Читать книгу Mr. Gurney and Mr. Slade - Warwick Deeping - Страница 6

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The building was abominably new.

No Gothic mysteries here, no Fra Angelico glamour, and Gurney, who had some colour in his soul and a leaning towards the old, rich ritual, stood for a moment and gazed at the edifice. St. Jude’s Parish Room and School.

Shades of St. Egbert, what a hard-boiled building! Corrugated iron, and nasty red paint, and mean little windows, and that horrid little belfry snub-nosed on the roof! The building had a history, but of that Gurney was ignorant. It had been erected in Victoria Road as a Coffee Tavern, horrible anomaly, but the East End visitor to Southfleet had not been interested in Coffee Taverns. King Bung, that jovial fellow, who held court in the Old Town, had lured the crowd from virtue, and the proprietor of the Coffee Tavern had gone bankrupt. The Rev. Egbert Jones and his wardens had done a smart piece of business, purchased the building at a very reduced figure, had it removed and re-erected on a piece of waste land behind the church. That horrid little belfry had been an afterthought. The Coffee Pot had needed no bell.

“Oh, my immortal soul!” thought Gurney. “Why must beauty be turned into the beast?”

Yes, the building was so like the Rev. Egbert, and within it Mrs. Egbert and a sample of Southfleet ladies and a collection of children were waiting for him. He was on show, and supposed to be a bachelor. Almost, Gurney funked the issue. That bathetic building seemed to wear pince-nez. It smirked at him. It was so good.

“Well, here goes,” said Gurney most irreverently, and took the plunge into cold water.

He was aware of Mrs. Egbert standing up. She occupied a sort of dais, a very plain and precise lady, sandy hair drawn back from a forehead like a bent knee. She had very pale eyes and sandy lashes, and the suggestion of a multiplicity of teeth.

Everybody stood up. They gazed, some of the ladies with hopeful interest. Here was a new man, and a bachelor. Surely one might divine in him romantic possibilities?

Gurney felt embarrassed. The hall was like a galvanized tank in which eyes goggled at him. It was lined with matchboard stained a meagre brown, and plastered with pious pictures. He found an official smile.

“Oh, please sit down. I am very glad to meet you all.”

There was a scraping of shoe-leather and a rustling of skirts. Mrs. Egbert Jones was still standing, pince-nez and teeth aglimmer. Gurney took his cue. It behoved him to pay his respects to the High Priestess. He moved up the gangway between the various classes. The teachers and the elder girls appraised him, with inward comments.

“Not much to look at.”

“His head’s too big for his legs.”

“What a funny little fellow!”

“Not a patch on Mr. Masters.”

“He’s got quite a nice smile.”

Gurney arrived at the dais, and saluted Mrs. Jones.

“Please step up,” said she, graciously.

Gurney stepped up and faced the room. Mrs. Jones, with hands folded, made a little speech. She had much pleasure in introducing the new curate. She was sure that he would find everybody kind, attentive, and helpful. Gurney stood like a small boy, a prize boy. Would the lady moisten a finger and smooth down some tuft of hair on his head?

“And now, ladies and children, I am going to leave Mr. Gurney with you, to give you a little address.”

How magnanimous of her! Gurney behaved like a little gentleman. He handed Mrs. Jones down from the dais. Well, that would be a relief. He remounted the dais, and waited until the lady had made her exit. He looked round the hall, smiled, and gave a little clearing of the throat.

“Oh, hell and blimey!” was what he wanted to say.

What he did say, was: “Supposing we call it a holiday and I tell you a story.”

There was a murmur of appreciation from the children.

So, Gurney found a chair, and sat down, nursing his hat, and with an air of easy intimacy, told them a story. It was not out of the Bible. It concerned a certain Jack and a Beanstalk and a Giant, with various imaginary embellishments, and no moral. In fact, it had an almost pagan flavour. The younger children enjoyed it. Maybe, the ladies thought Gurney lacking in seriousness and a sense of responsibility.

