Free Mr. Fortune by Sylvia Townsend Warner Page A

moment he got out of the launch. “Oh, they—they only worship one god.”
    This answer did not sound quite as it should; and in deference to his recent memories of the Archdeacon, Mr. Fortune ran his convert through the Apostles’ Creed before proceeding with his inquiries. It was quite all right. Lueli remembered the creed without a single lapse, and on further questioning Mr. Fortune discovered that the islanders worshipped one god each, a much more suitable state of affairs for heathens; although on thinking it over before he fell asleep the missionary reflected that in the island of Fanua conversion must necessarily be a slow business since he would have to break the faggot stick by stick. Just before he lost consciousness he began to wonder what sort of god Lueli had worshipped.
    In the morning he remembered his curiosity. He said to Lueli: “What god had you before I came and taught you to know the true God?”
    â€œI’ll show him to you,” said Lueli; and running into the bushes he presently returned with an idol about two foot long.
    Mr. Fortune looked at the idol very seriously, almost respectfully, as though he were measuring swords with an adversary. It was a rather well-looking idol, made of wood and nicely polished, and he was pleased to note that it was not obscene; but for all that a slight shudder ran through his flesh, such as one feels on looking at a dead snake even though one knows that it is a dead one.
    â€œDrop it,” he commanded, and the boy laid it down on the grass between them. Mr. Fortune remembered the words of a female missionary from China who had visited St. Fabien on a tour. “The first thing I make my converts do,” she had said, and as she spoke she clenched her hands till the knuckles showed up as bones, “is to destroy their idols. Then I can feel sure of them. And not till then.”
    Talking over her lecture afterwards Mr. Fortune had been of the opinion of the majority: that the lady missionary had been right. “I don’t agree at all,” said his friend, Henry Merton. “We teach that idols are the works of men’s hands, things of wood and stone. To insist on their destruction is to show our converts that we believe in them ourselves, that we look on them with anxiety and attribute power to them. No, no, it is silly to take any idol so seriously!” And Mr. Fortune, who was humble before others, thought that after all he had judged too hastily and that his friend was in the right of it.
    Soon after that Henry Merton had died, and the words of the dead have a special value. Mr. Fortune remembered his friend’s opinion, but he also remembered the female missionary. She had spoken with an air of authority; and for all he knew she might be dead too, she might even be a martyr. He stood and looked at Lueli’s idol which lay on the grass between them and he wondered if he should tell Lueli to burn it. At last, without saying anything, he walked into the hut. When he came out again Lueli was scouring a wooden bowl with sand and the idol was gone.
    One of the Archdeacon’s first questions about the convert of Fanua was: Had Mr. Fortune dressed him properly? And Mr. Fortune had replied with perfect candour that he had been too busy caring for his soul to think of his clothing. This too the Archdeacon had objected to, saying that dress made a great difference, and that when the other islanders saw Lueli dressed befittingly they would become aware of their nakedness and wish to be converted and wear white raiment.
    â€œBut they have seen me, I have never omitted to dress myself since I have lived on Fanua.”
    â€œNo, no, of course not,” answered the Archdeacon, a little testily, for really the missionary’s simplicity was making him very argumentative and tiresome. “But that is not to the point, for you surely don’t suppose that they look on you as one of themselves. You must clothe that