Part 16

"But, then, what will _he_ say? What allowances will _he_ make for a poor little weak-kneed, well-meaning waif of a painter-fellow like me, whose only choice lay between Mr. Darwin and the Pope of Rome, and who has chosen once and forever--and that long ago--before he'd ever even heard of Mr. Darwin's name.

"Besides, why should he make allowances for me? I don't for him. I think no more of a parson than he does of a painter-fellow--and that's precious little, I'm afraid.

"What will he think of a man who says:

"'Look here! the God of your belief isn't mine and never will be--but I love your daughter, and she loves me, and I'm the only man to make her happy!'

"He's no Jephthah; he's made of flesh and blood, although he's a parson--and loves his daughter as much as Shylock loved his.

"Tell me, Tray--thou that livest among parsons--what man, not being a parson himself, can guess how a parson would think, an average parson, confronted by such a poser as that?

"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!

[Illustration: "'SO MUCH FOR ALICE, TRAY'"]

"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 key-hole, 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 god-forsaken 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 for ever 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 grewsome, dark age of faith! They couldn't draw a bit--no perspective, no chiaro-oscuro; and it's a woful 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 father-land 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 good-bye to his wife and children's bread and butter, his own preferment, perhaps even his very gentility--that gentility of which his Master thought so little, and he and his are apt to think so much--with possibly the Archbishopric of Canterbury at the end of it, the bâton de maréchal that lies in every clerical knapsack.

"What a temptation! one is but human!

"So how can he be honest without believing certain things, to believe which (without shame) one must be as simple as a little child; as, by-the-way, he is so cleverly told to be in these matters, and so cleverly tells us--and so seldom is himself in any other matter whatever--his own interests, other people's affairs, the world, the flesh, and the devil! And that's clever of him too....

"And if he chooses to be as simple as a little child, why shouldn't I treat him as a little child, for his own good, and fool him to the top of his little bent for his dear daughter's sake, that I may make her happy, and thereby him too?

"And if he's _not_ quite so simple as all that, and makes artful little compromises with his conscience--for a good purpose, of course--why shouldn't I make artful little compromises with mine, and for a better purpose still, and try to get what I want in the way _he_ does? I want to marry his daughter far worse than he can ever want to live in a palace, and ride in a carriage and pair with a mitre on the panels.

"If he _cheats_, why shouldn't I cheat too?

"If _he_ cheats, he cheats everybody all round--the wide, wide world, and something wider and higher still that can't be measured, something in himself. _I_ only cheat _him_!

"_If_ he cheats, he cheats for the sake of very worldly things indeed--tithes, honors, influence, power, authority, social consideration and respect--not to speak of bread and butter! _I_ only cheat for the love of a lady fair--and cheating for cheating, I like my cheating best.

"So, whether he cheats or not, I'll--

"Confound it! what would old Taffy do in such a case, I wonder?...

"Oh, bother! it's no good wondering what old Taffy would do.

"Taffy never wants to marry _anybody's_ daughter; he doesn't even want to paint her! He only wants to paint his beastly ragamuffins and thieves and drunkards, and be left alone.

"Besides, Taffy's as simple as a little child himself, and couldn't fool any one, and wouldn't if he could--not even a parson. But if any one tries to fool _him_, my eyes! don't he cut up rough, and call names, and kick up a shindy, and even knock people down! That's the worst of fellows like Taffy. They're too good for this world and too solemn. They're impossible, and lack all sense of humor. In point of fact, Taffy's a _gentleman_--poor fellow! _et puis voilà!_

"I'm not simple--worse luck; and I can't knock people down--I only wish I could! I can only paint them! and not even _that_ 'as they really are!' ... Good old Taffy!...

"Faint heart never won fair lady!

"Oh, happy, happy thought--I'll be brave and win!

"I can't knock people down, or do doughty deeds, but I'll be brave in my own little way--the only way I can....

"I'll simply lie through thick and thin--I must--I will--nobody need ever be a bit the wiser! I can do more good by lying than by telling the truth, and make more deserving people happy, including myself and the sweetest girl alive--the end shall justify the means: that's my excuse, my only excuse! and this lie of mine is on so stupendous a scale that it will have to last me for life. It's my only one, but its name is _Lion_! and I'll never tell another as long as I live.

"And now that I know what temptation really is, I'll never think any harm of any parson any more ... never, never, never!"

So the little man went on, as if he knew all about it, had found it all out for himself, and nobody else had ever found it out before! and I am not responsible for his ways of thinking (which are not necessarily my own).

It must be remembered, in extenuation, that he was very young, and not very wise: no philosopher, no scholar--just a painter of lovely pictures; only that and nothing more. Also, that he was reading Mr. Darwin's immortal book for the third time, and it was a little too strong for him; also, that all this happened in the early sixties, long ere Religion had made up her mind to meet Science half-way, and hobnob and kiss and be friends. Alas! before such a lying down of the lion and the lamb can ever come to pass, Religion will have to perform a larger share of the journey than half, I fear!