Several of them discussed it afterwards. Gurney had gone round the classes, smiling and shaking hands. He had been a success with the children, and a bevy of them had followed him homewards.

Said one serious-minded lady to another: “Rather an eccentric person. And somewhat lacking in reverence.”

“He doesn’t look quite grown up.”

“Well, I dare say dear Mr. Jones will take him in hand. Quite a nice smile.”

“Yes, quite. I hear he came from the East End.”

“That may explain it.”

Mr. Slade sat in the garden and read Gurney’s sermon. It was an old sermon, written in the days of his young fervour, when the man in him had been moved to fearless eloquence, and neither Mammon nor Human Nature had seemed inseparable. Also, it had been written in the days before a certain human experience had come into his life and chastened some of his daring. Gurney had his heel of Achilles, his thorn in the flesh, nor was he likely to forget it.

Mr. Slade raised inward eyebrows. He might have exclaimed with Bert or Bill: “Gawd strike me pink.” Because Gurney’s sermon was more than pink; parts of it were lurid scarlet. Had ever such an address been delivered from the pulpit of St. Jude’s? “No, sir—oh—no, sir!” Mr. Slade both chuckled and looked grave. Did Gurney really contemplate delivering that address to the Rev. Egbert’s congregation? Gosh, if so, what a breaking of eggs there would be! What indignation, what horror!

His daughter joined him; she had been writing to Master George. She found her father sitting with closed eyes, a smile on his face, and the manuscript on his knees.

Was he asleep? She sat down softly, and without opening his eyes, Mr. Slade addressed her.

“In confidence, my dear, would you like to read—a sermon?”

“A sermon?”

“Yes, by Gurney. He asked me to—criticize it. I’m rather flabbergasted.”

“Is it—so—dull?”

Mr. Slade shot out his feet and sat up. “Dull! It’s like a box of fireworks all going off at once, or two Tom-cats fighting in a hamper.”

“Good gracious! He looks such a quiet little man.”

“Read it, my dear, and give me your opinion. Not a word to anybody.”

He passed her the manuscript, rose, and went forth to see if the plums on his early plum-tree were ripening.

Mr. Slade was absent for a quarter of an hour. He had discovered some broken glass at the bottom of a wall, which was significant, for Mr. Slade, that good old man, was not quite Gurney. He had found it necessary to have his wall topped with broken glass in order to preserve his fruit from plundering louts and small boys, for, not only did they thieve the fruit, but they broke the trees. So, someone had been exercising spite, whacking at the glass chevaux de frise with his stick. No one had been over the wall, and Mr. Slade rubbed his chin and philosophized. Boys would be boys, and men would be men, and to justify the greeds and envies of human nature prophets would propound a new political system. It was in the process of propagation, and Mr. Slade, who called himself a Liberal, was interested in it. He could confess to being a man of property, and in his case it was a clean product, and he may have been prejudiced, but he failed to see why he should be despoiled of it for the benefit of the greedy and the thriftless.

Service, not profit! The redistribution of wealth! What humbug! In a completely angelic world such an ideal state might be possible, but it was not an angelic world. Did any working-man, so called, put service before wages? Was not the main appetite material? What were these gentlemen agitating for, haloes or more cash? Damned humbug! Man could be an ingenious, mealy-mouthed hypocrite.

“Redistribution of wealth! Poof!” thought Mr. Slade. “Let them talk about the redistribution of brains, and then—I will listen.”

He returned to his daughter, to find her gazing at the distant sea, with Gurney’s sermon lying in her lap.

“Well, my dear, what is the verdict?”

She said, dreamily: “I think it is a wonderful sermon.”

Mr. Slade sat down.

“Far too wonderful for Southfleet. And far too wonderful for any human family.”

She came out of dreams to look at him with some surprise.

“You—think so?”

“I’m afraid I do, my dear.”

“But, isn’t it sincere?”

“Terribly sincere. Gurney may be one of those saintly persons who assume too much, and believe that other people are as sensitive and ungreedy as he is.”

