When It Was Dark

By J.F.C. Fuller

Published in the Agnostic Journal

London, England

10 June 1905

(pages 353-354)

"When It Was Dark." Such is the title of a story written by Mr. Guy Thorne, and boomed by the Bishop of London. Though late in the day—my only excuse is, I am not a new-novel reader—I think a few words might be said about this book, which evidently was intended as an attack on Freethought and Agnosticism. The story is briefly this.

The two villains, Constantine Schuabe, and Robert Llewellyn; a millionaire Agnostic Jew, and a sensual scientist, carry out between them a forgery, which takes the shape of proving that Christ never rose from the dead—a proof that neither agnostic nor scientist would need; Llewellyn goes to Palestine, and has the following inscribed in a certain tomb in Jerusalem:—

"I, Joseph of Arimathæa, took the body of Jesus, the Nazarene, from the tomb where it was first laid and his it in this place."

Gortre, a youthful clergyman, virile and virtuous, and who is in close communion with the celestial regions, smells a mundane "rat; he also rescues Gertrude Hunt, ballet-dancer, and kept mistress of Llewellyn, from her evil surroundings. He is a curate to the Rev. Father Ripon, a gentleman of erratic speed and forgetfulness, who seems never to remember the conventional hours for meals, and whenever he starts hanging a pair of crimson curtains, a gift from his sister, has a sudden call and rushed out to save a soul instead. The other characters are less important, and are chiefly employed in drinking beverages, ranging from a Vermouth sec to black currant tea.

The thunderous news breaks; the churches empty, crime increases fifty per cent, criminal assaults two hundred per cent., consols fall to 65, India in mutiny, America in civil war, the world ablaze; all is rapine and murder, and it is of this scene that the Bishop of London has the impertinence to preach: "It paints, in wonderful colours, what it seems to me the world would be if, for six months, as in the story it is supposed to be the case, owing to a gigantic fraud, the Resurrection might be supposed never to have occurred."

Gertrude now bestirs herself, and once again sacrificing her honour, falls into the arms of Llewellyn with a "kiss me, Bob."

"Dear, old Bob," she cried; "clever, old Bob, you're the best of them all. What have you done this time? Tell me about it." (Romans iii., 7.)

And he tells her all.

Thus Christianity, which originated in an illegitimate, was kicked into the world by a brutal murderer, and reformed by an incestuous Bluebeard, and saved by a harlot. Hoi polloi! What a rabble we must be!

Another character now enters more forcibly on the scenes; this is a Mr. Spence of the Daily Wire. He is sent by the editor of that paper to Palestine, and there discovers a certain Greek, Ionides, associate of Llewellyn in the forgery; and for the greater glory of God, threatens to shoot him—(Luke xix., 27)—if he does not at once reveal all. He reveals all. And, as speedily as the world swallowed the "not risen" sprat, it now gulps down the "is risen" whale; most men, apparently, being from the author's point of view, fools—as well as in that of Tam Carlyle.

The end now speedily approached, and the villains turn "green grey," "pendulous," and "flabby."

Llewellyn, dying, hears the Christian mob crashing at his door, when at the psychological moment—

The door opened silently: Lady Llewellyn came swiftly into the room.

She wore a long white robe. Her face was lighted as if a lamp shone behind it.

In her hand was a great crucifix which was wont to hang above her bed.

When Christ died and bade the dying thief ascend with him to Paradise, can we say that His silence condemned the other?

Her face was all aglow with love.

"Robert," she said. Her voice was like the voice of an angel.

Her arms are round him, her kisses press upon him, the great crucifix is lifted to his dying eyes.

A great thunder on the stairs, furious voices, the tide rising higher, higher.

Death!

Shilling shockers! One villain dead; and we trust Lady Llewellyn's fate was not that of Hypatia, as Christian mobs are not given to discriminate.

Now, let us turn to the other. We are introduced to a party of young and giggling Christian maidens, who are paying a visit to the lunatic asylum, where, now, Mr. Schuabe is residing as a drivelling idiot.

"On a bed lay the idiot. He had grown very fat, and looked healthy. The features were all coarsened, but the hair retained its colour of dark red. He was sleeping."

"Now, Miss Clegg, ye'd never think that was the fellow that made such a stir in the world but five years since. But there he lies. He always eats as much as he can, and goes to sleep after his meal."

"He's waking up now, sir. Here, Mr. Schuabe some ladies have come to see you."

It got up with a foolish grin, and began some ungainly capers.

"Thank you, so much, Mr. Pritchard," the girls said, as they left the building. "We've enjoyed ourselves so much."

"I liked the little man with his tongue hanging out the best," said one.

"Oh, Mabel, you've no sense of honour! That Schuabe creature was the funniest of all!"

How sublimely Christian! And if Mr. Constantine Schuabe were only a living character, what a chance for the Torrey-Alexander-Agnostic-Conversion-Mission Limited.

Dean Gorte marries Helena, the daughter of his former vicar, a Mr. Byars, and with a shout of "Christ has risen!" we end "the most daring and original novel of the century."

Now, the whole point of this story is, I presume, this:—To show the awful cataclysm that would befall this poor world, were the Resurrection of Christ proved false. But, as it has never yet been proved true, we have our doubts. Those who have read Saladin's "Did Jesus Christ rise from the Dead," can have none, neither can any of those who have carefully and frankly studied the Bible; but people, at least Christian people, do not read the Bible; they only possess it. Only last Sunday (Easter), I listened to a servant of the Lord reading out of that Holy Book, how the Lord smote the firstborn of Egypt, and bid the Israelites steal their neighbour's goods, and how a stupendous crowd left Egypt at a stupendous pace in a single night; and, looking carefully at all the faces of the numerous women, kind-hearted mothers and affectionate wives: did I see the horror, or even a smile? Oh, dear no! Placid vacuity and contentment, simple empty idiocy of expression; for the word of the Lord was being read to them—that was all.

But this book, after all, can do but little harm to Rationalism, and it cedes more than most of its uncritical readers have probably imagined. First it cedes this:—That Christ was never a Reality, but only a more or less amiable idea. What is real is real, and cannot be unreal. We know that the sun exists, but we are not sure of all its mysteries, and if some of our present ideas concerning it, are, in he future, proved wrong, we, as the great Marcus Aurelius did, will accept the new and more correct theories in the place of the old ones; and, curious to say, the sun will, however, still shine. Not so with Christ and the Christians. For if Christ were a reality, it would make but little difference whether the resurrection were proved true or not; for the resurrection is not Christ, but only—if we may so call it—an appendage of Christ's. But Christians will not accept this; and so Christ not being a reality, but becoming an idea, a very different aspect settles over the question. If we break off the end of a Rupert drop, the Rupert drop ceases to exist as such; so with the Christ idea; deprive it of one of its many appendages, and at once Christendom wails that her saviour is being destroyed, the shattered bauble falling derisively at her feet.

A Rupert drop is only a Rupert drop with an unshattered tail, and Jesus is only a Christ with an impossible resurrection—How divinely true! Mr. Thorne, we sincerely thank you for this piece of information.

The Old Mysticism rose

With a fulness of heart,

And with a fulness of mind,

Mr. Thorne 't will depart.

[420]