A Traveler at Forty

by Theodore Dreiser

The church that we visited was one of those semi-ancient abbey affairs, done in good English Gothic, with a touch of Tudor here and there, and was located outside the village of Bridgely Level two or three miles from Barfleur’s home. I recall with simple pleasure the smug, self-righteous, Sunday-go-to-meeting air with which we all set forth, crossing homey fields via diagonal paths, passing through stiles and along streams and country roads, by demure little cottages that left one breathless with delight. I wish truly that England could be put under glass and retained as a perfect specimen of unconscious, rural poetry—the south of England. The pots and pans outside the kitchen doorways! The simple stoop, ornamented with clambering vines! The reddish-green sagging roofs with their clustered cylindrical chimneypots! When we came to the top of a hill we could see the church in the valley below, nestling beside one bank of the Thames which wound here and there in delightful S’s. A square tower, as I recall, rose quaintly out of a surrounding square of trees, grass, grave-stones and box-hedge.

There was much ado in this semi-ancient place as we came up, for Christmas day, of all days, naturally drew forth a history-loving English audience. Choir boys were scurrying here and there, some ladies of solemn demeanor, who looked as if they might be assisting at the service in some way or another, were dawdling about, and I even saw the rector in full canonicals hastening up a gravel path toward a side door, as though matters needed to be expedited considerably. The interior was dark, heavy-beamed, and by no means richly ornamented with stained glass, but redolent of by-gone generations at that. The walls were studded with those customary slabs and memorial carvings with which the English love to ornament their church interiors. A fair-sized, and yet for so large an edifice, meager audience was present, an evidence it seemed to me, of the validity of the protest against state support for the Established Church. There was a great storm of protest in England at this time against the further state support of an institution that was not answering the religious needs of the people, and there had been some discussion of the matter at Barfleur’s house. As was natural, the artistically inclined were in favor of anything which would sustain, unimpaired, whether they had religious value or not, all the old cathedrals, abbeys, and neighborhood churches, solely because of their poetic appearance. On the other hand an immense class, derisively spoken of as “chapel people,” were heartily in favor of the ruder disposition of the matter. Barfleur in his best Piccadilly clothing was for their maintenance.

To be frank, as charming as was this semi-ancient atmosphere, and possibly suited to the current English neighborhood mood (I could not say as to that), it did not appeal to me as strongly on this occasion as did many a similar service in American churches of the same size. The vestments were pleasing as high church vestments go; the choir, made of boys and men from the surrounding countryside no doubt, was not absolutely villainous but it could have been much better. To tell the truth, it seemed to me that I was witnessing the last and rather threadbare evidences of an older and much more prosperous order of things. Beautiful in its way? Yes. Quaint? Yes. But smacking more of poverty and an ordered system continued past its day than anything else. I felt a little sorry for the old church and the thin rector and the goodly citizens, albeit a little provincial, who clung so fatuously to a time-worn form. They have their place, no doubt, and it makes that sweet, old lavender atmosphere which seems to hover over so much that one encounters in England. Nevertheless life does move on, and we must say good-bye to many a once delightful thing. Why not set these old churches aside as museums or art galleries, or for any other public use, as they do with many of them in Italy, and let the matter go at that? It is not necessary that a service be kept up in them day by day and year by year. Services on special or state occasions would be sufficient. Let by-gones be by-gones, and let the people tax themselves for things they really do want, skating-rinks, perhaps, and moving pictures. They seemed to flourish even in these elderly and more sedate neighborhoods.

Outside in the graveyard, after the services were over and we were idling about a few moments, I found a number of touches of that valiant simplicity in ability which is such a splendid characteristic of the English. Although there were many graves here of the nobility and gentry, dating from as far back as the sixteenth century, there was no least indication so far as I could see, of ostentation, but everywhere simple headstones recording names only, and not virtues,—sometimes, perhaps, a stately verse or a stoic line. I noticed with a kind of English-speaking pride the narrow new-made grave of Sir Robert Hart, the late great English financial administrator of China, who, recently deceased, had been brought over sea to this simple churchyard, to lie here with other members of his family in what I assumed to be the neighborhood of his youth and nativity. It is rather fine, I think, when a nation’s sons go forth over the world to render honorable service, each after his capacity, and then come back in death to an ancient and beloved soil. The very obscurity of this little grave with its two-feet, six-inch headstone and flowerless mound spoke more to me of the dignity and ability that is in true greatness of soul than a soaring shaft might otherwise do.