“But if he feels like that, isn’t he right to—be honest?”

“Of course he has that right. But the question is, Rose, how much good will he do, how much harm?”

“Harm? Could it do harm?”

“It could do a great deal of harm to Gurney.”

“You mean, he would make enemies?”

“Of course. And doubtful friends.”

“How—doubtful friends?”

Mr. Slade glanced affectionately at his daughter.

“My dear, it isn’t a disinterested world, and never will be. It’s patchwork, and some of the patches are pretty shabby. Unfortunately, when a man begins to preach pure altruism, quite a number of people read into his words that which he never intended. Yes, unfortunately, the highest motives may stimulate the worst desires, persuade human nature to put on a surplice and translate robbery into what they call redistribution. So, you think I’m an old cynic?”

“Oh, no.”

“Man is not a bad sort of creature, but he has his limitations. Give him a text and he may turn it into a tyranny. We are so clever at legalizing that which the carnal man in us lusts for. Man is a jealous beast, and given their way most men would like to be little Jehovahs.”

“Are you—one?”

“Bits of me are. I try to chasten those bits. Just one question. I suppose you think George a very ordinary sort of boy?”

“Ordinary?”

“Yes. Just capable of becoming a dustman or a bricklayer’s labourer.”

“Of course I don’t. George is——”

Mr. Slade chuckled. “Well, there you are! Just—human nature. Maternity. Does any Mrs. Smith think that little Smith is no better than the little Jones next door?”

“I suppose not. One is prejudiced.”

“Ah, prejudice! Well, why not? Why skim off the cream and call it no better than skilly?”

Mr. Slade wrote a note to Gurney, and left it at No. 7 Cashiobury Terrace on his way to business.

“I have read your sermon with great interest. May I discuss it with you? You will find me at home after six.”

Gurney responded to the invitation. Even during those first days, he had been hearing things about Mr. Slade and Mr. Slade’s history. It really was a most extraordinary story, and yet Southfleet appeared to have accepted Mr. Slade and his past and to have made quite a worthy of him. Well, Mr. Slade should know something about life and human nature and the martyrdom of man, and if the preaching of such a sermon could put the preacher in the pillory, Mr. Slade might tell him so.

Mr. Slade did tell him so. He was frank and fatherly, and unexpected, in that actually he had read Karl Marx and Engels, and the Fabian tracts, and he did not prate about what he did not know. Gurney sat and listened. He had not read Karl Marx; his God was Christ upon the Cross. And was it not a priest’s duty to preach Christ crucified?

Mr. Slade was gentle with him. “Yes, to the few. But to the many, not so freely. Remember the cunning of the serpent, Gurney.”

“What, exactly, do you mean, sir?”

“Man should be known by his works—more than by his words. Begin by playing with children and they will have faith in you. I would begin by playing with the children, grown up and otherwise.”

Gurney sat and smiled. “As you did, sir?”

“Who has been gossiping?”

“It was very kindly gossip.”

“I’m glad. Words, Gurney, can sting. They resound like smacks, and would you begin by smacking children?”

“I see your point.”

“Of course you do. Persuade children to love and trust you, and you can smack them—justly and with impunity. The trouble with a man like Karl Marx is that he damns a whole class to prove his theory. No class can be damned in that way.”

“I agree. Our modern world——”

“Grew. And why? Why did it shape itself as it has done? Marx evades the issue. Surplus value, exploitation. What about—surplus brains?”

“Not brains alone, sir.”

“No, character too. Men aren’t ninepins to be knocked over haphazard. And there is a Chinese saying.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Softlee walkee catchee monkey.”

Gurney laughed. “And—Southfleet—is my monkey?”

“It would be. I know several other souls in this town who have caught their monkey.”

“You, sir, for one.”

“Make no song about me, Gurney. If you care to preach that sermon five years hence instead of next Sunday——”

“I’ll take your advice, sir.”

“Then you are a very exceptional man, Gurney, and I take off my hat to you.”