AS the child is nurtured1 in the world’s wisdom by the inconsistencies of its elders, so the dreamer is constrained2 by the baser instincts of humanity to recognize the ineffectualness of his own visions. The harp3 and the lyric4 strain suffice not for the strenuous5 life. Rather is the strong man’s song the song of the Norseman of old, the cry of the heart unto whom battle is glorious. The gilded6 harness and the flashing sword, these pertain7 to the spiritual vikings of history, giants renewing the world, causing evil to quake at the white gleam of their sails.
The man Gabriel had been wakened once again from dreams. He was no longer the transcendental lover, blind to the physical philosophy of the sage8 in the street. Yesterday earth had been to him a primitive9 Eden where no sin lurked10 in the glory of the opening year. All this was changed as with the stroke of a wand. Purgatory11 had displaced paradise. Where quiet valleys had stood bright with sunlight the man saw a deep abyss steeped in gloom. There the satyr ran squealing12 after his prey13. Thence came the hot roar of the bacchanal, the canting of the hypocrite, the whine14 of the miser15 scrambling16 for blood-stained gold. The din17 that rose from the pit was as the hoarse18 discords19 of a great city. The breath of it ascended20 like heavy smoke from some smouldering Sodom.
The revulsion was all the more forceful for its severe and savage21 suddenness. It was enough for Gabriel to realize that he had sinned against that code of expediency22 that governs in large measure all social relationships. Empyrean sentiments appeared nebulous and flimsy beside the granite23 orthodoxy of the bourgeois24 world. It was of little solid advantage to turn from men to a higher judge for comfort and to fling a declaration of innocence25 in the face of illimitable ether. What though his thoughts were as white as the wing feathers of seraphs, these same thoughts would be trampled26 in the mire27 before the world would deign28 to surrender a verdict. It was the inevitable29 and mundane30 conclusion to which the man was brought in the argument. The social laws were based largely on physical considerations. Hence those who attempted to move in a higher sphere under the guidance of a more spiritual morality were doomed31 to misunderstanding and to speedy condemnation32.
The result of this mental storm was that Gabriel found himself hounded back from the open day into the more populous33 thickets34 of discretion35. Expediency compelled him to contradict in action his newly conceived creed36, to abandon his progressive banner at the first brush with the past. Like a revolutionary leader backed by a myriad37 fine notions and a hundred peasants armed with rusty38 carbines, he found himself impotent before the massed armaments of social orthodoxy. He was muzzled39 and disarmed40 by a single consideration, the consideration of a woman’s honor. The world’s verdict and his own idealism were scaled one against the other. Had self only been in the balance the dial might have indicated the weightier worth of truth. As it was, he had too much heart to play a Roman r?le. The times were jointed41 up too fast for him to break them by the sacrifice of a woman’s name.
The truth was bitter to the man, but the cup had to be emptied none the less. He experienced a species of revengeful fear when he realized how the girl’s name might be tossed upon the tongues of the numberless most Christian42 ladies of the neighborhood. Impotent, he had watched his dream-world rush into an abyss. He had come near exposing the one woman in the world to the cultured ribaldry of a provincial43 society and the gibes44 of her sister women. It was, therefore, a conviction with him, born half of despair, that Joan’s life and his must diverge45, never to meet again.
The man pitied himself most devoutly46, for he was one of those sensitive beings who can make of misery47 a crown of thorns. Like a woman who had lost her lover, he hoarded48 his sorrow in his heart, treasuring it with a species of desperate exultation49. He was even proud when he could not sleep and when his whole being sickened at the sight of food. There was a Promethean splendor50 in such torture, an immolation51 of the soul on the pyre of self-sacrifice.
To tell Joan Gildersedge the truth, that was the task forced upon the man by his own conscience, a task embittered52 by her innocence of heart. He began to despise himself vindictively53 for having brought so passionate54 and impotent a theme into the girl’s life. His very idealism had been ill-judged egotism, a selfish thirst quenchless55 and perilous56 to others. He knew in his heart that he was of more worth to Joan Gildersedge than any animate58 creature upon earth. Yet it was fated that he should disclose to her eyes the baser chicaneries59 of life—to tell her, in truth, that he had come near compromising her honor!
The memory of that day of confessions60 never surrendered its vividness to the touch of time. Gabriel had started early in the first flush of morning, bent62 on “nature studies,” as he would have had his neighbors believe. The earth was marvellously still, drowned in sunlight, an idyllic63 landscape such as would have glimmered64 from Da Vinci’s brain. The woods and hills seemed set in amber65 with a silver mist drawn66 like a gossamer67 veil over the green. Not a wind stirred. The sea was an uncut emerald; the sky a hollow sapphire68 touched with snow.
