Wood and Stone

by John Cowper Powys

  “The socialism,” he finally remarked, “which you and I are interested in, is Christian Socialism. You may be sure that in nothing I do or say there will be found the least tincture of this deplorable modern materialism. My own feeling is that the closer our efforts for the uplifting of the people are founded upon biblical doctrines the more triumphant their success will be. It is the ethical aspect of this great struggle for popular rights which I hold most near my heart. I wish to take my place in Parliament as representing not merely the intelligence of this constituency but its moral and spiritual needs—its soul, in fact, Mr. Taxater. There is no animosity in my campaign. I am scrupulous about that. I am ready, always ready, to do our opponents justice. But when they appeal to the material needs of the country, I appeal to its higher requirements—to its soul, in other words. It is for this reason that I am so glad to welcome really intelligent and highly educated men, like yourself. We who take this loftier view must of course make use of many less admirable methods. I do so myself. But it is for us to keep the higher, the more ethical considerations, always in sight.

  “As I was saying to my son, this very evening, the grand thing for us all to remember is that it is only on the assumption of Divine Love being at the bottom of every confusion that we can go to work at all. The Tory party refuse to make this assumption. They refuse to recognize the ethical substratum of the world. They treat politics as if they were a matter of merely imperial or patriotic importance. In my view politics and religion should go hand in hand. In the true democracy which I aim at establishing, all these secular theories—evidently due to the direct action of the Devil—such as Free Love and the destruction of the family—will not be tolerated for a moment.

  “Let no one think,”—and Mr. Wone swallowed a mouthful of wine with a gurgling sound,—“that because we attack capitalism and large estates, we have any wish to interfere with the sacredness of the home. There are, I regret to say, among some of our artisans, wild and dangerous theories of this kind, but I have always firmly discountenanced them and I always will. That is why, if I may say so, I am so well adapted to represent this district. I have the support of the large number of Liberal-minded tradesmen who would deeply regret the introduction of such immoral theories into our movement. They hold, as I hold, that this unhappy tendency to atheistic speculation among our working-classes is one of the gravest dangers to the country. They hold, as I hold, that the cynical free thought of the Tory party is best encountered, not by the equally deplorable cynicism of certain labour-leaders, but by the high Christian standards of men like—like ourselves, Mr. Taxater.”

  He paused for a moment and drew his hand, which certainly resembled the hand of an ethical-minded dispenser of sugar rather than that of an immoral manual labourer, across his damp forehead. Then he began again.

  “Another reason which seems to point to me, in quite a providential manner, as the candidate for this district, is the fact that I was born in Nevilton and that my father was born here before me.

  “‘Wone’ is one of the oldest names in the church Register. There were Wones in Nevilton in the days of the Norman Conquest. I love the place—Mr. Taxater—and I believe I may say that the place loves me. I am in harmony with it, you know. I understand its people. I understand their little weaknesses. Some of these, though you may not believe it, I even may say I share.

  “I love this beautiful scenery, these luscious fields, these admirable woods. I love to think of them as belonging to us—to the people who live among them—I love the voice of the doves in our dear trees, Mr. Taxater. I love the cattle in the meadows. I love the vegetables in the gardens. And I love to think”—here Mr. Wone finished his glass, and drew the back of his hand across his mouth—“I love to think of these good gifts of the Heavenly Father as being the expression of His divine bounty. Yes, if anywhere in our revered country atheism and immorality are condemned by nature herself, it is in Nevilton. The fields of Nevilton are like the fields of Canaan, they are full of the goodness of the Lord!”

  “Your emotions,” said the Papal Apologist at last, as his companion paused breathless, “do you credit, my dear sir. I certainly hold with you that it is important to counteract the influence of Free-Thinkers.”

  “But the love of God, Mr. Taxater!” cried the other, leaning forward and crossing his hands over his knees. “We must not only refute, we must construct.” Mr. Wone had never felt in higher feather. Here was a man capable of really doing him justice. He wished his recalcitrant son were present!

  “Construct—that is what I always say,” he repeated. “We must be creative and constructive in our movement, and fix it firmly upon the Only Foundation.”

