The Soul of a Bishop

“No,” said the Bishop of Princhester, “practically – I haven’t.”

“My dear boy!” it was as if they were once more rector and curate. “My dear brother! do you know what the value of an ex-bishop is in the ordinary labour market?”

“I have never thought of that.”

“Evidently. You have a wife and children?”

“Five daughters.”

“And your wife married you – I remember, she married you soon after you got that living in St. John’s Wood. I suppose she took it for granted that you were fixed in an ecclesiastical career. That was implicit in the transaction.”

“I haven’t looked very much at that side of the matter yet,” said the Bishop of Princhester.

“It shouldn’t be a decisive factor,” said Bishop Likeman, “not decisive. But it will weigh. It should weigh…”

The old man opened out fresh aspects of the case. His argument was for delay, for deliberation. He went on to a wider set of considerations. A man who has held the position of a bishop for some years is, he held, no longer a free man in matters of opinion. He has become an official part of a great edifice which supports the faith of multitudes of simple and dependant believers. He has no right to indulge recklessly in intellectual and moral integrities. He may understand, but how is the flock to understand? He may get his own soul clear, but what will happen to them? He will just break away their supports, astonish them, puzzle them, distress them, deprive them of confidence, convince them of nothing.

“Intellectual egotism may be as grave a sin,” said Bishop Likeman, “as physical selfishness.

“Assuming even that you are absolutely right,” said Bishop Likeman, “aren’t you still rather in the position of a man who insists upon Swedish exercises and a strengthening dietary on a raft?”

“I think you have made out a case for delay,” said his hearer.

“Three months.”

The Bishop of Princhester conceded three months.

“Including every sort of service. Because, after all, even supposing it is damnable to repeat prayers and creeds you do not believe in, and administer sacraments you think superstition, nobody can be damned but yourself. On the other hand if you express doubts that are not yet perfectly digested – you experiment with the souls of others…”

(5)

The bishop found much to ponder in his old friend’s counsels. They were discursive and many-fronted, and whenever he seemed to be penetrating or defeating the particular considerations under examination the others in the background had a way of appearing invincible. He had a strong persuasion that Likeman was wrong – and unanswerable. And the true God now was no more than the memory of a very vividly realized idea. It was clear to the bishop that he was no longer a churchman or in the generally accepted sense of the word a Christian, and that he was bound to come out of the church. But all sense of urgency had gone. It was a matter demanding deliberation and very great consideration for others.

He took no more of Dale’s stuff because he felt bodily sound and slept well. And he was now a little shy of this potent fluid. He went down to Princhester the next day, for his compromise of an interval of three months made it seem possible to face his episcopal routine again. It was only when he was back in his own palace that the full weight of his domestic responsibilities in the discussion of the course he had to take, became apparent.

Lady Ella met him with affection and solicitude.

“I was tired and mentally fagged,” he said. “A day or so in London had an effect of change.”

She agreed that he looked much better, and remained for a moment or so scrutinizing him with the faint anxiety of one resolved to be completely helpful.

He regarded her with a renewed sense of her grace and dignity and kindliness. She was wearing a grey dress of soft silky material, touched with blue and covered with what seemed to him very rich and beautiful lace; her hair flowed back very graciously from her broad brow, and about her wrist and neck were delicate lines of gold. She seemed tremendously at home and right just where she was, in that big hospitable room, cultured but Anglican, without pretensions or novelties, with a glow of bound books, with the grand piano that Miriam, his third daughter, was beginning to play so well, with the tea equipage of shining silver and fine porcelain.

He sat down contentedly in the low armchair beside her.

It wasn’t a setting that one would rashly destroy…

And that evening at dinner this sense of his home as a complex of finely adjusted things not to be rashly disturbed was still more in the mind of the bishop. At dinner he had all his domesticities about him. It was the family time, from eight until ten, at which latter hour he would usually go back from the drawing-room to his study. He surveyed the table. Eleanor was at home for a few days, looking a little thin and bright but very keen and happy. She had taken a first in the first part of the Moral Science Tripos, and she was working hard now for part two. Clementina was to go back to Newnham with her next September. She aspired to history. Miriam’s bent was musical. She and Phoebe and Daphne and Clementina were under the care of skilful Mademoiselle Lafarge, most tactful of Protestant French-women, Protestant and yet not too Protestant, one of those rare French Protestants in whom a touch of Bergson and the Pasteur Monod

“scarce suspected, animates the whole.”

