Now it was not the habit of Canon Collingwood or his wife to linger over the pleasures of the table, but they were discussing a subject which had probably been discussed at thirty or forty other tables that evening, namely, the advent17 of Jeannie and Arthur to Wroxton.
“I don’t feel certain that she will be helpful,” said Mrs. Collingwood; “to me she seemed not in earnest. There was no depth about her.”
And she put a hard piece of gingerbread into her rather wide mouth.
Canon Collingwood stroked his beard for a moment in silence.
“She is young,” he said, doubtfully.
“One can never be too young to be in earnest,” said his wife. “And I did not like[51] the look of the drawing-room. There were several books on the table which I should never allow in my house, and there was an organ in the hall.”
Canon Collingwood had been married many years, but even now his wife occasionally puzzled him.
“Why not, my dear?” he said.
“Because an organ should only be used for sacred music,” said Mrs. Collingwood, “and I have no doubt that they use it for other pieces. Indeed, I saw some opera of Wagner’s standing18 open on it.”
“Did you call there to-day?” he asked.
“Yes, I paid a long call there. I tried to interest Miss Avesham in various things, but I had to begin at the beginning. She did not even know what G. F. S. meant. It is very strange how unreal life must be to some people.”
“Is not their aunt staying with them?”
Mrs. Collingwood could not reply for a moment, for the gingerbread was very hard.
“Yes, she is living with them for the present,” she said. “I am bound to say that Miss Fortescue baffled me. I could make[52] nothing whatever out of her. She seemed to me at first most keenly interested in the prevention of cruelty to animals, but when I spoke19 of the prevention of cruelty to children—much more important, of course—she did not seem to pay the slightest attention. And later, when we were speaking of household matters, she urged Miss Avesham to see that the mulberries from their tree in the garden were picked for making mulberry gin. She asked me if I did not think it was delicious.”
“She could not know how you felt about such matters,” said the Canon, apologetically.
“I should have thought that gin was not a subject usually mentioned,” said Mrs. Collingwood. “No one can be ignorant of how terrible a curse it is to so many households.”
Canon Collingwood sighed.
“I met Miss Avesham a day or two ago at the Lindsays’,” he said. “She seemed to me a nice, pleasant girl, and very full of life.”
Mrs. Collingwood folded her napkin up in silence. Her husband’s remark seemed to her fatuous20. Either a person was earnest and helpful or not. Any other quality, particu[53]larly that very dangerous quality known as “life,” was only trimming, and a possible temptation. Earnestness and helpfulness were to be rated by the desire to aid in good works. But as she rose she made a great concession21.
“If you mean energy by life, William,” she said, “I agree with you that it is admirable as an instrument if properly used. You have not said grace.”
To do her justice, Mrs. Collingwood’s time was spent in good works, and her thoughts (when not thus occupied) in passing judgments23 on other people. Her favourite text, the text by which her life was conducted, was, “Ye cannot serve God and mammon.” In her youth she must have been remarkably24 handsome, but she had got over that, which was lucky, since she now tended to consider that good looks, if not actually the invention of the evil one, were an open door by which he entered, bringing with him pride, vanity, and self-esteem. Like alcohol and tobacco, she regarded them as almost more than dangerous, as something in themselves not right. But with what might be[54] hastily considered as inconsistent, she thought it her duty to admire the beauties of nature when not exhibited in human beings. The green of forest trees, the level lines of the sunset, the Gothic architecture, particularly when seen from a Cathedral close, and thus, as it were, chastely25 framed, she thought were meant to lead one’s aspirations26 heavenward. These things (the trees and light, at any rate) had been at the Creation pronounced good, and that was enough for Mrs. Collingwood, who, if she could pin a text on to any conclusion, put it away in a drawer as proved. Her drawers were full of such. Similarly, man had fallen, and his face was the face of a fallen thing.
