"Then a sort of despair came on me when the police got me turned out of my work in York. I know it was only a little thing (though I still think it unfair), but it was like a pebble in your boot when you"re already going lame from something else.
"And then came Jenny"s letter. (I want to write about that rather carefully.)
"I said just now that I was getting to feel smaller and smaller. That"s perfectly true, but there was still a little hard lump in the middle that would not break. Things might have gone crumbling away at me for ever, and I might have got smaller still, but they wouldn"t have smashed me.
"Now there were two things that I held on to all this time--my religion and Jenny. I gave them turns, so to speak, though Jenny was never absent. When everything religious tasted flat and dull and empty, I thought about Jenny: when things were better--when I had those two or three times I told Father Hildebrand about (...)--I still thought of Jenny, and imagined how splendid it would be when we were both Catholics together and married. But I never dreamed that Jenny would ever be angry or disappointed. I wouldn"t talk about her to anybody ever, because I was so absolutely certain of her. I knew, I thought, that the whole world might crumble away, but that Jenny would always understand, down at the bottom, and that she and I would remain....
"Well, then came her letter.
"Honestly, I don"t quite know what I was doing inside for the next week or so. Simply everything was altered. I never had any sort of doubt that she meant what she said, and it was as if there wasn"t any sun or moon or sky. It was like being ill. Things happened round me: I ate and drank and walked, but the only thing I wanted was to get away, and get down somewhere into myself and hide. Religion, of course, seemed no good at all. I don"t understand quite what people mean by "consolations" of religion. Religion doesn"t seem to me a thing like Art or Music, in which you can take refuge. It either covers everything, or it isn"t religion. Religion never has seemed to me (I don"t know if I"m wrong) one thing, like other things, so that you can change about and back again.... It"s either the background and foreground all in one, or it"s a kind of game. It"s either true, or it"s a pretense.
"Well, all this, in a way, taught me it was absolutely true. Things wouldn"t have held together at all unless it was true. But it was no sort of satisfaction. It seemed to me for a while that it was horrible that it was true; that it was frightful to think that G.o.d could be like that--since this Jenny-business had really happened. But I didn"t feel all this exactly consciously at the time. I seemed as if I was ill, and could only lie still and watch and be in h.e.l.l. One thing, however, Father Hildebrand thought very important (he asked me about it particularly) was that I honestly did not feel any resentment whatever against either G.o.d or Jenny. It was frightful, but it was true, and I just had to lie still inside and look at it. He tells me that this shows that the first part of the "process," as he called it, was finished (he called it the "Purgative Way"). And I must say that what happened next seems to fit in rather well.
"The new "process" began quite suddenly when I awoke in the shepherd"s hut one morning at Ripon. The instant I awoke I knew it. It was very early in the morning, just before sunrise, but there was a little wood behind me, and the birds were beginning to chirp.
"It"s very hard to describe it in words, but the first thing to say is that I was not exactly happy just then, but absolutely content. I think I should say that it was like this: I saw suddenly that what had been wrong in me was that I had made myself the center of things, and G.o.d a kind of circ.u.mference. When He did or allowed things, I said, "Why does He?"--_from my point of view_. That is to say, I set up my ideas of justice and love and so forth, and then compared His with mine, not mine with His. And I suddenly saw--or, rather, I knew already when I awoke--that this was simply stupid. Even now I cannot imagine why I didn"t see it before: I had heard people say it, of course--in sermons and books--but I suppose it had meant nothing to me. (Father Hildebrand tells me that I had seen it intellectually, but had never embraced it with my will.) Because when one once really sees that, there"s no longer any puzzle about anything. One can simply never say "Why?" again. The thing"s finished.
"Now this "process" (as Father H. calls it) has gone on in a most extraordinary manner ever since. That beginning near Ripon was like opening a door into another country, and I"ve been walking ever since and seeing new things. All sorts of things that I had believed as a Catholic--things, I mean, which I a.s.sented to simply because the Church said so, have, so to speak, come up and turned themselves inside out. I couldn"t write them down, because you can"t write these things down, or even put them intelligibly to yourself. You just _see that they are so_.
For instance, one morning at ma.s.s--quite suddenly--I saw how the substance of the bread was changed, and how our Lord is united with the soul at Communion--of course it"s a mystery (that"s what I mean by saying that it can"t be written down)--but I saw it, in a flash, and I can see it still in a sort of way. Then another day when the Major was talking about something or other (I think it was about the club he used to belong to in Piccadilly), I understood about our Lady and how she is just everything from one point of view. And so on. I had that kind of thing at Doctor Whitty"s a good deal, particularly when I was getting better. I could talk to him all the time, too, or count the k.n.o.bs on the wardrobe, or listen to the Major and Gertie in the garden--and yet go on all the time seeing things. I knew it wasn"t any good talking to Doctor Whitty himself much, though I can"t imagine why a man like that doesn"t see it all for himself....
