Thomas Wingfold, Curate V2
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George MacDonald >> Thomas Wingfold, Curate V2
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12 Charles Franks, Charles Aldarondo, and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team.
THOMAS WINGFOLD, CURATE.
By George MacDonald, LL.D.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL II.
THOMAS WINGFOLD, CURATE.
CHAPTER I.
RACHEL AND HER UNCLE.
It was nearly dark when they arrived again at the lodge. Rachel
opened the gate for them. Without even a THANK YOU, they rode out.
She stood for a moment gazing after them through the dusk, then
turned with a sigh, and went into the kitchen, where her uncle sat
by the fire with a book in his hand.
"How I should like to be as well made as Miss Lingard!" she said,
seating herself by the lamp that stood on the deal-table. "It MUST
be a fine thing to be strong and tall, and able to look this way and
that without turning all your body along with your head, like the
old man that gathers the leeches in Wordsworth's poem. And what it
must be to sit on a horse as she does! You should have seen her go
flying like the very wind across the park! You would have thought
she and her horse were cut out of the same piece. I'm dreadfully
envious, uncle."
"No, my child; I know you better than you do yourself. There is a
great difference between _I_ WISH _I_ WAS and _I_ SHOULD LIKE TO
BE--as much as between a grumble and a prayer. To be content is not
to be satisfied. No one ought to be satisfied with the imperfect. It
is God's will that we should bear, and contentedly--because in
hope, looking for the redemption of the body. And we know he has a
ready servant who will one day set us free."
"Yes, uncle; I understand. You know I enjoy life: how could I help
it and you with me? But I don't think I ever go through the
churchyard without feeling a sort of triumph. 'There's for you!' I
say sometimes to the little crooked shadow that creeps along by my
side across the graves. 'You'll soon be caught and put inside!'--But
how am I to tell I mayn't be crooked in the next world as well as
this? That's what troubles me at times. There might be some
necessity for it, you know."
"Then will there be patience to bear it there also; that you may be
sure of. But I do not fear. It were more likely that those who have
not thanked God, but prided themselves that they were beautiful in
this world, should be crooked in the next. It would be like Dives
and Lazarus, you know. But God does what is best for them as well as
for us. We shall find one day that beauty and riches were the best
thing for those to whom they were given, as deformity and poverty
were the best for us."
"I wonder what sort of person I should have been if I had had a
straight spine!" said Rachel laughing.
"Hardly one so dear to your deformed uncle," said her companion in
ugliness.
"Then I'm glad I am as I am," rejoined Rachel.
"This conscious individuality of ours," said Polwarth, after a
thoughtful silence, "is to me an awful thing--the one thing that
seems in humanity like the onliness of God. Mine terrifies me
sometimes--looking a stranger to me--a limiting of myself--a
breaking in upon my existence--like a volcanic outburst into the
blue Sicilian air. When it thus manifests itself, I find no refuge
but the offering of it back to him who thought it worth making. I
say to him: 'Lord, it is thine, not mine;--see to it, Lord. Thou and
thy eternity are mine, Father of Jesus Christ.'"
He covered his eyes with his hands, and his lips grew white, and
trembled. Thought had turned into prayer, and both were silent for a
space. Rachel was the first to speak.
"I think I understand, uncle," she said. "I don't mind being God's
dwarf. But I would rather be made after his own image; this can't be
it. I should like to be made over again."
"And if the hope we are saved by be no mockery, if St. Paul was not
the fool of his own radiant imaginings, you will be, my child.--But
now let us forget our miserable bodies. Come up to my room, and I
will read you a few lines that came to me this morning in the park."
"Won't you wait for Mr. Wingfold, uncle? He will be here yet, I
think. It can't be ten o'clock. He always looks in on Saturdays as
he goes home from his walk. I should like you to read them to him
too. They will do him good, I know."
"I would, my dear, willingly, if I thought he would care for them.
But I don't think he would. They are not good enough verses. He has
been brought up on Horace, and, I fear, counts the best poetry the
neatest."
"I think you must be mistaken there, uncle; I have heard him talk
delightfully about poetry."
"You must excuse me if I am shy of reading my poor work to any but
yourself, Rachel. My heart was wo much in it, and the subject is so
sacred--"
"I am sorry you should think your pearls too good to cast before Mr.
Wingfold, uncle," said Rachel, with a touch of disappointed temper.