  He surveyed through the window the expansive heavens; and his glance encountered the same prominent constellation, which, at that very moment, but with different emotions, the agitated stone-carver was contemplating from the cottage at Wild Pine.

  “You are undoubtedly correct, Mr. Wone,” said his host gravely, using a tone he might have used if his interlocutor had been recommending him to buy cheese. “You are undoubtedly correct in finding the basis of the system of things in love. It is no more than what the Saints have always taught. I am also profoundly at one with you in your objection to Free Love. Love and Free Love are contradictory categories. They might even be called antinomies. There is no synthesis which reconciles them.”

  Mr. Wone had not the remotest idea what any of these words meant, but he felt flattered to the depths of his being. It was clear that he had been led to utter some profound philosophical maxim. He once more wished from his heart that his son could hear this conversation!

  “Well, Mr. Taxater,” he said, “I must now leave you. I have other distinguished gentlemen to call upon before I retire. But I thank you for your promised support.

  “It would be better, perhaps”—here he lowered his voice and looked jocose and crafty—“not to refer to our little conversation. It might be misunderstood. There is a certain prejudice, you know—unjustifiable, of course, but unfortunately, very prevalent, which makes it wiser—but I need say no more. Good-bye, Mr. Taxater—good night, sir, good night!”

  And he bowed himself off and proceeded up the street to find the next victim of his evangelical discretion.

  As soon as he had gone, Mr. Taxater summoned his housekeeper.

  “The next time that person comes,” he said, “will you explain to him, very politely, that I have been called to London? If this seems improbable, or if he has caught a glimpse of me through the window, will you please explain to him that I am engaged upon a very absorbing literary work.”

  Mrs. Wotnot nodded. “I kept my eyes open yesterday,” the old woman remarked, in the manner of some veteran conspirator in the service of a Privy Counsellor.

  “As you happened to be looking for laurel-leaves, I suppose?” said Mr. Taxater, drawing the red curtains across the window, with his expressive episcopal hand. “For laurel-leaves, Mrs. Wotnot, to flavour that excellent custard?”

  The old woman nodded. “And you saw?” pursued her master.

  “I saw Mr. Luke Andersen and Miss Gladys Romer.”

  “Were they as happy as usual—these young people,” asked the theologian mildly, “or were they—otherwise?”

  “They were very much what you are pleased to call otherwise,” answered the old lady.

  “Quarrelling in fact?” suggested the diplomat, seating himself deliberately in his arm-chair.

  “Miss Gladys was crying and Mr. Luke was laughing.”

  The Papal Apologist waved his hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Wotnot, thank you. These things will happen, won’t they—even in Nevilton? Mr. Luke laughing, and Miss Gladys crying? Your laurel-leaves were very well chosen, my friend. Let me have the rest of that custard to-night! I hope you have not brought back your rheumatism, Mrs. Wotnot, by going so far?”

  The housekeeper shook her head and retired to prepare supper.

  Mr. Taxater took up the book by his side and opened
it thoughtfully. It was the final volume of the collected works of Joseph de Maistre.

  Mr. Wone had not advanced far in the direction of the church, when he overtook Vennie Seldom walking slowly, with down-cast head, in the same direction.

  Vennie had just passed an uncomfortable hour with her mother, who had been growing, during the recent days, more and more fretful and suspicious. It was partly to allay these suspicions and partly to escape from the maternal atmosphere that she had decided to be present that evening at the weekly choir-practice, a function that she had found herself lately beginning to neglect. Mr. Wone had forgotten the choir-practice. It would interfere, he was afraid, with his desired interview with Mr. Clavering. Vennie assured him that the clergyman’s presence was not essential at these times.

  “He is not musical, you know. He only walks up and down the aisle and confuses things. Everybody will be glad if you take him away.”

  She was a little surprised at herself, even as she spoke. To depreciate her best friend in this flippant way, and to such a person, showed that her nerves were abnormally strained.

  Mr. Wone did not miss the unusual tone. He had never been on anything but very distant terms with Miss Seldom, and his vanity was hugely delighted by this new manner.

