When one has sufficiently recovered one's gravity, it is permissible to reply to such criticisms that the sharp antithesis between good and evil is essential to every step of my argument, which would entirely collapse if the antagonism were for one moment disregarded. The quantity of suffering in the world is unquestionably so great as to prompt us to do all in our power to diminish it; such we shall presently see must be the case in a world that proceeds through stages of evolution. When one reverently assumes that it was through some all-wise and holy purpose that sin was permitted to come into the world, it ought to be quite superfluous to add that the fulfilment of any such purpose demands that sin be not cherished, but suppressed. If one seeks, as a philosopher, to explain and justify God's wholesale use of death in the general economy of the universe, is one forsooth to be charged with praising murder as a fine art and with seeking to found a society of Thugs?
VIII
The Hermit and the Angel
The simple-hearted monks of the Middle Ages understood, in their own quaint way, that God's methods of governing this universe are not always fit to be imitated by his finite creatures. In one of the old stories that furnished entertainment and instruction for the cloister it is said that a hermit and an angel once journeyed together. The angel was in human form and garb, but had told his companion the secret of his exalted rank and nature. Coming at nightfall to a humble house by the wayside, the two travellers craved shelter for the love of God. A dainty supper and a soft, warm bed were given them, and in the middle of the night the angel arose and strangled the kind host's infant son, who was quietly sleeping in his cradle. The good hermit was paralyzed with amazement and horror, but dared not speak a word. The next night the two comrades were entertained at a fine mansion in the city, where the angel stole the superb golden cup from which his host had quaffed wine at dinner. Next day, while crossing the bridge over a deep and rapid stream, a pilgrim met the travellers. "Canst thou show us, good father," said the angel, "the way to the next town?" As the pilgrim turned to point it out, this terrible being caught him by the shoulder and flung him into the river to drown. "Verily," thought the poor hermit, "it is a devil that I have here with me, and all his works are evil;" but fear held his tongue, and the twain fared on their way till the sun had set and snow began to fall, and the howling of wolves was heard in the forest hard by. Presently the bright light coming from a cheerful window gave hope of a welcome refuge; but the surly master of the house turned the travellers away from his door with curses and foul gibes. "Yonder is my pig-sty for dirty vagrants like you." So they passed that night among the swine; and in the morning the angel went to the house and thanked the master for his hospitality, and gave him for a keepsake (thrifty angel!) the stolen goblet. Then did the hermit's wrath and disgust overcome his fears, and he loudly upbraided his companion. "Get thee gone, wretched spirit!" he cried. "I will have no more of thee. Thou pretendest to be a messenger from heaven, yet thou requitest good with evil, and evil with good!" Then did the angel look upon him with infinite compassion in his eyes. "Listen," said he, "short-sighted mortal. The birth of that infant son had made the father covetous, breaking God's commandments in order to heap up treasures which the boy, if he had lived, would have wasted in idle debauchery. By my act, which seemed so cruel, I saved both parent and child. The owner of the goblet had once been abstemious, but was fast becoming a sot; the loss of his cup has set him to thinking, and he will mend his ways. The poor pilgrim, unknown to himself, was about to commit a mortal sin, when I interfered and sent his unsullied soul to heaven. As for the wretch who drove God's children from his door, he is, indeed, pleased for the moment with the bauble I left in his hands; but hereafter he will burn in hell." So spoke the angel; and when he had heard these words the hermit bowed his venerable head and murmured, "Forgive me, Lord, that in my ignorance I misjudged thee."
I suspect that, with all our boasted science, there is still much wisdom for us in the humble childlike piety of the Gesta Romanorum. To say that the ways of Providence are inscrutable is still something more than an idle platitude, and there still is room for the belief that, could we raise the veil that enshrouds eternal truth, we should see that behind nature's cruelest works there are secret springs of divinest tenderness and love. In this trustful mood we may now return to the question as to the genesis of the idea of moral evil, and its close connection with man's rise from a state of primeval innocence.
