It is, perhaps, needless to observe that he was alone. No one ever walked with the Provincial. No footstep ever crushed the gravel6 in harmony with his gliding7 tread. Perhaps, indeed, no one had ever walked with him thus, in the twilight8, since a fairy, dancing form had moved in the shadow of his tall person, and footsteps lighter9 than his own had vainly endeavoured to keep time with his longer limbs. But that was in no monastery garden; and the useful, vegetable producing enclosure bore little resemblance to the chateau10 terrace. In those days it may be that there was a gleam of life in the man's deep, velvety11 eyes—perhaps, indeed, a moustache adorned12 the short, twisted lip where the white fingers rasped so frequently now.
The pious13 monks15 were busy with their evening meal, and the Provincial was quite alone in the garden. All around him the leaves glowed ruddily in the warm light. Everywhere the fruits of earth were ripe and full with mature beauty; but the solitary16 walker noted17 none of these. He paced backwards18 and forwards with downcast eyes, turning slowly and indifferently as if it mattered little where he walked. The merry blackbirds in the hay field adjoining the garden called to each other continuously, and from a hidden rookery came the voice of the dusky settlers, which is, perhaps, the saddest sound in all nature's harmonies. But the Jesuit resolutely19 refused to listen. Once, however, he stopped and stood motionless for some seconds, with his head turned slightly to meet the distant cry; but he never raised his eyes, which were deep and lifeless in their gaze. It may be that there was a rookery near that southern chateau, where he once had walked in the solemn evening hour, or perhaps he did not hear that sound at all though his ear was turned towards it.
It would be hard indeed to read from the priest's still features the thoughts that might be passing through his powerful brain; but the strange influence of his being was such as makes itself felt without any spoken word. As he walked there with his long hands clasped behind his back, his peculiarly shaped head bent22 slightly forward, and his perfect lips closely pressed, no one could have looked at him without feeling instinctively23 that no ordinary mind was busy beneath the tiny tonsure—that no ordinary soul breathed there for weal or woe24, seeking after higher things in the right way or the wrong. The man's cultivated repose25 of manner, his evident intellectuality, and his subtle strength of purpose visible in every glance of his eyes, betrayed that although his life might be passed in the calm retreat of a monastery, his soul was not there. The man was never created to pass his existence in prayerful meditation26; his mission was one of strife27 and contention28 amidst the strong minds of the age. One felt that he was living in this quiet Breton valley for a purpose; that from this peaceful spot he was dexterously29 handling wires that caused puppets—aye, puppets with golden crowns—to dance, and smirk30, and bow in the farthest corners of the earth.
Presently the Jesuit heard footsteps upon the gravel at the far side of the garden, but he did not raise his head. His interest in the trivial incidents of everyday life appeared to be quite dead.
“Softly, softly!” said a deep, rough voice, which the Provincial recognised as that of the sub-prior; then he raised his eyes slightly and looked across the garden, without, however, altering his pace.
He saw there Christian31 Vellacott walking by the side of the hard-faced old monk14 with long, hesitating strides, like a man who had forgotten how to use his legs. It was exactly six weeks since the young journalist had passed through that garden with René Drucquer, and those weeks had been to him a strange and not unpleasant dream. It seemed as if the man lying upon that little bed was in no way connected with the wiry, energetic Christian Vellacott of old. As he lay there semi-somnolent and lazily comfortable from sheer weakness, his interest in life was of a speculative32 description, as if he looked on things from afar off. Nothing seemed to matter much. There was an all-pervading sense of restful indifference33 as to whether it might be night or day, morning, noon, or evening. All responsibility in existence seemed to have left him: his ready pride of self-dependence had given way to a gentle obedience34, and the passage from wakefulness to sleep was very sweet.
