I felt a certain curiosity.We had been getting on very well together--so it had seemed to me.I asked him if he would mind my seeing the book.He said there could be no objection.He opened it at the page devoted to myself, and I flew a little higher, and looked down over his shoulder.I can hardly believe it, even now--that Icould have dreamt anything so foolish:
He had got it all down wrong!
Instead of to the credit side of my account he had put the whole bag of tricks to my debit.He had mixed them up with my sins--with my acts of hypocrisy, vanity, self-indulgence.Under the head of Charity he had but one item to my credit for the past six months: my giving up my seat inside a tramcar, late one wet night, to a dismal-looking old woman, who had not had even the politeness to say "thank you," she seemed just half asleep.According to this idiot, all the time and money I had spent responding to these charitable appeals had been wasted.
I was not angry with him, at first.I was willing to regard what he had done as merely a clerical error.
"You have got the items down all right," I said (I spoke quite friendly), "but you have made a slight mistake--we all do now and again; you have put them down on the wrong side of the book.I only hope this sort of thing doesn't occur often."What irritated me as much as anything was the grave, passionless face the Angel turned upon me.
"There is no mistake," he answered.
"No mistake!" I cried."Why, you blundering--"He closed the book with a weary sigh.
I felt so mad with him, I went to snatch it out of his hand.He did not do anything that I was aware of, but at once I began falling.
The faint luminosity beneath me grew, and then the lights of London seemed shooting up to meet me.I was coming down on the clock tower at Westminster.I gave myself a convulsive twist, hoping to escape it, and fell into the river.
And then I awoke.
But it stays with me: the weary sadness of the Angel's face.Icannot shake remembrance from me.Would I have done better, had Itaken the money I had spent upon these fooleries, gone down with it among the poor myself, asking nothing in return.Is this fraction of our superfluity, flung without further thought or care into the collection box, likely to satisfy the Impracticable Idealist, who actually suggested--one shrugs one's shoulders when one thinks of it--that one should sell all one had and give to the poor?
[The Author is troubled concerning his Investments.]
Or is our charity but a salve to conscience--an insurance, at decidedly moderate premium, in case, after all, there should happen to be another world? Is Charity lending to the Lord something we can so easily do without?
I remember a lady tidying up her house, clearing it of rubbish.She called it "Giving to the Fresh Air Fund." Into the heap of lumber one of her daughters flung a pair of crutches that for years had been knocking about the house.The lady picked them out again.
"We won't give those away," she said, "they might come in useful again.One never knows."Another lady, I remember coming downstairs one evening dressed for a fancy ball.I forget the title of the charity, but I remember that every lady who sold more than ten tickets received an autograph letter of thanks from the Duchess who was the president.The tickets were twelve and sixpence each and included light refreshments and a very substantial supper.One presumes the odd sixpence reached the poor--or at least the noisier portion of them.
"A little decolletee, isn't it, my dear?" suggested a lady friend, as the charitable dancer entered the drawing-room.
"Perhaps it is--a little," she admitted, "but we all of us ought to do all we can for the Cause.Don't you think so, dear?"Really, seeing the amount we give in charity, the wonder is there are any poor left.It is a comfort that there are.What should we do without them? Our fur-clad little girls! our jolly, red-faced squires! we should never know how good they were, but for the poor?
Without the poor how could we be virtuous? We should have to go about giving to each other.And friends expect such expensive presents, while a shilling here and there among the poor brings to us all the sensations of a good Samaritan.Providence has been very thoughtful in providing us with poor.
Dear Lady Bountiful! does it not ever occur to you to thank God for the poor? The clean, grateful poor, who bob their heads and curtsey and assure you that heaven is going to repay you a thousandfold.One does hope you will not be disappointed.
An East-End curate once told me, with a twinkle in his eye, of a smart lady who called upon him in her carriage, and insisted on his going round with her to show her where the poor hid themselves.They went down many streets, and the lady distributed her parcels.Then they came to one of the worst, a very narrow street.The coachman gave it one glance.
"Sorry, my lady," said the coachman, "but the carriage won't go down."The lady sighed.
"I am afraid we shall have to leave it," she said.
So the gallant greys dashed past.
Where the real poor creep I fear there is no room for Lady Bountiful's fine coach.The ways are very narrow--wide enough only for little Sister Pity, stealing softly.
I put it to my friend, the curate:
"But if all this charity is, as you say, so useless; if it touches but the fringe; if it makes the evil worse, what would you do?"[And questions a Man of Thought]
"I would substitute Justice," he answered; "there would be no need for Charity.""But it is so delightful to give," I answered.
"Yes," he agreed."It is better to give than to receive.I was thinking of the receiver.And my ideal is a long way off.We shall have to work towards it slowly."