Husbandman’ is the word; for, if not wholly adequate, as one word could hardly be, it does, better than any other, express man’s status and function in the universe, and especially in the visible universe, so that its immediate concrete sense and the analogies to which it gives rise are verified essentially and verified to the full. Whatever is verified essentially of mankind is verified in Adam, the head of this family, and in Christ in whom this headship is restored. We should beware of any kind of mere generalisation—even the generalisation, ‘All men are sinners,’ is made at a level quite different from that of such an essential judgment —and emphatically we must not be understood to mean ‘in fact men are most commonly tillers of the soil’. Man has the cosmic function of husbandman whether this last statement is verified or not. But then it follows that our meaning is deeper than the level of fact and of generalisations of fact.

We should note that the whole of the sub-human creation is ordained in and through man in the cosmic unity. The sub-human world is not fully a world and not fully a cosmos by itself. From it may be drawn suggestions of unity but not really a unity of its own. In man as part (head) of the visible creation, the visible world has a unity of which man is the guarantee and ‘sacrament’ (in the same sense in which it may be said the Pope is ‘sacrament’ of the Church’s unity).

Colombes is a working-class district on the outskirts of Paris with a population of about 23,000. For the last five years it has been the scene of an experiment whose importance can scarcely be exaggerated, and the latest volume of Rencontres) is a detailed account of the work of the Abb6 Michonneau and the group of priests who are engaged in evangelizing a parish in which practising Catholics number scarcely five per cent, of the population. It would be impertinent to praise a document whose whole purpose is to make available to priests everywhere the fruits of day-to-day experience of the hardest apostolate of all. Much of the detail in these five hundred pages has special reference to conditions in France, but the methods described—and above all the spirit they manifest—are of the liveliest relevance for all priests at work in a pagan world.

‘The proletariat is pagan. Not because it doesn’t “practise,” but because its mentality is pagan, wholly alien to the Christian spirit, indifferent to the teaching we offer, careless of the demands of the moral standards we proclaim.’ At once, then, it is necessary to distinguish between the Christian parish, where the Church is still recognized for what she is, and the missionary parish in a pagan environment. ‘Our methods must be revised if not totally changed.’ As Cardinal Suhard has remarked, ‘We must free ourselves from every sort of narrow traditionalism and adapt ourselves to present needs.’ Hence, ‘since 95 per cent, of the Church’s children don’t come to her, 95 per cent, of the Church’s concern and activity must be directed towards them. And not only by groanings and optimistic hopes, but in reality.’

What, then, is the ‘parish’? Is it the faithful few or the apostate many? ‘The life of my parish is the life of everybody who lives in it.

We all know Tommy Atkins. In two wars he has become symbolic of the British soldier. We know what he thinks, how he will react to most events, and his general likes and dislikes. He has been hailed as ‘Britain’s best ambassador’. In foreign countries his demeanour has been one of kindly tolerance, cheerfulness, and some degree of self-effacement. All in all, these things have built themselves into a reasonably understandable character.

What of Ivan Ivanovitch, ‘Tommy Atkins’ of the Red Army? There are three million of his kind in occupied Europe, stretching from the Balkans to the Arctic, and from the Russian frontier to Central Germany. Can we define a general character for Ivan Ivanovitch, whose role is such a significant part of the international play being performed in Europe today?

I have known a hundred Ivans. I have seen him in this aftermath of war. I have seen the results of his handiwork. But my knowledge-is coloured by the difference between the Oriental and the Occidental minds. This barrier is a constant difficulty, necessitating a re-examination of every event. For instance, there was the Red Army soldier who deprived an Austrian of his wireless set, then, as he was leaving, dug his free hand beneath his tunic, brought forth a jade ornament and thrust it at the Austrian, saying: ‘A present for me from Hungary. I give it to you for this present’ (pointing to wireless set). The interest of the situation lies in the word, ‘present’. Was the expression meant humorously, as you and I might have said it? Or did the Red Army soldier interpret finding as keeping? Closer acquaintance with Ivan shows that it is legal for the Red Army soldier to possess what he finds, as long as the article is not required by the State. Hence, there was no humour or veiled sarcasm in the soldier’s remark to the Austrian.

The strategy of a world war has imposed a new ‘grand tour’ upon our generation. Via the African desert, the Appenines, or the beaches of Normandy, we travelled to the Rhine; and then, sweating in crowded transports, bound for India, Burma, Malaya or Japan, we gasped across the Persian Gulf to call, usually, at Ceylon. Here, at the commercial port of Colombo or in the great natural harbour of Trincomalee, the Navy massed its White Ensigns for what proved to be an unnecessary invasion of Malaya; and here in the months that succeeded the atom bomb we waited impatiently to come home.

For Jack ashore, Ceylon offered ebony elephants and sapphire engagement rings; noodles and birds’ nests in a Chinese café; and a ride in a rickshaw, with an almost naked coolie pulling you through the streets, and making you feel, half-guiltily and half-excitedly, like a Roman emperor. But there was little beer and no girls. We were soon bored, and longed for Tyneside, the Gorbals, or the New Cut.

Looking back, one remembers the constant sunshine, the flamboyant trees flowering their vivid petals down the quiet avenues of English bungalows, the blare of oriental music from arrack taverns, and the indescribable stench of the little native streets. And one tries to write down a description of Ceylon that will mean something in England.

When one became expert, one learnt to differentiate between two kinds of natives. There were the Sinhalese, who wear cotton skirts called sarongs, have narrow faces and prominent teeth, and are the original inhabitants of the island. Englishmen tend to complain that they are fundamentally lazy and have no sense of business; they do not share the prestige of martial races like the Sikhs or Gurkhas, and when the Japanese raided Colombo—very lightly by London standards—aimcrat the entire native population fled from the city and wouldn’t come back for a week; this was considered to prove that they had no ‘guts.’