Then, still carried away by the flood of his own eloquence (for he had never had such an innings as this, no such a listener), he again apostrophized the dog Tray, who had been growing somewhat inattentive (like the reader, perhaps), in language more beautiful than ever:

"Oh, to be like you, Tray--and secrete love and good-will from morn till night, from night till morning--like saliva, without effort! with never a moment's cessation of flow, even in disgrace and humiliation! How much better to love than to be loved--to love as you do, my Tray--so warmly, so easily, so unremittingly--to forgive all wrongs and neglect and injustice so quickly and so well--and forget a kindness never! Lucky dog that you are!

"'Oh! could I feel as I have felt, or be as I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene, As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish tho' they be, So 'midst this withered waste of life those tears would flow to me!'

"What do you think of those lines, Tray? I _love_ them, because my mother taught them to me when I was about your age--six years old, or seven! and before the bard who wrote them had fallen; like Lucifer, son of the morning! Have you ever heard of Lord Byron, Tray? He too, like Ulysses, loved a dog, and many people think that's about the best there is to be said of him nowadays! Poor Humpty Dumpty! Such a swell as he once was! 'Not all the king's horses, nor all the--'"

Here Tray jumped up suddenly and bolted--he saw some one else he was fond of, and ran to meet him. It was the vicar, coming out of his vicarage.

A very nice-looking vicar--fresh, clean, alert, well tanned by sun and wind and weather--a youngish vicar still; tall, stout, gentlemanlike, shrewd, kindly, wordly, a trifle pompous, and authoritative more than a trifle; not much given to abstract speculation, and thinking fifty times more of any sporting and orthodox young country squire, well-inched and well-acred (and well-whiskered), than of all the painters in Christendom.

"'When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war,'" thought Little Billee; and he felt a little uncomfortable. Alice's father had never loomed so big and impressive before, or so distressingly nice to look at.

"Welcome, my Apelles, to your ain countree, which is growing quite proud of you, I declare! Young Lord Archie Waring was saying only last night that he wished he had half your talent! He's _crazed_ about painting, you know, and actually wants to be a painter himself! The poor dear old marquis is quite sore about it!"

With this happy exordium the parson stopped and shook hands; and they both stood for a while, looking seaward. The parson said the usual things about the sea--its blueness; its grayness; its greenness; its beauty; its sadness; its treachery.

"'Who shall put forth on thee, Unfathomable sea!'"

"Who indeed!" answered Little Billee, quite agreeing. "I vote _we_ don't, at all events." So they turned inland.

The parson said the usual things about the land (from the country-gentleman's point of view), and the talk began to flow quite pleasantly, with quoting of the usual poets, and capping of quotations in the usual way--for they had known each other many years, both here and in London. Indeed, the vicar had once been Little Billee's tutor.

And thus, amicably, they entered a small wooded hollow. Then the vicar, turning of a sudden his full blue gaze on the painter, asked, sternly:

"What book's that you've got in your hand, Willie?"

"A--a--it's the _Origin of Species_, by Charles Darwin. I'm very f-f-fond of it. I'm reading it for the third time.... It's very g-g-good. It _accounts_ for things, you know."

Then, after a pause, and still more sternly:

"What place of worship do you most attend in London--especially of an evening, William?"

Then stammered Little Billee, all self-control forsaking him:

"I d-d-don't attend any place of worship at all, morning, afternoon, or evening. I've long given up going to church altogether. I can only be frank with you; I'll tell you why...."

And as they walked along the talk drifted on to very momentous subjects indeed, and led, unfortunately, to a serious falling out--for which probably both were to blame--and closed in a distressful way at the other end of the little wooded hollow--a way most sudden and unexpected, and quite grievous to relate. When they emerged into the open the parson was quite white, and the painter crimson.

"Sir," said the parson, squaring himself up to more than his full height and breadth and dignity, his face big with righteous wrath, his voice full of strong menace--"sir, you're--you're a--you're a _thief_, sir, a _thief_! You're trying to _rob me of my Saviour_! Never you dare to darken _my_ door-step again!"

"Sir," said Little Billee, with a bow, "if it comes to calling names, you're--you're a--no; you're Alice's father; and whatever else you are besides, I'm another for trying to be honest with a parson; so good-morning to you."

And each walked off in an opposite direction, stiff as pokers; and Tray stood between, looking first at one receding figure, then at the other, disconsolate.

[Illustration: "'YOU'RE A _THIEF_, SIR!'"]

And thus Little Billee found out that he could no more lie than he could fly. And so he did not marry sweet Alice after all, and no doubt it was ordered for her good and his. But there was tribulation for many days in the house of Bagot, and for many months in one tender, pure, and pious bosom.