"Nay, nay, child," returned Polwarth, "that was not a good thing to
say. What gives me concern is, that there is so much of the rough
dirty shell sticking about them, that to show them would be to wrong
the truth in them."
Rachel seldom took long to repent. She came slowly to her uncle,
where he stood with the lamp in his hand, looking in his face with a
heavenly contrition, and saying nothing. When she reached him, she
dropped on her knees, and kissed the hand that hung by his side. Her
temper was poor Rachel's one sore-felt trouble.
Polwarth stooped and kissed her on the forehead, raised her, and
leading her to the stair, stood aside to let her go first. But when
she had been naughty Rachel would never go before her uncle, and she
drew back. With a smile of intelligence he yielded and led the way.
But ere they had climbed to the top, Rachel heard Mr. Wingfold's
step, and went down again to receive him.
CHAPTER II.
A DREAM.
Invited to ascend, Wingfold followed Rachel to her uncle's room, and
there, whether guided by her or not, the conversation presently took
such a turn that at length, of his own motion, Polwarth offered to
read his verses. From the drawer of his table he took a scratched
and scored halfsheet, and--not in the most melodious of voices, yet
in one whose harshness and weakness could not cover a certain
refinement of spiritual tenderness--read as follows:
Lord, hear my discontent: All blank I stand,
A mirror polished by thy hand;
Thy sun's beams flash and flame from me--
I cannot help it: here I stand, there he;
To one of them I cannot say--
Go, and on yonder water play.
Nor one poor ragged daisy can I fashion--
I do not make the words of this my limping passion.
If I should say: Now I will think a thought,
Lo! I must wait, unknowing,
What thought in me is growing,
Until the thing to birth is brought;
Nor know I then what next will come
From out the gulf of silence dumb.
I am the door the thing did find
To pass into the general mind;
I cannot say I think--
I only stand upon the thought-well's brink;
From darkness to the sun the water bubbles up--
I lift it in my cup.
Thou only thinkest--I am thought;
Me and my thought thou thinkest. Nought
Am I but as a fountain spout
From which thy water welleth out.
Thou art the only One, the All in all.
--Yet when my soul on thee doth call
And thou dost answer out of everywhere,
I in thy allness have my perfect share.
While he read Rachel crept to his knee, knelt down, and laid her
head upon it.
If we are but the creatures of a day, yet surely were the
shadow-joys of this miserable pair not merely nobler in their
essence, but finer to the soul's palate than the shadow-joys of
young Hercules Bascombe--Helen and horses and all! Poor Helen I
cannot use for comparison, for she had no joy, save indeed the very
divine, though at present unblossoming one of sisterly love. Still,
and notwithstanding, if the facts of life are those of George
Bascombe's endorsing--AND HE CAN PROVE IT--let us by all means
learn and accept them, be they the worst possible. Meantime there
are truths that ought to be facts, and until he has proved that
there is no God, some of us will go feeling after him if haply we
may find him, and in him the truths we long to find true. Some of us
perhaps think we have seen him from afar, but we only know the
better that in the mood wherein such as Bascombe are, they will
never find him--which would no doubt be to them a comfort were it
not for a laughter. And if he be such as their idea of what we think
him, they ARE better without him. If, on the contrary, he be what
some of us really think him, their not seeking him will not perhaps
prevent him from finding them.
From likeness of nature, community of feeling, constant intercourse,
and perfect confidence, Rachel understood her uncle's verses with
sufficient ease to enjoy them at once in part, and, for the rest, to
go on thinking in the direction in which they would carry her; but
Wingfold, in whom honesty of disposition had blossomed at last into
honesty of action, after fitting pause, during which no word was
spoken, said:--
"Mr. Polwarth, where verse is concerned, I am simply stupid: when
read I cannot follow it. I did not understand the half of that poem.
I never have been a student of English verse, and indeed that part
of my nature which has to do with poetry, has been a good deal
neglected. Will you let me take those verses home with me?"
"I cannot do that, for they are not legible; but I will copy them
out for you."
"Will you give me them to-morrow? Shall you be at church?"
"That shall be just as you please: would you rather have me there or
not?"
"A thousand times rather," answered the curate. "To have one man
there who knows what I mean better than I can say it, is to have a
double soul and double courage.--But I came to-night mainly to tell
you that I have been much puzzled this last week to know how I ought
to regard the Bible--I mean as to its inspiration. What am I to say
about it?"
