But you are a man of God.
You can’t dodge that.”
“I am not a man of God.
And not through my own desire.
Remember that.
Not of my own choice that I am no longer a man of God.
It was by the will, the more than behest, of them like you and like her and like him in the jail yonder and like them who put him there to do their will upon, as they did upon me, with insult and violence upon those who like them were created by the same God and were driven by them to do that which they now turn and rend them for having done it.
It was not my choice.
Remember that.”
“I know that.
Because a man ain’t given that many choices.
You made your choice before that.” Hightower looks at him. “You were given your choice before I was born, and you took it before I or her or him either was born.
That was your choice.
And I reckon them that are good must suffer for it the same as them that are bad.
The same as her, and him, and me.
And the same as them others, that other woman.”
“That other woman?
Another woman?
Must my life after fifty years be violated and my peace destroyed by two lost women, Byron?”
“This other one ain’t lost now.
She has been lost for thirty years.
But she is found now.
She’s his grandmother.”
“Whose grandmother?”
“Christmas’,” Byron says.
Waiting, watching the street and the gate from the dark study window, Hightower hears the distant music when it first begins.
He does not know that he expects it, that on each Wednesday and Sunday night, sitting in the dark window, he waits for it to begin.
He knows almost to the second when he should begin to hear it, without recourse to watch or clock.
He uses neither, has needed neither for twenty-five years now.
He lives dissociated from mechanical time.
Yet for that reason he has never lost it.
It is as though out of his subconscious he produces without volition the few crystallizations of stated instances by which his dead life in the actual world had been governed and ordered once.
Without recourse to clock he could know immediately upon the thought just where, in his old life, he would be and what doing between the two fixed moments which marked the beginning and the end of Sunday morning service and Sunday evening service and prayer service on Wednesday night; just when he would have been entering the church, just when he would have been bringing to a calculated close prayer or sermon.
So before twilight has completely faded he is saying to himself Now they are gathering, approaching along streets slowly and turning in, greeting one another: the groups, the couples, the single ones.
There is a little informal talking in the church itself, lowtoned, the ladies constant and a link sibilant with fans, nodding to arriving friends as they pass in the aisle.
Miss Carruthers (she was his organist and she has been dead almost twenty years) is among them; soon she will rise and enter the organloft Sunday evening prayer meeting.
It has seemed to him always that at that hour man approaches nearest of all to God, nearer than at any other hour of all the seven days.
Then alone, of all church gatherings, is there something of that peace which is the promise and the end of the Church.
The mind and the heart purged then, if it is ever to be; the week and its whatever disasters finished and summed and expiated by the stern and formal fury of the morning service; the next week and its whatever disasters not yet born, the heart quiet now for a little while beneath the cool soft blowing of faith and hope.
Sitting in the dark window he seems to see them Now they are gathering, entering the door.
They are nearly all there now And then he begins to say,
“Now.
Now,” leaning a little forward; and then, as though it had waited for his signal, the music begins.
The organ strains come rich and resonant through the summer night, blended, sonorous, with that quality of abjectness and sublimation, as if the freed voices themselves were assuming the shapes and attitudes of crucifixions, ecstatic, solemn, and profound in gathering volume.
Yet even then the music has still a quality stern and implacable, deliberate and without passion so much as immolation, pleading, asking, for not love, not life, forbidding it to others, demanding in sonorous tones death as though death were the boon, like all Protestant music.
It was as though they who accepted it and raised voices to praise it within praise, having been made what they were by that which the music praised and symbolised, they took revenge upon that which made them so by means of the praise itself.
Listening, he seems to hear within it the apotheosis of his own history, his own land, his own environed blood: that people from which he sprang and among whom he lives who can never take either pleasure or catastrophe or escape from either, without brawling over it.
Pleasure, ecstasy, they cannot seem to bear: their escape from it is in violence, in drinking and fighting and praying; catastrophe too, the violence identical and apparently inescapable And so why should not their religion drive them to crucifixion of themselves and one another? he thinks.
It seems to him that he can hear within the music the declaration and dedication of that which they know that on the morrow they will have to do.
It seems to him that the past week has rushed like a torrent and that the week to come, which will begin tomorrow, is the abyss, and that now on the brink of cataract the stream has raised a single blended and sonorous and austere cry, not for justification but as a dying salute before its own plunge, and not to any god but to the doomed man in the barred cell within hearing of them and of the two other churches, and in whose crucifixion they too will raise a cross.