Читать книгу The High Way - Caroline Atwater Mason - Страница 8

Table of Contents

“There’s little to relate,” remarked Hardy Shannon, by no means at ease. Douglas Gregg’s eyes, fixed upon him, demolished every last defence of evasion or withholding.

Such an interview as the present one threatened to be was the very last thing Hardy would have sought. He wanted for the present to keep his own counsel, but stark sincerity was compulsory, not elective under this man, as also in face of his challenge. Gregg, smiling slightly, remarked:

“This is not a case of a pistol at your head, Shannon, and a demand upon your soul to stand and deliver on pain of death. We might, you know, talk about Gallipoli.”

“I don’t know but you will feel like falling back on the pistol, after all, Professor Gregg, when I disclose the depths of my duplicity,” Hardy returned. “But, anyway, since you have been so good to me, since I have come into your house on this footing, since you have given me the privilege of entering into your own work I have often wished you knew just what is in the back of my mind. In fact, the reason why I came to Peterboro.”

“I don’t know that I can stand much more suspense,” was Gregg’s comment. “Go on. I took you for an honest-to-goodness theological student.”

“That is what I am, sir,” replied Hardy quickly, “but there are reasons why I am not quite as ‘worried,’ you know, as many of them are. Do you remember my brother, Park Shannon? He was here in the Seminary for a year about six years ago.”

“Yes, I remember him. He went to Germany to study.” A shading of coldness was perceptible in Gregg’s tone.

“Yes. After spending a year here he decided that he did not want to preach but to fit himself to teach along some line of theology. For that he was convinced he must go, as he said, to the ‘sources’ of Biblical scholarship. These were to be found in Germany.”

“He has been there long enough now to be ready to take up work, I should think.”

“Yes. It is disappointing to us all that he does not seem ready to return and look for a job here at home. He seems to be wedded to all things German, especially German Philosophy. He is working on his thesis now and in the meantime has a very fair position in Berlin as secretary to Professor Lechler.”

“Ah, indeed?” Gregg raised his eyebrows with quickened question and interest.

“My father is disturbed, I think, at Park’s position, especially so as to his future. But he almost never alludes to these things. Park has always gone his own way. And now since the war is on we scarcely ever hear from him. His letters are censored or kept back if he writes, but we fear he is pretty well pro-Germanized. This is tough for us all. But it has nothing to do with what we are talking about.”

“You mentioned your brother’s association with Herman Lechler.”

“Oh, yes. Before the war I think my father had a certain pride in that, but now I am sure he has become very uneasy. He has learned more of what Lechler stands for—what Germany stands for.”

“He would be disturbed.”

“But my father only surmises what my mother sees distinctly. Park used before the war to write confidentially to her once in a while, letters which were not for my father to read. He had really swung, back in those days, a long way from the old moorings. Where he is intellectually, even where he is actually now, we don’t know. I never understood this change in his views until last Spring.”

Here Hardy broke off, smitten with hesitation in embarking upon his own story.

“I am interested. Please take that for granted,” commented the Professor.

“Well, you see, sir, I was fitting myself to be an hydraulic engineer, studying at Stevens. I entered in 1913, a year before the war broke out. I never thought of going into the ministry until I was about half through my third year. Then I saw that things were going the wrong way....” Hardy paused again.

“What happened?” the Professor prompted, seeing him again beset by his dread of talking too much. “You decided then to study for the ministry?”

“Well, sir, not right off. It wasn’t exactly simple, you know. What I did was this;—when I went home last Easter I told my mother how things were working in my mind. I usually talk everything over with her first. I thought one thing was sure:—she would be gratified to know that I was considering the ministry, would be all for it, you know. Instead of that she seemed very grave, even rather troubled. It was then that she told me much more than I had ever guessed about Park. The amount of it is that he has discarded Christianity for a form of philosophy which reduces religion to a biological product. He can never in the world serve in the Christian ministry, in any capacity, I should think. You can see how my mother might feel about having another son ...” here Hardy hesitated.

“About having another son start in to prepare for the ministry and perhaps also throw it over? Yes, I appreciate the situation. And yet, you are here! This grows interesting.”