Through all those dreamy hours he heard the soft rustle35 of woollen garments and the suppressed shuffle36 of sandalled feet. Whenever he opened his heavy eyes he discerned vaguely37 in the dim light a grey, still form seated upon the plain wooden bench at his bedside. Whenever he tried to change his position upon the hard bed and his weary bones refused their function, strong, hard hands were slipped beneath him and kind assistance freely given. As a rule, it was the tall sub-prior who ministered to the sick man, fighting the dread38 fever with all his simple knowledge; his hands smoothed oftenest the tossed pillow; but many clean-shaven, strong, and weary faces were bowed over the bed during those six weeks, for there was a competition for the post of sick-nurse. The monks loved to feel that they were performing some tangible39 good, and not spending their hours over make-believe tasks like a man-of-warsman in fine weather.
One frequent visitor, however, Christian Vellacott never saw beneath his lazy lashes40. The Provincial never entered that little cell unless he was positively41 informed that its inmate42 was asleep. The inscrutable Jesuit seemed almost to be ashamed of the anxiety that he undoubtedly43 felt respecting the sick man thus thrown upon his hands by a peculiar21 chain of incidents. He spoke20 coldly and sarcastically44 to the sub-prior whenever he condescended45 to mention the subject at all; but no day passed in which he failed to pay at least one visit to the little cell at the end of the long, silent corridor.
“Softly, softly!” said the old sub-prior, holding out his bony hand to stay his companion's progress, “you are too ambitious, my son.”
Christian laughed in a low, weak voice, and raised his head to look round him. The laugh ceased suddenly as he caught sight of the Provincial, and across the potato-bed the two strong men looked speculatively46 into each other's eyes in the peaceful twilight. The Jesuit's gaze fell first, and with a dignified47 bow he moved gently away.
“I am stronger than I look, my father,” said Christian, turning to his companion. Then they walked slowly on, and presently rested upon a wooden bench built against the monastery wall.
The young Englishman leaned back and watched the Provincial, who was pacing backwards and forwards where they had first seen him. The old monk sat with clasped hands, and gravely contemplated48 the gravel beneath his feet. Thus they waited together within the high, whitewashed49 walls, while the light faded from the western sky. Three types, as strangely contrasted as the student of human kind could wish to see: the old monk with his placid50 bloodless face and strong useless arms—a wasted energy, a mere51 monument to mistaken zeal52; and the younger men so widely severed53 by social circumstances, and yet resembling each other somewhat in heart and soul. Each had a strong individuality—each a great and far-reaching vitality54. Each was, in his way, a power in the world, as all strong minds are; for in face of what may be said (and with apparent justice) respecting chance and mere good fortune, good men must come to the top among their fellows. They must—and most assuredly they do. As in olden days the doughtiest knights55 sought each other in the battlefield to measure steel, so in these later times the ruling intellects of the day meet and clear a circle round them. The Provincial was a power in the Society of Jesus; perhaps he was destined56 one day to be General of it; and Christian Vellacott had suddenly appeared upon the field of politic57 strife, heralding58 his arrival with two most deadly blows dealt in masterly succession. From the first they were sure to come together, sooner or later; and now, when they were separated by nothing more formidable than a bed of potatoes, they were glancing askance and longing59 to be at each other. But it could not be. Had the sub-prior left the garden it would have made no difference. It was morally impossible that those two men could speak what they were thinking, for one of them was a Jesuit.
The Provincial, however, made the first move, and the Englishman often wondered in later days what his intention might have been. He walked on to the northern end of the garden, where a few thick-stemmed pear trees were trained against the wall. The fruit was hanging in profusion60, for it was not consumed in the monastery but given to the poor at harvest-time. The Provincial selected a brown, ripe pear, and broke it delicately from the tree without allowing his fingers to come in contact with the fruit itself. Then he turned and walked with the same lazy precision towards the two other occupants of the garden. At his approach the sub-prior rose from his seat and stood motionless with clasped hands; there was a faint suggestion of antagonism62 in his attitude, which was quite devoid63 of servility. Christian, however, remained seated, raising his keen grey eyes to the Provincial's face with a quiet self-assertion which the Jesuit ignored.
