“My dear fellow, it surely is an absurdity on the face of it? See how badly it succeeds.”
Without choosing to enter on that question, De Vayne quietly remarked, “You ask why marriage exists. Don’t you believe that it was originally appointed by divine providence, and afterwards sanctioned by divine lips?”
“Oh, if you come to that kind of ground, you know, and abandon the aspect of the question from the side of pure reason, you’ve so many preliminaries to prove; e g, the genuineness and authenticity of the Pentateuch and the Gospels; the credibility of the narrators; the possibility of their being deceived; the—”
“In fact,” said De Vayne, “the evidences of Christianity. Well, I trust that I have studied them, and that they satisfy alike my reason and my conscience.”
“Ah, yes! Well, it’s no good entering on those questions, you know. I shouldn’t like to shock your convictions, as I should have to do if I discussed with you. It’s just as well after all—even in the nineteenth century—not to expose the exotic flower of men’s belief to the rude winds of fair criticism. Picciola! it might be blighted, poor thing, which would be a pity. Perhaps one does more harm than good by exposing antiquated errors.” And with a complacent shrug of the shoulders, and a slight smile of self-admiration, Bruce leant back in his armchair.
This was Bruce’s usual way, and he found it the most successful. There were a great many minds on whom it created the impression of immense cleverness. “That kind of thing, you know, it’s all exploded now,” he would say among the circle of his admirers, and he would give a little wave of the hand, which was vastly effective—as if he “could an if he would” puff away the whole system of Christianity with quite a little breath of objection, but refrained from such tyrannous use of a giant’s strength. “It’s all very well, you know, for parsons—though, by the way, not half of the cleverest believe what they preach—but really for men of the world, and thinkers, and acute reasoners”—(oh, how agreeable it was to the Tulks and Boodles to be included in such a category)—“why, after such books as Frederic of Suabia ‘De Tribus Impostoribus,’ and Strauss’ ‘Leben Jesu,’ and De Wette, and Feuerbach, and Van Bohlen, and Nork, one can’t be expected, you know, to believe such a mass of traditionary rubbish.” (Bruce always professed acquaintance with German writers, and generally quoted the titles of their books in the original; it sounded so much better; not that he had read one of them, of course.) And they did think him so clever when he talked in this way. Only think how wise he must be to know such profound truths!
But so far from Bruce’s hardly-concealed contempt for the things which Christians hold sacred producing any effect on Lord De Vayne, he regarded it with a silent pity. “I hate,” thought he, “when Vice can bolt her arguments, and Virtue has no tongue to check her pride.” The annoying impertinence, so frequent in argument, which leads a man to speak as though, from the vantage-ground of great intellectual superiority to his opponent, the graceful affectation of dropping an argument out of respect for prejudices which the arguer despises, or an incapacity which the arguer implies—this merely personal consideration did not ruffle for a moment the gentle spirit of De Vayne. But that a young man—conceited, shallow, and ignorant—should profess to settle with a word the controversies which had agitated the profoundest reasons, and to settle with a sneer, the mysteries before which the mightiest thinkers had veiled their eyes in reverence and awe; that he should profess to set aside Christianity as a childish fable not worthy a wise man’s acceptance, and triumph over it as a defeated and deserted cause; this indeed filled De Vayne’s mind with sorrow and disgust. So far from being impressed or dazzled by Bruce’s would-be cleverness, he sincerely grieved over his impudence and folly.
“Thank you, Bruce,” he said, after a slight pause, and with some dignity, “thank you for your kind consideration of my mental inferiority, and for the pitying regard which you throw, from beside your nectar, on my delicate and trembling superstitions. But don’t think, Bruce, that I admit your—may I call it?—impertinent assumption that all thinking men have thrown Christianity aside as an exploded error. Some shadow of proof, some fragment of reason, would be more satisfactory treatment of a truth which has regenerated the world, than foolish assertion or insolent contempt. Good-night.”
There was something in the manner of De Vayne’s reproof which effectually quelled Bruce, while it galled him; yet, at the same time, it was delivered with such quiet good taste, that to resent it was impossible. He saw, too, not without vexation, that it had told powerfully on the little knot of auditors. The wine-party soon broke up, for Bruce could neither give new life to the conversation, nor recover his chagrin.
“So-ho!” said Brogten, when they were left alone, “I shall win my bet.”