“Would it seem more hospitable7 if I didn’t go to Cathedral?” he asked. “Remember, I rank hospitality very high among the cardinal8 virtues9.”
“Be honest,” said Jack.
“Then perhaps I had better go to Cathedral,” he said. “But you might have made it easier for me to stop. Well, good-bye; I shall come out before the sermon.”
“I shall devote the time to silent meditation10,” said Jack. “Where shall I find cigarettes? I’ve run out.”
“In the smoking-room. But it’s distinctly bad manners to talk about cigarettes to a fellow on his way to church. Have a novel and an iced drink, too, won’t you? Don’t mind me.”
Arthur made his reluctant way across the lawn and disappeared. If Jack had been obliged to be perfectly11 honest too he would have had to confess that he bore the prospect12 of a solitary13 hour with perfect equanimity14. He had several things to think about, and he could do it best alone. In the first place, he[178] had received that morning a note from his mother asking him to tear up the letter she had written him, when he received it, unread. Also she would like to see him again before he left Wroxton. This note occupied Jack’s thoughts not a little. When Jeannie had broken in upon his meditations15 on the bridge the evening before he was doing his best not to draw conclusions, not to formulate16 in his own mind what his relations with his mother were. He had not known how their talk had moved her, and it was only natural that he should not. For Mrs. Collingwood’s deepest emotions were founded on the cardinal virtues, and the more she was moved the more passionately17 she felt and expressed horror of what was wrong, and to Jack, with his antipodal nature, this had appeared like hardness. He had wronged her, but his mistake was excusable. For with him, the more his emotions were touched the more human and indulgent he became—a dangerous development, no doubt, but, luckily for the kindliness18 of the world, a common one, and certainly one that is lovable if we are not too censoriously moral. That Frank should so have[179] failed to act up to the proper reasonable code made him feel the more tenderly toward him, though he regretted it. It was otherwise with his mother. A lapse19 of this kind blotted20 tenderness from her mind; had it happened to one she loved, the more complete would have been her horror. The attitude of neither mother nor son is ideal, but the resultant leaves nothing wanting.
This request, then, to tear up the letter unread seemed to him of good omen6. His mother, he knew, had felt strongly about this picture of Jeannie, and her letter would not have been pleasant reading. But he did her the justice not even to question whether it had not been written with the most utter obedience21 to her notion of duty. She was never unkind from carelessness or anger; or, rather, if she was unkind from anger, the anger was never of a brutish or selfish sort. Thus he hoped that their interview would develop her idea that the letter should be unread.
But this was not the sum of the task of meditation. More intricate even and more absorbing was the remainder. He assured[180] himself, and believed his own assurance, that he was not falling in love; but when a man has to tell himself that it is doubtful whether he is any longer a fit person to decide. That radiant presence he had first met on the plank22 bridge was no longer a subject for sketches24. She had stepped down (or up) from the platform of “subjects,” and had taken him by the hand. She had become, in fact, that ever agitating25 thing, a woman. Jack had been often agitated26 before, and took it as a doubtful boon27. He had never indulged in those maudlin28 sentiments which place our human emotions on a pedestal, as it were, in an otherwise empty room. To be married ideally did not, according to him, mean an ideal life, if all else was to be sacrificed for that; and the man who gave up the whole world for a woman he loved was as incomplete as a man who gave up the woman he loved for the whole world. Still less was love a plaything to him. If it was not all-absorbing, it was not therefore nothing more than a pleasant amusement. More hopeless still was the common case of men who seem to regard it as a mere29 amusement, and yet devote their whole[181] life to it. Never did extremes meet more deplorably.
The truth lay beyond and between all these things. Every man had his work to do in the world; Jack at any rate made no question about that. To certain men and women came a great gift, a gift no less than the completion of their nature by fusion30 with another. It did not come to all, and whether it came or not there remained the stubborn fact that one had still one’s work to do. It was no use saying that love is the greatest thing in the world, or that it is stronger than death. For so, if we look at it aright, is the steam-engine. It must not be supposed that these chill reflections were rehearsed in Jack’s mind as he sat under the mulberry-tree that morning. They are given here merely to show the outcome of his previous thoughts on the subject, that the reader may be enabled to realize the starting-point from which his meditations began racing31, the ground-colour of the piece on which perhaps the gold thread would be traced, the nature of the soil from which the mysterious seed would draw its nourishment32. In intellectual and artistic33 matters he was[182] vivid, quick, fastidious, but sympathetic and, above all, almost incapable34 of accepting a thing as proved unless he had practical experience of it. And just as he would have denied with his utmost cheerfulness the claim of Raphael to be a great painter, unless he so considered him after looking at his pictures, so he would take no ideal of love as his own because it had been the ideal of great and good men.
