I didn’t see much of the Canon, though I heard many of his wonder-working sermons. He had the gift of the gab as few parsons do. But I came much under the influence of one of his curates, who was named Gervase Knopwood.

Father Knopwood, as he liked us to call him, had an extraordinary way with boys, though on the face of it this seemed unlikely. He was an Englishman with an almost farcically upper-class accent and long front teeth and an appearance of being an elderly schoolboy. He wasn’t old; probably he was in his early forties, but his hair was almost white and he had deep furrows in his face. He wasn’t a joker or a jolly good fellow, and he played no games, though he was tough enough to have been a missionary in the Canadian West in some very difficult territory. But everybody respected him, and everybody feared him in a special way, for his standards were high, he expected the best from boys, and he had some ideas that to me were original.

For one thing, he didn’t pay the usual lip-service to Art, which enjoyed more than sacred status in the kind of society in which we lived. I discovered this one day when I was talking to him in one of the rooms at the back of the church where we met for the Servers’ Guild and Confirmation classes and that sort of thing. There was a picture on the wall, a perfectly hideous thing in vivid colours, of a Boy Scout looking the very picture of boyish virtue, and behind him stood the figure of Christ with His hand on the Scout’s shoulder. I was making great game of it for the benefit of some other boys when I became aware that Father Knopwood was standing at a little distance, listening carefully.

“You don’t think much of it, Davey?”

“Well, Father, could anybody think much of it? I mean, look at the way it’s drawn, and the raw colours. And the sentimentality!”

“Tell us about the sentimentality.”

“Well—it’s obvious. I mean, Our Lord standing with His hand on the fellow’s shoulder, and everything.”

“I seem to have missed something you have seen. Why is it sentimental to suggest that Christ stands near to anyone, whether it is a boy, or a girl, or an old man, or anyone at all?”

“That’s not sentimental, of course. But it’s the way it’s done. I mean, the concept is so crude.”

“Must a concept be sophisticated to be a good one?”

“Well—surely?”

“Must the workmanship always be superior? If something is to be said, must it always be said with eloquence and taste?”

“That’s what they teach us in the Art Club. I mean, if it’s not well done it’s no good, is it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been able to make up my mind. A lot of modern artists are impatient of technical skill. It’s one of the great puzzles. Why don’t you come and see me after the meeting, and we’ll talk about it and see what we can find out.”