Howsoever, the man lagged upon the hills, moody69 and dejected. Of old he would have sped like a Greek youth through Arcady, but his heart was heavy that morning and the gods of the wilderness70 were mute and sad. Only the beauty of earth rose to him in mockery, the beauty of a gorgeous courtesan with a head of gold, scorning the visionary whose senses smelled of heaven. Anon the Burnt House trees stood before him in the streaming light, warm-bosomed and silent. Under the tiled roof the roses were already red upon the walls; the lilac and laburnum had fallen in the garden and the fruit trees had shed their bridal robes. Even the iron gate had a more dismal71 tone that morning as the man turned it back upon its rusty hinges. He walked up the drive slowly, half-hearted as a prodigal72. He would have given much to have had other words under his tongue.
Joan Gildersedge was at the window of her room, a broad lattice under the tiles. She had been sitting in the shadow, with her hands idle in her lap, turning the pages of thought musingly73. Gabriel saw her start up and wave to him from an aureole of jasmine and of roses. He stood before the porch and waited for the heavy door to open, feeling as though he held a naked poniard traitorously74 behind his back.
The girl came out to him with a calm, quick joy that made him start for breath. Her face was white, her hair coifed loosely, and there were shadows under her eyes. To Gabriel she had never seemed more beautiful as she stood before him in the sun.
“I am glad, I am glad,” she said.
“You are ill?”
“No, not ill, only tired.”
There was an unconscious spasm75 of joy in her voice, an uprising of gladness in her manner, that made Gabriel sick at heart. He divined what had been passing under that red-tiled roof, and that love was like the dawn to one weary of watching through the night. She hungered for such sympathy as she had often given to him in days of darkness and unrest. He knew himself suddenly for a broken reed, an empty chalice76, a physician who could wound but could not heal.
“Take me into the garden,” he said; “is it your father?”
“Yes.”
“What can I say to you?”
“You understand; that is enough,” she answered. “He has had one of his evil times. How the hours have haunted me! I was longing77 for you, and like an echo you have answered me.”
They passed together towards the garden where the trimmed yews78 grew beside the tall acacia. The green cupolas were crowned with gold; the grass was a deep mist shot through with purple. Like rubies79 were the roses set upon enamelled screens of green.
Joan sat down on the rough seat under the yews. Her face with all its luminous80 spirituality remembered to Gabriel, Rossetti’s “Beata Beatrix,” womanhood glorified81 by pure loveliness of soul.
“Here is peace,” she said, with lids half closed, “sunlight and shadow mingled82. Sit you down in the grass, Gabriel, and talk to me.”
The man hesitated, then obeyed her. His lips were mute for the moment, his courage cold.
Possibly her sensitive woman’s instinct like a mirror caught the gloom of the man’s mood. As she sat under the yews she opened her eyes wide and looked at him searchingly with that tender vigilance that was like the love-watch of an angel. No sunlight shone on Gabriel’s face, and his eyes were full of shadows.
He glanced up at her suddenly, the restless, wistful look of one in pain. Nor would his eyes abide83 hers; they were furtive84, even sullen85.
“Well, dear,” she said, again.
He plucked at the grass, but did not smile as was his wont86.
“What is it, Gabriel?”
There was no fear in her voice, only a deep, strong tone of tenderness that made the man more miserable87 still.
“I have something to say to you,” was his retort.
“Your wife—”
“No, not of her.”
“Then?”
“It is of ourselves, and therefore the sadder.”
He sprang up suddenly and began to move up and down before her, like one who would rouse his courage and deaden the consciousness of pain. Joan watched him, half bemused, her fingers opening and closing upon the rough woodwork of the seat. The mood was not new to her; she remembered with what an intonation88 he had spoken to her nigh a year ago beside the ruined altar on the hills.
“Joan!”
“Yes, Gabriel.”
“I have been an utter fool. Oh, my God, how can I ask your pardon!”
She sat and gazed at him as in a kind of stupor90, the sunlight pouring through upon her face and making it wondrous91 white in the shadows.
“What is it, Gabriel?” she said.
“Like a blind fool I have been leading you to the edge of a cliff.”
“I do not understand you, dear.”
He stopped before her with a great gesture of despair and the morose92 look of a man denouncing his own crime. He spoke89 hurriedly, as though eager to end the confession61, and as though each word he spoke would wound.
“Understand that it was wrong of me to have come into your life again. I have been a dreamer, and have forgotten that the world is a mass of malice93 and of falsehood. Like a fool I have brought peril57 into your life. Now I am learning, for your sake, to fear the world.”
She started up suddenly, and came towards him very white and piteous. He had never seen fear on her face before.
“Gabriel!”
“God help me, dear; if I had only realized—”
“What is this horror?”
“Men begin to speak evil of us.”
“Evil of us?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible!”
“Too possible, thanks to my madness.”
“But we have done nothing!”
“Nothing. It is the world’s charity, the business of brutes94 to conceive evil.”
She stood motionless a moment and then started towards him with a sudden outburst of despair.
“Tell me the worst, Gabriel.”
“Thank God, the worst is not the worst in that sense.”
