‘This is Addison’s Walk, Miss Oswald,’ said Berkeley, taking her through the gate into the wooded path beside the Cherwell; ‘so called because the ingenious Mr. Addison is said to have specially6 patronised it. As he was an undergraduate of this college, and a singularly lazy person, it’s very probable that he really did so; every other undergraduate certainly does, for it’s the nearest walk an idle man can get without ever taking the trouble to go outside the grounds of Magdalen.’
‘The ingenious Mr. Addison was quite right then,’ Edie answered, smiling; ‘for he couldn’t have chosen a lovelier place on earth to stroll in. How exquisite7 it looks just now, with the mellow8 light falling down upon the path through this beautiful autumnal foliage9! It’s just a natural cathedral aisle10, with a lot of pale straw-coloured glass in the painted windows, like that splendid one we went to see the other day at Merton Chapel11.’
‘Yes, there are certainly tones in that window I never saw in any other,’ Berkeley said, ‘and the walk to-day is very much the same in its delicate colouring. You’re fond of colour, I should think, Miss Oswald, from what you say.’
‘Oh, nobody could help being struck by the autumn colouring of the Thames valley, I should fancy,’ said Edie, blushing. ‘We noticed it all the way up as we came in the train from Reading, a perfect glow of crimson12 and orange at Pangbourne, Goring13, Mapledurham, and Nuneham. I always thought the Dart14 in October the loveliest blaze of warm reds and yellows I had ever seen anywhere in nature, but the Thames valley beats it hollow, as Harry says. This walk to-day is just one’s ideal picture of Milton’s Vallombrosa.’
‘Ah, yes, I always look forward to the first days of October term,’ said Berkeley, slowly, ‘as one of the greatest and purest treats in the whole round workaday twelvemonth. When the creeper on the Founder’s Tower first begins to redden and crimson in the autumn, I could sit all day long by my open window, and just look at that glorious sight alone instead of having my dinner. But I’m very fond of these walks in full summer time too. I often stop up alone all through the long (being tied to my curacy here permanently15, you know), and then I have the run of the place entirely16 to myself. Sometimes I take my flute17 out, and sit under the shade here and compose some of my little pieces.’
‘I can easily understand that they were composed here,’ said Edie quickly. ‘They’ve caught exactly the flavour of the place—especially your exquisite little Penseroso.’
‘Ah, you know my music, then, Miss Oswald?’
‘Oh yes, Harry always brings me home all your pieces whenever he comes back at the end of term. I can play every one of them without the notes. But the Penseroso is my special favourite.’
‘It’s mine, too. I’m so glad you like it. But I’m working away at a little thing now which you shall hear as soon as I’ve finished it; something lighter18 and daintier than anything else I’ve ever attempted. I shall call it the Butterfly Canzonet.’
‘Why don’t you publish your music under your own name, Mr. Berkeley?’
‘Oh, because it would never do. I’m a parson now, and I must keep up the dignity of the cloth by fighting shy of any aesthetic19 heterodoxies. It would be professional suicide for me to be suspected of artistic20 leanings. All very well in an archdeacon, you know, to cultivate his tastes for chants and anthems21, but for a simple curate!—and secular22 songs too!—why, it would be sheer contumacy. His chances of a living would shrink at once to what your brother would call a vanishing quantity.’
‘Well, you can’t imagine how much I admire your songs and airs, Mr. Berkeley. I was so pleased when you invited us, to think I was going to lunch with a real composer. There’s no music I love so much as yours.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it, Miss Oswald, I assure you. But I’m only a beginner and a trifler yet. Some day I mean to produce something that will be worth listening to. Only, do you remember what some French novelist once said?—“A poet’s sweetest poem is always the one he has never been able to compose.” I often think that’s true of music, too. Away up in the higher stories of one’s brain somewhere, there’s a tune23 floating about, or rather a whole oratorio24 full of them, that one can never catch and fix upon ruled paper. The idea’s there, such a beautiful and vague idea, so familiar to one, but so utterly25 unrealisable on any known instrument—a sort of musical Ariel, flitting before one and tantalising one for ever, but never allowing one to come up with it and see its real features. I’m always dissatisfied with what I’ve actually written, and longing26 to crystallise into a score the imaginary airs I can never catch. Except in this last piece of mine; that’s the only thing I’ve ever done that thoroughly27 and completely pleases me. Come and see me next week, and I’ll play it over to you.’