"Those are two distinct things. Why think of saying about it, before
you have anything to say? For yourself, however, let me ask if you
have not already found in the book the highest means of spiritual
education and development you have yet met with? If so, may not that
suffice for the present? It is the man Christ Jesus we have to know,
and the Bible we have to use to that end--not for theory or
dogma.--I will tell you a strange dream I had once, not long ago."
Rachel's face brightened. She rose, got a little stool, and setting
it down close by the chair on which her uncle was perched, seated
herself at his feet, with her eyes on the ground, to listen.
"About two years ago," said Polwarth, "a friend sent me Tauchnitz's
edition of the English New Testament, which has the different
readings of the three oldest known manuscripts translated at the
foot of the page. The edition was prepared chiefly for the sake of
showing the results of the collation of the Sinaitic manuscript, the
oldest of all, so named because it was found--a few years ago, by
Tischendorf--in a monastery on Mount Sinai--nowhere else than
there! I received it with such exultation as brought on an attack of
asthma, and I could scarce open it for a week, but lay with it under
my pillow. When I did come to look at it, my main wonder was to find
the differences from the common version so few and small. Still
there were some such as gave rise to a feeling far above mere
interest--one in particular, the absence of a word that had troubled
me, not seeming like a word of our Lord, or consonant with his
teaching. I am unaware whether the passage has ever given rise to
controversy."
"May I ask what word it was?" interrupted Wingfold, eagerly.
"I will not say," returned Polwarth. "Not having troubled you, you
would probably only wonder why it should have troubled me. For my
purpose in mentioning the matter, it is enough to say that I had
turned with eagerness to the passage wherein it occurs, as given in
two of the gospels in our version. Judge my delight in discovering
that in the one gospel the whole passage was omitted by the two
oldest manuscripts, and in the other just the one word that had
troubled me, by the same two. I would not have you suppose me
foolish enough to imagine that the oldest manuscript must be the
most correct; but you will at once understand the sense of room and
air which the discovery gave me notwithstanding, and I mention it
because it goes both to account for the dream that followed and to
enforce its truth. Pray do not however imagine me a believer in
dreams more than in any other source of mental impressions. If a
dream reveal a principle, that principle is a revelation, and the
dream is neither more NOR LESS valuable than a waking thought that
does the same. The truth conveyed is the revelation. I do not deny
that facts have been learned in dreams, but I would never call the
communication of a mere fact a revelation. Truth alone, beheld as
such by the soul, is worthy of the name. Facts, however, may
themselves be the instruments of such revelation.
"The dream I am now going to tell you was clearly enough led up to
by my waking thoughts. For I had been saying to myself ere I fell
asleep: 'On the very Mount Sinai, that once burned with heavenly
fire, and resounded with the thunder of a visible Presence, now old
and cold, and swathed in the mists of legend and doubt, was
discovered the most reverend, because most ancient record of the new
dispensation which dethroned that mountain, and silenced the
thunders of the pedagogue law! Is it not possible that yet, in some
ancient convent, insignificant to the eye of the traveller as modern
Nazareth would be but for its ancient story, some one of the
original gospel-manuscripts may lie, truthful and unblotted from the
hand of the very evangelist?--Oh lovely parchment!' I thought--'if
eye of man might but see thee! if lips of man might kiss thee!' and
my heart swelled like the heart of a lover at the thought of such a
boon.--Now, as you know, I live in a sort of live coffin here,"
continued the little man, striking his pigeon-breast, "with a
barrel-organ of discords in it, constantly out of order in one way
or another; and hence it comes that my sleep is so imperfect, and my
dreams run more than is usual, as I believe, on in the direction of
my last waking thoughts. Well, that night, I dreamed thus: I was in
a desert. It was neither day nor night to me. I saw neither sun,
moon, nor stars. A heavy, yet half-luminous cloud hung over the
visible earth. My heart was beating fast and high, for I was
journeying towards a certain Armenian convent, where I had good
ground for hoping I should find the original manuscript of the
fourth gospel, the very handwriting of the apostle John. That the
old man did not write it himself, I never thought of that in my
dream.
