'Robert,' he said solemnly, 'one thing is certain: if there be a God
at all, he is not like that. If there be a God at all, we shall
know him by his perfection--his grand perfect truth, fairness,
love--a love to make life an absolute good--not a mere accommodation
of difficulties, not a mere preponderance of the balance on the side
of well-being. Love only could have been able to create. But they
don't seem jealous for the glory of God, those men. They don't mind
a speck, or even a blot, here and there upon him. The world doesn't
make them miserable. They can get over the misery of their
fellow-men without being troubled about them, or about the God that
could let such things be.7 They represent a God who does wonderfully
well, on the whole, after a middling fashion. I want a God who
loves perfectly. He may kill; he may torture even; but if it be for
love's sake, Lord, here am I. Do with me as thou wilt.'
Had Ericson forgotten that he had no proof of such a God? The next
moment the intellectual demon was awake.
'But what's the good of it all?' he said. 'I don't even know that
there is anything outside of me.'
'Ye ken that I'm here, Mr. Ericson,' suggested Robert.
'I know nothing of the sort. You may be another phantom--only
clearer.'
'Ye speik to me as gin ye thocht me somebody.'
'So does the man to his phantoms, and you call him mad. It is but a
yielding to the pressure of constant suggestion.
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