After he had gone his daughter resumed her work of teaching. She had been
glad of the interval’s respite, though she always said that after her
father’s intervention a class was completely ruined for the rest of the
day.
Howat usually ignored afternoon tea, though if he were out visiting and
were offered it, he would accept. He preferred, however, when he was at home,
an uninterrupted hour by the fire before his ‘proper’ tea—a
meal which consisted as a rule of tea and an egg. After this there was often
another gap of an hour or so before the beginning of evening engagements.
On this unpleasant November day Howat occupied both odd hours in reading a
book which would have deeply shocked ninety per cent of his congregation had
there been the slightest possibility of their understanding it. It was
Jeans’s “The Universe Around Us,” borrowed from the local
library, which had obtained it at his own request.
As Mary had predicted, there was only a very small attendance at the Young
People’s Guild that evening. The Guild was one of Howat’s pet
institutions; he had founded it himself some half-dozen years before, and it
had flourished, he ventured to think, as handsomely as could have been
expected. It met weekly during the winter months; in summer there were
country rambles, visits to places of interest, and so on. It had always been
Howat’s idea to make it a centre of secular enlightenment
(backgrounded, of course, by the chapel atmosphere); most of the weekly talks
were on literary, musical, or artistic subjects—very few were
definitely religious. This aspect alienated the sympathies of some of the
older people, who thought that Howat was coddling the young and shirking his
plain job of rubbing religion into them. Howat, though, did not care about
that; if there were ever to be a choice (though there would not be if he
could help it) he was all out for the young; the old, he felt, were so
confident of attaining Heaven that they could look after themselves.
As founder and president, Howat always opened the terminal session by an
address on some subject or other; it also fell to him to fill in any gaps
made by speakers dropping out after the programme had been made up. This
November Monday was one of these gap-filling occasions, his talk on Mozart
being in lieu of a paper on modern town-planning by a young local
architect.
The place of meeting was a bleak schoolroom furnished and panelled in
pitch pine—a very hot room at one corner near a stove, and very cold
and draughty elsewhere. Nothing relieved the brown varnished monotony of the
walls except a map of Palestine and a tattered and faded temperance banner. A
desk stood on a slightly raised platform, and on the desk lay a Bible, a
hymn- book, and a carafe of water. (The room was used regularly for Sunday
School and other chapel functions.) There was also a cupboard which, when
incautiously opened, usually emitted a cascade of ragged hymn-books and
tea-party crockery. Two inverted T-shaped gas-brackets shed a hissing
illumination over the rather melancholy scene, and this evening wisps of fog
curled in fitfully when the green-baize doors opened from the vestibule.
Howat gazed with a certain dreamy satisfaction on the dozen or so young
persons who comprised his audience. In some ways they satisfied him as much
as a far larger gathering; because he could think of most of them
individually, knowing their names, homes, and circumstances; and he could
marvel a little at the spirit that had brought them out, on a foggy night, to
hear him talk about Mozart. Surely he was not wrong, at such a moment, in
thinking that he was accomplishing some kind of good in Browdley, that his
years of persistence were bearing fruit after all? And he felt, as deeply as
he had ever felt in the pulpit, inspired by a passionate desire to give these
few youngsters something adequate to their degree of needing and wanting. The
whole world stretched out beyond Browdley, a world they might and probably
would never see; could he not show them an inner world of beauty, visible to
all whose eyes were attuned to it? He thought then, quite suddenly and with
an odd sensation of mind- wandering: These walls would look better with a few
pictures—why not some of those coloured reproductions of Italian
primitives, and so on? It wouldn’t cost more than a few shillings; I
daresay I could afford it myself. Still, I shall have to economise for a
time—that trip to London will cost a bit, and the specialist’s
fee will probably be stiff- five guineas, maybe, or three if I plead poverty.
