This column first appeared in the Victoria Daily Times on Nov. 1, 1941.
When I heard the announcer introducing three university men who would discuss the Book of Job, I dropped the dish towel, took off my apron and sat close to the radio not to miss a word of this discussion. The Book of Job has always fascinated me, not only for its moral value, but as a piece of literature. I have always wanted to hear an analysis of it.
鈥淭his is great,鈥� I said to myself as I settled down to enjoy higher education, great to be able to sit in on this, for people like me who have had to snatch at any stray bits of learning.
Then the discussion began. One professor led off with some talk of Job having been written by several writers, at various times, and in widely separated places, and there was a good deal of bickering over what it really set out to teach. Pretty soon the question was being discussed: Was Job justified in his faith in God? Had he any grounds for thinking that God鈥檚 purpose in all these afflictions was a kind one?
The three gentlemen seemed to agree that Job was not justified, and that was the first jolt I got. As the discussion raged back and forth, I could not be quite sure of their reasoning, there was so much crossfire and 鈥淚f you will allow me,鈥� and 鈥渁s I was saying,鈥� and 鈥減lease let me finish,鈥� etc.
One of the speakers said he was a bit impatient with Job, in fact irritated. Another one said he didn鈥檛 like Job at all, because he was too resigned over his troubles. He suffered all these calamities and didn鈥檛 do anything about it.
I presume he thought Job should have been chasing the Sabeans who carried off his stock, or busy putting up lightning rods on the barn that had been struck, or building a windproof house to take the place of the one that the cyclone had carried off.
No one seemed to think that there was much value in his meditations. They were all for action.
There were two bright intervals in this intellectual twitter, for two brief portions of the book were read; and hope began to revive in me that all might yet be well. I was waiting to hear one of them read that great passage that begins: 鈥淏ut where shall wisdom be found and where is the place of understanding?鈥� But the speakers had other plans.
They proceeded to criticize the end of the story; none of them liked it. The Lord blessed Job, you will remember, and his fields yielded good crops, his stock increased, his second family of children were numerous and beautiful and all ends happily. But the gentlemen were not pleased. That might have been all right for Job, but it is too materialistic, and besides, it鈥檚 not art.
And pretty soon, that 15 minutes had gone, and I had not heard one nourishing sentence nor was there one shred of comfort to cheer the heart of anyone, so I went back to the dishes 鈥� somewhat let down and shaken up a bit.
We hear much these days of sabotage and saboteurs and we are quite rightly warned against them. It behooves us to be on our guard against intellectual saboteurs, for we are going to need all our faith, hope and courage in this time of the breaking of nations. Surely we have the right to expect something better from our scholars than a flippant and cynical attitude toward the charter of our liberties, which is our faith.
Somerset Maugham is well known as a writer of sophistication. He could hardly be classed as an uplifter, but Maugham has seen the war at close range and he knows what has happened to France, so when he was asked by an interviewer, 鈥淗ave you any moral standards?鈥� he answered in these words:
鈥淛ust now I have 鈥� I believe France fell, not because of rotten politicians, not for any of the causes usually given, but because the people of France were morally confused. They had no moral standards. I hate to preach but I truly and honestly and warmly believe that we can defeat Hitler only if we keep our standards very high and not be soft with ourselves.鈥�
The writers and other intellectual leaders of France must take their share of this responsibility for setting the stage for a moral collapse. These are brittle days, and cynicism is a subtle weapon.
But we must change all that. Dickens did his best to change it in his day. He never hung banners on his rogues, or made merry over the triumph of dishonour. The world is in a bad way, and the stream of life must be cleansed at its source. In this a heavy responsibility lies on those who speak and those who write. Literature is more than words 鈥� it is life itself.
No one can look at Europe today without a feeling of deepest apprehension. Brave people are still resisting the powers of evil, but there is always the danger that the day of deliverance might be too long delayed. Their churches are dark and silent, universities are closed. People are cold, hungry and sorrowful. They see wrong on the throne, right on the scaffold. They see the traitors in their own country growing rich, the patriots bleeding; and we wonder how long the broken hearts can go on beating.
In a new poem called The Charter of the Atlantic, Frederick George Scott, a Canadian poet, writes a message of hope and power, the sort of message that should be going out on the Canadian airwaves to the stricken countries. There is no moral confusion here. Its trumpet has no uncertain sound.
鈥淲e scorn the power of tyrants
and the challenge they have hurled.
And march with souls undaunted
to liberate the world.鈥�
听
Some of McClung鈥檚 columns from the 1930s and 1940s have been collected in a book, The Valiant Nellie McClung: Selected Writings by sa国际传媒鈥檚 Most Famous Suffragist, by Barbara Smith.