The Passion for Life Part 5

"I have a Bible here, sir," said Simpson. "It tells you all about it there."

"Indeed," I said, "I have not read the Bible for years. I don't think I have looked inside one since I left Oxford. Do you read it, Simpson?"

"Yes, sir. I read a chapter every night before going to bed."

"Are you a Christian, Simpson?"

"I hope so, sir," and he looked at me curiously.

"Excuse me for asking," I said, "but as you are a Christian you will have ideas about these things."

Simpson hesitated a few seconds, and then called to his aid his old formula, "Yes, sir; thank you, sir."

"That being so, Simpson," I continued, "I want your opinion. Supposing I were to die to-night, what would become of me?"

Simpson gave no answer. I think he wanted to be polite, but could not be truthful at the same time.

"You see, Simpson," I interposed, "I have just had a severe shaking up, and, as Rhomboid told me that these attacks would come with increasing frequency and hasten the end, I have a natural curiosity as to what will happen when the end comes. It is not pleasant to think of becoming nothing, and as a belief in a future life is one of the tenets of the Christian faith, and as you tell me you are a Christian, I want to know, from your standpoint, what you think my destiny will be."

"Excuse me, sir," said Simpson, "but you will not be offended if I ask something?"

"Oh, no," I said, "go on."

"Well, then, sir, have you ever been converted? Forgive me for asking, sir; I know you have always been a well-conducted young gentleman, and you have never gone wild like lots I know of, but all the same, sir, I have been taught that there are two places to which people go when they die--heaven and h.e.l.l. The sheep which are on the right hand go straight to Abraham's bosom, and the goats which are on the left go into outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnas.h.i.+ng of teeth. The question is, sir, whether you belong to the sheep or the goats."

"Exactly," I said; "but what const.i.tutes the sheep and what const.i.tutes the goats?"

"That is where the question of conversion comes in," replied Simpson.

"Except we become converted we cannot go to heaven."

"Then your opinion is, Simpson, that as I have not been converted I must go to h.e.l.l?"

"Yes, sir; thank you, sir. I don't mean to offend, sir."

"No, I am sure you don't, Simpson. Besides, I wanted a straight answer.

Just now, however, the question of heaven and h.e.l.l does not trouble me at all. It is rather a question as to whether there is anything at all after the grave."

"Do you doubt it, sir?"

"I am afraid I have had no opinions about it in the past, Simpson. You see, I have been so busy with my work that I have had no time to think about it. Now, however, when death stares me in the face, I am--well, a little bit curious. How do I know, and how do you know, that the millions of people who are dying every week in this world do not die just like flies? How can we prove that we are any better than they? Do we not sport in the suns.h.i.+ne during a brief s.p.a.ce and then cease to be?"

"Life would be a miserable one-sided business if it were so, sir.

Wouldn't it?"

"That is the question, Simpson. Did you ever read Omar Khayyam?"

"What is it, sir?"

"Ah, I see you have not read him. Omar Khayyam was an old Eastern poet who, in his philosophy and poetry, taught that we are just a part of an eternal round of things. We are born, we live, we propagate our species, we die, and so the thing goes on. But it is not a very cheerful doctrine, Simpson, and that was why I wondered if you, who profess to be a Christian, could give me some information."

Simpson was silent.

"Ah! I see," I said with a sigh. "You have a sort of traditional hope that there may be a sort of future life, and that you may get to what is called heaven, but you are not sure about it."

"Well, sir, I am a very ignorant man on such matters," replied Simpson, "and, to tell you the truth, religion doesn't seem to be the fas.h.i.+on nowadays. All the same, it would be a grand thing if it were true."

"Just so," I said, and for the first time I realized the necessity for some sort of faith which should be an anchor amid the storms of life.

"Are you better now, sir?" asked Simpson.

"Oh yes, considerably better," I replied. "I shall be able to walk about for the next few weeks, I hope."

"Then, sir, may I advise you to go to Church or Chapel? The preachers there might be able to tell you."

"A good idea," I cried. "I have not been to Church or Chapel since I left Oxford, and while there I only went because I was obliged to. I did enjoy the singing, though. Yes, Simpson, I will take your hint. I will go to Church on Sunday."

