All else was conjecture and in this scientific age one did not conjecture much.
It was not the first time that he had seen despair and agony on a human face. He had given his consolations: courage, fortitude, bravery. Time will heal. Life goes on. Day by day the torment will lessen, believe me. One has to live and endure. One must take up again, and rise from the place where anguish had hurled us. That is Expected of Man. And the future will hold new pleasures and consolations again—just wait and see.
Some, of course, were unreasonable creatures. Two men and one woman had committed suicide in the past year or so, all from his congregation. They had no patience to wait for the healing succor of time and renewed life. He had never forgiven them for being so emotional and so distracting to his orderly existence and his reason. But of course, poor things, they had been psychologically sick, and therefore to be pitied. If they had only taken his advice and had gone for therapy to a psychiatrist who would have explained that their terrible anguish had its roots in some childhood frustration, and that they must Understand Themselves and their Inner Conflicts if they were to go on serenely again! But they had not taken his advice, in their sick turbulence and mental disturbance. They had just killed themselves. Sad, and a little disgusting, but still sad. He hoped Susan Goodwin was not of their kind. No, she was a sensible lady.
He cleared his throat. “May I suggest something, Susan? You know Dr. Snowberry, the psychiatrist. Do go to him at once. I will make an appointment for you, if you wish; he is a member of my congregation. He will explain to you that your—your misery and rejection—are rooted in your earlier frustrations, when you and Frederick were very poor. Or that, as a deprived child, you were deeply rebellious against circumstances and would not accept it. He—”
“A psychiatrist, when my child is dying?” Susan’s voice was almost a scream.
“I know, I know. It sounds heartless, doesn’t it? But believe me, Susan, I know what I am talking about; experience, you know. You are still a young woman—”
She looked at him and her eyes were blue ice. “Please go, Dr. Pfeiffer,” she said. She wrung her hands together; she was still tearless. “Please go.”
Now he felt a stir of anger. What did she want? Everything he had said to her over this hour had been met with hostility and despairing derision—most unreasonable. She was like those simple women in his father’s parish—congregation. She wanted maudlin answers to things for which there were no answers. Didn’t she? He stood up stiffly.
“I’ll visit Charles in the hospital tomorrow, Susan.”
“No! Don’t! You have no more to say to Charles than you have to me! Will you tell him, Dr. Pfeiffer, to be brave, that little boy? To Face Facts and Accept Things in a Civilized Manner? You’ll give him a stone, too, instead of bread?”
How the platitudes rushed up even in modern people! In extremity they didn’t want realistic answers and courage. They wanted to be consoled—Again the sick uneasiness came to the minister, and renewed resentment. He would speak of this in his next sermon. His sermons were always published in the biggest newspaper in the city the Monday after Sunday, and were greatly admired for their style and intellectual content and calm understanding. Sometimes dailies in other cities picked them up, too.
“You are a fraud,” said Susan Goodwin. “You are a false shepherd.”
“Because I won’t lie to you?” he said. “Susan!”
She did not speak to him again. In fact, she left the room. The maid came with his hat and topcoat. He was outraged. He had been dismissed like an importunate salesman. He went out into the brisk and glittering spring air. A beautiful day. He inhaled deeply. Why was it sometimes impossible for men to enjoy the immediate, the present, all that a man possessed? Why was he always straining after—what was he straining after, when some calamity overtook him? Superstition. Lies. It was impossible for most men to accept the Symbolic. Very primitive. Life had such delights, so many innocent joys, so many means to satisfaction in work and simple living. Yet still, after the Enlightenment, men strained after misty and unsubstantial and mythical follies. I’m not a witch doctor, said Dr. Edwin Pfeiffer to himself, as he enjoyed the sunshine and the bright wind and the scent of the awakened earth. I have no incantations, no incense. My duty, as a minister, is to preach discipline and virtue and good sense to my congregation, and fortitude. All else must be left to—He looked at the great blue arch over the heaving riot of the city. To What? Of course, there was the Unknowable, the forever Unknowable to man. And there were, of course, the parables of Jesus, tailored to a simple people in a simple time. But all was Symbolic. Doctrine was well enough for the Medieval Age, but not for today. Of course, some ministers talked of Divine Authority, and Tradition. Divine Authority was well enough in an atavistic era, but not today! Not in the Enlightened Day! The Scriptures were not superstition, of course. But they were only guidelines for civilized behavior; at the worst they were poetic myths. Man’s fate was in the present; his destiny was in his children. The Protestant Reformation in its true essence was Protest—against obscurantism and absurd supernaturalism, Protest against Myths of the night and affirmation of the broad daylight of reason. Protest against social injustices. Catholics spoke of Grace, but what was Grace except an awareness of daily duties and responsibility for one’s fellowman and obedience to civil authority? And the need just to be a man?
