another first.
* * *
“So, yer takin’ yerself off to the wilds of Africa and you’ve not read Heart of Darkness ?” our Captain Kelly badgered the prim English missionaries sitting to his right at the dinner table. The Irishman had proved to be an intelligent and widely read person, one for whom Father and I were every day gathering more admiration. Meals at the captain’s table were intimate affairs, as the Evangeline was carrying very few passengers on this voyage. It was the only time all of us gathered in one place during the long, otherwise uneventful days.
“The book might scare the bejesus outta ye,” Kelly continued, “but you’d have a wee taste of what ye were gettin’ yerself into.”
The bland-faced young man, Brother Roderick Smead, sat stiff and straight, with a tight smile stretching the bottom of his face into a grimace.
Father and I had several times argued amusedly about just how far the stick must be lodged up the man of God’s rectum. We had so far controlled ourselves in impugning and provoking him, as Brother Roderick had become the captain’s favorite sparring partner (or perhaps “target” would be more precise) at the evening meals. It had become clear in the past several days that Kelly had lost patience with the man’s narrowness and naïveté. Tonight might prove the showdown.
After the captain’s last provocation, I could see Mr. Smead’s wife, Ellen, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. A plump partridge of a woman, she had so far on this journey remained the perfect wife, adoring and respectful of her husband and almost entirely silent on any matters that strayed from the trivial or domestic.
“God will look after us, Captain Kelly,” the missionary replied, and his wife nodded in pious agreement. “The evangelization of the Asian and African continents is His work, and He takes care of His own.”
I felt my blood begin to boil. I was surprised that Father had not jumped down Smead’s throat. He had nothing but contempt for all proselytizing religions, but in the next moment the captain continued his own assault.
“I’ve taken a slew of German Lutherans to their missionary posts,” said Kelly to Brother Roderick, “and they’ve got a sight more consideration for foreign peculiarities and cultures than you lot do.”
Ellen Smead looked scandalized at such an idea. Everyone at the table was startled when she spoke up with great fervor. “What is the point of a native’s conversion if he is not … converted ? I believe…”
Brother Roderick turned to his wife with such astonishment it occurred to me that he had never once heard uttered from those lips the words “I believe.”
Sister Ellen went on, “… that the convert must live in a permanent upright house with a chimney in it. He must no longer be befuddled by its hot smoky atmosphere, or degraded by creeping into it.” She spoke the word “creeping” as though it evoked the loathsomeness of a poisonous snake. “He must be decently clothed and…”
“That is enough, Ellen,” Brother Roderick hissed at his wife.
Instantly she was silent and slunk down in her seat.
“I think you misunderstand us,” Brother Roderick said to the captain. “We are all, even the lesser races, God’s children. In the Bantu tribe, there is a rich folklore that demonstrates conscience in a marvelous way.”
“Conscience?” Father barked. He had come to the end of his patience with this young man. “How kind of you to grant them the attribute. And how, may I ask, does their polygamy—even after conversion—fit into your standards of ‘Christian morality’?”
“That’s easy,” I interjected. “Men reign supreme in every culture. They have what they want whether they are an African tribesman with several wives, or an Englishman with a mistress on the side. It is very simply a ‘man’s world.’”
Captain Kelly sat up a bit straighter, and his eyes shifted with the anticipation of a
* * *
“So, yer takin’ yerself off to the wilds of Africa and you’ve not read Heart of Darkness ?” our Captain Kelly badgered the prim English missionaries sitting to his right at the dinner table. The Irishman had proved to be an intelligent and widely read person, one for whom Father and I were every day gathering more admiration. Meals at the captain’s table were intimate affairs, as the Evangeline was carrying very few passengers on this voyage. It was the only time all of us gathered in one place during the long, otherwise uneventful days.
“The book might scare the bejesus outta ye,” Kelly continued, “but you’d have a wee taste of what ye were gettin’ yerself into.”
The bland-faced young man, Brother Roderick Smead, sat stiff and straight, with a tight smile stretching the bottom of his face into a grimace.
Father and I had several times argued amusedly about just how far the stick must be lodged up the man of God’s rectum. We had so far controlled ourselves in impugning and provoking him, as Brother Roderick had become the captain’s favorite sparring partner (or perhaps “target” would be more precise) at the evening meals. It had become clear in the past several days that Kelly had lost patience with the man’s narrowness and naïveté. Tonight might prove the showdown.
After the captain’s last provocation, I could see Mr. Smead’s wife, Ellen, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. A plump partridge of a woman, she had so far on this journey remained the perfect wife, adoring and respectful of her husband and almost entirely silent on any matters that strayed from the trivial or domestic.
“God will look after us, Captain Kelly,” the missionary replied, and his wife nodded in pious agreement. “The evangelization of the Asian and African continents is His work, and He takes care of His own.”
I felt my blood begin to boil. I was surprised that Father had not jumped down Smead’s throat. He had nothing but contempt for all proselytizing religions, but in the next moment the captain continued his own assault.
“I’ve taken a slew of German Lutherans to their missionary posts,” said Kelly to Brother Roderick, “and they’ve got a sight more consideration for foreign peculiarities and cultures than you lot do.”
Ellen Smead looked scandalized at such an idea. Everyone at the table was startled when she spoke up with great fervor. “What is the point of a native’s conversion if he is not … converted ? I believe…”
Brother Roderick turned to his wife with such astonishment it occurred to me that he had never once heard uttered from those lips the words “I believe.”
Sister Ellen went on, “… that the convert must live in a permanent upright house with a chimney in it. He must no longer be befuddled by its hot smoky atmosphere, or degraded by creeping into it.” She spoke the word “creeping” as though it evoked the loathsomeness of a poisonous snake. “He must be decently clothed and…”
“That is enough, Ellen,” Brother Roderick hissed at his wife.
Instantly she was silent and slunk down in her seat.
“I think you misunderstand us,” Brother Roderick said to the captain. “We are all, even the lesser races, God’s children. In the Bantu tribe, there is a rich folklore that demonstrates conscience in a marvelous way.”
“Conscience?” Father barked. He had come to the end of his patience with this young man. “How kind of you to grant them the attribute. And how, may I ask, does their polygamy—even after conversion—fit into your standards of ‘Christian morality’?”
“That’s easy,” I interjected. “Men reign supreme in every culture. They have what they want whether they are an African tribesman with several wives, or an Englishman with a mistress on the side. It is very simply a ‘man’s world.’”
Captain Kelly sat up a bit straighter, and his eyes shifted with the anticipation of a
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