THE INTERVIEW
I dreamed that I went to Heaven. I wasn't dead; I went there on a mission to interview God for a paper.
"He will be quite easy," the editor assured me. "In fact, He will like it; it will be a new experience. Every one secretly likes being interviewed, no matter what they say to the contrary, and God will like it too. I'm told He's very human."
This was an odd dream for me, because I've never been a journalist; but if dreams weren't odd we shouldn't remember them.
I knocked at the door and St. Peter opened it: an old man like a Tintoretto portrait with a halo. It was the first real halo I had ever seen and I looked at it more than at its wearer. It had no visible fastening, but always remained in position, about three inches above the head, not exactly shining but luminous. At night they must be very effective—if there is any night in Heaven. I wish I had asked. I wish now that I had asked heaps of things I didn't ask. Next time I shall make a list; but then there will be no next time.
Of course I don't mean that I should have troubled God about these trifles; I should have found one of the young angels who were everywhere and asked him; or I should have sent for one of my friends who died in the War....
Should I? I wonder if I should have dared....
Meanwhile St. Peter waits. "What do you want?" he asked.
I handed him my card with the name of the paper on it.
"God perhaps would grant me an interview?" I said. "I was sent here for the purpose."
St. Peter looked more than surprised.
"My editor," I said, "seemed confident that I should be admitted."
"Who is your editor?" said St. Peter. "Do we know him here?"
"I should doubt it," I replied.
"Well, I'll see," he said, "but it's all very unusual and irregular. You'd better tell your leonid to wait."
He carefully locked the door again, with me just inside it, and shuffled away. He was clearly irritated.
After a while he returned.
"It's very surprising," he said, "but God will see you. He seemed quite pleased about it. I don't know what Heaven's coming to. Personally, I'm against every kind of publicity. The emphasis laid by a fellow-disciple on one or two unfortunate moments in my own life has been a source of grief to me ever since. This way, please, and remember that the interview is permitted only on condition that no leading questions are asked. Nothing as to the reason for the creation or anything like that, for example. A quiet talk merely; no excitement."
How I came into the Presence I cannot remember; but suddenly I was with God, just ourselves. Nor did I feel frightened.
But St. Peter's warning about leading questions made it difficult for me. Of course those were what I wanted to ask, and I remember thinking how annoyed my editor would be that I had paid any attention to a doorkeeper. The whole business of interviewers is to be superior to doorkeepers. But then I am not a journalist; I have quite a lot of sensitiveness; and I could not bring myself to disregard the old saint, who, after all, was only acting on instructions. It would be terrible to be allowed into Heaven and then behave in a vulgar way.
After racking my brains for a start I asked God if there was anything that was interesting Him in particular just at the moment.
He smiled.
"As it happens," He said, "there is. Only this morning I was looking down over London, and almost for the first time I noticed something that gave me great pleasure. Pathetic too, in a way; but then there is so much pathos——
"I noticed all the little gardens. I don't mean the gardens where there are gardeners; I mean the tiny square yards among the stones and squalor, with flowers and shrubs that literally fight for life and would never live at all if they were not lovingly tended. Sometimes there is a rockery, sometimes an attempt at a pool, and then the window-boxes—they give Me pleasure too, much more than Corporation ornamental bedding ever could. Some of these little gardens," He said, "and the gallant struggle they make to bring beauty into ugly places, call tears to the eyes"; and I believe He meant it, for I watched Him. "The poor souls," He murmured, "the poor, brave souls."
"You mentioned Corporation carpet-bedding just now, Sir," I said. "You must have noticed that English gardens are infinitely more reckless and joyful than they used to be? Of course, I don't know what flowers were like, Sir, when You began, but every year sees new varieties come into being—more lovely delphiniums, more ethereal columbines, more glorious tulips, more delicate daffodils, and every year more people lavish themselves on herbaceous borders and wild gardens."
"I have certainly noticed it," said God, "and it has given Me immense satisfaction. I know who is chiefly responsible for it too," He added, "and her name is very highly honoured here."
And then I woke up.