They walked all round the meadows, and back again beside the arches of the beautiful bridge, and then returned to Berkeley’s rooms once more for a cup of afternoon tea, and an air or two of Berkeley’s own composing. Edie enjoyed the walk and the talk immensely; she enjoyed the music even more. In a way, it was all so new to her. For though she had always seen much of Harry, and though Harry, who was the kindest and proudest of brothers, had always instinctively28 kept her up to his own level of thought and conversation, still, she wasn’t used to seeing so many intelligent and educated young men together, and the novelty of their society was delightfully29 exhilarating to her eager little mind. To a bright girl of nineteen, wherever she may come from, the atmosphere of Oxford30 has a wonderfully cheering and stimulating31 effect; to a country tradesman’s daughter from a tiny west-country village it is like a little paradise on earth with a ceaseless round of intensely enjoyable breakfasts, luncheons32, dinners, and water-parties.
Ernest, for his part, was not so well pleased. He wanted to have a little conversation with Oswald’s sister; and he was compelled by politeness to give her up in favour of Arthur Berkeley. However, he made up for it when he returned, and monopolised the pretty little visitor himself for almost the entire tea-hour.
As soon as they had gone, Arthur Berkeley sported his oak, and sat down by himself in his comfortable crimson-covered basket chair. ‘I won’t let anybody come and disturb me this evening,’ he said to himself moodily33. ‘I won’t let any of these noisy Magdalen men come with their racket and riot to cut off the memory of that bright little dream. No desecration34 after she has gone. Little Miss Butterfly! What a pretty, airy, dainty, delicate little morsel35 it is! How she flits, and sips36, and natters about every possible subject, just touching38 the tip of it so gracefully39 with her tiny white fingers, and blushing so unfeignedly when she thinks she’s paid you a compliment, or you’ve paid her one. How she blushed when she said she liked my music! How she blushed when I said she had a splendid ear for minute discrimination! Somehow, if I were a falling-in-love sort of fellow, I half fancy I could manage to fall in love with her on the spot. Or rather, if I were a good analytical40 psychologist, perhaps I ought more correctly to say I AM in love with her already.’
He sat down idly at the piano and played a few bars softly to himself—a beautiful, airy sort of melody, as it shaped itself vaguely41 in his head at the moment, with a little of the new wine of first love running like a trill through the midst of its fast-flowing quavers and dainty undulations. ‘That will do,’ he said to himself approvingly. ‘That will do very well; that’s little Miss Butterfly. Here she flits, flits, flits, flickers44, sip37, sip, sip, at her honeyed flowers; twirl away, whirl away, off in the sunshine—there you go, Miss Butterfly, eddying45 and circling with your painted mate. Flirt46, flirt, flirt, coquetting and curvetting, in your pretty rhythmical47 a?rial quadrille. Down again, down to the hare-bell on the hill side; sip at it, sip at it, sip at it, sweet little honey-drops, clear little honey-drops, bright little honey-drops; oh, for a song to be set to the melody! Tra-la-la, tro-lo-lo, up again, Butterfly. Little silk handkerchief, little lace neckerchief, fluttering, fluttering! Feathery wings of her, bright little eyes of her, flit, flit, flicker43! Now, she blushes, blushes, blushes; deep crimson; oh, what a colour! Paint it, painter! Now she speaks. Oh, what laughter! Silvery, silvery, treble, treble, treble; trill away, trill away, silvery treble. Musical, beautiful; beautiful, musical; little Miss Butterfly—fly—fly—fly away!’ And he brought his fingers down upon the gamut48 at last, with a hasty, flickering49 touch that seemed really as delicate as Edie’s own.
