"Well," replied the singer, "that is just what is the matter with me. The shivers do go through me. I am shocked at the moral discord I am making. I am striking false notes all the time. My life doesn't follow the score of my conscience. I don't mean that I have committed murder or picked pockets, but it seems to me that I am breaking the commandment by bearing false witness about myself, making people think I am a saint, or want to be one, when the fact is that I put no more heart into my singing than the organ-pipe does."
So saying Vox strode across the floor, holding a plate of rarebit as if it were a sheet of music, and jerked the toasted cheese off it as he seemed to jerk the notes off the paper when he sang.
The doctor slipped from the lounge just in time to escape a savory splash which was aiming itself straight for the space between his vest and shirt-bosom. The dog growled at the apparent attack upon his master, but was diverted from further warlike demonstrations by the bit of toast that fell under his nose.
"Your dog is as good as a special policeman for you, doctor."
"Yes, he defends me in more ways than one. Do you know why I call him Caleb? Caleb is Hebrew for 'God's dog.' One day, when he was a pup, I forgot myself and dropped into a regular pessimist over some materialistic trash I was reading. The pup seemed to notice my sour face, and put his paws upon my knees, lolled out his tongue, and searched me through and through with those bright eyes of his. It was as much as to say, 'Master, you're a fool. Look at me. Didn't it take a God to make such a marvelous creature as I am?' So I have called him Caleb ever since. He tackles many a doubt for me, as he would any other robber."
"I wish I had your faith, doctor," said Vox, putting his arm around Caleb's neck, and dropping another piece of toast into the waiting jaws.
"Faith? You have got it, Phil; only you don't know it."
"Nonsense, doctor! I suppose I believe the Creed; at least I don't disbelieve it. But I don't feel these things. That's what makes me say that I am a hypocrite to sing in a Christian church. To-night I saw a woman crying during my solo. I felt like stopping. I never feel like crying, except when the notes cry themselves; then I confess to a moistening that goes all through me. Now what right have I to make another feel what I don't feel myself? I tell you, doctor, I am nothing but a bellowing hypocrite. I'm going into opera, where it is all make-believe. You know that I've had offers that would tempt a singing devil; and I believe I would be one if it were not for you."
The doctor eyed his guest quizzically for a moment, then deliberately stretched himself again on the lounge.
"Phil, that cheese has gone to your head. I didn't think it was so strong. Yet I can understand your mistake, for I used to talk that way to myself when I was as green and unsophisticated as you are. I would scratch out the best sentences from my sermons, because I didn't feel all they meant, and would accuse myself of duplicity and cant because my experience was not up to my doctrine. But what if it wasn't? My brain isn't as big as the Bible. My conscience isn't as true and vivid as Moses' was when he wrote down the Ten Commandments. My heart isn't as tender as Christ's. If a preacher says only what he is able to feel at the moment, there will be poor fodder for the parish. So it is all through life. People talk in society on a higher level than they habitually think. They ought to. That is what society is for—to tune up to key the sagging strings of common, humdrum life. All politeness will cease when everybody acts on your theory. We must not say 'Good-morning' to a neighbor because at the moment we do not really care whether his day is going to be pleasant or not. You must not take off your hat to a lady on the street, unless at the instant you are possessed of a profound respect for the sex. Who was that composer that said that he never knew what a piece he had written until he heard Joseffy play it? They asked Parepa to sing 'Coming through the Rye.' She said, 'Pshaw! I've sung it threadbare. I grind it out now as the hand-organ does.' But she sang it, and brought down the house. Why shouldn't she? Feel! Do you suppose that old violin feels anything of the joy that thrills through its fibers? Shall I smash it for a hypocritical contrivance of wood and catgut? Did I kick Dr. Cutt out of the study the other day because he didn't realize the good he had done me in reducing the swelling of my sprained ankle? Yet you want me to let you kick yourself out of the church because you are not one of the 'angels of Jesus,' or haven't had all the joy of life crushed out of you by affliction, so that you are 'weary of earth,' as you sing!"