“I am glad you think so, sir, for now I am coming to the awkward part of the story. To begin with, my mother is a rather wonderful woman in some ways, Professor Gregg. While the Modernist criticism of the Bible, and all the changes which are coming with it, are never discussed in our family because the subject is offensive to my father, she has quietly gone on reading and thinking for herself. Her idea is that an ignorant faith is a weak faith. And this is what she said to me then: ‘Don’t go in for preparation for the ministry with your eyes shut. Park did. You see how he is coming out. For myself, I know, of course, but little of the new radical tendencies, but thus far my faith is not shaken. I cannot tell what might happen if I knew more. It looks as if the new school moves towards leaving us without the Gospel, without Christ, without light save the light of human reason. It seems to bid fair to become a bridge from faith to agnosticism. Let us look into this matter together, fearlessly, honestly. Let us face the facts. If your faith cannot stand against them, go on with your engineering. But above all things do not try to preach unless you have a sure message, a positive one.’”

There was silence for a little space then, but a glance from Gregg’s eyes challenged the student to proceed with the narration of his experience.

“Well, sir, that is what we have done. We have looked into the matter, my mother and I together.—We got the books we needed, some old, some the newest authorities, books which opened up the subject of modern criticism and its effect upon the integrity of the Bible. We studied hard, though, of course, crudely enough. After my return to Stevens I was still often at home for week-ends and, together or apart, we kept up our work. Then through the summer we had our best chance of all. We have made the best use of it we knew how.”

“And you are both alive to tell the story?”

The question had a touch of cynical coldness. Hardy Shannon flushed.

“All I can say, sir, is that we have not been overcome so far. Neither of us has lost faith in the Bible as Divine Revelation. I do not suppose that we have gone very far or very deep—that would be impossible, not being scholars. But some things are clear to us both, and I believe will never be obscured.”

“Most important, certainly,” Gregg remarked meditatively. “And these things?”

The sense of an underlying irony in the Professor’s attitude towards his explanation acted as a spur upon Hardy’s courage and quickened his reluctance to speak into sudden resolution.

“Am I at liberty to speak as I really feel?” He asked the question almost curtly. “It is not exactly what one would choose,—for a fellow like me to venture to call any position of yours, sir, in question,” he added.

“By all means do me the favour of speaking what is in your thoughts, without disguise or modification. Otherwise what you say is destitute of significance. I am listening, believe me, with respect, with sympathy.”

There was a tense silence for a moment. Then Hardy spoke, slowly, seriously.

“We have been taught, Professor Gregg, from our childhood, all of us, that God in sundry times and in divers manners has spoken to the fathers by the prophets, and in later days has spoken unto us by His Son. The school of Higher Criticism just now dominant declares, I find, that God has never spoken either by the prophets or by His Son, if by that is meant speaking by immediate divine and authoritative impartation or inspiration. The Old Testament seems now to be reduced to a body of interesting legends concerning a primitive race with a primitive religion largely derived from the religions of surrounding peoples and tribes. Am I right so far?”

“Wrong, if you deduce anything derogatory to the value of the Christian religion at this point. But pray go on,” was the brief response.

“Religion, by and large, is reduced to a purely subjective thing, developed by purely human influences,” proceeded Hardy. ”God has not spoken. That seems to be the cardinal point. The New Testament, after going through the same chemical laboratory processes as the Old, comes out in much the same shape. All the great passages, all the great climaxes, and everything which attributes divinity to Jesus are described as ‘spurious’ by the new school.

“Now, sir, if I have so far stated what I have found fairly, I am ready to go on and be so bold as to say that I have discovered for myself that the actual documentary findings of the School now dominant in Europe and largely so here, are negligible, so far as concerns disparities in language, dates and facts unalterably established. The work accomplished along this line is of intense interest and importance even to me, but it gives no ground for essential change in point of view from that which has been held by thoughtful students of the Bible for generations. The accusation, for instance, that believers take the book of Genesis as a biological manual and all that sort of thing is sheer rubbish. I never knew any one who did, myself.

“Of course, the next question would be, if what I have just said is correct, Why then have the Higher Critics stirred up such a mighty commotion? For it has been said lately, and it seems to me with reason, that a totally diverse type of religion, frankly antagonistic to the great redemptive Christian Faith, is now in process of consolidation as a result of their teaching. Is that a fair statement?”

The Professor did not reply at once.

“It is possible. It must needs be that changes come in this field as in all others. I have nothing to say on the point at present. What is your answer to the question you just raised?”

