely a masculine congregation--were
South Germans; and he could not help saying to himself that if he had been
born in South Germany he would certainly have been a Roman Catholic. He
might just as well have been born in a Roman Catholic country as in
England; and in England as well in a Wesleyan, Baptist, or Methodist
family as in one that fortunately belonged to the church by law
established. He was a little breathless at the danger he had run. Philip
was on friendly terms with the little Chinaman who sat at table with him
twice each day. His name was Sung. He was always smiling, affable, and
polite. It seemed strange that he should frizzle in hell merely because he
was a Chinaman; but if salvation was possible whatever a man's faith was,
there did not seem to be any particular advantage in belonging to the
Church of England.
Philip, more puzzled than he had ever been in his life, sounded Weeks. He
had to be careful, for he was very sensitive to ridicule; and the
acidulous humour with which the American treated the Church of England
disconcerted him. Weeks only puzzled him more. He made Philip acknowledge
that those South Germans whom he saw in the Jesuit church were every bit
as firmly convinced of the truth of Roman Catholicism as he was of that of
the Church of England, and from that he led him to admit that the
Mahommedan and the Buddhist were convinced also of the truth of their
respective religions. It looked as though knowing that you were right
meant nothing; they all knew they were right. Weeks had no intention of
undermining the boy's faith, but he was deeply interested in religion, and
found it an absorbing topic of conversation. He had described his own
views accurately when he said that he very earnestly disbelieved in almost
everything that other people believed. Once Philip asked him a question,
which he had heard his uncle put when the conversation at the vicarage had
fallen upon some mildly rationalistic work which was then exciting
discussion in the newspapers.
"But why should you be right and all those fellows like St. Anselm and St.
Augustine be wrong?"
"You mean that they were very clever and learned men, while you have grave
doubts whether I am either?" asked Weeks.
"Yes," answered Philip uncertainly, for put in that way his question
seemed impertinent.
"St. Augustine believed that the earth was flat and that the sun turned
round it."
"I don't know what that proves."
"Why, it proves that you believe with your generation. Your saints lived
in an age of faith, when it was practically impossible to disbelieve what
to us is positively incredible."
"Then how d'you know that we have the truth now?"
"I don't."
Philip thought this over for a moment, then he said:
"I don't see why the things we believe absolutely now shouldn't be just as
wrong as what they believed in the past."
"Neither do I."
"Then how can you believe anything at all?"
"I don't know."
Philip asked Weeks what he thought of Hayward's religion.
"Men have always formed gods in their own image," said Weeks. "He believes
in the picturesque."
Philip paused for a little while, then he said:
"I don't see why one should believe in God at all."
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he realised that he had
ceased to do so. It took his breath away like a plunge into cold water. He
looked at Weeks with startled eyes. Suddenly he felt afraid. He left Weeks
as quickly as he could. He wanted to be alone. It was the most startling
experience that he had ever had. He tried to think it all out; it was very
exciting, since his whole life seemed concerned (he thought his decision
on this matter must profoundly affect its course) and a mistake might lead
to eternal damnation; but the more he reflected the more convinced he was;
and though during the next few weeks he read books, aids to scepticism,
with eager interest it was only to confirm him in what he felt
instinctively. The fact was that he had ceased to believe not for this
reason or the other, but because he had not the religious temperament.
Faith had been forced upon him from the outside. It was a matter of
environment and example. A new environment and a new example gave him the
opportunity to find himself. He put off the faith of his childhood quite
simply, like a cloak that he no longer needed. At first life seemed
strange and lonely without the belief which, though he never realised it,
had been an unfailing support. He felt like a man who has leaned on a
stick and finds himself forced suddenly to walk without assistance. It
really seemed as though the days were colder and the nights more solitary.