The day was so lovely that Dr. Pfeiffer did not go at once to the parking lot of the luxurious apartment house. He decided to walk a little. He was still resentful against Susan Goodwin. What did she want? His church was ready to give her everything, his beautiful modern church with the symbolic Cross rearing hugely over the modern steeple. The cross of life. One had to carry it with fortitude, accepting human existence. To lay it down and wail was unworthy of a man. Was not upright man enough, the Rational Animal? Beauty is all we know, said Dr. Pfeiffer to himself, and in some peculiar fashion he was comforted. All we know, and all we need to know. Keats, yes. It was comforting in a way, to know that we cannot know—If there was an imperative to know how disorderly life would be, how distracting and tumultuous! Man would have no time left to do his Duty in this world; he would be too involved in abstractions and vehemences and controversies. He would no longer be the one Hero in this world. He would be caught up in the chaotic supernatural world, a sort of spiritist. Madness. Unreality.
Why had Susan Goodwin been so hostile when he had mentioned Dr. Snowberry? A sick woman. A sad woman, and unfortunate, too. Full of hostilities. Aberrations. It was regrettable about little Charles, of course. He was only ten, and the only child. But Such Things Happened. It was really too bad that Susan had told her boy that he would soon die. Cruel, cruel. She should have spared him that; she should have told him brightly that he would be home soon, and well. It would have been a compassionate lie. But lies had their place also.
Lies. Lies.
I told her only the truth, said Dr. Pfeiffer to himself. Why will not men accept the truth? And then—it was absurd—he thought of Pontius Pilate and his cynical remark: “What is truth?”
The thought was so disturbing that he stopped and meditated. He saw gravel before him, a gravel path. Aimlessly, he looked up. He was on a path leading to that confounded “Sanctuary.” It was a scandal. Fundamentalism. A clergyman there, howling about the Old Time Religion to the unfortunates, the churchless, who came running to him in their despair. He had signed a petition to have the “Sanctuary” turned over to the city for The Children, or a school. A scandal, in this day and age. Who was the clergyman who lurked behind the blue curtain? A howler. A Disgrace. A charlatan, a liar.
“What is truth?” said Pontius Pilate, and washed his hands.
Well, said Dr. Pfeiffer to himself, I won’t wash my hands! It is time for that screamer to be confronted and be shamed. I’m tired of him and all that has been written about him. Supernaturalism! Miracles! Disgusting. The refuge of people like Susan Goodwin, the people who will not face Reality, when
Reality was all that was. He saw his father’s face, that simple face, and he felt a rush of pure rage. He was a little shocked by that rage; he had not thought himself so vulnerable to past indignities, past simplicities, past meek acceptances. And faith. He heard his father’s voice, “A Mighty Fortress is Our God!” He had never liked his father, actually. An Unlearned Man. “Our Lord,” his father had once said, “was never graduated from the best universities. He knew only truth.” But what could one expect from a “minister” who had entered a seminary with only an elementary school education?