Thus this evening, when she and her husband left the dining-room, and he retired27 to his study to finish his sermon for the next day, she stood a full minute at the open window of the drawing-room looking at the view. Then she sat down at her davenport to finish writing a paper on the Downward Tendency of Modern Fiction, which she was to read at a meeting of the Wroxton Ladies’ Literary union next week. She proposed to[55] deal more particularly with novels which discuss theological problems, and were so upsetting to the faith of the weaker, for what is known as the Higher Criticism seemed to Mrs. Collingwood to be synonymous with the temptation of the devil. But she was a just woman, and one of her sentences began, “What a very clever book we all feel this to be, but how immoral!” Mrs. Collingwood found literary composition presented no difficulties, and she looked upon it, provided the motive28 of it was earnest and helpful, as an agreeable relaxation29. Her style was conversational30, and there was a good deal of “dear friends” in it.
The view on which she so resolutely31 turned her back in order to give this timely warning to the literary ladies of Wroxton against theological, or rather infidel, novels, justified32 her minute’s contemplation. The lawn, a cool, restful space of sober green, sloped down to a prattling33 tributary34 of the chalk stream which ran through the town, and in the dusk the flower-beds (the Canon’s hobby was gardening) glowed with subdued35 and darkening colour. The scent2 of the tobacco[56]-plant (like Adam and Eve, still in its garden innocence) came floating in through the window, dominating all other perfumes. Thrushes still called to each other from the bushes, or crossed the lawn with quick, scudding36 steps, and an owl37 floated by with a flute-like note. To the right rose the gray piled mass of the Cathedral in all the dignity and sobriety of Norman work, set there, it might seem, like the rainbow, a pledge to the benignity38 of the circling seasons, serene39 and steadfast40 with centuries of service. From here, too, for the drawing-room was on the second floor, it was possible to see over the bounding garden-wall, and westward41 the river lay in sheets and pools of cloud-reflected crimson42. Patches of light mist lay like clothes to dry over the water-meadows through which it ran, but beyond the great chalk down lay clear and naked. The sky at the horizon was cloudless, and the evening star hung like a jewel on blue velvet43. Peaceful, protected stability was the keynote of the scene.
Canon Collingwood had been at Wroxton for twenty mildly useful but not glorious[57] years. From the years between the ages of twenty and forty he had lived entirely44 at Cambridge as Fellow and subsequently classical tutor of his college. The effect, if not the object, of his life had been uneventfulness, and twenty years of looking over pieces of Latin verse and prose had been succeeded by twenty years of busy indolence as Canon of Wroxton. To keep one’s hands and heart moderately clean in this random45 business of life is a sufficient task for the most of mankind, and if Canon Collingwood had not experienced the braver joys of adventure, or even the rapture46 of mere47 living, it is not to be assumed that his life was useless. He set an admirable pattern of unruffled serenity48 and complete inoffensiveness, and though he could never set the smallest stream on fire, his passage through the world was bordered with content. At Wroxton, apart from the merely animal needs of sleep and exercise, his time was fairly equally divided between hardy49 annuals and an extensive though not profound study of patristic literature. Eight times in the year he delivered a sermon from the Cathedral pulpit, and never failed to give[58] careful preparation to it. In the summer he and his wife always spent a month at the lakes, but otherwise they seldom slept a night outside their own house. He got up every morning at half past seven, and breakfasted at a quarter past eight. He attended Cathedral service at ten, and read or wrote in his study till a quarter past one. Three-quarters of an hour brought him to lunch-time, and a walk along one of three roads or two hours among his flowers prepared him for tea. His dinner he earned by two hours’ more reading, and his rest at night was the natural sequel to this wholesomely50 spent day, rounded off by three-quarters of an hour’s Patience in the drawing-room, or, if the game proved very exciting, it sometimes extended to a full hour.
Mrs. Collingwood, as has been stated, was somewhat given to passing judgment22 on other people, but these judgments were never of a gossipy or malicious51 nature, and she judged without being in any way critical. Her judgments were straightforward52 decisions, of the jury rather than the judge, as to whether the prisoner at the bar was guilty[59] or not guilty. To be not guilty, it need hardly be indicated, meant to be earnest and helpful. Now, whether she could, with her hand on her heart, say that her husband was earnest or helpful is doubtful, but no decision was necessary, and for this reason: Though he took no part in her good works, nor even organized Christian53 associations, he was a Canon. To be a Canon implied to live in a close, and to live in a close (if we run Mrs. Collingwood to ground) meant to be not guilty. Furthermore, in what we may call her more Bohemian moments, she would have acknowledged that life could be looked at from more than one point of view. She would even have allowed that it might be possible to live otherwise than she lived, and yet be saved at the last. Yet some people had been known to think her narrow!