But he was upheld by the excitement; it seemed to make life a more
thrilling adventure; and in a little while the stick which he had thrown
aside, the cloak which had fallen from his shoulders, seemed an
intolerable burden of which he had been eased. The religious exercises
which for so many years had been forced upon him were part and parcel of
religion to him. He thought of the collects and epistles which he had been
made to learn by heart, and the long services at the Cathedral through
which he had sat when every limb itched with the desire for movement; and
he remembered those walks at night through muddy roads to the parish
church at Blackstable, and the coldness of that bleak building; he sat
with his feet like ice, his fingers numb and heavy, and all around was the
sickly odour of pomatum. Oh, he had been so bored! His heart leaped when
he saw he was free from all that.
He was surprised at himself because he ceased to believe so easily, and,
not knowing that he felt as he did on account of the subtle workings of
his inmost nature, he ascribed the certainty he had reached to his own
cleverness. He was unduly pleased with himself. With youth's lack of
sympathy for an attitude other than its own he despised not a little Weeks
and Hayward because they were content with the vague emotion which they
called God and would not take the further step which to himself seemed so
obvious. One day he went alone up a certain hill so that he might see a
view which, he knew not why, filled him always with wild exhilaration. It
was autumn now, but often the days were cloudless still, and then the sky
seemed to glow with a more splendid light: it was as though nature
consciously sought to put a fuller vehemence into the remaining days of
fair weather. He looked down upon the plain, a-quiver with the sun,
stretching vastly before him: in the distance were the roofs of Mannheim
and ever so far away the dimness of Worms. Here and there a more piercing
glitter was the Rhine. The tremendous spaciousness of it was glowing with
rich gold. Philip, as he stood there, his heart beating with sheer joy,
thought how the tempter had stood with Jesus on a high mountain and shown
him the kingdoms of the earth. To Philip, intoxicated with the beauty of
the scene, it seemed that it was the whole world which was spread before
him, and he was eager to step down and enjoy it. He was free from
degrading fears and free from prejudice. He could go his way without the
intolerable dread of hell-fire. Suddenly he realised that he had lost also
that burden of responsibility which made every action of his life a matter
of urgent consequence. He could breathe more freely in a lighter air. He
was responsible only to himself for the things he did. Freedom! He was his
own master at last. From old habit, unconsciously he thanked God that he
no longer believed in Him.
Drunk with pride in his intelligence and in his fearlessness, Philip
entered deliberately upon a new life. But his loss of faith made less
difference in his behaviour than he expected. Though he had thrown on one
side the Christian dogmas it never occurred to him to criticise the
Christian ethics; he accepted the Christian virtues, and indeed thought it
fine to practise them for their own sake, without a thought of reward or
punishment. There was small occasion for heroism in the Frau Professor's
house, but he was a little more exactly truthful than he had been, and he
forced himself to be more than commonly attentive to the dull, elderly
ladies who sometimes engaged him in conversation. The gentle oath, the
violent adjective, which are typical of our language and which he had
cultivated before as a sign of manliness, he now elaborately eschewed.
Having settled the whole matter to his satisfaction he sought to put it
out of his mind, but that was more easily said than done; and he could not
prevent the regrets nor stifle the misgivings which sometimes tormented
him. He was so young and had so few friends that immortality had no
particular attractions for him, and he was able without trouble to give up
belief in it; but there was one thing which made him wretched; he told
himself that he was unreasonable, he tried to laugh himself out of such
pathos; but the tears really came to his eyes when he thought that he
would never see again the beautiful mother whose love for him had grown
more precious as the years since her death passed on. And sometimes, as
though the influence of innumerable ancestors, Godfearing and devout, were
working in him unconsciously, there seized him a panic fear that perhaps
after all it was all true, and there was, up there behind the blue sky, a
jealous God who would punish in everlasting flames the atheist. At these
times his reason could offer him no help, he imagined the anguish of a
physical torment which would last endlessly, he felt quite sick with fear
and burst into a violent sweat. At last he would say to himself
desperately:
"After all, it's not my fault. I can't force myself to believe. If there
is a God after all and he punishes me because I honestly don't believe in
Him I can't help it."
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