All Roads Lead to Calvary [60]
The huge, thin-lipped mouth seemed to have petrified itself into a savage snarl. He gave Joan the idea, as he stood there glaring round him, of a hunted beast at bay.
Miss Ensor, whose bump of reverence was undeveloped, greeted him cheerfully as Boanerges. Mr. Simson, more respectful, rose and offered his small, grimy hand. Mary took his hat and cloak away from him and closed the door behind him. She felt his hands, and put him into a chair close to the fire. And then she introduced him to Joan.
Joan started on hearing his name. It was one well known.
"The Cyril Baptiste?" she asked. She had often wondered what he might be like.
"The Cyril Baptiste," he answered, in a low, even, passionate voice, that he flung at her almost like a blow. "The atheist, the gaol bird, the pariah, the blasphemer, the anti-Christ. I've hoofs instead of feet. Shall I take off my boots and show them to you? I tuck my tail inside my coat. You can't see my horns. I've cut them off close to my head. That's why I wear my hair long: to hide the stumps."
Mary had been searching in the pockets of his cloak. She had found a paper bag. "You mustn't get excited," she said, laying her little work-worn hand upon his shoulder; "or you'll bring on the bleeding."
"Aye," he answered, "I must be careful I don't die on Christmas Day. It would make a fine text, that, for their sermons."
He lapsed into silence: his almost transparent hands stretched out towards the fire.
Mr. Simson fidgeted. The quiet of the room, broken only by Mary's ministering activities, evidently oppressed him.
"Paper going well, sir?" he asked. "I often read it myself."
"It still sells," answered the proprietor, and editor and publisher, and entire staff of The Rationalist.
"I like the articles you are writing on the History of Superstition. Quite illuminating," remarked Mr. Simson.
"It's many a year, I am afraid, to the final chapter," thought their author.
"They afford much food for reflection," thought Mr. Simson, "though I cannot myself go as far as you do in including Christianity under that heading."
Mary frowned at him; but Mr. Simson, eager for argument or not noticing, blundered on:-
"Whether we accept the miraculous explanation of Christ's birth," continued Mr. Simson, in his best street-corner voice, "or whether, with the great French writer whose name for the moment escapes me, we regard Him merely as a man inspired, we must, I think, admit that His teaching has been of help: especially to the poor."
The fanatic turned upon him so fiercely that Mr. Simson's arm involuntarily assumed the posture of defence.
"To the poor?" the old man almost shrieked. "To the poor that he has robbed of all power of resistance to oppression by his vile, submissive creed! that he has drugged into passive acceptance of every evil done to them by his false promises that their sufferings here shall win for them some wonderful reward when they are dead. What has been his teaching to the poor? Bow your backs to the lash, kiss the rod that scars your flesh. Be ye humble, oh, my people. Be ye poor in spirit. Let Wrong rule triumphant through the world. Raise no hand against it, lest ye suffer my eternal punishments. Learn from me to be meek and lowly. Learn to be good slaves and give no trouble to your taskmasters. Let them turn the world into a hell for you. The grave--the grave shall be your gate to happiness.
"Helpful to the poor? Helpful to their rulers, to their owners. They take good care that Christ shall be well taught. Their fat priests shall bear his message to the poor. The rod may be broken, the prison door be forced. It is Christ that shall bind the people in eternal fetters. Christ, the lackey, the jackal of the rich."
Mr. Simson was visibly shocked. Evidently he was less familiar with the opinions of The Rationalist than he had thought.
"I really must protest," exclaimed Mr. Simson. "To whatever wrong uses His words may have been twisted, Christ Himself I regard as divine, and entitled to be spoken
Miss Ensor, whose bump of reverence was undeveloped, greeted him cheerfully as Boanerges. Mr. Simson, more respectful, rose and offered his small, grimy hand. Mary took his hat and cloak away from him and closed the door behind him. She felt his hands, and put him into a chair close to the fire. And then she introduced him to Joan.
Joan started on hearing his name. It was one well known.
"The Cyril Baptiste?" she asked. She had often wondered what he might be like.
"The Cyril Baptiste," he answered, in a low, even, passionate voice, that he flung at her almost like a blow. "The atheist, the gaol bird, the pariah, the blasphemer, the anti-Christ. I've hoofs instead of feet. Shall I take off my boots and show them to you? I tuck my tail inside my coat. You can't see my horns. I've cut them off close to my head. That's why I wear my hair long: to hide the stumps."
Mary had been searching in the pockets of his cloak. She had found a paper bag. "You mustn't get excited," she said, laying her little work-worn hand upon his shoulder; "or you'll bring on the bleeding."
"Aye," he answered, "I must be careful I don't die on Christmas Day. It would make a fine text, that, for their sermons."
He lapsed into silence: his almost transparent hands stretched out towards the fire.
Mr. Simson fidgeted. The quiet of the room, broken only by Mary's ministering activities, evidently oppressed him.
"Paper going well, sir?" he asked. "I often read it myself."
"It still sells," answered the proprietor, and editor and publisher, and entire staff of The Rationalist.
"I like the articles you are writing on the History of Superstition. Quite illuminating," remarked Mr. Simson.
"It's many a year, I am afraid, to the final chapter," thought their author.
"They afford much food for reflection," thought Mr. Simson, "though I cannot myself go as far as you do in including Christianity under that heading."
Mary frowned at him; but Mr. Simson, eager for argument or not noticing, blundered on:-
"Whether we accept the miraculous explanation of Christ's birth," continued Mr. Simson, in his best street-corner voice, "or whether, with the great French writer whose name for the moment escapes me, we regard Him merely as a man inspired, we must, I think, admit that His teaching has been of help: especially to the poor."
The fanatic turned upon him so fiercely that Mr. Simson's arm involuntarily assumed the posture of defence.
"To the poor?" the old man almost shrieked. "To the poor that he has robbed of all power of resistance to oppression by his vile, submissive creed! that he has drugged into passive acceptance of every evil done to them by his false promises that their sufferings here shall win for them some wonderful reward when they are dead. What has been his teaching to the poor? Bow your backs to the lash, kiss the rod that scars your flesh. Be ye humble, oh, my people. Be ye poor in spirit. Let Wrong rule triumphant through the world. Raise no hand against it, lest ye suffer my eternal punishments. Learn from me to be meek and lowly. Learn to be good slaves and give no trouble to your taskmasters. Let them turn the world into a hell for you. The grave--the grave shall be your gate to happiness.
"Helpful to the poor? Helpful to their rulers, to their owners. They take good care that Christ shall be well taught. Their fat priests shall bear his message to the poor. The rod may be broken, the prison door be forced. It is Christ that shall bind the people in eternal fetters. Christ, the lackey, the jackal of the rich."
Mr. Simson was visibly shocked. Evidently he was less familiar with the opinions of The Rationalist than he had thought.
"I really must protest," exclaimed Mr. Simson. "To whatever wrong uses His words may have been twisted, Christ Himself I regard as divine, and entitled to be spoken