IX.
The Church Service was open at the Thirty-Nine Articles. Mamma had pushed
Dr. Smith's "History of England" away.
"Do you think," she said, "you could say the Catechism and the Athanasian
Creed straight through without stopping?"
"I daresay I could if I tried. Why?"
"Because Mr. Farmer will want to examine you."
"Whatever for?"
"Because," her mother said, "there's going to be a Confirmation. It's time you were thinking about being confirmed."
"Confirmed? Me?"
"And why not you?"
"Well—I haven't got to be, have I?"
"You will have, sooner or later. So you may as well begin to think about it now."
Confirmation. She had never thought about it as a real thing that might happen to her, that would happen, sooner or later, if she didn't do something to stop Mr. Farmer and Mamma.
"I am thinking. I'm thinking tight."
Tight. Tight. Her mind, in agony, pinned itself to one point: how she could stop her mother without telling her.
Beyond that point she couldn't see clearly.
"You see—you see—I don't want to be confirmed."
"You don't want? You might as well say you didn't want to be a
Christian."
"Don't worry, Mamma darling. I only want to stay as I am."
"I must worry. I'm responsible for you as long as you're not confirmed.
You forget that I'm your godmother as well as your mother."
She had forgotten it. And Papa and Uncle Victor were her godfathers. "What did your godfathers and godmothers then for you?—They did promise and vow three things in my name—" they had actually done it. "First: that I should renounce"—renounce—renounce—"Secondly: that I should believe all the Articles of the Christian Faith—"
The Christian Faith—the Catholic Faith. "Which Faith except everyone do keep whole and undefiled, without doubt he shall perish everlastingly"—
—"And the Catholic Faith is this: That we worship one God in Trinity and
Trinity in Unity."
They had promised and vowed all that. In her name. What right had they?
What right had they?
"You're not a baby any more," her mother said.
"That's what I mean. I was a baby when you went and did it. I knew nothing about it. You can't make me responsible."
"It's we who are responsible," her mother said.
"I mean for your vows and promises, Mamma darling. If you'll let me off my responsibility I'll let you off yours."
"Now," her mother said, "you're prevaricating."
"That means you'll never let me off. If I don't do it now I'll have to do it next year, or the next?"
"You may feel more seriously about it next year. Or next week," her mother said. "Meanwhile you'll learn the Thirty-Nine Articles. Read them through first."
"—'Nine. Of Original or Birth-sin. Original Sin … is the fault and corruption of the Nature of every man … whereby man is far gone from original righteousness and is of his own nature inclined to evil, so that the flesh lusteth always contrary to the spirit; and therefore in every person born into this world it deserveth God's wrath and damnation.'"
"Don't look like that," her mother said, "as if your wits were wool-gathering."
"Wool?" She could see herself smiling at her mother, disagreeably.
Wool-gathering. Gathering wool. The room was full of wool; wool flying about; hanging in the air and choking you. Clogging your mind. Old grey wool out of pew cushions that people had sat on for centuries, full of dirt.
Wool, spun out, wound round you, woven in a net. You were tangled and strangled in a net of unclean wool. They caught you in it when you were a baby a month old. Mamma, Papa and Uncle Victor. You would have to cut and tug and kick and fight your way out. They were caught in it themselves, they couldn't get out. They didn't want to get out. The wool stopped their minds working. They hated it when their minds worked, when anybody's mind worked. Aunt Lavvy's—yours.
"'Thirteen. Of Works before Justification. Works done before the grace of Christ, and the Inspiration of His Spirit, are not pleasant to God, forasmuch as they spring not of faith in Jesus Christ…: yea, rather, for that they are not done as God hath willed and commanded them to be done, we doubt not but they have the nature of sin.'"
"Do you really believe that, Mamma?"
"Of course I believe it. All our righteousness is filthy rags."
—People's goodness. People's kindness. The sweet, beautiful things they did for each other. The brave, noble things, the things Mark did: filthy rags.
This—this religion of theirs—was filthy; ugly, like the shiny black covers of their Bibles where their fingers left a grey, greasy smear. Filthy and frightful; like funerals. You might as well be buried alive, five coffins deep in a pit of yellow clay.
Mamma couldn't really believe it. You would have to tell her it wasn't true. Not telling her meant that you didn't think she cared about the truth. You insulted her if you supposed she didn't care. Mark would say you insulted her. Even if it hurt her a bit at first, you insulted her if you thought she couldn't bear it. And afterwards she would be happy, because she would be free.
"It's no use, Mamma. I shan't ever want to be confirmed."
"Want—want—want! You ought to want, then. You say you believe the
Christian Faith—"
Now—now. A clean quick cut. No jagged ends hanging.
"That's it. I don't believe a single word of it."
She couldn't look at her mother. She didn't want to see her cry.
"You've found that out, have you? You've been mighty quick about it."
"I found it out ages ago. But I didn't mean to tell you."
Her mother was not crying.
"You needn't tell me now," she said. "You don't suppose I'm going to believe it?"
Not crying. Smiling. A sort of cunning and triumphant smile.
"You just want an excuse for not learning those Thirty-Nine Articles."