And also they had lessons, so high are our modern standards of education, from Mr. Blent, a brilliant young mathematician in orders, who sat now next to Lady Ella. Mr. Whippham, the chaplain, was at the bishop’s right hand, ready for any chance of making arrangements to clear off the small arrears of duty the little holiday in London had accumulated. The bishop surveyed all these bright young people between himself and the calm beauty of his wife. He spoke first to one and then another upon the things that interested them. It rejoiced his heart to be able to give them education and opportunity, it pleased him to see them in clothes that he knew were none the less expensive because of their complete simplicity. Miriam and Mr. Blent wrangled pleasantly about Debussy, and old Dunk waited as though in orders of some rare and special sort that qualified him for this service.

All these people, the bishop reflected, counted upon him that this would go on…

Eleanor was answering some question of her mother’s. They were so oddly alike and so curiously different, and both in their several ways so fine. Eleanor was dark like his own mother. Perhaps she did a little lack Lady Ella’s fine reserves; she could express more, she could feel more acutely, she might easily be very unhappy or very happy…

All these people counted on him. It was indeed acutely true, as Likeman had said, that any sudden breach with his position would be a breach of faith – so far as they were concerned.

And just then his eye fell upon the epergne, a very old and beautiful piece of silver, that graced the dinner-table. It had been given him, together with an episcopal ring, by his curates and choristers at the Church of the Holy Innocents, when he became bishop of Pinner. When they gave it him, had any one of them dreamt that some day he might be moved to strike an ungracious blow at the mother church that had reared them all?

It was his custom to join the family in the drawing-room after dinner. To-night he was a little delayed by Whippham, with some trivialities about next month’s confirmations in Pringle and Princhester. When he came in he found Miriam playing, and playing very beautifully one of those later sonatas of Beethoven, he could never remember whether it was Of. 109 or Of. 111, but he knew that he liked it very much; it was solemn and sombre with phases of indescribable sweetness – while Clementina, Daphne and Mademoiselle Lafarge went on with their war knitting and Phoebe and Mr. Blent bent their brows over chess. Eleanor was reading the evening paper. Lady Ella sat on a high chair by the coffee things, and he stood in the doorway surveying the peaceful scene for a moment or so, before he went across the room and sat down on the couch close to her.

“You look tired,” she whispered softly.

“Worries.”

“That Chasters case?”

“Things developing out of that. I must tell you later.” It would be, he felt, a good way of breaking the matter to her.

“Is the Chasters case coming on again, Daddy?” asked Eleanor.

He nodded.

“It’s a pity,” she said.

“What?

“That he can’t be left alone.”

“It’s Sir Reginald Phipps. The Church would be much more tolerant if it wasn’t for the House of Laymen. But they – they feel they must do something.”

He seized the opportunity of the music ceasing to get away from the subject. “Miriam dear,” he asked, raising his voice; “is that 109 or 111? I can never tell.”

“That is always 111, Daddy,” said Miriam. “It’s the other one is 109.” And then evidently feeling that she had been pert: “Would you like me to play you 109, Daddy?”

“I should love it, my dear.” And he leant back and prepared to listen in such a thorough way that Eleanor would have no chance of discussing the Chasters’ heresies. But this was interrupted by the consummation of the coffee, and Mr. Blent, breaking a long silence with “Mate in three, if I’m not mistaken,” leapt to his feet to be of service. Eleanor, with the rough seriousness of youth, would not leave the Chasters case alone.

“But need you take action against Mr. Chasters?” she asked at once.

“It’s a very complicated subject, my dear,” he said.

“His arguments?”

“The practical considerations.”

“But what are practical considerations in such a case?”

“That’s a post-graduate subject, Norah,” her father said with a smile and a sigh.

“But,” began Eleanor, gathering fresh forces.

