Bennett did not hear Father Soledano’s reply. The dialogue had been to him like the murmuring of mysterious voices in a dream, bearing no relation to his own actual experience. His own religion was so axiomatic that the possibility of criticism, outside crude condemnation, to which he was hardened and accustomed, had never occurred to him, and yet, now that it had happened, it was as something remote, impious, but menacing and disturbing. That Father Soledano should lend himself to such talk perturbed him not at all, for he had been brought up to believe that anything was possible for the Roman Catholic priesthood. He was conscious of resentment, and told himself that it was because these things were being said in Mr. Folyat’s house. He was hurt, and childishly he wished to hand on the pain to some one. He waited until Father Soledano’s voice had died down, and then he said, taking no account of his words:
“It isn’t for us to inquire into these things. If we believe at all in the authority and the Divine origin of the Church we are bound by its tradition and its—its dogma.”
“I beg your pardon,” replied Serge. “I forgot that you were there. I don’t believe in the authority or the Divine origin of the Church, and I refuse to be bound by its tradition, which has always been, to say the least of it, unhappy in its results, or its dogma, which seems to me unsound and more or less contradictory of the spirit of the New Testament.”
“But—but . . .” Bennett pounced on Serge with an air of triumph, brandishing his point before proving it. “But what about morals?”
“That,” said Serge, “is exactly where you and I part company. You Christians have only evolved a morality which you apply to the affairs of others and not to your own. You have no standard of goodness—only the wickedness of other people, a Pharisaic standard which would have been repulsive to the Man whom you choose to regard as your Founder. My father’s sermons, for instance—and they are like every parson’s sermons—begin by drawing such a frightful picture of human wickedness that when it is over his hearers feel that they are angels of goodness in comparison. It’s an old dodge, and I daresay Father Soledano makes use of it too.”
“I do,” said Father Soledano. “I do.”
Bennett gaped at him. He felt that he would burst into tears if this went on any longer, and indeed his eyes were wet and his throat was so dry that he could not speak.
“You like your religion?” asked Serge.
“It is my whole life.” Bennett was surprised at the ferocity with which he said this. He was staggered by Serge’s answer:
“I am sorry for you. You will be badly hurt when life gobbles you up and gives you other engrossing interests, which you will be ill-equipped to tackle.”