"It's Sunday to-morrow, sir," was Simpson's reply.

"Is it? I had forgotten. Then I will go to-morrow."

"Where will you go, sir, to the Established Church or the Wesleyan Chapel?"

"I will go to both, and hear what they have to say at both places."

The next day was gloriously fine. A cool breeze blew, and out at sea "white horses" rode on the crests of the waves. Near the coast-line, too, was a long streak of foam. The air was pure and invigorating. In sheltered places it was warm and gracious.

I allowed myself plenty of time to reach St. Issey by eleven o'clock, and, if the truth must be told, I was a little excited. I felt as though I was going on a tour of exploration.

I had never been what is called a religious boy, and though I inherited from my father a high code of honor, religion made no appeal to me. I suppose that at the back of my mind I had an impression that there might be a life other than this, and that some great Eternal Force, which might or might not be personal, had created this and all other worlds.

As to whether this Eternal Force had any interest in created life I did not trouble. The question was too remote, and, as far as I could see, admitted of only a conjectural answer. After leaving Oxford, I was too absorbed in my plans and ambitions to trouble about what seemed to me to be something really apart from life.

I had never been a bad fellow. I had, as my acquaintances said of me, gone straight. Not that I had been a recluse in any way. For two or three years I went a good deal into society. I never had any serious love affairs, although I am afraid I indulged in some mild flirtations.

I had a fair knowledge of current literature, and, although far from being a scholar, I had at the same time scholarly instincts. I had travelled on the Continent of Europe, had a fair knowledge of German and French, and during a long visit to Italy had managed to pick up the language of the people.

I had also visited the old churches on the Continent, but had never troubled about what these churches stood for. As far as I could see, the old, stately cathedrals represented something that might have been a power at one time, but which had now pa.s.sed away. They were interesting from an architectural and from an historical point of view; but as for anything deeper, it never came within the horizon of my vision. I was young, and, as I thought, healthy, and death seemed a long way off.

Therefore, why should I trouble?

But now death had come near. I do not know that I was frightened, and I was able calmly to face the prospect of annihilation. Nevertheless, that prospect was grim. I longed for life, more life, the completion of life.

The life I had lived was, it seemed to me, fragmentary, incomplete, and, to a certain extent, chaotic.

I do not know that I attached very much importance to my visit to the little Wesleyan Chapel. All the same, I was curious. If there should be anything beyond, if the man who got up to preach could tell me something which had been hidden from me, I would like to hear what he had to say.

I walked very slowly and rejoiced in the glorious morning. As I drew near the village I noted the quiet restfulness of everything. The Church bells were ringing, and a few people were wending their way towards the old time-honored building. Very few people seemed to be making for the Wesleyan Chapel. Groups of youths were lounging around the lanes, smoking cigarettes and pa.s.sing rustic jokes. Women were gossiping with each other from their cottage doors. There was no squalor anywhere, no poverty visible. Every one seemed to have enough to eat and drink. Every one seemed to be comfortably housed.

I entered the little Chapel--a square, plain building, capable of seating perhaps three or four hundred people. It was five minutes to eleven when I entered, and not a soul was there, except a man whom I took to be the Chapel-keeper. He looked at me curiously. By eleven o'clock there might be, all told, thirty people there, mostly elderly men and women. Some young girls were there, and a few children; young men were conspicuous by their absence. When eleven o'clock came perhaps a dozen more came from some vestry, and entered what I took to be the choir-seats. They were nearly all young women. Perhaps during the first ten minutes of the service half a score more came into the Chapel. I am giving these details because I want to tell exactly what I saw, especially as I have discovered that from a religious standpoint St.

Issey village is typical of hundreds more all over the county. At about three minutes after eleven a man entered the pulpit. As far as I could judge he was a working man, or he might be a farmer, a carpenter, or a tradesman of some sort.

Let it be understood that I came to this place of wors.h.i.+p hungering to know something of the deeper things of life. I wanted to be a.s.sured that there was another life greater than this, a life which should be the consummation and explanation of this.