Wonder if there is anything really serious the matter—queer how that
pain comes and goes—I hadn’t it this afternoon while I was
talking to those children in school, but it came back during tea. Never mind,
stick it out, whatever it is—no sense in whining over things…
The mere thinking of his throat made it feel dry and parched; he would
have poured out a drink from the carafe had not the water repelled by its
stale, yellowish tinge. And just for a moment there carne over him the most
absurd and ridiculous longing for something he would never dream of
having—a glass of beer. One of those dark brown frothing tumblers he
sometimes saw through the windows of public-houses—public-houses all
warm and brightly lit, with men in them talking sociably and perhaps playing
darts. In his mind, just for the moment, the picture stood out in vivid
contrast to the chill, comfortless room in which he was shortly to begin his
address.
He half-smiled at the quaintness of the vision, and then, with a quick
return to reality, nodded and smiled to Mr. and Mrs. Garland, who had just
entered. They were by no means ‘young people’, and he did not
recollect their ever having attended a Guild meeting before; still, he was
glad enough to see them, though faintly surprised.
Swallowing hard to ease the dryness of his throat, Howat rose from his
chair and began to speak. He began haltingly, unfluently, as he so often did;
those who heard him for only the first minute of any speech or sermon must
certainly have thought him a very poor orator. It was as if he had, by a
tremendous effort, to launch himself into a world of mind and spirit in which
words came of their own accord. He kept saying: Mozart…Mozart…His face
had a peculiar nervous twitch during those initial struggles; his rugged
features looked, for the time, almost agonised; till, with a suddenness that
was sometimes rather amusing, he was ‘off’. He had, beyond doubt,
a voice and an enunciation of great beauty.
Certain of his words and phrases sounded, in his own ears, far above
others, and went on echoing long after he had spoken them. Was he soaring
above their heads, he wondered, momentarily, remembering his daughter’s
caution? Well no, he thought not; he hoped not; and besides, even if he were,
perhaps he could get them to soar with him—above their own heads and
his too. If only that sharpness in his throat would disappear; it was absurd,
at his age, to be bothered in such a way; he was only forty-three and already
seeing specialists and worrying about his health. And suddenly, looking round
at the young faces in front of him, he saw them all labelled, as it were,
with the inevitable doom of age and death; life was so tragically short, and
it seemed in some sense a kind of divine toss-up whether one succeeded or
failed in getting anything out of it during the time allowed. How necessary
to make the most of youth, to pursue while the pursuit had zest, to apprehend
the beauty of the world that lay everywhere around, in sight and sound and
feeling…He made a pause in his remarks, wound up his portable gramophone,
and played over the Trio in E Major and then the two great Overtures; the
music floated past him, dissolving, as it were, into the air of which it was
born; he always felt that Mozart was like that, perfectly and enchantingly
meaningless except for that one central unanalysable meaning—beauty.
’fever, he said when the records were finished, there had been an angel
born upon this earth, that angel was Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. We might not
know a very great deal about the future life, but we must feel—indeed
it was almost impossible not to feel—that it was linked up in a
marvellous way with the beauty of our own world…Mozart…Raphael the
painter…William Blake the poet…And then, with a little mist before his
eyes, he was aware that he was making contact, that he was actually and for a
second or so putting into the minds of these boys and girls an urge, a
longing for something beyond their own immediate surroundings.
He finished in secret triumph. He sat down. He felt drained of power, yet
with a tired dreamy feeling of having conquered. Yes, yes, he would get those
pictures. Was the fog worse, he wondered? His throat was not so bad now, and
anyway, he didn’t care—he was too tired and triumphant to care.
The tune of the E Major Trio was in his ears. What happened next? Oh yes,
someone usually got up and moved a vote of thanks. Only a
formality—wouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes. Then a
little chat with anybody who chose to stay behind, then the short walk
through the fog across the playground and past the front of the chapel, and
so into his house. A cup of hot cocoa. Bed. Heavens—he was
tired—he was sure he would sleep well.
Suddenly he realised that Garland was on his feet and beginning to talk.
Pity it couldn’t have been somebody else; Garland had such a raucous
voice and would go on far too long. Never mind, though—decent of him to
come.
