It wasn't just his loss but the shocking nature of it, and the anger it set off, that was such a boon to our work up there. All the years of good he had done, all the troubled and hungry he'd offered succor and a second chance, all the desperate families he'd helped, all the hope he'd revived and the grace he'd shared ... all that was obscured for at least a day by the way he died. Good work, Wormwood, or rather bad work. I can think of no greater compliment.
These mortals forget. They may be so taken with the major's loss and the circumstances surrounding it that they forget all the good Philip Wise did in his 40 years. His was a life all should celebrate and be thankful for. Instead, it was the fleeting shadow of evil that captured the headlines for a day. Damnable fine job, Wormwood. I'm proud of you. This is the kind of bad news our demonic fraternity thrives on, not the Good News the major spread. His sort of news just makes my tail curl.
The news about the major's death has spread through the whole state and will make us more cynics than we could ever hope to attract by just irony and wit, a couple of our favorite instruments. Of course those have to be handled with caution. For the other side has its wits, too, and they're blessedly clever. (All the works of G.K. Chesterton should have been banned long ago; instead, we've found a far more effective way to handle him: Just ignore his books.)
This time, Wormwood, old boy, you've pulled off a real coup. You're a credit to all deviltry, and next time you get leave, we must have a cup of fire and brimstone to celebrate. We'll put it on your tab, naturally, at Lucifer's Inn, which never closes.
Here's the problem, nephew. And it hasn't changed a bit since we were both imps. Weeping and wailing may tarry for the night, but joy cometh in the morning. Did you see what the widow Wise, also a Salvation Army major, had to say at the funeral? "I believe I have peace today," she told the mourners, "because I know the work is not done here yet." She said she'd continue to give "hope to the hopeless ... so, together, we will minister to this neighborhood."
These people are dangerous, Wormwood; they never tire of doing good. They are strong as lions, swifter than eagles to do His work, even when we deliver the most crushing of blows. It is at such moments that they show their real strength. Bowed low, they rise up higher than ever. We face a formidable foe, Wormwood, and sometimes I despair -- which is the mood we must inculcate in our victims. They must come to believe resistance is useless.
Instead, someone like Cindy Wise offers unkillable hope and even forgiveness: "I know that deep down I have to forgive them," she said of the killers, "for taking my husband away from me, and that's the way it has to be done -- to forgive them and continue to pray for their salvation."
What's a poor devil to do when faced with that kind of spirit, that kind of faith and determination? Just continue to do what you've been doing, dear Wormwood -- plant doubt, sow cynicism, and surely we will be rewarded with more bad news, the kind that needs to be spread far and wide, accompanied by cries for blood and vengeance. Or even used to make political points. That would be a real boon for our hellish cause.
Burn this letter, Wormwood, lest our confidences be leaked. It's maddening the way some C. S. Lewis type is always sharing my correspondence with the curious. The mortals must never be given an inkling of what we have in store for them in exchange for their pitiable souls; they must be kept ignorant of even having souls.
Your affectionate uncle,
Screwtape