The Inside of the Cup is a Webnovel created by Winston Churchill.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
III
There was still another whose face was constantly before him, and the reflection of her distressed yet undaunted soul,–Alison Parr. The contemplation of her courage, of her determination to abide by nothing save the truth, had had a power over him that he might not estimate, and he loved her as a man loves a woman, for her imperfections. And he loved her body and her mind.
One morning, as he walked back from Mrs. Bledsoe’s through an unfrequented, wooded path of the Park, he beheld her as he had summoned her in his visions. She was sitting motionless, gazing before her with clear eyes, as at the Fates…
She started on suddenly perceiving him, but it was characteristic of her greeting that she seemed to feel no surprise at the accident which had brought them together.
“I am afraid,” he said, smiling, “that I have broken in on some profound reflections.”
She did not answer at once, but looked up at him, as he stood over her, with one of her strange, baffling gazes, in which there was the hint of a welcoming smile.
“Reflection seems to be a circular process with me,” she answered. “I never get anywhere–like you.”
“Like me!” he exclaimed, seating himself on the bench. Apparently their intercourse, so long as it should continue, was destined to be on the basis of intimacy in which it had begun. It was possible at once to be aware of her disturbing presence, and yet to feel at home in it.
“Like you, yes,” she said, continuing to examine him. “You’ve changed remarkably.”
In his agitation, at this discovery of hers he again repeated her words.
“Why, you seem happier, you look happier. It isn’t only that, I can’t explain how you impress me. It struck me when you were talking to Mr.
Bentley the other day. You seem to see something you didn’t see when I first met you, that you didn’t see the first time we were at Mr.
Bentley’s together. Your att.i.tude is fixed–directed. You have made a decision of some sort–a momentous one, I rather think.”
“Yes,” he replied, “you are right. It’s more than remarkable that you should have guessed it.”
She remained silent
“I have decided,” he found himself saying abruptly, “to continue in the Church.”
Still she was silent, until he wondered whether she would answer him. He had often speculated to himself how she would take this decision, but he could make no surmise from her expression as she stared off into the wood. Presently she turned her head, slowly, and looked into his face.
Still she did not speak.
“You are wondering how I can do it,” he said.
“Yes,” she acknowledged, in a low voice.
“I should like you to know–that is why I spoke of it. You have never asked me, and I have never told you that the convictions I formerly held I lost. And with them, for a while, went everything. At least so I believed.”
“I knew it,” she answered, “I could see that, too.”
“When I argued with you, that afternoon,–the last time we talked together alone,–I was trying to convince myself, and you–” he hesitated, “–that there was something. The fact that you could not seem to feel it stimulated me.”
He read in her eyes that she understood him. And he dared not, nor did he need to emphasize further his own intense desire that she should find a solution of her own.
“I wish you to know what I am telling you for two reasons,” he went on.
“It was you who spoke the words that led to the opening of my eyes to the situation into which I had been drifting for two years, who compelled me to look upon the inconsistencies and falsities which had gradually been borne in upon me. It was you, I think, who gave me the courage to face this situation squarely, since you possess that kind of courage yourself.”
“Oh, no,” she cried. “You would have done it anyway.”
He paused a moment, to get himself in hand.
“For this reason, I owed it to you to speak–to thank you. I have realized, since that first meeting, that you became my friend then, and that you spoke as a friend. If you had not believed in my sincerity, you would not have spoken. I wish you to know that I am fully aware and grateful for the honour you did me, and that I realize it is not always easy for you to speak so–to any one.”
She did not reply.
“There is another reason for my telling you now of this decision of mine to remain a clergyman,” he continued. “It is because I value your respect and friendship, and I hope you will believe that I would not take this course unless I saw my way clear to do it with sincerity.”
“One has only to look at you to see that you are sincere,” she said gently, with a thrill in her voice that almost unmanned him. “I told you once that I should never have forgiven myself if I had wrecked your life. I meant it. I am very glad.”
It was his turn to be silent.
“Just because I cannot see how it would be possible to remain in the Church after one had been–emanc.i.p.ated, so to speak,”–she smiled at him,–“is no reason why you may not have solved the problem.”