“Daddy is tired,” Lady Ella intervened, patting him on the head.

“Oh, terribly! – of that,” he said, and so escaped Eleanor for the evening.

But he knew that before very long he would have to tell his wife of the changes that hung over their lives; it would be shabby to let the avalanche fall without giving the longest possible warning; and before they parted that night he took her hands in his and said: “There is much I have to tell you, dear. Things change, the whole world changes. The church must not live in a dream…

“No,” she whispered. “I hope you will sleep to-night,” and held up her grave sweet face to be kissed.

(6)

But he did not sleep perfectly that night.

He did not sleep indeed very badly, but he lay for some time thinking, thinking not onward but as if he pressed his mind against very strong barriers that had closed again. His vision of God which had filled the heavens, had become now gem-like, a minute, hard, clear-cut conviction in his mind that he had to disentangle himself from the enormous complications of symbolism and statement and organization and misunderstanding in the church and achieve again a simple and living worship of a simple and living God. Likeman had puzzled and silenced him, only upon reflection to convince him that amidst such intricacies of explanation the spirit cannot live. Creeds may be symbolical, but symbols must not prevaricate. A church that can symbolize everything and anything means nothing.

It followed from this that he ought to leave the church. But there came the other side of this perplexing situation. His feelings as he lay in his bed were exactly like those one has in a dream when one wishes to run or leap or shout and one can achieve no movement, no sound. He could not conceive how he could possibly leave the church.

His wife became as it were the representative of all that held him helpless. She and he had never kept secret from one another any plan of action, any motive, that affected the other. It was clear to him that any movement towards the disavowal of doctrinal Christianity and the renunciation of his see must be first discussed with her. He must tell her before he told the world.

And he could not imagine his telling her except as an incredibly shattering act.

So he left things from day to day, and went about his episcopal routines. He preached and delivered addresses in such phrases as he knew people expected, and wondered profoundly why it was that it should be impossible for him to discuss theological points with Lady Ella. And one afternoon he went for a walk with Eleanor along the banks of the Prin, and found himself, in response to certain openings of hers, talking to her in almost exactly the same terms as Likeman had used to him.

Then suddenly the problem of this theological eclaircissement was complicated in an unexpected fashion.

He had just been taking his Every Second Thursday Talk with Diocesan Men Helpers. He had been trying to be plain and simple upon the needless narrowness of enthusiastic laymen. He was still in the Bishop Andrews cap and purple cassock he affected on these occasions; the Men Helpers loved purple; and he was disentangling himself from two or three resolute bores – for our loyal laymen can be at times quite superlative bores – when Miriam came to him.

“Mummy says, ‘Come to the drawing-room if you can.’ There is a Lady Sunderbund who seems particularly to want to see you.”

He hesitated for a moment, and then decided that this was a conversation he ought to control.

He found Lady Sunderbund looking very tall and radiantly beautiful in a sheathlike dress of bright crimson trimmed with snow-white fur and a white fur toque. She held out a long white-gloved hand to him and cried in a tone of comradeship and profound understanding: “I’ve come, Bishop!”

“You’ve come to see me?” he said without any sincerity in his polite pleasure.

“I’ve come to P’inchesta to stay!” she cried with a bright triumphant rising note.

She evidently considered Lady Ella a mere conversational stop-gap, to be dropped now that the real business could be commenced. She turned her pretty profile to that lady, and obliged the bishop with a compact summary of all that had preceded his arrival. “I have been telling Lady Ella,” she said, “I’ve taken a house, fu’nitua and all! Hea. In P’inchesta! I’ve made up my mind to sit unda you – as they say in Clapham. I’ve come ‘ight down he’ fo’ good. I’ve taken a little house – oh! a sweet little house that will be all over ‘oses next month. I’m living f’om ‘oom to ‘oom and having the othas done up. It’s in that little quiet st’eet behind you’ ga’den wall. And he’ I am!”

“Is it the old doctor’s house?” asked Lady Ella.

“Was it an old docta?” cried Lady Sunderbund. “How delightful! And now I shall be a patient!”

She concentrated upon the bishop.