He walked slowly but determinedly up the gravel path. He saw the fountains and the grottoes, and the long green patience of the lawns and the massed trees. Beautiful, beautiful, he thought reluctantly. But why is it not used as a public park, and for Senior Citizens who could sit on those marble benches and—Stare? Stare at what, at the end of their lives? Well, anyway, they could look at the flowers, couldn’t they, and be happy that they had given their knowledge to their children and their grandchildren? It was restful. Then he thought, I am only fifty! I am not old, I don’t stare at the ages! He stopped and wondered at the faint nausea in himself. He felt around for his box of digestive tablets. Acid indigestion. He slipped a tablet on his tongue and let it dissolve. He wondered if he did have ulcers after all. He smiled a little. Most of his congregation appeared to have ulcers these days. The stress of modern life, of course. The hurry and the turmoil. So much demanded of everybody in this modern life. So much to do.
Do what? asked the incorrigible new voice in his mind. What are they doing half so well as their fathers and their grandfathers did? What have they given to their fellows? They have endless leisure—but what do they give? Community activities? What are they? Their fathers gave work and friendship and kindness, personal kindness and personal responsibility and true brotherhood as one man to another. What do your people give these days, of themselves, of true love? They sign checks and talk politics and join Social Welfare organizations, and feel very righteous. The righteousness of the Pharisee.
We live in an Urban Age, commented Dr. Pfeiffer’s mind.
And what is that? asked that protesting voice. There was always an Urban Age, from Chaldea to Alexandria to Jerusalem, to Athens to Rome, to Paris to New York. What is so “new” about an Urban Age? What have you discovered that is so unique? The desolation of abomination. The weary land.
I should have known better than to go to that disturbed and rebellious young woman, thought Dr. Pfeiffer. He walked up the path, and his face was flushed angrily. He had a Duty to Do. He paused at the bronze doors and again reluctantly admired them. No money had been spared here! Lavish. It should have gone to the United Community Fund. Or in taxes. All this was tax-exempt, of course. A scandal. This wonderful marble, this peaceful stretch of land in the very midst of the city: It should be a public park and not administered by private individuals. THE MAN WHO LISTENS. He saw the gold characters above the doors. A screamer, a clergyman who disgraced his calling. Dr. Pfeiffer angrily pushed open the doors and peered inside. He knew! The waiting room was filled with shapeless humans, if you could call them that. Old people. No, there were the young here also, waiting silently. Why were the confident young here, the astute and knowledgeable young, who had been taught well? What problems did they have, these girls and boys, that could not be solved by such as himself or an excellent psychiatrist? People demanded too much these days. They had everything, therefore they had no problems in this affluent society which did so much to make them happy. He wanted to shout to the youths and the girls in the waiting room: What can possibly disturb you in this age?
He sat down in a comfortable chair and looked with annoyance at his fellow waiters. Then his eye was caught by a marble tablet in the marble wall: “I can do all things in Him Who strengthens me.”
A nice sentiment, but unrealistic. One had to rely on the good offices of government and good will on the part of government, and not haphazard charity. Or individual effort. That was nice for the past but not for These Days. Society must move as One to alleviate misery. Society had the answers to all things if only people like Susan Goodwin would listen, the miserable and rebellious people like Susan Goodwin who demanded answers where there were no answers but reason.
He watched with detached interest as chimes sounded and one by one the superstitious and the maudlin rose and went behind a door at the back of the room. There was no sound. All sound seemed suspended in this gracious sweet air with its hint of fresh fern. He heard no traffic, no voices. Of course, it was all sound-conditioned. He picked up a magazine from one of the tables and became absorbed in international news. For the first time he thought, as he scanned the pages: Why is there so much turmoil in these days when everything is planned and there is so much freedom and so many enthusiastic emerging nations? Men did not have to struggle for existence now as their fathers had struggled. Concern for everybody was rife in the government and among all peoples. Foreign aid. Public assistance. Social Responsibility. The Peace Corps. What was once the province only of religion had extended to secular life and everyone was involved in mankind. The Secular Missions. It was wonderful, really. Then, why was there so much mental misery and frustration? We need, said Dr. Pfeiffer to himself, a crash program for psychiatrists. International psychiatrists administering to the needs of all the nations. Not religious missions, which are old-fashioned and which do not meet the demands of modern society and modern truth.
