“It is of comfort to me to hear you say that,� he said.
“So it was to Meno when Aristotle said he believed in the immortality of the soul. Meno said, ‘I like what you are saying’; and the Greek answered pleasantly—ah, he was a pleasant fellow, this wise Aristotle—‘I, too, like what I am saying. Some things I have said of which I am not altogether confident; but that we shall be better and braver and less helpless if we think we ought to inquire, than we should have been if we had indulged the idle fancy that there was no use in seeking to know what we do not know, that is a theme upon which I am ready to fight in word and deed to the utmost of my power.’�
“But Aristotle acknowledges there were some things he said about the great question of which he was not ‘confident.’�
“Yes, yes,� replied Bulstrode impatiently. “There are two voices in every soul—one doubting and dreading, the other believing and loving. You see, the other fellows—Hegel and the rest of the crew—are perfectly cocksure; they are certain of everything. But old Aristotle saw that something in the way of proof was wanting, and that great, silent Thomas Aquinas supplied the rest—that is, if there is anything in Aristotle’s method of reasoning.�
“Then why are you not a follower of Thomas Aquinas into the revealed religion?� asked Conyers.
Bulstrode was silent a moment, sighing heavily.
“Because—because—Thomas Aquinas leads me inevitably into the field of morals. You see, all rational religions are deuced moral, and that’s what keeps me away from ’em. I tell you, Conyers, that if you had led such a life as I have, you’d be glad enough to think that it was all over when the blood stopped circulating and the breath ceased. My awful doubt is, that it’s all true—that it doesn’t stop; that not only life goes on forever, but that the terribly hard rules laid down by that peasant in Galilee are, after all, the code for humanity, and then—great God! what is to become of us?�
Bulstrode stopped again and wiped his brow.
“You see,� he continued, in some agitation, after a moment, “you want it to be true—you dread that it can’t be true—you are tormented with doubts and harassed with questions. I don’t want it to be true. I believe with Aristotle that there is a Great First Principle. I can be convinced by my reason of that; and I think there is overwhelming presumptive proof of the immortality of the soul; but then—there may be more, there may be more. The Jewish carpenter, with that wonderful code of morals, may be right, after all, and I am sincerely afraid of it; and if I went all the way of the road with Thomas Aquinas, I should reach, perhaps, a terrible certainty. Talk about Wat Bulstrode being pure of heart, and keeping himself unspotted from the world, and loving them who do him evil—and the whole code in its awful beauty—why, if that be true, then I am the most miserable man alive! Sometimes I tell myself, if that code were lived up to the social system would go to pieces; and then it occurs to me, that ideal was made purposely so divine that there was not the slightest danger of the poor human creetur’ ever reaching it, in this place of wrath and tears; that the most he can do is to reach towards it, and that lifts him immeasurably. But that very impossible perfection, like everything else about it, is unique, solitary, creative. All other codes of morals are possible—all lawgivers appoint a limit to human patience, forbearance; but this strange code does not. And that’s why I say I am afraid—I’m afraid it’s true.�
Conyers sat looking—looking straight before him. He feared it was not true, and Bulstrode feared it was true; and he asked himself if anything more indicative of the vast gulf between two beings of the same species could be conceived.