“I am glad, Monsieur, to see you restored to health,” he said coldly to Christian, meeting his gaze for a moment.
The Englishman bowed very slightly, and there was a peculiar expressiveness64 in the action which betrayed his foreign education, but the cool silence with which he waited for the Provincial to speak again was essentially65 British. The Jesuit moved and glanced slowly beneath his lowered eyelids66 towards the motionless figure of the sub-prior. He was too highly bred to allow himself to be betrayed into any sign of embarrassment67, and too clever to let the Englishman see that he was hesitating. After a momentary68 pause he turned gravely to the sub-prior, and said:
Then, without awaiting a reply, he presented the pear to Vellacott. It was a strange action, and no doubt there was some deep intention in it. The Jesuit must have known, however, from René Drucquer's report, and from his own observations, that Christian Vellacott was of too firm a mould to allow his feelings to be influenced by a petty action of this description, however sincere and conciliatory might have been the spirit in which it was conceived. Perhaps he read the Englishman's character totally wrong, although his experience of men must have been very great; or perhaps he really wished to conciliate him, and took this first step with the graceful70 delicacy71 of his nation, with a view to following it up.
With a conventional word of thanks, Vellacott took the pear and set it down upon the bench at his side. Whatever the Jesuit's intention might have been, it was frustrated72 by his quiet action. It would have been so easy to have said a few words of praise regarding the fruit, and it was only natural to have begun eating it at once; but Vellacott read a deeper meaning in all this, and he chose a more difficult course. It was assuredly harder to keep silence then than to talk, and a weaker-minded man would have thanked the Provincial with effusion. The manner in which Vellacott laid the fruit upon the bench, his quiet and deliberate silence, conveyed unmistakably and intentionally73 that the Provincial's society was as unwelcome as it was unnecessary. There was nothing to be done but take the hint; and in the lowering twilight the solitary, miserable74 man moved reluctantly away. With contemplative hardness of heart the Englishman watched him go; there was no feeling of triumph in his soul—neither, however, was there pity. The Jesuit had chosen his own path, he had reached his goal, and that most terrible thirst—the thirst for power—was nearly slaked75. If at times—at the end of a long day of hard mental work, when men's hearts are softened76 by weariness and lowering peace—he desired something else than power, some little touch of human sympathy perhaps, his was the blame if no heart responded to his own. Christian Vellacott sat and wondered dreamily, with the nonchalance77 of a man who has been at the very gates of death, if power were worth this purchase-money.
The sub-prior had seated himself again, and with his strong hands meekly78 clasped he waited. He knew that something was passing which he could not understand: his dull instincts told him vaguely that between these two strong men there was war-fare, dumb, sullen79, and merciless; but unused as he was to the ways of men, unlearned in the intricacies of human thoughts, he could not read more.
“You have not told me yet, my father,” said Vellacott, “how long I have been ill.”
“Six weeks, my son,” replied the taciturn monk.
“And it was very bad?”
“Yes, very bad.”
Christian slowly rubbed his thin hands together. His fingers were moist and singularly white, with a bleached80 appearance about the knuckles81. His face was thin, but not emaciated82, his long jaw83 and somewhat pronounced chin were not more bony than of old, but the expression of his mouth was quite changed; his lips were no longer thrust upward with a determined84 curve, and a smile seemed nearer at hand.
“I have a faint recollection of being very tenderly nursed and cared for; generally by you, I think. No doubt you saved my life.”
The sub-prior moved a little, and drew in his feet.
“The matter was not in my hands,” he said quietly.
“Did you ever think that ... I was not ... going back to England?” he asked presently, in a lighter tone, though the thought of returning home brought no smile to his face.
The sub-prior did not reply at once. He appeared to be thinking deeply, for he leaned forward in an unmonastic attitude with his knees apart, his elbows resting upon them, and his hands clasped. He gazed across the prosaic86 potato-bed with his colourless lips slightly apart.
