Sinister Street by Compton Mackenzie (great books to read TXT) 📕

“How much do we, brother?” asked Stewart.

“No, really,” protested Michael. “My dear Nigel, I can’t have you being so affected. Brother! You must give up being archaic now that you’re a pale young curate.”

“What do you call the real sinners?” asked Chator. “You saw our congregation tonight. All poor, of course.”

“Shall I say frankly what I think?” Michael asked.

The other two nodded.

“I’m not sure if that congregation is worth a very great deal. I’m not trying to be offensive, so listen to me patiently. That congregation would come whatever you did. They came not because they wanted to worship God or because they desired the forgiveness of their sins, nor even because they think that going to church is a good habit. No, they came in a sort of sad drift of aimlessness; they came in out of the dreariness of their lives to sit for a little while in the glow that a church like yours can always provide. They went out again with a vague memory of comfort, material comfort, I mean; but they took away with them nothing that would kindle a flame to light up the gray weekdays. Do you know, I fancy that when these picture-theaters become more common, as they will, most of your people will get from them just the same sensation of warmth and material comfort. Obviously if this is a true observation on my part, your people regard church from a merely negative attitude. That isn’t enough, as you’ll admit.”

“But it’s not fair to judge by the evening congregation,” Chator burst out. “You must remember that we get quite a different crowd at Mass.”

“But do you get the real sinners?” Michael repeated.

“My dear Michael, what does this inquisition forebode?” said Stewart. “You’re becoming wrapped in mystery. You’re found in Leppard Street for no reason that I’ve yet heard. And now you attack us in this unkind way.”

“I’m not attacking you,” Michael said. “I’m trying to extract from you a point of view. Lately it happens that I’ve found myself in the company of a certain class, well⁠—the company of bullies and prostitutes. You must have lots of them in this parish. Do you get hold of them? I don’t believe you do, because the chief thing which has struck me is the utter remoteness of the Church or indeed of any kind of religion from the life of that class. And their standards are upside-down⁠—actually upside-down. They’re handed over entirely to the powers of darkness. Now, as far as I can see, the Devil⁠—or whatever you choose to call him⁠—only cares about people who are worth his while. He hands the others over to anybody that likes to deal with them. Equally I would say that God is a little contemptuous of the poor intermediates. The Church, however, in these hard times for religion is glad to get hold even of them, and this miserable spirit of mediocrity runs through the whole organization. The bishops are moderate; the successful parsons are moderate; and the flock is moderate. To come back to the sinners. You know, they would be worth getting. You’ve no idea what a force they would raise. And now, all their industry, all their ingenuity, all their vitality is devoted to the service of evil.”

Chator could contain himself no longer.

“My dear fellow, you don’t understand how impossible it is to get in touch with the people you’re talking about. They elude one. Of course, we should rejoice to get them. But they’re impossible.”

“Christ moved among sinners,” said Michael.

“It’s not because we don’t long to move among them,” Chator spluttered in exasperation. “We would give anything to move among them. But we can’t. I don’t know why. But they won’t relax any of their barriers. They’re notoriously difficult.”

“Then it all comes down to a ‘no’ in answer to my question,” said Michael. “You don’t get the real sinners. That’s what’s the matter with St. Chad’s⁠—until you can compel the sinner to come in, you’ll stay in a spiritual backwater.”

“If you were a priest,” said Chator, “you’d realize our handicap better.”

“No doubt,” Michael agreed. “But don’t forget that the Salvation Army gets hold of sinners. In fact, I’ll wager that nine out of ten of the people with whom I’ve been in contact lately would only understand by religion the Salvation Army. Personally I loathe the Salvation Army. I think it is almost a more disruptive organization than anything else in the world. But at least it is alive; it’s not suet like most of the Dissenting Sects or a rather rich and heavy plum-pudding like the greater part of the Church of England. It’s a maddening and atrociously bad and cheap alcohol, but it does enflame. I tell you, my dear old Chator and my dear old Nigel, you have the greatest opportunity imaginable for energy, for living and bringing life to others, if only you’ll not sit down and be content because you’ve got the children and can fill the church for Evening Prayer with that colorless, dreary, dreadfully sorrowful crowd I saw tonight.”

Michael leaned back in his chair; the fire crackled above the silence; and, outside, the disheartened quiet of the Sabbath was brooding. Chator was the first to speak.

“Some of what you say may be true, but the rest of it is a mere muddle of heresies and misconceptions and misstatements. It’s absolute blasphemy to say that God is contemptuous of what you called the intermediates, and you apparently believe that evil is only misdirected good. You apparently think that your harlots and bullies are better for being more actively harmful.”

“No, no,” Michael corrected. “You didn’t follow my argument. As a matter of fact, I believe in the absolutism of evil the more, the more I see of evil men and women. What I meant was that in proportion to the harm they have power to effect would be the inspiration and advantage of turning their abilities toward good. But cut out all theological questions and confess that