“Oh, I’ve been thinking all the time of all the things you told me. Ova and ova. It’s all so wondyful and so – so like a G’ate Daw opening. New light. As if it was all just beginning.”

She clasped her hands.

The bishop felt that there were a great number of points to this situation, and that it was extremely difficult to grasp them all at once. But one that seemed of supreme importance to his whirling intelligence was that Lady Ella should not know that he had gone to relieve his soul by talking to Lady Sunderbund in London. It had never occurred to him at the time that there was any shadow of disloyalty to Lady Ella in his going to Lady Sunderbund, but now he realized that this was a thing that would annoy Lady Ella extremely. The conversation had in the first place to be kept away from that. And in the second place it had to be kept away from the abrupt exploitation of the new theological developments.

He felt that something of the general tension would be relieved if they could all three be got to sit down.

“I’ve been talking for just upon two hours,” he said to Lady Ella. “It’s good to see the water boiling for tea.”

He put a chair for Lady Sunderbund to the right of Lady Ella, got her into it by infusing an ecclesiastical insistence into his manner, and then went and sat upon the music-stool on his wife’s left, so as to establish a screen of tea-things and cakes and so forth against her more intimate enthusiasm. Meanwhile he began to see his way clearer and to develop his line.

“Well, Lady Sunderbund,” he said, “I can assure you that I think you will be no small addition to the church life of Princhester. But I warn you this is a hard-working and exacting diocese. We shall take your money, all we can get of it, we shall take your time, we shall work you hard.”

“Wo’k me hard!” cried Lady Sunderbund with passion.

“We will, we will,” said the bishop in a tone that ignored her passionate note.

“I am sure Lady Sunderbund will be a great help to us,” said Lady Ella. “We want brightening. There’s a dinginess…”

Lady Sunderbund beamed an acknowledgment. “I shall exact a ‘eturn,” she said. “I don’t mind wo’king, but I shall wo’k like the poo’ students in the Middle Ages did, to get my teaching. I’ve got my own soul to save as well as help saving othas. Since oua last talk – ”

She found the bishop handing her bread and butter. For a time the bishop fought a delaying action with the tea-things, while he sought eagerly and vainly in his mind for some good practical topic in which he could entangle and suppress Lady Sunderbund’s enthusiasms. From this she broke away by turning suddenly to Lady Ella.

“Youa husband’s views,” she said, “we’e a ‘eal ‘evelation to me. It was like not being blind – all at once.”

Lady Ella was always pleased to hear her husband praised. Her colour brightened a little. “They seem very ordinary views,” she said modestly.

“You share them?” cried Lady Sunderbund.

“But of course,” said Lady Ella.

“Wondyful!” cried Lady Sunderbund.

“Tell me, Lady Sunderbund,” said the bishop, “are you going to alter the outer appearance of the old doctor’s house?” And found that at last he had discovered the saving topic.

“Ha’dly at all,” she said. “I shall just have it pointed white and do the doa – I’m not su’ how I shall do the doa. Whetha I shall do the doa gold or a vehy, vehy ‘itch blue.”

For a time she and Lady Ella, to whom these ideas were novel, discussed the animation of grey and sombre towns by house painting. In such matter Lady Sunderbund had a Russian mind. “I can’t bea’ g’ey,” she said. “Not in my su’oundings, not in my k’eed, nowhe’e.” She turned to the bishop. “If I had my way I would paint you’ cathed’al inside and out.”

“They used to be painted,” said the bishop. “I don’t know if you have seen Ely. There the old painting has been largely restored…”

From that to the end there was no real danger, and at last the bishop found himself alone with his wife again.

“Remarkable person,” he said tentatively. “I never met any one whose faults were more visible. I met her at Wimbush House.”

He glanced at his watch.

“What did she mean,” asked Lady Ella abruptly, “by talking of your new views? And about revelations?”

“She probably misunderstood something I said at the Garstein Fellows’,” he said. “She has rather a leaping mind.”

He turned to the window, looked at his nails, and appeared to be suddenly reminded of duties elsewhere…

It was chiefly manifest to him that the difficulties in explaining the changes of his outlook to Lady Ella had now increased enormously.

