“How so?”
“Well, the people who patronised him and had their shoes charitably repaired at his little shed naturally would not care to associate with him here any more than on the earth. They would say he smelled of leather and begged to be excused. They might join the elements with his wife, or come to the exclusive cells of hell. But to get there one needs a rather higher order of character. It isn’t every duffer who gets to us any more than to heaven.”
“I agree with you.”
“You see,” he went on dreamily, his voice having sunk to a sweet monotone, “every man worth calling a man, or woman for that matter, has his little back parlour. Some call it their conscience. It’s a little empty dark place at first with no real light in it, for the backyard wall is very high. And after a time furniture begins to appear in it. An armchair grows—a kind of dentist arrangement, which brings no comfort when he sits in it. And then a table, which holds just the little things he doesn’t want to see. The carpet is nothing but a worn-out mat that shews strange stains upon the floor. And then there is the cupboard. He keeps the door shut if he can. The shelves are so dusty, the smell so musty, the skeleton so real. And the fire is a very funny fire. In winter the flames are icy cold and freeze the marrow of his bones, and in summer the fire is still there, raging hot and strong. It’s a very shabby little back parlour, even though it is built in the centre of a king’s palace. And the owner isn’t fond of going into it—because there’s nothing there of which he can be proud. Moreover, he can never take anyone in with him, not even his wife—there’s only room for one. Besides, if he could get his wife in it wouldn’t be a back parlour any longer. It would be a little homely kitchen—the sweetest of all things. Besides, she has her little back parlour too, and perhaps all her time is spent in trying to sweep away the cobwebs that will not go. And all through life the little parlour remains, and as much as possible they keep out of it and try to think it isn’t there. And then one of two things will happen. One day he will go into this little cell and pat all in order and dust it to the best of his poor ability, and then he will sit down and wait, and the pure light will shine and the back parlour will become a shadow—a memory of the past instead of a reality. Or otherwise he will go there and find, alas! that the door is closed upon him and he cannot get out. And no light has entered, nor ever will enter, as far as he can see. He won’t know where he is. He’ll imagine it’s a long dream of endless night, for after awhile he will forget where the door is and lose the power to want to get out. And he will have nothing to look at but the cupboard and the table—nothing to feel but the fire, nothing to rest on but the chair. And then in the long, long end, when it’s all over, he’ll come back on the earth if his soul has been bargained for. And if he was a prince before he may now be a beggar; and if a beggar formerly, now a prince. Nature will give his flesh the Hapsburg lip or Bourbon nose—it will not alter his soul. And then the next battle begins with different flesh in other surroundings, and he stands his chance again. And some people are not conscious of any back parlours, and they are those curious people born with the sham soul. And many who would like to be without the little shabby chamber are all too conscious that it’s there.”
We had listened to the musical rhythm of his voice throughout, and I for one had felt its truth, and Philemon was more deeply moved than I.
“Vestasian,” he said, “why do you come here to tell us such things? You have almost made me feel myself on earth again.”
But Vestasian rose, laughing.
“It’s a queer knack I have of getting low-spirited at times—it is natural to me—and is never more than a passing whim—no weakness, as in mortals. Come with me to see Jesus.”
Two pages of MS. omitted