Mrs. Collingwood, it must be considered, was not ill content with living. Her aims were too definite, and her devotion to them too complete to allow her to indulge in any vague dissatisfactions. She could lament14 the wickedness of the world, yet find the antidote54 for the sorrow the thought had caused in[60] efforts to remedy it. Further, in the sphere of inevitable55 and intimate things, she and her husband had perhaps only one weak spot, so to speak, in the armour56 in which they met the world. She, at any rate, went armed like a dragoon through the routine of life, armed against danger and difficulty and snares57 of the evil one. But this weak spot was in a vital place. She had a son, now some twenty-five years old, who did not live in a close, or anywhere near one. He was an artist—not a landscape painter, for Mrs. Collingwood could have borne that—but a painter of men and women, a recorder of human beauty. That he was rising and successful in his profession was no consolation58 to his mother, but rather the reverse, and she had before now hesitated whether the text, “I also have seen the wicked in great prosperity,” was not to be pinned to him, for that he was essentially sober and straight in his life she could scarcely believe. He seldom came to Wroxton, for his profession, at which he worked very hard, naturally kept him in London, but he was going to spend a week or two with them in September, after their return from the lakes,[61] and she always found his visits trying. In the first place, it was quite certain that, though he did not smoke in the house out of deference59 to his mother’s abhorrence60 of the act, he did smoke in the garden; and in the second, though he never alluded61 to wine at lunch or dinner, a half-empty bottle of whisky had been found in his bed-room after he had gone. It often seemed cruel to Mrs. Collingwood that she should have had such a son, and in her own mind she was disposed to regard him as but a dubious62 gift, partaking more of the nature of a cross than of a crown.
Jeannie Avesham that afternoon had spoken of him to his mother, saying that, though she did not know him personally, he had been at Oxford63 with her brother, and the mention of those Oxford days had roused terrible memories in the mind of Mrs. Collingwood, and made her attack on modern fiction bitter and incisive64. For he had gone to Oxford with the object of reading theology, and eventually of taking orders, but a day came when he wrote to his father saying he could not do so. He wanted to talk it all[62] over with him, but he feared his decision was irrevocable.
Now it is scarcely an exaggeration to say that his mother would sooner have seen him in his coffin65 than that he should have written such a letter. It was a complete break-up of her hopes. Her world, hard and narrow as it might be, was all the world she had, and it was overturned. The last straw had been added when he decided66 to become an artist, and on that occasion she had said to her husband, and had meant it, “He will go to the devil.”
Time, of course, had done something to heal the wound, and in the five years which had passed since then Mrs. Collingwood had in a way grown used to it. But she was naturally rigid67 and incapable68 of adapting herself, for any change meant a change in her principles. She prayed for him with her accustomed fervour, but as long as he did not give up his profession she was forced to believe that her prayers, if answered, were answered in a way beyond her comprehension.
By half past nine she had finished her warning against infidel novels, and her hus[63]band had finished his sermon for the next day. He read prayers in the dining-room, and afterward69 they went up together to the drawing-room again, and he played Patience till half past ten. The town was already settling itself to sleep, and only a faint hum of living came in through the windows. They talked for a few minutes on indifferent subjects, and by eleven the house was dark.
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1
congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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6
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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7
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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8
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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9
fermented
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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12
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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15
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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17
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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18
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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19
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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20
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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21
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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22
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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23
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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chastely
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| adv.贞洁地，清高地，纯正地 | |
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26
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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32
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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prattling
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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39
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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41
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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42
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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43
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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44
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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45
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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46
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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47
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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48
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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49
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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50
wholesomely
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| 卫生地，有益健康地 | |
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51
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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52
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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53
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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54
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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55
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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56
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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57
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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58
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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59
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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60
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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61
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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63
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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64
incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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66
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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67
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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68
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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69
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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