(7)

A day or so after Lady Sunderbund’s arrival in Princhester the bishop had a letter from Likeman. The old man was manifestly in doubt about the effect of their recent conversation.

“My dear Scrope,” it began. “I find myself thinking continually about our interview and the difficulties you laid bare so frankly to me. We touched upon many things in that talk, and I find myself full of afterthoughts, and not perfectly sure either quite of what I said or of what I failed to say. I feel that in many ways I was not perhaps so clear and convincing as the justice of my case should have made me, and you are one of my own particular little company, you were one of the best workers in that band of good workers, your life and your career are very much my concern. I know you will forgive me if I still mingle something of the paternal with my fraternal admonitions. I watched you closely. I have still my old diaries of the St. Matthew’s days, and I have been looking at them to remind me of what you once were. It was my custom to note my early impressions of all the men who worked with me, because I have a firm belief in the soundness of first impressions and the considerable risk one runs of having them obscured by the accidents and habituations of constant intercourse. I found that quite early in your days at St. Matthew’s I wrote against your name ‘enthusiastic, but a saving delicacy.’ After all our life-long friendship I would not write anything truer. I would say of you to-day, ‘This man might have been a revivalist, if he were not a gentleman.’ There is the enthusiast, there is the revivalist, in you. It seems to me that the stresses and questions of this great crisis in the world’s history have brought it nearer to the surface than I had ever expected it to come.

“I quite understand and I sympathize with your impatience with the church at the present time; we present a spectacle of pompous insignificance hard to bear with. We are doing very little, and we are giving ourselves preposterous airs. There seems to be an opinion abroad that in some quasi-automatic way the country is going to collapse after the war into the arms of the church and the High Tories; a possibility I don’t accept for a moment. Why should it? These forcible-feeble reactionaries are much more likely to explode a revolution that will disestablish us. And I quite understand your theological difficulties – quite. The creeds, if their entire symbolism is for a moment forgotten, if they are taken as opaque statements of fact, are inconsistent, incredible. So incredible that no one believes them; not even the most devout. The utmost they do is to avert their minds – reverentially. Credo quia impossibile. That is offensive to a Western mind. I can quite understand the disposition to cry out at such things, ‘This is not the Church of God!’ – to run out from it —

“You have some dream, I suspect, of a dramatic dissidence.

“Now, my dear Brother and erstwhile pupil, I ask you not to do this thing. Wait, I implore you. Give me – and some others, a little time. I have your promise for three months, but even after that, I ask you to wait. Let the reform come from within the church. The church is something more than either its creeds, its clergy, or its laymen. Look at your cathedral rising out of and dominating Princhester. It stands not simply for Athanasius; it stands but incidentally for Athanasius; it stands for all religion. Within that fabric – let me be as frank here as in our private conversation – doctrine has altered again and again. To-day two distinct religions worship there side by side; one that fades and one that grows brighter. There is the old quasi-materialistic belief of the barbarians, the belief in such things, for example, as that Christ the physical Son of God descended into hell and stayed there, seeing the sights I suppose like any tourist and being treated with diplomatic civilities for three terrestrial days; and on the other hand there is the truly spiritual belief that you and I share, which is absolutely intolerant of such grotesque ideas. My argument to you is that the new faith, the clearer vision, gains ground; that the only thing that can prevent or delay the church from being altogether possessed by what you call and I admit is, the true God, is that such men as yourself, as the light breaks upon you, should be hasty and leave the church. You see my point of view, do you not? It is not one that has been assumed for our discussion; it is one I came to long years ago, that I was already feeling my way to in my St. Matthew’s Lenton sermons.

“A word for your private ear. I am working. I cannot tell you fully because I am not working alone. But there are movements afoot in which I hope very shortly to be able to ask you to share. That much at least I may say at this stage. Obscure but very powerful influences are at work for the liberalizing of the church, for release from many narrow limitations, for the establishment of a modus vivendi with the nonconformist and dissentient bodies in Britain and America, and with the churches of the East. But of that no more now.

“And in conclusion, my dear Scrope, let me insist again upon the eternal persistence of the essential Religious Fact:”