‘I can never get words for it in English,’ he said again, half speaking with his parted lips; ‘it’s too dactylic in rhythm for English verse to go to it. Béranger might have written a lilt for it, as far as mere50 syllables51 go, but Béranger to write about Miss Butterfly!—pho, no Frenchman could possibly catch it. Swinburne could fit the metres, I dare say, but he couldn’t fit the feeling. It shall be a song without words, unless I write some Italian lines for it myself. Animula, blandula vagula—that’s the sort of ring for it, but Latin’s mostly too heavy. Io, Hymen, Hymenae, Io; Io, Hymen, Hymenae! What’s that? A wedding song of Catullus—absit omen42. I must be in love with her indeed.’ He got up from the piano, and paced quickly and feverishly52 up and down the room.
‘And yet,’ he went on, ‘if only I weren’t bound down so by this unprofitable trade of parson! A curate on eighty pounds a year, and a few pupils! The presumptuousness53 of the man in venturing to think of falling in love, as if he were actually one of the beneficed clergy54! What are deacons coming to, I wonder! And yet, hath not a deacon eyes; hath not a deacon hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? If you prick55 us, do we not bleed? If you tickle56 us, do we not laugh? And if you show us a little Miss Butterfly, beautiful to the finger-ends, do we not fall in love with her at least as unaffectedly as if we were canons residentiary or rural deans? Fancy little Miss Butterfly a rural deaness! the notion’s too ridiculous. Fly away, little Miss Butterfly; fly away, sweet little frolicsome57, laughsome creature. I won’t try to tie you down to a man in a black clerical coat with a very distant hypothetical reversionary prospect58 of a dull and dingy59 country parsonage. Flit elsewhere, little Miss Butterfly, flit elsewhere, and find yourself a gayer, gaudier-coloured mate!’
He sat down again, and strummed a few more bars of his half-composed, half-extemporised melody. Then he leant back on the music-stool, and said gently to himself once more: ‘Still, if it were possible, how happy I should try to make her! Bright little Miss Butterfly, I would try never to let a cold cloud pass chillily over your sunshiny head! I would live for you, and work for you, and write songs for your sake, all full of you, you, you, and so all full of life and grace and thrilling music. What’s my life good for, to me or to the world? “A clergyman’s life is such a useful one,” that amiable60 old conventionality gurgled out this morning; what’s the good of mine, as it stands now, to its owner or to anybody else, I should like to know, except the dear old Progenitor61? A mere bit of cracked blue china, a fanciful air from a comic opera, masquerading in black and white as a piece of sacred music! What good am I to anyone on earth but the Progenitor (God bless him!), and when he’s gone, dear old fellow, what on earth shall I have left to live for. A selfish blank, that’s all. But with HER, ah, how different! With her to live for and to cherish, with an object to set before oneself as worth one’s consideration, what mightn’t I do at last? Make her happy—after all, that’s the great thing. Make her fond of my music, that music that floats and evades me now, but would harden into scores as if by magic with her to help one to spell it out—I know it would, at last, I know it would. Ah, well, perhaps some day I may be able; perhaps some day the dream will realise itself; till then, work, work, work; let me try to work towards making it possible, a living or a livelihood62, no matter which. But not a breath of it to you meanwhile, Miss Butterfly; flit about freely and joyously63 while you may; I would not spoil your untrammelled flight for worlds by trying to tether it too soon around the fixed64 centre of my own poor doubtful diaconal destinies.’
At the same moment while Arthur Berkeley was thus garrulously65 conversing66 with his heated fancy, Harry and Edie Oswald were strolling lazily down the High, to Edie’s lodgings67.
‘Well, what do you think now of Berkeley and Le Breton, Edie?’ asked her brother. ‘Which of them do you like the best?’