“Ah!”
“It is not too late; I am wise in time. It is we who must suffer, in our hearts, not in our names. Would to God I had not been such a fool as to make you love me.”
“Ah! say not that.”
“Can I forgive my manhood this?”
She grew calm quite suddenly, and went back to the seat under the yews, like a woman who recovers gradually her sanity95 of soul. She was silent awhile, looking into the long grass with wide, luminous eyes that seemed to search and compass the future. It was her ordeal96 of fire; like the true woman she was, she emerged scathless.
“Gabriel,” she said, presently.
He came two steps nearer, looking in her face as one who seeks inspiration.
“I understand you now. It was all so sudden and terrible; forgive me for seeming desperate.”
“Joan!”
She spoke very quietly, still looking at the grass.
“Promise me one thing,” she said.
“Tell it to me.”
“You will not grieve for my sake.”
He took a deep breath and hung his head.
“Promise me this,” she said, speaking more quickly—“ah! promise it me, for I would not change the past—no, not for my hope of heaven. It has taught me much—ah! how much you can never know. It has taught me the glory of being a woman. I can only bless you for it, my dearest, my dear—”
He stood before her, awed97 by a wonder that solemnized his whole being. He would have worshipped her save that his own shame forbade him. Only those who have beheld98 it can declare, the incomprehensible heroism99 of the love of a good woman.
“You shame me greatly,” was all he said.
Joan rose up suddenly and came very near to him.
“Gabriel, I honor you.”
“Honor me!”
“Have you not put your own heart under your feet?”
“And yours!”
Joy had kindled100 on her face. She was happy—nay, exultant101 in her rapture102 of self-negation.
“Have I not sworn to you,” she said, “that I would not have had it otherwise? This has been my great awakening103. Can you not understand, dear, that it is even something to live for a memory? I am content to be brave, not only for our sake, but for hers.”
“The woman I married?”
“Your wife; she must never know of this; I have always remembered her honor. And I have held your heart, Gabriel; have I not?”
“Who else?”
“We can triumph over the world, even by our renunciation.”
A gradual melancholy104 descended105 upon the hearts of both. Over the trees the sky was a golden canopy106; the grass stood a deep mist about the foxgloves’ purple towers. There were no tears in the eyes of heaven. Only the sun came streaming through the trees.
“It is better thus,” said the miser’s daughter, “for there will be no shadow between us—no reproach.”
“If I am ever a man,” he answered her, “you will have re-created me.”
“I will trust in your future.”
“Trust me, that I may trust myself.”
She came even nearer and stood very close to him, looking in his face. Her lips were parted, and there was such light in her eyes that she looked like one transfigured.
“Kiss me, Gabriel, but once.”
“Joan!”
“But once, the only time, and forever.”
“I should but wound you deeper.”
“No, no, on my lips—that I may remember it. Is it so great a thing to ask?”
Her hands went to his shoulders and he kissed her, holding her very close to him so that he felt the deep inrush of her breath. She lay in his arms a moment, looking in his face like one to whom death might seem sweet.
“Forgive me all this,” he said.
“Gabriel, what should I forgive?”
“My folly107 and my many weaknesses.”
“You are strong now; let me go; I cannot bear it further.”
She freed herself gently and stood aside from him, looking like a saint who had suffered and yet triumphed. When he had gone from her she sat down under the yews with the sunlight playing on her hair and her face white as ivory under the boughs108. She remained motionless as some fair poem wrought109 in stone; only her eyes were alive with an infinite anguish110 that seemed to challenge heaven.
It was Gabriel, the man, not Joan Gildersedge, who wept that day as he went stumbling through the woods towards his home. Was this, then, the fate of his idealism, the rough breaking of a woman’s heart?
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1
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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pertain
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| v.(to)附属，从属；关于；有关；适合，相称 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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15
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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discords
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| 不和（discord的复数形式） | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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muzzled
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| 给（狗等）戴口套( muzzle的过去式和过去分词 )； 使缄默，钳制…言论 | |
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40
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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41
jointed
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| 有接缝的 | |
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42
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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gibes
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| vi.嘲笑，嘲弄（gibe的第三人称单数形式） | |
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45
diverge
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| v.分叉，分歧，离题，使...岔开，使转向 | |
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46
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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47
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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48
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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50
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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51
immolation
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| n.牺牲品 | |
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52
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
vindictively
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| adv.恶毒地；报复地 | |
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54
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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55
quenchless
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| 不可熄灭的 | |
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56
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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57
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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58
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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59
chicaneries
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| n.耍花招哄骗别人（尤指于法律事务中）( chicanery的名词复数 )；不诚实的行为；欺骗 | |
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60
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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61
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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62
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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63
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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64
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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66
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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67
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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68
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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69
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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70
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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traitorously
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| 叛逆地，不忠地 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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83
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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84
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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89
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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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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100
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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103
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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107
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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108
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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