"It seems to me most extraordinary now that I ever could have had those other thoughts I told Father H. about--I mean about sins, and about wondering whether, after all, the Church was actually true. In a sort of way, of course, they come back to me still, and I know perfectly well I must be on my guard; but somehow it"s different.
"Well, all this is what Father H. calls the "Illuminative Way," and I think I understand what he means. It came to a sort of point on All Souls" Eve at the monastery. I saw the whole thing then for a moment or two, and not only Purgatory. But I will write that down later. And Father H. tells me that I must begin to look forward to a new "process"--what he calls the "Way of Union." I don"t understand much what he means by that; I don"t see that more could happen to me. I am absolutely and entirely happy; though I must say that there has seemed a sort of lull for the last day or two--ever since All Souls" Day, in fact. Perhaps something is going to happen. It"s all right, anyhow. It seems very odd to me that all this kind of thing is perfectly well known to priests. I thought I was the first person who had ever felt quite like this.
"I must add one thing. Father H. asked me whether I didn"t feel I had a vocation to the Religious Life; he told me that from everything he could see, I had, and that my coming to the monastery was simply providential.
"Well, I don"t agree, and I have told him so. I haven"t the least idea what is going to happen next; but I know, absolutely for certain, that I have got to go on with the Major and Gertie to East London. Gertie will have to be got away from the Major somehow, and until that is done I mustn"t do anything else.
"I have written all this down as plainly as I can, because I promised Father H. I would."
PART III
CHAPTER I
Mrs. Partington was standing at the door of her house towards sunset, waiting for the children to come back from school.
Her house is situated in perhaps the least agreeable street--Turner Road--in perhaps the least agreeable district of East London--Hackney Wick. It is a disagreeable district because it isn"t anything in particular. It has neither the tragic gayety of Whitechapel nor the comparative refinement of Clapton. It is a large, triangular piece of land, containing perhaps a square mile altogether, or rather more, approached from the south by the archway of the Great Eastern Railway, defined on one side by the line, and along its other two sides, partly by the river Lea--a grimy, depressed-looking stream--and partly by the Hackney Marshes--flat, dreary wastes of gra.s.s-grown land, useless as building ground and of value only for Sat.u.r.day afternoon recreations of rabbit coursing and football. The dismalness of the place is beyond description at all times of the year. In winter it is bleak and chilly; in summer it is hot, fly-infested, and hideously and ironically reminiscent of real fields and real gra.s.s. The population is calculated to change completely about every three years, and I"m sure I am not surprised. It possesses two important blocks of buildings besides the schools--a large jam factory and the church and clergy-house of the Eton Mission.
Turner Road is perhaps the most hopeless of all the dozen and a half of streets. (It is marked black, by the way, in Mr. Booth"s instructive map.) It is about a quarter of a mile long and perfectly straight. It is intersected at one point by another street, and is composed of tall dark houses, with flat fronts, perhaps six or seven stories in height. It is generally fairly silent and empty, and is inhabited by the most characteristic members of the Hackney Wick community--quiet, white-faced men, lean women, draggled and sharp-tongued, and countless over-intelligent children--all of the cla.s.s that seldom remain long anywhere--all of the material out of which the real criminal is developed. No booths or stalls ever stand here; only, on Sat.u.r.day nights, there is echoed here, as in a stone-lined pit, the cries and the wheel-noises from the busy thoroughfare a hundred yards away round the corner. The road, as a whole, bears an aspect of desperate and fierce dignity; there is never here the glimpse of a garden or of flowers, as in Mortimer Road, a stone"s throw away. There is nothing whatever except the tall, flat houses, the pavements, the lampposts, the grimy thoroughfare and the silence. The sensation of the visitor is that anything might happen here, and that no one would be the wiser. There is an air of horrible discretion about these houses.
Mrs. Partington was--indeed is (for I went to see her not two months ago)--of a perfectly defined type. She must have been a handsome factory girl--dark, slender, and perfectly able to take care of herself, with thin, muscular arms, generally visible up to the elbow, hard hands, a quant.i.ty of rather untidy hair--with the tongue of a venomous orator and any amount of very inferior sentiment, patriotic and domestic. She has become a lean, middle-aged woman, very upright and very strong, without any sentiment at all, but with a great deal of very practical human experience to take its place. She has no illusions about either this world or the next; she has borne nine children, of which three survive; and her husband is almost uninterruptedly out of work. However, they are prosperous (for Turner Road), and have managed, so far, to keep their home together.
