Alasdair Gray - Poor Things

“I am on the board of directors.”

“Are you a cousin of Lord Pibroch?”

“I am.”

“How wonderful! I am a friend of a great friend of yours, a lovely little Russian gambler who drifts around the German betting-shops in a very poor way — he has even been to jail, but not for anything very nasty. The odd thing is, I do not know his name, but he thinks of you as his best friend because you have been so very good to him.”

After a long pause Mr. Astley said slowly, “I cannot say I am a friend of the person you describe.”

He took up his soup-spoon and so did puzzled Bell Baxter. We would have eaten in silence if Doctor Hooker had not cheered me up with stories of his missionary work in China. Just before the meal ended Mr. Astley, thoughtfully stirring his coffee, said, “However, I know the fellow you spoke about. My wife is Russian, the daughter of a Russian general. I once gave some assistance to a servant in her father’s household, a sort of male nurse who looked after the younger children. That was years ago.”

I said accusingly, “He is a very good wise kind soul! He helped me a lot, and gained nothing by it, and likes all Englishmen because of you!”

“Ah.”

I would not have hated him had he said “O!” or “Eh?” but he said “Ah” as if he knew more than everyone else in the world, knew so much that talking was useless. The outchatel called him shy. I think him stupid and cold. I was glad to hurry back to my warm warm Wedder who can be blown up into giving all the solid heat a woman wants. But do not worry, Candle. Your tie-pin still gleams in the lapel of Bell’s travelling-coat.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dr. H. looks glad whenever he sees me, unlike Mr. Astley. He is a doctor of medicine as well as divinity so today I asked him to look in on Wedder who still acts like a sick man, though no longer pale and shivering. I stayed outside the cabin during the consultation, but near enough to hear the kindly, rumbling voice of Dr. H. punctuated by short answers (I suppose) from Wedder, who at last started shouting. When Dr. H. came out he said Wedder’s illness was not physical.

“We disagreed over the doctrine of the Atonement,” he told me, “and the inevitability of Hell — he thinks me too liberal. But religion is not his main problem. He is using it to distract him from a very painful recent memory he refuses to discuss. Do you know what it is?”

I told him that the poor man had made a fool of himself in a German betting-shop.

“If that is all,” said Dr. H., “let hint sulk himself better in his own good time. Treat him with affection, but do not spoil your own lovely bloom by refraining from cheerful social exercise. Do you play chequers? No? Allow me to teach you.”

He is a gorgeous man.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dear God we are passing once again between the Isles of Greece where burning Byron loved and sang and I am very glad that the breasts of the girls here no longer suckle slaves and I have just had a glorious breakfast at which Dr. H. and Mr. A. argued tremendously and Mr. Astley started it! We were astonished. For the last two days he has eaten with us and said nothing but “Good morning,” “Good afternoon,” “Good evening,” so we were used to chatting as though he did not exist. This morning my American friend was telling me how the smaller Chinese skull made it hard for the Chinese to learn English when: “Did you find it easy to learn Chinese, Dr. Hooker?” asked Mr. Astley.

“Sir,” said Dr. H., facing round to him, “I did not visit China to learn the language of Confucius and Lao-tsze. For fifteen years I have served a federation of American Bible societies which — with some assistance from our chambers of commerce and the United States government — employed me to teach the natives of Peking the language and faith of the Christian Bible. For this purpose I found the simplest jargon of the poorest coolies (you call it pidgin English) more useful than Mandarin complexities.”

Mr. Astley said softly, “The Spaniards who first colonized your continent think Latin the language of the Christian faith and Bible.”

“The brand of religion I preach and try to practise,” said Dr. H., “was preached by Moses and Jesus long before the Roman Emperors took it up and tricked it out in the superfluous pomps of earthly kingship.”

“Ah.”

“Mr. Astley sir!” said Dr. H. sternly, “by a simple question and an oblique comment you have drawn from me a confession of faith. Let me ask the same from you. Have you invited Jesus into your heart as your personal saviour? Or are you a Roman Catholic? Or do you support the English State Church whose pope is Queen Victoria?”

“When I am in England,” said Mr. Astley slowly, “I support the Church of England. It keeps England stable. For the same reason I support the Church of Scotland in Scotland, Hindooism in India, Mahometanism in Egypt. The British Empire would not be governing a quarter of the globe if we opposed the local religions. Had our government made Catholicism the official religion of Ireland it would now easily control that troublesome colony with the help of the popish priests, though of course the Ulstermen would need a corner to themselves.”

“Mr. Astley, you are worse than an atheist,” said Dr. H. gravely. “An atheist has at least a strong conviction of what he does not believe. You believe in nothing firm or fixed. You are a timeserver — a faithless man.”

“Not quite faithless,” murmured Mr. Astley. “I am a Malthusiast — I believe in the gospel according to Malthus.”

“I thought Malthus was a Church of England clergyman with bats in his belfry about expanding populations. Do you tell me he has founded a new religion?”

“No, a new faith. Religions involve congregations, preachers, prayers, hymns, special buildings or codes or rituals. My brand of Malthusiasm does not.”

“Your brand, Mr. Astley? Are there many?”

“Yes. All systems prove their vigour through subdivision: Christianity, for instance.”

“Touché!” said Dr. H., chuckling. “It is a pleasure to cross swords with you. And now sir, explain your sect of Malthusiasm. Convert me to it!”

“You are better as you are, Dr. Hooker. My faith offers no comfort to the poor, the sick, the cruelly used and those on the point of death. I have no wish to spread it.”

“A faith without hope and charity?” cried Dr. H. loudly.

“Then fling it from you, Mr. Astley, for it has obviously frozen the blood in your veins! Ditch it. Tie a weight to it and fling it overboard. Get a faith which warms the heart, binds you to your fellow men and points us all toward a golden future.”

“I dislike intoxicating fluids. I prefer the bitter truth.”

“Mr. Astley, I see you are one of those sad modern souls who think the material world a harsh machine which destroys the feeling hearts and seeing minds who enter it. Think ye, by the bowels of Christ, that ye may be wrong! Our gloriously varied universe could not have sprouted brains and hearts like ours if the Maker of All had not designed them for this planet, designed the planet for them, and all for Himself!”

“Your vision of the world as a place where God grows human vegetables for his own consumption may appeal to a market gardener, Dr. Hooker,” said Mr. Astley, “but not to me. I am a businessman. Have you a faith, Mrs. Wedderburn?”

“Is that something to do with God?” I asked, pleased that he had spoken to me.