"After I had walked on for a long, anything but weary time, I saw
the level horizon line before me broken by a rock, as it seemed,
rising from the plain of the desert. I knew it was the monastery. It
was many miles away, and as I journeyed on it grew and grew, until
it swelled huge as a hill against the sky. At length I came up to
the door, iron-clamped, deep-set in a low thick wall. It stood wide
open. I entered, crossed a court, reached the door of the monastery
itself, and again entered. Every door to which I came stood open,
but priest nor guide came to meet me, and I saw no man, and at
length looked for none, but used my best judgment to get deeper and
deeper into the building, for I scarce doubted that in its inmost
penetralia I should find the treasure I sought. At last I stood
before a door hung with a curtain of rich workmanship, torn in the
middle from top to bottom. Through the rent I passed into a stone
cell. In the cell stood a table. On the table was a closed book. Oh
how my heart beat! Never but then have I known the feeling of utter
preciousness in a thing possessed. What doubts and fears would not
this one lovely, oh unutterably beloved volume, lay at rest for
ever! How my eyes would dwell upon every stroke of every letter the
hand of the dearest disciple had formed! Nearly eighteen hundred
years--and there it lay!--and there WAS a man who DID hear the
Master say the words, and did set them down! I stood motionless, and
my soul seemed to wind itself among the leaves, while my body stood
like a pillar of salt, lost in its own gaze. At last, with sudden
daring, I made a step towards the table, and, bending with awe,
stretched out my hand to lay it upon the book. But ere my hand
reached it, another hand, from the opposite side of the table,
appeared upon it--an old, blue-veined, but powerful hand. I looked
up. There stood the beloved disciple! His countenance was as a
mirror which shone back the face of the Master. Slowly he lifted the
book, and turned away. Then first I saw behind him as it were an
altar whereon a fire of wood was burning, and a pang of dismay shot
to my heart, for I knew what he was about to do. He laid the book on
the burning wood, and regarded it with a smile as it shrunk and
shrivelled and smouldered to ashes. Then he turned to me and said,
while a perfect heaven of peace shone in his eyes: 'Son of man, the
Word of God liveth and abideth for ever, not in the volume of the
book, but in the heart of the man that in love obeyeth him. And
therewith I awoke weeping, but with the lesson of my dream."
A deep silence fell on the little company. Then said Wingfold,
"I trust I have the lesson too."
He rose, shook hands with them, and, without another word, went
home.
CHAPTER III.
ANOTHER SERMON.
It often seems to those in earnest about the right as if all things
conspired to prevent their progress. This of course is but an
appearance, arising in part from this, that the pilgrim must be
headed back from the side paths into which he is constantly
wandering. To Wingfold, however, it seemed that all things fell in
to further his quest, which will not be so surprising if we remember
that his was no intermittent repentant seeking, but the struggle of
his whole energy. And there are those who, in their very first
seeking of it, are nearer to the kingdom of heaven than many who
have for years believed themselves of it.
In the former there is more of the mind of Jesus, and when he calls
them they recognize him at once and go after him; while the others
examine him from head to foot, and, finding him not sufficiently
like the Jesus of their conception, turn their backs, and go to
church, or chapel, or chamber, to kneel before a vague form mingled
of tradition and fancy. But the first shall be last, and the last
first; and there are from whom, be it penny or be it pound, what
they have must be taken away because with them it lies useless.
For Wingfold, he soon found that his nature was being stirred to
depths unsuspected before. Hitherto nothing had ever roused him to
genuine activity: his history not very happy; his life not very
interesting, his work not congenial, and paying itself in no
satisfaction, his pleasures of a cold and common intellectual
sort,--he had dragged along, sustained, without the sense of its
sustentation, by the germ within him of a slowly developing honesty.
But now that Conscience had got up into the guard's seat, and Will
had taken the reins, he found all his intellectual faculties in full
play, keeping well together, heads up and traces tight, while the
outrider Imagination, with his spotted dog Fancy, was always far
ahead, but never beyond the sound of the guard's horn; and ever as
they went, object after object hitherto beyond the radius of his
interest, rose on the horizon of question, and began to glimmer in
the dawn of human relation.
His first sermon is enough to show that he had begun to have
thoughts of his own--a very different thing from the entertaining of
the thoughts of others, however well we may feed and lodge
them--thoughts which came to him not as things which sought an
entrance, but as things that sought an exit--cried for forms of
embodiment that they might pass out of the infinite, and by
incarnation become communicable.
