Youth Without God (6 page)

“Yes, we’re Amazons,” continued the teacher.

But the Amazons were only a myth. This was reality. Daughters of Eve, strayed far.

I thought of Julius Caesar.

He couldn’t find any inspiration in Venus with a rucksack. Nor I.

Before they marched off again the teacher explained to me that to-day the girls had been out looking for the lost airman. How so?—had some ’plane crashed?

No! The search for the lost airman was a new military exercise for the nation’s young womanhood. Somewhere in the wood was a big white box. The girls spread out and advanced in a wide line, each of them searching for the white box.

“It’s in case of war. So that we can immediately get going if there’s an actual crash. Behind the lines, of course: unfortunately women won’t be at the front.”

A pity!

They marched on. I watched them. A good many marches had made their short legs even shorter—and thicker.

March on, mothers of the future.

PALE SKY AND RAIN-WASHED EARTH: THE WORLD a water-colour—“April.”

I made my way back to the camp, following a footpath across the fields. What lay behind the hill?

My path skirted a thicket in a wide curve. The air was still, with something of the eternal stillness. No murmur, no stir of life. The very beetles were nearly all asleep.

On the other side of the hill a farm-house stood in a little valley. There was no one to be seen, no sign of the dog.

I was on the point of going down to it when, involuntarily, I stopped. A narrow lane led past the farm: suddenly I had caught sight of three figures crouching behind the hedge. Children, hiding there, two boys and a girl. The boys would be about thirteen, the girl a year or two older. All were barefooted. What were they doing, hiding? I waited. One of the boys got up and started towards the farm. All at once he stopped short and slunk back to the hedge. I heard the creaking of a wagon. A load of timber drawn by heavy horses went slowly by.

When it was out of sight the boy made for the farm again, reached the door and knocked. He must have knocked with a hammer, or so it seemed to me, the sound rang out so sharply. Then he—and the two others—waited, listening. The girl was standing up, peering over the hedge.
How tall she was, and thin! The door opened, and an old peasant woman appeared, bent over a stick. She looked about as if sniffing the air. The boy stood there quietly. Suddenly the old woman cried:

“Who is it?”

Why was she shouting?—there was the boy, in front of her! She shouted again:

“Who is it?” and groped with her stick, as if she could not see him. Could she be blind?

The girl pointed to the open door, as if giving an order, and on tiptoe the boy slipped into the house.

The old woman stood listening.

Yes, she was blind.

From the house came a noise—the clatter of broken crockery. The blind woman gave a frightened start and cried:

“Help! Help!”

But the girl threw herself upon her and put her hand over her mouth.

The boy came out carrying a loaf of bread and a jug, as the girl knocked the stick out of the old woman’s hand. I rushed towards them. The blind woman staggered, stumbled, and fell. The three children vanished.

I helped the frightened, whimpering old woman to her feet. A peasant had heard the noise and ran up. Between us, we got her into the house, and I told him what had happened. He showed no surprise.

“Yes, they got the old lady out so as they could slip in the door. That lot again! There’s no catching ’em. They’re worse than magpies—a regular gang of thieves!”

“Children?”

The peasant nodded.

“Yes, they’ve even been at it up there at the castle, where the young ladies are. They had half their wash not so long ago. You’d better look out, or they’ll be up to the same tricks in your camp.”

“We’ll be on the watch for them!”

“There’s nothing I’d put past ’em. They’re weed, and ought to be rooted up!”

I TURNED BACK TO THE CAMP. WE HAD REASSURED and consoled the old blind woman. She was grateful to me—why should she be? Wasn’t it a matter of course?—I couldn’t leave her lying there on the ground. A lot of brutes, these children.

I came to a sudden stop, for a strange mood came over me. I didn’t feel at all furious over the theft of the bread, or even over the brutality that went with it—I merely condemned it. Why wasn’t I outraged? Because they were poor children with nothing to eat? No, not because of that.

My path went round a great curve: I tried a short cut—quite confidently, for I have a good sense of direction. I pushed on through brambles. Here were weeds—thriving. I kept thinking of the girl—I could still see her stretching up to peep over the hedge. Was she the robber chief? I’d like to have seen her eyes—for I’m no saint.