“The destructive work of the Higher Criticism,” proceeded Hardy, “for I suppose it cannot be denied that thus far its work has been quite largely destructive, does not, as I see it, Professor Gregg, spring from inherent defects discovered in the Bible so much as from the idée fixe with which the Critics start out. Which is briefly: ‘I am a man; whatever purports to be supernatural is alien to me.’ Reason and human experience are taken as the sole accredited guides. Certain men, as I have learned, destitute of personal religion, even of decent reverence, sounded the rallying cry, ‘So soon as we allow the supernatural or immediate revelation to intervene in even one single point’—etc., etc., the case is lost.... Wellhausen and his followers, at the start, rule out all possibility of the supernatural. Is it not so? ‘If Luke’s text seems to give Christ divinity, then that particular text is not a true one’ seems to be the authorized position.”

“Then you accept the supernatural as authentic and trustworthy, do you, Shannon?”

“Yes, sir. It seems to me of the very essence of religion, that it should transcend the tests of naturalism. What is the energy of religion, if it is not faith?”

There was no reply. Presently Hardy took up the word again.

“No, Professor Gregg, much as I respect the efforts of the Higher Critics, serious and sincere, I am sure, I cannot accept their conclusions. For one reason, I find that they by no means agree together. The theory which is hailed as final in one decade is repudiated in the following. Facts such as this strike one, you know,—that Erdman, Kuenen’s pupil and successor, led reaction against him, declaring, ‘Higher Criticism is wrong from the outset.’ I believe Gunkel stands rather high among the highest of Higher Critics. I can’t quote him offhand, but I remember his statement of a conviction that the reigning school of literary criticism is all too zealous to explain as not genuine the passages which do not precisely fit in with its construction of history.”

“Yes, Gunkel has said just about that. And it is perfectly true. You have struck the weak point, no doubt of that.”

Humbled instantly by this unexpected admission, Hardy fell silent, wondering if by his boldness he had completely alienated his august companion. It was Gregg who spoke next.

“Well, what are you going to do about it, young man?” he asked.

“I mean to fight,” was Hardy’s answer, “if I can ever find the way to fight to any purpose.”

“You do?” Hardy noted a curious steely light in Gregg’s glance, and reflected that the old scholar might be sharpening his sword against his crude presumption. Still his answer came undaunted.

“That is what I am here for, sir.”

“Would you mind explaining? Just a little?”

“Oh, yes, I mind it most awfully,” answered Hardy with a short laugh. “We have got to the crux of the thing now and I hate it. My preamble is over at last. I know it has been a fearful bore ... for you, sir.”

“Not at all. The point of view is naturally somewhat familiar, but I always find it interesting. You would not perhaps entirely exclude from your scheme of things the search after the basis of truth in the Scriptures?”

The question, sarcastic, mocking even as was its implication, seemed after all sincere and simple as the eyes of teacher and student met in frank encounter. If Gregg’s sword was drawn its point was not yet lifted.

“I can at least say in my own defence,” Hardy began, “that you drew me on to make a Prating Prig of myself in your presence. I am sure, sir, you will take your share of responsibility. I am most interested and eager to gain the results of the best scholarship. But this is precisely because I am convinced that a tremendous reaction from the thrall of Ultra-Modernism must be at hand. At least it is my hope that I may help in some way however small to bring such a reaction to pass. To do that, one should be able to estimate impartially, if that is possible, the forces at work towards the present overthrow of faith. That is why I came to Peterboro, you, Professor Gregg, the highest critical authority in the country, being here.”

“To find the weak points in our armour, eh, and know where to strike?” Gregg queried. His smile was sardonic but Hardy Shannon felt a sudden sense of release. His nervous tension relaxed, he settled back into his chair.

“No, sir. Not so much the weak points as the strong,” he said and laughed, struck by the humour of the situation.

Douglas Gregg liked the boy’s laugh. It rang humorous, human. He liked his unstudied frankness and his fearlessness, destitute of bravado. He looked upon him as he would have looked upon an artless child and, looking upon him thus, he loved him. Such stern youthful convictions amused while they touched him, touched him, for some reason acutely. He had met like convictions often enough. They seldom failed to yield to the inevitable. Yet—after all,—what if this man were cast in a different mould? What if the time should be at hand for the pendulum to swing the other way?

A mysterious nostalgia crept into the old scholar’s heart. This young champion stood at the beginning of the race. He at the end. This other man was to fight for an affirmation. He himself had waged his life’s battle for a negation.

“You know, Shannon,” he said, almost pensively the other fancied, “a man does sometimes find reason to change his point of view even after the mature age of—twenty-two, is it?”

Hardy confessed the humbling impeachment, then, with boyish eagerness, asked:

“Yes, but does he, sir, when it has to do with the ‘master light of all his seeing’?”

“Perhaps—even then.”

Gregg’s thought had gone back to himself at twenty-two ... before he had visited Germany.