And the best and the worst of it all is that, not very many years after, the good vicar--more fortunate than most clergymen who dabble in stocks and shares--grew suddenly very rich through a lucky speculation in Irish beer, and suddenly, also, took to thinking seriously about things (as a man of business should)--more seriously than he had ever thought before. So at least the story goes in North Devon, and it is not so new as to be incredible. Little doubts grew into big ones--big doubts resolved themselves into downright negations. He quarrelled with his bishop; he quarrelled with his dean; he even quarrelled with his "poor dear old marquis," who died before there was time to make it up again. And finally he felt it his duty, in conscience, to secede from a Church which had become too narrow to hold him, and took himself and his belongings to London, where at least he could breathe. But there he fell into a great disquiet, for the long habit of feeling himself always _en évidence_--of being looked up to and listened to without contradiction; of exercising influence and authority in spiritual matters (and even temporal); of impressing women, especially, with his commanding presence, his fine sonorous voice, his lofty brow, so serious and smooth, his soft, big, waving hands, which soon lost their country tan--all this had grown as a second nature to him, the breath of his nostrils, a necessity of his life. So he rose to be the most popular Unitarian preacher of his day, and pretty broad at that.

But his dear daughter Alice, she stuck to the old faith, and married a venerable High-Church archdeacon, who very cleverly clutched at and caught her and saved her for himself just as she stood shivering on the very brink of Rome; and they were neither happy nor unhappy together--_un ménage bourgeois, ni beau ni laid, ni bon ni mauvais_. And thus, alas! the bond of religious sympathy, that counts for so much in united families, no longer existed between father and daughter, and the heart's division divided them. _Ce que c'est que de nous!_ ... The pity of it!

And so no more of sweet Alice with hair so brown.

Part Sixth

'"Vraiment, la reine auprès d'elle était laide Quand, vers le soir, Elle passait sur le pont de Tolède En corset noir! Un chapelet du temps de Charlemagne Ornait son cou.... _La vent qui vient à travers la montagne Me rendra fou!_

"'Dansez, chantez, villageois! la nuit tombe.... Sabine, un jour, A tout donné--sa beauté de colombe, Et son amour-- Pour l'anneau d'or du Comte de Soldagne, Pour un bijou.... _La vent qui vient à travers la montagne M'a rendu fou!_'"

Behold our three musketeers of the brush once more reunited in Paris, famous, after long years.

In emulation of the good Dumas, we will call it "cinq ans après." It was a little more.

Taffy stands for Porthos and Athos rolled into one, since he is big and good-natured, and strong enough to "assommer un homme d'un coup de poing," and also stately and solemn, of aristocratic and romantic appearance, and not too fat--not too much ongbong-pwang, as the Laird called it--and also he does not dislike a bottle of wine, or even two, and looks as if he had a history.

The Laird, of course, is d'Artagnan, since he sells his pictures well, and by the time we are writing of has already become an Associate of the Royal Academy; like Quentin Durward, this d'Artagnan was a Scotsman:

"Ah, was na he a Roguy, this piper of Dundee!"

And Little Billee, the dainty friend of duchesses, must stand for Aramis, I fear! It will not do to push the simile too far; besides, unlike the good Dumas, one has a conscience. One does not play ducks and drakes with historical facts, or tamper with historical personages. And if Athos, Porthos & Co. are not historical by this time, I should like to know who are!

Well, so are Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee--_tout ce qu'il y a de plus historiques_!

Our three friends, well groomed, frock-coated, shirt-collared within an inch of their lives, duly scarfed and scarf-pinned, chimney-pot-hatted, and most beautifully trousered, and balmorally booted, or neatly spatted (or whatever was most correct at the time), are breakfasting together on coffee, rolls, and butter at a little round table in the huge court-yard of an immense caravanserai, paved with asphalt, and covered in at the top with a glazed roof that admits the sun and keeps out the rain--and the air.

A magnificent old man as big as Taffy, in black velvet coat and breeches and black silk stockings, and a large gold chain round his neck and chest, looks down like Jove from a broad flight of marble steps--as though to welcome the coming guests, who arrive in cabs and railway omnibuses through a huge archway on the boulevard, or to speed those who part through a lesser archway opening on to a side street.

"Bon voyage, messieurs et dames!"

At countless other little tables other voyagers are breakfasting or ordering breakfast; or, having breakfasted, are smoking and chatting and looking about. It is a babel of tongues--the cheerfulest, busiest, merriest scene in the world, apparently the costly place of rendezvous for all wealthy Europe and America; an atmosphere of bank-notes and gold.

Already Taffy has recognized (and been recognized by) half a dozen old fellow-Crimeans, of unmistakable military aspect like himself; and three canny Scotsmen have discreetly greeted the Laird; and as for Little Billee, he is constantly jumping up from his breakfast and running to this table or that, drawn by some irresistible British smile of surprised and delighted female recognition: "What, _you_ here? How nice! Come over to hear la Svengali, I suppose."