On the way home I remember we discussed Christian Science and its metaphysical merit in a world where all creeds and all doctrines blow, apparently, so aimlessly about. Like all sojourners in this fitful fever of existence Mrs. Barfleur and her daughter and her son, the cheerful Gerard were not without their troubles; so much so that, intelligent woman that she was, and quite aware of the subtleties and uncertainties of religious dogma, she was eager to find something upon which she could lean,—spiritually speaking,—the strong arm, let us say, of an All Mighty, no less, who would perchance heal her of her griefs and ills. I take it, as I look at life, that only the very able intellectually, or the very rock-ribbed and dull materially can front the storms and disasters that beset us, or the ultimate dark which only the gifted, the imaginative, see, without quakes and fears. So often have I noticed this to be true, that those who stand up brave and strong in their youth turn a nervous and anguished eye upon this troubled seeming in later years. They have no longer any heart for a battle that is only rhyme and no reason, and, whether they can conceive why or not, they must have a god. I, for one, would be the last person in the world to deny that everywhere I find boundless evidence of an intelligence or intelligences far superior to my own. I, for one, am inclined to agree with the poet that “if my barque sink, ’tis to another sea.” In fact I have always innately presumed the existence of a force or forces that, possibly ordered in some noble way, maintain a mathematical, chemical, and mechanical parity and order in visible things. I have always felt, in spite of all my carpings, that somehow in a large way there is a rude justice done under the sun, and that a balance for, I will not say right, but for happiness is maintained. The world has long since gathered to itself a vast basket of names such as Right, Justice, Mercy, and Truth. My thinking has nothing to do with these. I do not believe that we can conceive what the ultimate significance of anything is, therefore why label it? I have seen good come to the seemingly evil and evil come to the seemingly good. But if a religion will do anybody any good, for Heaven’s sake, let him have it! To me it is a case of individual, sometimes of race weakness. A stronger mind could not attempt to define what may not be defined, nor to lean upon what, to infinite mind must be utterly insubstantial and thin air. Obviously there is a vast sea of force. Is it good? Is it evil? Give that to the philosophers to fight over, and to the fearful and timid give a religion. “A mighty fortress is our God,” sang Luther. He may be, I do not know.

But to return to Mrs. Barfleur and her daughter and Barfleur’s children and Barfleur ambling across the sunny English landscape this Christmas morning. It was a fine thing to see the green patina of the trees, and richer green grass growing lush and thick all winter long, and to see the roofs of little towns like Bridgely Level,—for we were walking on high ground,—and the silvery windings of the Thames in the valley below, whence we had just come. I think I established the metaphysical basis of life quite ably,—for myself,—and urged Mrs. Barfleur to take up Christian Science. I assailed the wisdom of maintaining by state funds the Established Church largely, I think, to irritate Barfleur, and protested that the chapel people had a great deal of wisdom on their side. As we drew near Bridgely Level and Barfleur’s country place it occurred to me that Gerard Barfleur had gone to find out if he really knew the lady of the donkey, and I was all anxiety to find out. Barfleur himself was perking up considerably, and it was agreed that first we would have an early afternoon feast, all the Christmas dainties of the day, and then, if Gerard really knew the lady, we were to visit her and then return to the house, where, I now learned, there was to be a Santa Claus. He was to arrive via the courtesy of Gerard Barfleur who was to impersonate him, and on that account, Barfleur announced, we might have to cut any impending visit to our lady short in order not to disappoint the children, but visit we would. Knowing Gerard Barfleur to be a good actor and intensely fond of children,—Barfleur’s especially,—I anticipated some pleasure here. But I will be honest, the great event of the day was our lady of the donkey, her white furs, and whether she was really as striking as I had imagined. I was afraid Gerard would return to report that either, (A)—he did not know her, or (B)—that she was not so fascinating as I thought. In either case my anticipated pleasure would come to the ground with a crash. We entered, shall I say, with beating hearts.

Gerard had returned. With Sir Scorp and T. McT. he was now toasting his English legs in front of the fire, and discoursing upon some vanity of the day. At sight of the children he began his customary badinage but I would have none of it. Barfleur fixed him with a monitory eye. “Well,” he said, putting the burden of the inquiry on me. “Our friend here has been quite restless during the services this morning. What did you find out?”

“Yes,” chimed in Mrs. Barfleur who had been informed as to this romantic encounter, “for goodness’ sake tell us. We are all dying to know.”

“Yes, tell them,” sarcastically interpolated Lord Scorp. “There will be no peace, believe me, until you do.”

“To be sure, to be sure,” cheerfully exclaimed Gerard, straightening up from jouncing James Herbert. “I know her well. Her sister and her husband are here with her. That little baby is hers, of course. They live just over the hill here. I admire your taste. She is one of the smartest women I know. I told her that you were stopping here and she wants you to come over and see the Christmas tree lighted. We are all invited after dinner.”