He got up from his chair and looked out over the shining garden. The quiet peacefulness of a Sunday morning was in the air; hardly a breath of wind swayed the tall single dahlias, and the heavy heads of the sunflowers drooped35. The great, quiet trees of the close, old but unaged, seemed a guarantee for the safety of the world, and the gray Cathedral numbered centuries to their decades. Yet, in spite of the suggestion of secure tranquility which the whole view offered, Jack felt excited and almost frightened.
“Who knows, who knows?” he said, half aloud. He paused a moment, and then walked forward, half laughing at himself.
“Falling in love is a common enough ex[183]perience,” he thought, “and it is not to be treated as a tragedy. But I cannot think of it as a comedy.”
Miss Fortescue, it appeared at lunch, had thought deeply on questions of ritual, or if she had not previously36 thought deeply, it apparently37 did not stand in the way of her speaking strongly. A reredos, it seemed, was a synonym38 for idolatry, and the absence of an extra candle on the altar was the only plank, so to speak, which saved the English Church from being immerged in the bottomless sea of Romanism. She proposed, as an experiment, to make an offer to the chapter that she would present to the Cathedral a small chapel39 in honour of St. Joseph, to be erected40 at her expense, if they would build a corresponding one to the Virgin41, and felt no doubt that the thanks and acquiescence42 of the Cathedral body would be accorded to her and her proposal. The ingenuity43 with which she twisted the arguments of the other side to tell in her favour was truly remarkable44, and when, at the end of a hot half-hour, she raised her eyes to the ceiling, she was not the only person present who was grateful for a[184] respite45. She had already reduced Jack to such confusion of mind that he had founded some theory on the seven veils of the Jewish sanctuary46, and though he had not the slightest idea what he was talking about, Miss Fortescue had, and convinced him out of his own mouth of being a friend to the detestable enormities of the Pope of Rome.
“You say you are going to see your mother at tea-time,” she said. “Very well, tell her what I have said.”
Jack was discreet47, but not provident48.
“I am sure she will agree with you,” he admitted, eagerly.
“In that case,” said Miss Fortescue, “it is her duty to use her influence with your father to get these things remedied.”
Jeannie laughed.
“Give it up, Mr. Collingwood,” she advised. “It’s no use. We always give it up when Aunt Em feels strongly at church on Sundays. You will, too, when you know her better.”
There were several people at tea when Jack came into his mother’s drawing-room, and when he entered he saw that they had[185] been talking on some point which concerned him, for there was a lull49 in the conversation, and yet every one looked interested and rather eager, which showed that the conversation had been suddenly broken off. Mrs. Vernon, the gushing50 wife of another canon, more distinguished51 for a vague ?sthetic loquacity52 than for tact53, appealed to him at once.
“We were talking about your picture of Miss Avesham,” she said. “I maintain—and do agree with me, Mr. Collingwood—that it is not the function of art to be photographic. You have seized, it is true, a moment (oh, such a dear, delicious moment!), but you have given us, have you not, what I called the story of the moment?”
Jack looked a little puzzled.
“I don’t quite understand,” he said.
“Oh, Mr. Collingwood, you are laughing at me!” she cried. (This was very unjust, and not appreciative54 of Jack’s gravity, which was creditable to him.) “You are laughing at me. You want me to involve myself. I mean that you could never have given us such a wonderful moment if you had not known the ancestry55, if I may say so, of it. You must[186] have studied Miss Avesham’s face till it was your own. To know and to show us exactly how she looked when that dear little puppy was shaking (In Danger, too—what a delightful56 title!)—you must have made a thousand sketches of her. For surely it is impossible to paint a portrait—a real portrait, I mean—without knowing the face and the character!”
Jack stirred his tea.
“Your theories are admirable, Mrs. Vernon,” he said, “and I agree with them entirely57. But I must confess that my portrait in this instance was a rank contradiction of them. Until the moment that I saw Miss Avesham standing58 as I represented her I never saw her before. And I finished the sketch23 before I ever saw her again. I can only say that I am luckier than I deserve in having done something which you are kind enough to consider as being like her.”
Something of the interest died out of Mrs. Vernon’s face, and it occurred to Jack for the moment that she had a theory at stake more interesting to her than her theory about the true method of painting portraits. He[187] flushed a little, and was annoyed at himself for doing so.