The trees grew sparser here. What was that, a little farther on?

A white box: and marked on it, in big red letters,
“AEROPLANE.”
The lost airman: of course! They hadn’t found him yet, then.

So it was here you crashed! An aerial combat, or an anti-aircraft gun? A bomber—shattered to the ground, a black, flame-charred mass. A box.

Perhaps you weren’t killed—but they couldn’t find your lacerated body. Friend or foe—which were you, lost flyer? Now lost in death.

A box. A piece of cardboard.

As I stood gazing at it I heard some one speak. A woman’s voice. A sad plea of a voice.

“No one can alter it.”

Gently, I pushed the leafy branches aside—to see two girls from the castle. Two of those girls with the short thick legs. One was crying: a comb hung from her companion’s hand.

“What do I care about the lost airman?” she sobbed. “I don’t want to keep running through the wood. Look how—how swollen my legs are. I can’t do any more marching. Let him die, that lost airman. I want to live. I’ll run away, Anne, I’ll run away. I won’t sleep in the castle again, it’s like a prison. I want to do my hair and wash and tidy up.”

Anne tried to console her, gathering her fine hair back out of her tear-stained eyes.

“What can we girls do about it? Even the teacher’s been crying lately—in secret. Mummy’s always saying that men have gone mad. They make the laws.”

Men?

Anne kissed her friend’s forehead. I felt ashamed for having scorned that little regiment so hastily.

Perhaps Anne’s mother was right. Perhaps men are mad now—those who aren’t mad haven’t the courage to put their maniacal fellows into strait-jackets.

They’re cowards—like myself.

I REACHED THE CAMP. THE POTATOES WERE peeled and in the pot, the soup was ready steaming. The regiment was back. The boys were in high spirits, though the sergeant complained of a headache. He’d rather overdone it, but he wasn’t the one to give in.

“How old d’you think I am, sir?” he asked me.

“Round the fifty mark.”

“I’m sixty-three,” he smiled, flattered. “Why! I was one of the last reserve way back in the war!”

I was afraid he was going to embark on a long recital of his experiences, but I needn’t have been.

“We’ll keep the war out of it,” he muttered. “I’ve got three grown-up sons.”

His eyes were far away as he spoke—they gazed at the mountain horizon. He took an aspirin for his headache.

A decent fellow, the sergeant.

I told him about the robber band. He sprang up, called the boys together and gave them instructions. A guard must be kept at night, four boys, changed every two hours. On all sides. The camp must be defended to the last man!

“Hurrah!” cried the youngsters, fired with enthusiasm.

“Funny,” muttered the sergeant. “Headache’s gone.”

After our midday meal, I went down to the little town
again. I had to see the mayor on a few small matters—and we had to settle the question of supplies, for a regiment can’t train on an empty stomach.

With the mayor, I found the priest. He insisted on my going along with him for a glass of wine. A congenial soul, the priest; and I’m fond of a glass.

The peasants greeted him as we walked to the rectory. He was taking the shortest way, and it led through one of the meaner streets. There were no peasants here.

“This is where the piece-workers live,” I learned.

The priest perhaps glanced up at the sky.

The grey houses were wedged in rows. Children painting dolls sat in the open windows—children with old, blanched faces, and darkness behind them.

“They have to save on light,” said the priest.

Then:

“I get no greeting here. They’ve no love for me!”

He doubled his pace, and I mine.

The children were staring strangely at me. I thought of Julius Caesar and the face of the Fish. But this was different. There was no scorn on these faces, only hate. And behind that hate, the dreary darkness reigned. They had no light. They were saving light.

The rectory was next to the church—a very substantial church. Around it lay the cemetery. Around the rectory a garden. Bells clanged in the church tower. Blue smoke trailed upwards from the rectory chimneys.

In that garden of death the white stones rose like petals. In the rectory garden, cabbages and vegetables. Tombstones there: little stone dwarfs here where we walked, and a reclining fawn, and a stone mushroom.

Everything was neat and tidy in the rectory. Not a
particle of dust in the air. While in the cemetery, nothing but dust.