“What is truth?” said Pontius Pilate, and washed his hands.
Dr. Pfeiffer suddenly saw the vast and polished spread of his congregation before him on Sunday mornings. Nice people, well-dressed, quiet, attentive, hushed and listening. People with folded hands, listening courteously. To his lectures. People who contributed adequately to the various demands of organized charity, people who were interested in the works of the church.
Were they? Those three suicides. The defections. The suddenly ironic eyes of young people, the questing eyes of the middle-aged and the old. The suddenly averted heads. Boredom? That was ridiculous. He was known for his stimulating sermons—no, lectures. There was always at least one reporter there for the local papers and even for the ones in distant cities. They wrote busily on their small pads. He had so much to give—
Do you? asked the incorrigible voice. What did you give today to Susan Goodwin? I gave her the truth, he replied.
“What is truth?” asked Pontius Pilate, and washed his hands.
I am no parson, he said.
What are you? asked the voice.
I am a civilized and reasonable human being, acquainted with reality, he said.
And what does that mean? asked the voice.
It means, he said to that terrible voice, Charity.
Oh? said the voice. Do you not mean: “Odium humani generis?”
He was horrified. Hatred for the human race? No! Above all things, no! He loved reason and good will and good behavior and righteous conduct and enlightenment for everybody. Brotherhood. He detested disheveled emotions and superstition and obscurantism. All could be explained by—
What? asked the voice.
He heard his father’s choir singing with deep passion: “A Mighty Fortress is Our God!”
Oh, simple faith, undemanding faith, childish faith! Total faith.
What other is there? asked the voice.
Damn Susan Goodwin! She had disturbed his thoughts, his reason, his discipline. He stood up, disgusted, prepared to leave. He heard a chiming, and he saw that he was alone. Therefore, the clergyman inside there had struck a bell for him. He was suddenly confused. An irrelevant thought came to him: “Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.”
The sound of the chimes seemed to be echoing in himself, a somber and dolorous murmuring and an ominous one full of reproach. You are a man without conviction, said the voice, and therefore you are impotent in the face of tragedy. You do not even know you, yourself, are tragic, you false shepherd.
Neve
r, in all his fifty years, had such a frightful voice come to him from the very depths of his—what? He had lived rightfully and virtuously; why should there be this dreadful disturbance in him, this reproach? He was no–sinner. Sinner! What an anachronistic word! There was no sin. Now a deeper rage came to him, revolted. His father had unendingly talked of “sin.” He felt hatred for his father. He said to himself, I always hated him, that ignorant man.
He went to the far door and thrust it open with utmost anger. It closed behind him silently. He was not surprised at what he saw in this other room, for it had been described to him. But he glared furiously at the thick blue curtain that covered the tall wide alcove. Howler! Fundamentalist fool! He was an embarrassment to the clergy of the city. Dr. Pfeiffer went to the chair and stood behind it, clenching his hand over the back.
“I’m Dr. Edwin Pfeiffer,” he said in a harsh but controlled voice. “You probably can see me from a peephole or something and it’s possible you recognize me and know my church. I’ve come to have a decent man-to-man talk with you, a fellow-clergyman, and to ask you to stop this nonsense. Do you know what you are doing to your fellow-clergymen? You are holding us up to ridicule and shame. Haven’t you any self-respect at all? These aren’t the Dark Ages, you know, and the days of circuit riders and Holy Rollers and evangelism. Most of us don’t think much of the Council of Trent. You’ve heard of the Council of Trent, haven’t you?”