“One night,” he began meditatively87, “I went to sit with you after the bell for matins had been rung. From midnight till three o'clock you never moved. Then I gave you some cordial, and as I stooped over you the candle flickered88 a little; there were strange shadows upon your face, but around your lips there was a deeper shade. I had seen it once before, on my brother's face when he lay upon the hard Paris pavement with a bullet in his lungs, and his breath whistling through the orifice as the wind whistles round our walls in winter. I held the candle closer to your face, and as I did so, a hand came over my shoulder and took it from my fingers. The Father Provincial had come to help me. He said no word, but set the candle down upon the bed, and I held you up while he administered the cordial drop by drop, as a man oils a cartwheel.”
“Ah!” said Christian slowly and suggestively, “he was there!”
The monk made no reply. He sat motionless, with a calm, acquired silence, which might have meant much or nothing.
“Did he come often?” inquired the Englishman.
“Very often.”
“I never saw him.”
“When daylight came at last,” he said, “the shadow had left your lips. I think that night was the worst; it was then that you were nearer ... nearer than at any other time.”
Christian Vellacott was strong enough now to take his usual interest in outward things. With the writer's instinct he went through the world looking round him, always studying men and things, watching, listening, and storing up experience. The Provincial interested him greatly, but he did not dare to show his curiosity; he hesitated to penetrate90 the darkness that surrounded the man's life, past, present, and future. In a minor91 degree the taciturn sub-prior arrested his attention. The old monk was in a communicative humour, and the Englishman led him on a little without thinking much about the fairness of it.
“Did your brother die?” he asked sympathetically.
“He died,” was the reply. “Yes, my son, he died—died cursing the tyrant's bullet in his lungs. He threw away his life in a vain attempt to alter human nature, to set straight that which is crooked92 and cannot be set straight. He sought to bring about at once that which cometh not until the lion shall eat straw like an ox. See, my son, that you do not attempt the same.”
“I think,” said Christian, after a pause, “that we all try a little, and perhaps some day a great accumulation of little efforts will take place. You, my father, have tried as well!”
The monk slowly shook his head, without, however, any great display of conviction.
It was nearly dark now. The birds were silent, and only the whispering of the crisp, withering94 leaves broke the solemn hush95 of eventide. The two men sat side by side without speaking. They had learnt to know each other fairly well during the last weeks—so well that between them silence was entirely96 restful. At length Christian moved restlessly. He had reached that stage of convalescence97 where a position becomes irksome after a short time. It was merely a sign of returning strength.
“He left us some time ago,” was the guarded reply.
“He spoke of going abroad,” said Christian, deliberately99 ignoring the sub-prior's tone.
“The Father Provincial told me that the Abbé had gone abroad—to India—to spread there the Holy Light to such as are still in darkness.”
The young journalist thought that he detected again a faint suggestion of antagonism in the sub-prior's voice. The manner in which the information was imparted was almost an insult to the Provincial. It was a repetition of his words, given in such a manner that had the speaker been a man of subtle tongue it would have implied grave doubt.
Christian was somewhat surprised that René Drucquer should have attained100 his object so quickly. He never suspected that he himself might have had much to do with it, that it had been deemed expedient101 to remove the young priest beyond the possible reach of his influence, because he was quite unconscious of this influence. He did not know that its power had affected102 René Drucquer, and that some reflection of it had even touched the self-contained Provincial—that it was even now making this old sub-prior talk more openly than was prudent103 or wise. He happened to be taking the question from a very different point of view.
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1
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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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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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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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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10
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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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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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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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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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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41
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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45
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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46
speculatively
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| adv.思考地，思索地；投机地 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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48
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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49
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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51
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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52
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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53
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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54
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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55
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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56
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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58
heralding
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| v.预示( herald的现在分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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59
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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61
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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expressiveness
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| n.富有表现力 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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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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slaked
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| v.满足( slake的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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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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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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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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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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