Garland, in fact, was one of those fussy, self-important men, full of
official correctness, who never miss a chance to say ‘a few
words’. An air of portentous solemnity hovered over everything he did
and had, from the pompous modulations of his ill-pronounced words to the
black cut-away coat whose collar was always lightly powdered with dandruff.
He was rather squat in build, and had a black curling moustache whose waxed
ends were absurdly visible when one saw him from the rear. Howat respected
him as a trustworthy chapel official, but they had never attempted any more
intimate relationship.
Mrs. Garland was a thin-lipped precise-looking woman with a rigidity of
bearing less solemn but more aggressive than her husband’s.
Garland was saying: “Of course we’re all extremely grateful to
Mr. Freemantle for his address, but I do feel there is an aspect—and a
very important aspect—of his subject which he has left quite out of
account. And that is religion. All this talk about beauty—music,
poetry, and all that—isn’t any use without the true spirit of
religion. And I must say I don’t hold with him when he said that we
might not know a great deal about the future life. I contend, as every true
believer must, that we do know a great deal about it—we know all about
Heaven, and anyone who doesn’t has only got to read his Bible. Fact of
the matter is, people don’t read their Bibles enough
nowadays—there’s far too much discussion of other books, poetry,
music, and what not. First things should come first…And now let’s
refresh ourselves with a hymn—’There is a Book who runs may
read’…”
Howat’s chin and mouth were half-hidden in the palm of his hand. At
the mention of the hymn, however, he looked up abruptly and gave the opening
note with his clear, vibrant baritone. In a scattered and rather ineffectual
way the audience began to sing, led by Howat, and with Garland supplying a
morose and untuneful rumble far below any classifiable key. It was unusual to
sing hymns after a Guild meeting, but Howat didn’t care—Garland
could go through the whole hymn-book if he wanted. Howat felt: He means well,
but I’m glad he doesn’t come to these affairs oftener.
The hymn came to an end, and as the audience began to pick up hats and
wraps and prepare to disperse, he realised that Garland was waiting behind
deliberately, as if he wanted to say something. Howat was just slightly
peeved about that; if the fellow wanted to see him, why didn’t he call
at the Manse? After meetings Howat liked a chat with the youngsters, but
there wouldn’t be any, clearly, if Garland stayed.
After a few moments he was quite alone in the room with Garland and Mrs.
Garland. The others had all disappeared through the green-baize door, and
there was left no sound except the hissing of the four gas jets. Howat
remarked conversationally as he packed up his gramophone: “Bad night,
Mr. Garland.” (Garland was the sort of man who wouldn’t do for
anyone to drop the prefix.)
“Very,” replied Garland, massively, and went on: “As a
matter of fact, Mr. Freemantle, we shouldn’t have come but, only we
thought it would give us a chance of seeing you in private.”
“Really? Well, anything I can do, of course—” He felt so
thoroughly tired, and more in the mood for anything on earth than for a
private talk with Garland. However…
“You see, Mr. Freemantle, it’s about our girl. She’s run
away from. home.”
“Indeed?” he made the necessary mental
effort—Garland’s daughter—the girl he had been teaching
German—a pleasant girl, she had always seemed, and she had surprised
him once, he recollected, by humming a tune from a Brahms sonata.
He repeated: “Indeed? She’s run away from home, you
say?”
“Yes. On Saturday. She packed up all her things and went before we
knew anything about it.”
“But surely—”
“Oh, it astonishes you, does it?” interrupted Mrs. Garland,
tartly. “We thought maybe you mightn’t be so astonished as we
were, seeing the chances she’s had lately of confiding in
you.”
“Confiding in me?” Howat was sheerly bewildered. “I
don’t understand you, Mrs. Garland—I really don’t
understand. Your daughter has been taking lessons in German from me week by
week, but apart from that—”
“And it wasn’t our idea she should do it, please don’t
think that for a moment. What would she be wanting to learn German for, I
should like to know?”
“She gave no definite reason—not to me, anyhow—but I
suppose she wished to improve her general education. Surely there’s
nothing very outrageous in that.”