The news of that strange first sermon had of course spread through
the town, and the people came to church the next Sunday in crowds--
twice as many as the usual assembly--some who went seldom, some who
went nowhere, some who belonged to other congregations and
communities--mostly bent on witnessing whatever eccentricity the
very peculiar young man might be guilty of next, but having a few
among them who were sympathetically interested in seeing how far his
call, if call it was, would lead him.
His second sermon was to the same purport as the first. Preposing no
text, he spoke to the following effect, and indeed the following are
of the very words he uttered:
"The church wherein you now listen, my hearers, the pulpit wherein I
now speak, stand here from of old in the name of Christianity. What
is Christianity? I know but one definition, the analysis of which,
if the thing in question be a truth, must be the joyous labour of
every devout heart to all eternity. For Christianity does not mean
what you think or what I think concerning Christ, but what IS OF
Christ. My Christianity, if ever I come to have any, will be what of
Christ is in me; your Christianity now is what of Christ is in you.
Last Sunday I showed you our Lord's very words--that he, and no
other, was his disciple who did what he told him,--and said therefore
that I dared not call myself a disciple. I say the same thing in
saying now that I dare not call myself a Christian, lest I should
offend him with my 'Lord, Lord!' Still it is, and I cannot now help
it, in the name of Christianity that I here stand. I have, alas,
with blameful and appalling thoughtlessness I subscribed my name, as
a believer, to the Articles of the Church of England, with no better
reason than that I was unaware of any dissent therefrom, and have
been ordained one of her ministers. The relations into which this
has brought me I do not feel justified in severing at once, lest I
should therein seem to deny that which its own illumination may yet
show me to be true, and I desire therefore a little respite and room
for thought and resolve. But meantime it remains my business, as an
honest man in the employment of the church, to do my best towards
the setting forth of'the claims of him upon whom that church is
founded, and in whose name she exists. As one standing on the
outskirts of a listening Galilean crowd, a word comes now and then
to my hungry ears and hungrier heart: I turn and tell it again to
you--not that ye have not heard it also, but that I may stir you up
to ask yourselves: 'Do I then obey this word? Have I ever, have I
once sought to obey it? Am I a pupil of Jesus? Am I a Christian?'
Hear then of his words. For me, they fill my heart with doubt and
dismay.
"The Lord says: Love your enemies. Sayest thou, It is impossible?
Then dost thou mock the word of him who said, I am the Truth, and
has no part in him. Sayest thou, Alas, I cannot? Thou sayest true, I
doubt not. But hast thou tried whether he who made will not increase
the strength put forth to obey him?
"The Lord says: Be ye perfect. Dost thou then aim after perfection,
or dost thou excuse thy wilful short-comings, and say, To err is
human--nor hopest that it may also be found human to grow divine?
Then ask thyself, for thou hast good cause, whether thou hast any
part in him.
"The Lord said, Lay not up for yourselves treasures on earth. My
part is not now to preach against the love of money, but to ask you:
Are you laying up for yourselves treasures on earth? As to what the
command means, the honest heart and the dishonest must each settle
in his own way; but if your heart condemn you, what I have to say
is, Call not yourselves Christians, but consider whether you ought
not to become disciples indeed. No doubt you can instance this,
that, and the other man who does as you do, and of whom yet no man
dreams of questioning the Christianity: it matters not a hair; all
that goes but to say that you are pagans together. Do not mistake
me: I judge you not. I but ask you, as mouthpiece most unworthy of
that Christianity in the name of which this building stands and we
are met therein, to judge your own selves by the words of its
founder.
"The Lord said: Take no thought for your life. Take no thought for
the morrow. Explain it as you may or can--but ask yourselves--Do I
take no thought for my life? Do I take no thought for the morrow?
and answer to yourselves whether or no ye are Christians.
"The Lord says: Judge not. Didst thou judge thy neighbour yesterday?
Wilt thou judge him again to-morrow? Art thon judging him now in the
very heart that within thy bosom sits hearing the words Judge not?
Or wilt thou ask yet again--Who is my neighbour? How then canst thou
look to be of those that shall enter through the gates into the
city? I tell thee not, for I profess not yet to know anything, but
doth not thy own profession of Christianity counsel thee to fall
upon thy face, and cry to him whom thou mockest, 'I am a sinful man,
O Lord'?
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