  “I am coming into my own,” he thought to himself. “My abilities are being recognized at last, by all these exclusive people.”

  “I hope,” he said, tentatively, “that you and your dear mother are on our side in this great national struggle. I have just been to see Mr. Taxater and, he has promised me his energetic support.”

  “Has he?” said Vennie in rather a startled voice. “That surprises me—a little. I know he does not admire Mr. Romer; but I thought——”

  “Oh, he is with us—heart and soul with us!” repeated the triumphant Nonconformist. “I am glad I went to him. Many of us would have been too narrow-minded to enter his house, seeing he is a papist. But I am free from such bigotry.”

  “And you hope to convert Mr. Clavering, too?”

  “Certainly; that is what I intend. But I believe our excellent vicar needs no conversion. I have often heard him speak—at the Social Meeting, you know—and I assure you he is a true friend of the working-classes. I only wish more of his kind were like him.”

  “Mr. Clavering is too changeable,” remarked Vennie, hardly knowing what she said. “His moods alter from day to day.”

  “But you yourself, dear Miss Seldom,” the candidate went on. “You yourself are, I think, entirely with us?”

  “I really don’t know,” she answered. “My interests do not lie in these directions. I sometimes doubt whether it greatly matters, one way or the other.”

  “Whether it matters?” cried Mr. Wone, inhaling the night-air with a sigh of protestation. “Surely, you do not take that indifferent and thoughtless attitude? A young lady of your education—of your religious feeling! Surely, you must feel that it matters profoundly! As we walk here together, through this embalmed air, full of so many agreeable scents, surely you must feel that a good and great God is making his power known at last, known and respected, through the poor means of our consecrated efforts? Forgive my speaking so freely to one of your position; but it seems to me that you must—you at least—be on our side, simply because what we are aiming at is in such complete harmony with this wonderful Love of God, diffused through all things.”

  It is impossible to describe the shrinking aversion which these words produced upon the agitated nerves of Vennie. Something about the Christian candidate seemed to affect her with an actual sense of physical nausea. She could have screamed, to feel the man so near her—the dragging sound of his feet on the road, the way he breathed and cleared his throat, the manner in which his hat was tilted, all combined to irritate her unendurably. She found herself fantastically thinking how much sooner she would have married even the egregious John Goring—as Lacrima was going to do—than such a one as this. What a pass Nevilton had brought itself to—when the choice lay between a Mr. Romer and a Mr. Wone!

  An overpowering wave of disgust with the whole human race swept over her—what wretched creatures they all were—every one of them! She mentally resolved that nothing—nothing on earth—should stop her entering a convent. The man talked of agreeable odours on the air. The air was poisoned, tainted, infected! It choked her to breathe it.

  “I am so glad—so deeply glad, Mr. Wone continued, “to have enjoyed the privilege of this little quiet conversation. I shall never forget it. I feel as though it had brought us wonderfully, beautifully, near each other. It is on such occasions as this, that one feels how closely, how entirely, in harmony, all earnest-minded people are! Here are you, my dear young lady, the descendant of such a noble and ancient house, expressing in mute and tender silence, your sympathy with one who represents the aspirations of the poorest of the people! This is a symbolic moment. I cannot help saying so. A symbolic and consecrated moment!”

  “We had better walk a little faster,” remarked Miss Seldom.

  “We will. We will walk faster,” agreed Mr. Wone. “But you must let me put on record what this conversation has meant to me! It has made me more certain, more absolutely certain than ever, that without a deep ethical basis our great movement is doomed to hopeless failure.”

  The tone in which he used the word “ethical” was so irritating to Vennie, that she felt an insane longing to utter some frightful blasphemy, or even indecency, in his ears, and to rush away with a peal of hysterical laughter.