“I am afraid it may seem to you that I did a very rude thing,” he said; “but the facts are these: I was walking down by the river, about three weeks ago, and suddenly saw what I tried to paint. I had no idea that it was Miss Avesham, for, as I have told you, I had never seen her before. And without sufficiently59 considering, I confess, whether the girl, whoever she was, would see the picture, and whether if she did she would object to it, I painted it. I saw Miss Avesham again yesterday for the second time. I am staying with her brother and her for the Sunday.”
“I am sure she would be charmed and flattered at your picture,” said Mrs. Vernon.
“I don’t know about her being charmed and flattered,” said Jack. “But certainly she was very kind about it, considering what a liberty I had taken.”
“Rather what a compliment you had paid her,” exclaimed Mrs. Vernon, effusively60. “What a sweet girl she is! So simple and kindly61. You are staying there, are you not?”
“Yes, for the Sunday,” said Jack, with all[188] his teeth on edge. “I knew Arthur well at Oxford62.”
“And did Miss Avesham talk to you about the portrait?” continued Mrs. Vernon. “I am told she is so artistic.”
“Oh, yes, she spoke63 about it,” said Jack. “Indeed, it was a curious coincidence, for just as I arrived she was out in the garden, and again the puppy was shaking himself, having fallen into the fountain.”
Mrs. Vernon gave a titter of laughter, like a chromatic64 scale.
“There seems to be a fate in such things,” she exclaimed. “How exciting, and how romantic! Thank you, one more cup of this delicious tea.”
Before long the others left, and shortly after Canon Collingwood retired65 to the garden. Jack and his mother spoke of indifferent things till the tea-table was cleared; and after the servant had gone:
“I wanted to talk to you, Jack, before you went. You received my letter?”
“Yes, this morning. I tore it up, as you asked me to, without reading it.”
Mrs. Collingwood was silent a moment.[189]
“Thank you,” she said at length, simply. “My reason was this—I wrote hastily. I could not but think that Miss Avesham would consider your painting of that portrait as a great liberty. It appears she did not, and that you are excellent friends. So I was wrong about her attitude.”
Mrs. Collingwood took a chair closer to Jack.
“Jack, you were right in what you said yesterday,” she went on. “You and I are made very differently. We must accept it. I have been too much given to judging you, to disapproving66, and disapproval67 does no good. But you must not judge me either. You have your own life to live. You can not grasp my point of view, and if I am tempted68 to disapprove69 of you, I will be careful in the future not to do that, but to simply say that I do not understand.”
Jack looked up; his mother’s voice was trembling.
“Ah, my dear,” she went on, “in the Father’s house are many mansions70, and it is likely there are many mansions of His on earth. And if the windows of some look out[190] on to beautiful things and others on to austere71 surroundings, suffering perhaps, and sin, those in the different chambers72 must not judge each other. That is what I wanted to say to you. But I have to go on in my own way. We can only do what we think right. There, that is all. But tell me, what do you intend to do about this baby?”
“I shall have it to live with me, I think,” said Jack; “that is, unless something else turns up. Mother, you don’t know how you have touched me, and how glad you have made me that you have spoken, and how ashamed.”
“No, Jack, not ashamed,” she said. “But I had to talk to you about it. I have thought of nothing else since I saw you yesterday. You go back to-morrow, do you not?”
“Yes.”
“Then say good-bye to your father before you go. I must leave you; I have an evening class. Good-bye, my dear.”
She kissed him with a tenderness that was new to her, and left him.
But it is not in the nature of those who have lived in a groove73 lightly to get out of it.[191] Habit becomes nature, and to look permanently74 at one view would, no doubt, if continued for forty years, tend to make the observer believe that the world contained no other.
This was the case with Mrs. Collingwood. Her humanized interview with Jack had jolted76 her as a stone on the line may jolt75 a train for a moment without causing it to leave the metals. The direction in which it had been running, its speed, and its weight have all to be overcome, and with her long-continued convictions had given her great momentum77, and an address she delivered three days afterward78 at a Mothers’ union showed no speck79 of apostasy80.
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1
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fusion
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| n.溶化；熔解；熔化状态，熔和；熔接 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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synonym
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| n.同义词，换喻词 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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40
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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provident
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| adj.为将来做准备的，有先见之明的 | |
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49
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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50
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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51
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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52
loquacity
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| n.多话，饶舌 | |
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53
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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54
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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55
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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56
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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57
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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58
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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59
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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60
effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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61
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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62
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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63
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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64
chromatic
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| adj.色彩的，颜色的 | |
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65
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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66
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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68
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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69
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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70
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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71
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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72
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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73
groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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74
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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75
jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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76
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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78
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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79
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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80
apostasy
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| n.背教，脱党 | |
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