Chapter XVIII.

by Aldous Huxley

　　The nearest Roman Catholic church was upwards of twenty milesaway. Ivor, who was punctilious in his devotions, came downearly to breakfast and had his car at the door, ready to start,by a quarter to ten. It was a smart, expensive-looking machine,enamelled a pure lemon yellow and upholstered in emerald greenleather. There were two seats--three if you squeezed tightlyenough--and their occupants were protected from wind, dust, andweather by a glazed sedan that rose, an elegant eighteenth-century hump, from the midst of the body of the car.Mary had never been to a Roman Catholic service, thought it wouldbe an interesting experience, and, when the car moved off throughthe great gates of the courtyard, she was occupying the spareseat in the sedan. The sea-lion horn roared, faintlier,faintlier, and they were gone.In the parish church of Crome Mr. Bodiham preached on 1 Kings vi.18: "And the cedar of the house within was carved with knops"--asermon of immediately local interest. For the past two years theproblem of the War Memorial had exercised the minds of all thosein Crome who had enough leisure, or mental energy, or partyspirit to think of such things. Henry Wimbush was all for alibrary--a library of local literature, stocked with countyhistories, old maps of the district, monographs on the localantiquities, dialect dictionaries, handbooks of the local geologyand natural history. He liked to think of the villagers,inspired by such reading, making up parties of a Sunday afternoonto look for fossils and flint arrow-heads. The villagersthemselves favoured the idea of a memorial reservoir and watersupply. But the busiest and most articulate party followed Mr.Bodiham in demanding something religious in character--a secondlich-gate, for example, a stained-glass window, a monument ofmarble, or, if possible, all three. So far, however, nothing hadbeen done, partly because the memorial committee had never beenable to agree, partly for the more cogent reason that too littlemoney had been subscribed to carry out any of the proposedschemes. Every three or four months Mr. Bodiham preached asermon on the subject. His last had been delivered in March; itwas high time that his congregation had a fresh reminder."And the cedar of the house within was carved with knops."Mr. Bodiham touched lightly on Solomon's temple. From thence hepassed to temples and churches in general. What were thecharacteristics of these buildings dedicated to God? Obviously,the fact of their, from a human point of view, completeuselessness. They were unpractical buildings "carved withknops." Solomon might have built a library--indeed, what couldbe more to the taste of the world's wisest man? He might havedug a reservoir--what more useful in a parched city likeJerusalem? He did neither; he built a house all carved withknops, useless and unpractical. Why? Because he was dedicatingthe work to God. There had been much talk in Crome about theproposed War Memorial. A War Memorial was, in its very nature, awork dedicated to God. It was a token of thankfulness that thefirst stage in the culminating world-war had been crowned by thetriumph of righteousness; it was at the same time a visiblyembodied supplication that God might not long delay the Adventwhich alone could bring the final peace. A library, a reservoir?Mr. Bodiham scornfully and indignantly condemned the idea. Thesewere works dedicated to man, not to God. As a War Memorial theywere totally unsuitable. A lich-gate had been suggested. Thiswas an object which answered perfectly to the definition of a WarMemorial: a useless work dedicated to God and carved with knops.One lich-gate, it was true, already existed. But nothing wouldbe easier than to make a second entrance into the churchyard; anda second entrance would need a second gate. Other suggestionshad been made. Stained-glass windows, a monument of marble.Both these were admirable, especially the latter. It was hightime that the War Memorial was erected. It might soon be toolate. At any moment, like a thief in the night, God might come.Meanwhile a difficulty stood in the way. Funds were inadequate.All should subscribe according to their means. Those who hadlost relations in the war might reasonably be expected tosubscribe a sum equal to that which they would have had to pay infuneral expenses if the relative had died while at home. Furtherdelay was disastrous. The War Memorial must be built at once.He appealed to the patriotism and the Christian sentiments of allhis hearers.Henry Wimbush walked home thinking of the books he would presentto the War Memorial Library, if ever it came into existence. Hetook the path through the fields; it was pleasanter than theroad. At the first stile a group of village boys, loutish youngfellows all dressed in the hideous ill-fitting black which makesa funeral of every English Sunday and holiday, were assembled,drearily guffawing as they smoked their cigarettes. They madeway for Henry Wimbush, touching their caps as he passed. Hereturned their salute; his bowler and face were one in theirunruffled gravity.In Sir Ferdinando's time, he reflected, in the time of his son,Sir Julius, these young men would have had their Sundaydiversions even at Crome, remote and rustic Crome. There wouldhave been archery, skittles, dancing--social amusements in whichthey would have partaken as members of a conscious community.Now they had nothing, nothing except Mr. Bodiham's forbiddingBoys' Club and the rare dances and concerts organised by himself.Boredom or the urban pleasures of the county metropolis were thealternatives that presented themselves to these poor youths.Country pleasures were no more; they had been stamped out by thePuritans.In Manningham's Diary for 1600 there was a queer passage, heremembered, a very queer passage. Certain magistrates inBerkshire, Puritan magistrates, had had wind of a scandal. Onemoonlit summer night they had ridden out with their posse andthere, among the hills, they had come upon a company of men andwomen, dancing, stark naked, among the sheepcotes. Themagistrates and their men had ridden their horses into the crowd.How self-conscious the poor people must suddenly have felt, howhelpless without their clothes against armed and booted horsemen!The dancers were arrested, whipped, gaoled, set in the stocks;the moonlight dance is never danced again. What old, earthy,Panic rite came to extinction here? he wondered. Who knows?--perhaps their ancestors had danced like this in the moonlightages before Adam and Eve were so much as thought of. He liked tothink so. And now it was no more. These weary young men, ifthey wanted to dance, would have to bicycle six miles to thetown. The country was desolate, without life of its own, withoutindigenous pleasures. The pious magistrates had snuffed out forever a little happy flame that had burned from the beginning oftime."And as on Tullia's tomb one lamp burned clear,Unchanged for fifteen hundred year..."He repeated the lines to himself, and was desolated to think ofall the murdered past.