  They were now at the entrance to a narrow little alley or lane which, passing a solitary cottage and an unfrequented spring, led by a short approach directly into the village-square. Half way down this lane a curious block of Leonian stone stood in the middle of the path. What the original purpose of this stone had been it were not easy to tell. The upper portion of it had apparently supported a chain, but this had long ago disappeared. At the moment when Mr. Wone and Miss Seldom reached the lane’s entrance, a soft little scream came from the spot where the stone stood; and dimly, in the shadowy darkness, two forms became visible, engaged in some osbcure struggle. The scream was repeated, followed by a series of little gasps and whisperings.

  Mr. Wone glanced apprehensively in the direction of these sounds and increased his pace. He was confounded with amazement when he found that Vennie had stopped as if to investigate further. The truth is, he had reduced the girl to such a pitch of unnatural revolt that, for one moment in her life, she felt glad that there were flagrant and lawless pleasures in the world.

  Led by an unaccountable impulse she made several steps up the lane. The figures separated as she approached, one of them boldly advancing to meet her, while the other retreated into the shadows. The one who advanced, finding himself alone, turned and called to his companion, “Annie! Where are you? Come on, you silly girl! It’s all right.”

  Vennie recognized the voice of Luke Andersen. She greeted him with hysterical gratitude. “I thought it was you, Mr. Andersen; but you did frighten me! I took you for a ghost. Who is that with you?”

  The young stone-carver raised his hat politely. “Only our little friend Annie,” he said. “I am escorting her home from Yeoborough. We have been on an errand for her mother. She’s such a baby, you know, Miss Seldom, our little Annie. I love teasing her.”

  “I am afraid you love teasing a great many people, Mr. Andersen,” said Vennie, recovering her equanimity and beginning to feel ashamed. “Here is Mr. Wone. No doubt, he will be anxious to talk politics to you. Mr. Wone!” She raised her voice as the astonished Methodist came towards them. “It is only Mr. Andersen. You had better talk to him of your plans. I am afraid I shall be late if I don’t go on.” She slipped aside as she spoke, leaving the two men together, and hurried off towards the church.

  Luke Andersen shook hands with the Christian Candidate. “How goes the campaign, the great campaign?” he said. “I wonder you haven’t talked to James about it. James is a hopeless idealist. James is an admirable li
stener. You really ought to talk to James. I wish you would talk to him; and put a little of your shrewd common-sense into him! He takes the populace seriously—a thing you and I would never be such fools as to do, eh, Mr. Wone?

  “I am afraid we disturbed you,” remarked the Nonconformist, “Miss Seldom and I—I think you had someone with you. Miss Seldom was quite interested. We heard sounds, and she stopped.”

  “Oh, only Annie”—returned the young man lightly, “only little Annie. We are old friends you, know. Don’t worry about Annie!”

  “It is a beautiful night, is it not? remarked the Methodist, peering down the lane. Luke Andersen laughed.

  “Are you by any chance, Mr. Wone, interested in astronomy? If so, perhaps you can tell me the name of that star, over there, between Perseus and Andromeda? No, no; that one—that greenish-coloured one! Do you know what that is?”

  “I haven’t the least idea,” confessed the representative of the People “But I am a great admirer of Nature. My admiration for Nature is one of the chief motives of my life.”

  “I believe you,” said Luke. “It is one of my own, too. I admire everything in it, without any exception.”

  “I hope,” said Mr. Wone, reverting to the purpose that, with Nature, shared just now his dominant interest, “I hope you are also with us in our struggle against oppression? Mr. Taxater and Miss Seldom are certainly on our side. I sometimes feel as though Nature herself, were on our side, especially on a lovely night like this, full of such balmy odours.”

  “I am delighted to see the struggle going on,” returned the young man, emphatically. “And I am thoroughly glad to see a person like yourself at the head of it.”

  “Then you, too, will take a part,” cried the candidate, joyfully. “This, indeed, has been a successful evening! I feel sure now that in Nevilton, at any rate, the tide will flow strongly in my favour. Next week, I have to begin a tour of the whole district. I may not be able to return for quite a long time. How happy I shall be to know that I leave the cause in such good hands! The strike is the important thing, Andersen. You and your brother must work hard to bring about the strike. It is coming. I know it is coming. But I want it soon. I want it immediately.”