“Does he, dare he, can he ever think straight or simply on any subject as any other man thinks, hedged in as he is by so many limitations?
“He is as shrewd, vain, worldly, self-seeking, ambitious, jealous, censorious, and all the rest, as you or I, Tray—for all his Christian profession—and just as fond of his kith and kin!
“He is considered a gentleman—which perhaps you and I are not—unless we happen to behave as such; it is a condition of his noble calling. Perhaps it’s in order to become a gentleman that he’s become a parson! It’s about as short a royal road as any to that enviable distinction—as short almost as her Majesty’s commission, and much safer, and much less expensive—within reach of the sons of most fairly successful butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers.
“While still a boy he has bound himself irrevocably to certain beliefs, which he will be paid to preserve and preach and enforce through life, and act up to through thick and thin—at all events, in the eyes of others—even his nearest and dearest—even the wife of his bosom.
“They are his bread and butter, these beliefs—and a man mustn’t quarrel with his bread and butter. But a parson must quarrel with those who don’t believe as he tells them!
“Yet a few years’ thinking and reading and experience of life, one would suppose, might possibly just shake his faith a little (just as though, instead of being parson, he had been tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, gentleman, apothecary, ploughboy, thief), and teach him that many of these beliefs are simply childish—and some of them very wicked indeed—and most immoral.
“It is very wicked and most immoral to believe, or affect to believe, and tell others to believe, that the unseen, unspeakable, unthinkable Immensity we’re all part and parcel of, source of eternal, infinite, indestructible life and light and might, is a kind of wrathful, glorified, and self-glorifying ogre in human shape, with human passions, and most inhuman hates—who suddenly made us out of nothing, one fine day—just for a freak—and made us so badly that we fell the next—and turned us adrift the day after—damned us from the very beginning—ab ovo—ab ovo usque ad malum—ha, ha!—and ever since! never gave us a chance!
“All-merciful Father, indeed! Why, the Prince of Darkness was an angel in comparison (and a gentleman into the bargain).
“Just think of it, Tray—a finger in every little paltry pie—an eye and an ear at every keyhole, even that of the larder, to catch us tripping, and find out if we’re praising loud enough, or grovelling low enough, or fasting hard enough—poor godforsaken worms!
“And if we’re naughty and disobedient, everlasting torment for us; torture of so hideous a kind that we wouldn’t inflict it on the basest criminal, not for one single moment!
“Or else, if we’re good and do as we are bid, an eternity of bliss so futile, so idle, and so tame that we couldn’t stand it for a week, but for thinking of its one horrible alternative, and of our poor brother forever and ever roasting away, and howling for the drop of water he never gets.
“Everlasting flame, or everlasting dishonor—nothing between!
“Isn’t it ludicrous as well as pitiful—a thing to make one snigger through one’s tears? Isn’t it a grievous sin to believe in such things as these, and go about teaching and preaching them, and being paid for it—a sin to be heavily chastised, and a shame? What a legacy!
“They were shocking bad artists, those conceited, narrow-minded Jews, those poor old doting monks and priests and bigots of the gruesome, dark age of faith! They couldn’t draw a bit—no perspective, no chiaro-oscuro; and it’s a woeful image they managed to evolve for us out of the depths of their fathomless ignorance, in their zeal to keep us off all the forbidden fruit we’re all so fond of, because we were built like that! And by whom? By our Maker, I suppose (who also made the forbidden fruit, and made it very nice—and put it so conveniently for you and me to see and smell and reach, Tray—and sometimes even pick, alas!).
“And even at that it’s a failure. Only the very foolish little birds are frightened into good behavior. The naughty ones laugh and wink at each other, and pull out its hair and beard when nobody’s looking, and build their nests out of the straw it’s stuffed with (the naughty little birds in black, especially), and pick up what they want under its very nose, and thrive uncommonly well; and the good ones fly away out of sight; and some day, perhaps, find a home in some happy, useful fatherland far away, where the Father isn’t a bit like this. Who knows?
“And I’m one of the good little birds, Tray—at least, I hope so. And that unknown Father lives in me whether I will or no, and I love Him whether He be or not, just because I can’t help it, and with the best and bravest love that can be—the perfect love that believeth no evil, and seeketh no reward, and casteth out fear. For I’m His father as much as He’s mine, since I’ve conceived the thought of Him after my own fashion!
“And He lives in you too, Tray—you and all your kind. Yes, good dog, you king of beasts, I see it in your eyes. …
“Ah, bon Dieu Père, le Dieu des bonnes gens! Oh! if we only knew for certain, Tray! what martyrdom would we not endure, you and I, with a happy smile and a grateful heart—for sheer love of such a father! How little should we care for the things of this earth!
“But the poor parson?
“He must willy-nilly go on believing, or affecting to believe, just as he is told, word for word, or else goodbye to his wife and children’s
