“Bobby—are you a Christian?”
“That’s what I’d like to know myself, Grandpère … For some time I have been very much absorbed by the personality of Christ. Here was the case of a man who made an absolutely ideal adjustment to his Major Personality. He professed to have no experience of fear. He believed he could have anything he wanted by asking for it … The story interests me at the point of his bland assurance that anybody else could do the same thing if he cared to. I’m amazed that more people aren’t interested in that part of it … Now—if that’s being a Christian, I’m a Christian.”
“Is that what the churches teach, Bobby?”
“I’m sure I don’t know; for I never go to them. From what I gather, they approach this whole subject sentimentally. They regard the soul as a sort of congenital disease that ought to be cured. The soul has been passed along, from one common carrier to another, like a trunk with a bent lock and a broken hinge, labelled ‘Received in Bad Order.’ … And as for the things you read in the papers about the churches, either they’re campaigning for money to build something, or helping to elect a new prosecuting attorney, or stopping a prizefight, or panning some other sect’s belief, or raising hell with one another inside their own bailiwick … Maybe you and I had better start a church; eh, Grandpère?”
“Very good,” approved Nicholas, grinning. “I’ll build it and you be the parson.”
“It would be just like all the rest of ’em … Nobody would want to go to the bother and expense of making his own connections with his Major Personality … He’d decide to sing about power … Fancy!—singing about power! Watt didn’t sing for his! And Faraday didn’t produce the dynamo by reciting ‘I believe in Volta, Maker of the dry battery and Father of the Leyden jar, and in his successor Ampere, who codified the formulae for electrodynamics, and in Ben Franklin who went at it with a kite.’ … No, sir! By the Great Horn Spoon—No! … Faraday did his in an attic, alone, on an empty stomach!” He rose with a prodigious yawn and sauntered toward the door.
“I’m off to Brightwood early in the morning … Think I’d better turn in!”
Old Nicholas struggled heavily to his feet.
“Bobby, I’m not physically able to go around trying to nose out some opportunity to experiment with your theory. Keep your eyes open and let me know if there’s anything I can do. You arrange for it: I’ll furnish the money.”
“That wouldn’t get you anywhere … You can’t do this with a cheque book! … By the way—did you know that old Jed Turner, up the road here, had to kill seventeen of his Holstein cows, last week? The State Vet condemned them as tuberculous … Jed’s all broken up about it.”
“I wonder if he has a telephone.”
“Oh, you can easily send for him to come over.”
Nicholas’ eyes brightened. He rubbed his hands.
“Thanks for telling me, Bobby. I’ll let you know how it comes out!”
“That you won’t! I never want to hear about it again!”
“Maybe you were thinking of doing it yourself,” said Nicholas. “If so, I’ll not get into it.”
“No, Holsteins are not in my line. That’s your job … And Grandpère—while you’re over in that neighbourhood—I noticed, the other day, that Jim Abbot’s ten-year-old boy is dragging a leg in a brace that didn’t look right to me … Why don’t you hop into your car tomorrow, and have Stephen drive you about through the district? You’ll be amazed what it does to you to make connections with people who need you! … Oh, I know you’ve done a lot. It was big stuff when you contributed a hundred thousand to the hospital in Axion; but you couldn’t do it without getting your name on a bronze tablet in the main hall. You drop in at Jim Abbot’s and inquire all about the boy. If they ask you to stay for noon dinner—corned beef and cabbage—you stay! I know you can’t eat boiled cabbage at home, because it isn’t good for you; but you’ll be able to eat it at Abbot’s, and it won’t hurt you a bit. I’ll guarantee that on my honour as a medic!”
“Run along to bed!” Nicholas slapped him vigorously on the back. “Glad we had this talk! Glad your worries are all over! Now you can be happy again!”
“I’m not looking for happiness, Grandpère … She’s out of my reach!”
“Since when was happiness a she?”
“Mine is!’
“Going to tell me about that, too?
“Sometime, maybe … Good night, Grandpère.”
XV
The Aquitania had crept up the river that morning with exasperating caution. It was the day before Christmas. The more impatient compared tedious experiences in customs; hoped goodwill toward men might have percolated through to the baggage inspectors; wondered if they could get Pullman space on the two-forty-five in case they missed the one-twenty.
Her furs muffled high about her throat, Helen Hudson ventured to the frosty rail of B-deck as they passed the Battery, and found the stinging breeze a bit strenuous. She had avoided three consecutive winters, and the fast trip from Nice to New York had not been free of discomfort.
A spluttery scrawl from Joyce accounted for her sudden decision to return. She had read the letter on a stone bench by the sea wall, a stone’s throw from the Casino pier, one week ago this morning … It had been that kind of a journey.
“All packed and waiting for the taxi,” Joyce had begun. “Going back to Detroit. Why Detroit, I don’t know, unless because it seems to offer something like anchorage. I’ll try to find some employment there—anything to occupy my mind … The past month has been a nightmare! Quite unendurable! Last night, Tom struck me a savage blow on the breast with his fist … deeply penitent afterwards … wailed