The sunset was framed in a glow of smoky glory at the end of the street down which Mrs. Partington was staring, resembling a rather angry search-light turned on from the gates of heaven. The street was still quiet; but already from the direction of the Board-school came thin and shrill cries as the swarm of children exploded in all directions. Mrs.
Partington (she would have said) was waiting for her children--Jimmy, Maggie and "Erb--and there were lying within upon the bare table three thick slices of bread and black jam; as a matter of fact, she was looking out for her lodgers, who should have arrived by midday.
Then she became aware that they were coming, even as she looked, advancing down the empty street _en echelon_. Two of them she knew well enough--they had lodged with her before; but the third was to be a stranger, and she was already interested in him--the Major had hinted at wonderful mysteries....
So she shaded her eyes against the cold glare and watched them carefully, with that same firm, resolute face with which she always looked out upon the world; and even as, presently, she exchanged that quick, silent nod of recognition with the Major and Gertie, still she watched the brown-faced, shabby young man who came last, carrying his bundle and walking a little lame.
"You"re after your time," she said abruptly.
The Major began his explanations, but she cut them short and led the way into the house.
(II)
I find it very difficult to record accurately the impression that Frank made upon Mrs. Partington; but that the impression was deep and definite became perfectly clear to me from her conversation. He hardly spoke at all, she said, and before he got work at the jam factory he went out for long, lonely walks across the marshes. He and the Major slept together, it seemed, in one room, and Gertie, temporarily with the children and Mrs. Partington in another. (Mr. Partington, at this time, happened to be away on one of his long absences.) At meals Frank was always quiet and well-behaved, yet not ostentatiously. Mrs. Partington found no fault with him in that way. He would talk to the children a little before they went to school, and would meet them sometimes on their way back from school; and all three of them conceived for him an immense and indescribable adoration. All this, however, would be too long to set down in detail.
It seems to have been a certain air of pathos which Mrs. Partington herself cast around him, which affected her the most, and I imagine her feeling to have been largely motherly. There was, however, another element very obviously visible, which, in anyone but Mrs. Partington, I should call reverence.... She told me that she could not imagine why he was traveling with the Major and Gertie, so she at least understood something of the gulf between them.
So the first week crept by, bringing us up to the middle of December.
It was on the Friday night that Frank came back with the announcement that he was to go to work at the jam factory on Monday. There was a great pressure, of course, owing to the approach of Christmas, and Frank was to be given joint charge of a van. The work would last, it seemed, at any rate, for a week or two.
"You"ll have to mind your language," said the Major jocosely. (He was sitting in the room where the cooking was done and where, by the way, the entire party, with the exception of the two men, slept; and, at this moment, had his feet on the low mantelshelf between the saucepan and Jimmy"s cap.)
"Eh?" said Frank.
"No language allowed there," said the Major. "They"re d.a.m.n particular."
Frank put his cap down and took his seat on the bed.
"Where"s Gertie?" he asked. ("Yes, come on, Jimmie.")
Jimmie crept up beside him, looking at him with big black, reverential eyes. Then he leaned against him with a quick smile and closed his eyes ecstatically. Frank put an arm round the boy to support him.
"Oh! Gertie"s gone to see a friend," said the Major. "Did you want her?"
Frank said nothing, and Mrs. Partington looked from one to the other swiftly.
Mrs. Partington had gathered a little food for thought during the last few days. It had become perfectly evident to her that the girl was very much in love with this young man, and that while this young man either was, or affected to be, ignorant of it, the Major was not. Gertie had odd silences when Frank came into the room, or yet more odd volubilities, and Mrs. Partington was not quite sure of the Major"s att.i.tude. This officer and her husband had had dealings together in the past of a nature which I could not quite determine (indeed, the figure of Mr. Partington is still a complete mystery to me, and rather a formidable mystery); and I gather that Mrs. Partington had learned from her husband that the Major was not simply negligible. She knew him for a blackguard, but she seems to have been uncertain of what kind was this black-guardism--whether of the strong or the weak variety. She was just a little uncomfortable, therefore, as to the significance of Gertie; and had already wondered more than once whether or no she should say a motherly word to the young man.
There came a sound of footsteps up the street as Mrs. Partington ironed a collar of Jimmie"s on the dining-room table, and laid down the iron as a tap fell on the door. The Major took out his pipe and began to fill it as she went out to see who was knocking.
"Oh! good evening, Mrs. Partington," sounded in a clear, high-bred voice from the street door. "May I come in for a minute or two? I heard you had lodgers, and I thought perhaps--"