‘I like them both immensely, Harry; I really can’t choose between them. When Mr. Berkeley plays, he almost makes me fall in love with him; and when Mr. Le Breton talks, he almost makes me transfer my affections to him instead... But Mr. Berkeley plays divinely... And Mr. Le Breton talks beautifully... You know, I’ve never seen such clever men before—except you, of course, Harry dear, for you’re cleverer and nicer than anybody. Oh, do let me look at those lovely silks over there?’ And she danced across the road before he could answer her, like a tripping sylph in a painter’s dreamland.
‘Mr. Le Breton’s very nice,’ she went on, after she had duly examined and classified the silks, ‘but I don’t exactly understand what it is he’s got on his conscience.’
‘Nothing whatsoever68, except the fact of his own existence,’ Harry answered with a laugh. ‘He has conscientious69 scruples70 against the existence of idle people in the community—do-nothings and eat-alls—and therefore he has conscientious scruples against himself for not immediately committing suicide. I believe, if he did exactly what he thought was abstractly right, he’d go away and cut his own throat incontinently for an unprofitable, unproductive, useless citizen.’
‘Oh, dear, I hope he’ll do nothing of the sort,’ cried Edie hastily. ‘I think I shall really ask him not to for my sake, if not for anybody else’s.’
‘He’d be very much flattered indeed by your interposition on his behalf, no doubt, Popsy; but I’m afraid it wouldn’t produce much effect upon his ultimate decision.’
‘Tell me, Harry, is Mr. Berkeley High Church?’
‘Oh dear no, I shouldn’t say so. I don’t suppose he ever gave the subject a single moment’s consideration.’
‘But St. Fredegond’s is very High Church, I’m told.’
‘Ah, yes; but Berkeley’s curate of St. Fredegond’s, not in virtue71 of his theology—I never heard he’d got any to speak of—but in virtue of his musical talents. He went into the Church, I suppose, on purely72 aesthetic grounds. He liked a musical service, and it seemed natural to him to take part in one, just as it seemed natural to a mediaeval Italian with artistic tendencies to paint Madonnas and St. Sebastians. There’s nothing more in his clerical coat than that, I fancy, Edie. He probably never thought twice about it on theological grounds.’
‘Oh, but that’s very wrong of him, Harry. I don’t mean having no particular theological beliefs, of course; one expects that nowadays; but going into the Church without them.’
‘Well, you see, Edie, you mustn’t judge Berkeley in quite the same way as you’d judge other people. In his mind, the aesthetic side is always uppermost; the logical side is comparatively in abeyance73. Questions of creed74, questions of philosophical75 belief, questions of science don’t interest him at all; he looks at all of them from the point of view of the impression alone. What he sees in the Church is not a body of dogmas, like the High Churchmen, nor a set of opinions, like the Low Churchmen, but a close corporation of educated and cultivated gentlemen, charged with the duty of caring for a number of beautiful mediaeval architectural monuments, and of carrying on a set of grand and impressive musical or oral services. To him, a cathedral is a magnificent historical heritage; a sermon is a sort of ingenious literary exercise; and a hymn76 is a capital vehicle for very solemn emotional music. That’s all; and we can hardly blame him for not seeing these things as we should see them.’
‘Well, Harry, I don’t know. I like them both immensely. Mr. Berkeley’s very nice, but perhaps I like Mr. Le Breton the best of the two.’
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1
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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proprietary
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| n.所有权，所有的；独占的；业主 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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goring
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| v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破( gore的现在分词 ) | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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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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anthems
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| n.赞美诗( anthem的名词复数 )；圣歌；赞歌；颂歌 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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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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oratorio
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| n.神剧，宗教剧，清唱剧 | |
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utterly
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longing
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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luncheons
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| n.午餐，午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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desecration
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| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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sips
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| n.小口喝，一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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flickers
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| 电影制片业； （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的名词复数 ) | |
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eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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rhythmical
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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presumptuousness
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| n.自以为是，专横，冒失 | |
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54
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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55
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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56
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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57
frolicsome
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| adj.嬉戏的，闹着玩的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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progenitor
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| n.祖先，先驱 | |
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62
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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64
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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65
garrulously
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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69
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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70
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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71
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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72
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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73
abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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