The priest showed me into his charming study.

“Sit down. I’ll get the wine.”

He left me while he made his way to the cellar.

A picture on the wall attracted my notice. I had seen it before. My parents have a copy of it—
my parents are very pious. It was not until the war that I abandoned God. It was asking too much of a youngster to understand that God could allow a war like that. I looked at the picture. God hung nailed to a cross, dead. Mary cried, and John was comforting her. Lightning played across the dark sky. In the foreground stood a warrior in helmet and armour—the Roman Captain.

I felt a longing for my home as I saw this.

I wished I were a boy again. I remember how I used to gaze out of the window in a storm—watching the low, rain-piled clouds, the lightning and the hailstones.

I thought of my first love-affair. I shouldn’t want to see her now.

Go home!

I saw another scene: myself, sitting on a seat, and wondering which I would be, a teacher or a doctor?

I’m glad I became a teacher. Rather than heal the sick, I wanted to impart something to the living and the healthy. I wanted to help lay the foundation stone of a happier and lovelier age.

Go home!

Home, where you were born. What are you searching for outside the boundaries of home? I’m a teacher now—it means no delight to me. Go home!

THE SUN ITSELF TINGLED IN THE PRIEST’S WINE. But his cakes tasted of incense. We were sitting in a corner of his study. He had shown me over his house. He’d got quite a fat cook—she must be a good one.

“I’m not a big eater,” the priest said suddenly—could he have guessed my thoughts?

“But I drink to make up for it.” He laughed.

I couldn’t bring myself to laugh with him. This wine was so good, and yet I wasn’t enjoying it. I wasn’t talking very fluently. Why was I so shy?

“You’re busy with your thoughts,” came the priest’s voice. “Aren’t you? The children sitting in the windows painting dolls—the children who never say a word to me.”

Yes, he was right.

“You’re surprised that I should hear your thoughts, eh? It isn’t difficult for me. The teacher here in the town is always going about with pictures of those children in his mind. We have a talk whenever we meet. You can talk in peace and comfort with me. I’m not one of those priests who turn a deaf ear, and I’m not one to grow angry. I’m at one with St. Ignatius when he said: ‘I go with such a man through his door, to lead him out by mine.’ ”

I smiled silently while he emptied his glass. I looked at him expectantly, doubting myself.

“The cause of the distress,” he continued, “doesn’t lie in my taste for wine, but in the fact that the saw-mill lies idle. Our teacher here is of the opinion that with technical developments so speeded up we need new methods of production, and a totally different system of property ownership. He’s right—why d’you look so surprised?”

“May I say something—rather—”

“Please.”

“I think the Church always takes the side of the rich.”

“Of course. The Church must.”

“Must?”

“Do you know of a single state where it isn’t the rich who rule? And to be rich isn’t just the same thing as having money—if there were no more stock-holders in the saw-mill business, then others of the rich would rule, for a man doesn’t need shares to be rich. There’ll always be values, and there’ll always be a few people with their hands on more of them than all the others combined. More decorations, perhaps, round their necks, more orders on their chests—whether they’re on view or not—for there’ll always be rich and poor, just as there’ll always be the clever and the foolish. And to the Church, my dear fellow, it is not given to direct how a state should be ruled. It is the Church’s duty to remain always on the side of the state—and the state, most unfortunately, will always be ruled by the rich.”

“And that’s the Church’s duty?”

“Man is born a social animal, and so we assign him to a family, to a community or a state. The state is a man-made institution, and it only has the one goal—to produce the greatest happiness for our temporal existence.
It is a necessity of nature and it is willed by God. To obey its laws is a duty to our higher selves.”

“You don’t wish to claim that the state we know to-day, for example, will produce the greatest happiness for all?”

“I don’t claim that, for the whole of human society rests on egotism, hypocrisy, and brute force. How does Pascal put it? ‘We long for the truth, and within ourselves find only uncertainty. We seek for happiness: we find misery and death.’ Perhaps you are wondering how a simple country priest comes to quote Pascal. You needn’t, my friend, for I can put your mind at rest there. I’m not a simple country priest: I’ve only been given this parish for a short time. A punitive transfer as they call it.”