“Such as what?” asked Cæcilius.
“Such as this,” answered Callista. “Nothing will ever make me believe that all my people have gone and will go to an eternal Tartarus.”
“Had we not better confine ourselves to something more specific, more tangible?” asked Cæcilius, gravely. “I suppose if one individual may have that terrible [pg 217] lot, another may—both may, many may. Suppose I understand you to say that you never will believe that you will go to an eternal Tartarus.”
Callista gave a slight start, and showed some uneasiness or displeasure.
“Is it not likely,” continued he, “that you are better able to speak of yourself, and to form a judgment about yourself, than about others? Perhaps if you could first speak confidently about yourself, you would be in a better position to speak about others also.”
“Do you mean,” she said, in a calm tone, “that my place, after this life, is an everlasting Tartarus?”
“Are you happy?” he asked in turn.
She paused, looked down, and in a deep clear voice said, “No.” There was a silence.
The priest began again: “Perhaps you have been growing in unhappiness for years; is it so? you assent. You have a heavy burden at your heart, you don’t well know what. And the chance is, that you will grow in unhappiness for the next ten years to come. You will be more and more unhappy the longer you live. Did you live till you were an old woman, you would not know how to bear your existence.”
Callista cried out as if in bodily pain, “It is true, sir, whoever told you. But how can you have the heart to say it, to insult and mock me!”