Such was the superfine quality of her honesty. Yet she trusted him! He was made giddy by a desire, which he fought down, to justify himself before her. His eye beheld her now as the G.o.ddess with the scales in her hand, weighing and accepting with outward calm the verdict of the balance …. Outward calm, but inner fire.
“It makes no difference,” she pursued evenly, bent on choosing her words, “that I cannot personally understand your emanc.i.p.ation, that mine is different. I can only see the preponderance of evil, of deception, of injustice–it is that which shuts out everything else. And it’s temperamental, I suppose. By looking at you, as I told you, I can see that your emanc.i.p.ation is positive, while mine remains negative. You have somehow regained a conviction that the good is predominant, that there is some purpose in the universe.”
He a.s.sented. Once more she relapsed into thought, while he sat contemplating her profile. She turned to him again with a tremulous smile.
“But isn’t a conviction that the good is predominant, that there is a purpose in the universe, a long way from the positive a.s.sertions in the Creeds?” she asked. “I remember, when I went through what you would probably call disintegration, and which seemed to me enlightenment, that the Creeds were my first stumbling-blocks. It seemed wrong to repeat them.”
“I am glad you spoke of this,” he replied gravely. “I have arrived at many answers to that difficulty–which did not give me the trouble I had antic.i.p.ated. In the first place, I am convinced that it was much more of a difficulty ten, twenty, thirty years ago than it is to-day. That which I formerly thought was a radical tendency towards atrophy, the drift of the liberal party in my own Church and others, as well as that which I looked upon with some abhorrence as the free-thinking speculation of many modern writers, I have now come to see is reconstruction.
The results of this teaching of religion in modern terms are already becoming apparent, and some persons are already beginning to see that the Creeds express certain elemental truths in frankly archaic language. All this should be explained in the churches and the Sunday schools,–is, in fact, being explained in some, and also in books for popular reading by clergymen of my own Church, both here and in England.
We have got past the critical age.”
She followed him closely, but did not interrupt.
“I do not mean to say that the Creeds are not the sources of much misunderstanding, but in my opinion they do not const.i.tute a sufficient excuse for any clergyman to abandon his Church on account of them.
Indeed there are many who interpret them by modern thought–which is closer to the teachings of Christ than ancient thought–whose honesty cannot be questioned. Personally, I think that the Creeds either ought to be taken out of the service; or changed, or else there should be a note inserted in the service and catechism definitely permitting a liberal interpretation which is exactly what so many clergymen, candidly, do now.
“When I was ordained a deacon, and then a priest, I took vows which would appear to be literally conflicting. Compelled to choose between these vows, I accept that as supreme which I made when I affirmed that I would teach nothing which I should be persuaded might not be concluded and affirmed by the Scripture. The Creeds were derived from the Scripture–not the Scripture from the Creeds. As an individual among a body of Christians I am powerless to change either the ordinal vows or the Creeds, I am obliged to wait for the consensus of opinion. But if, on the whole, I can satisfy my conscience in repeating the Creeds and reading the service, as other honest men are doing–if I am convinced that I have an obvious work to do in that Church, it would be cowardly for me to abandon that work.”
Her eyes lighted up.
“I see what you mean,” she said, “by staying in you can do many things that you could not do, you can help to bring about the change, by being frank. That is your point of view. You believe in the future of the Church.”
“I believe in an universal, Christian organization,” he replied.
“But while stronger men are honest,” she objected, “are not your ancient vows and ancient Creeds continually making weaker men casuists?”
“Undoubtedly,” he agreed vigorously, and thought involuntarily of Mr.
Engel’s phrased fatty degeneration of the soul. “Yet I can see the signs, on all sides, of a gradual emanc.i.p.ation, of which I might be deemed an example.” A smile came into his eyes, like the sun on a grey-green sea.
“Oh, you could never be a casuist!” she exclaimed, with a touch of vehemence. “You are much too positive. It is just that note, which is characteristic of so many clergymen, that note of smoothing-over and apology, which you lack. I could never feel it, even when you were orthodox. And now–” words failed her as she inspected his ruggedness.
“And now,” he took her up, to cover his emotion, “now I am not to be cla.s.sified!”
Still examining him, she reflected on this.