Had the Jesuits known the situation of this troubled heart, her inheritance of New England Puritanism would hardly have protected the poor girl from the pious4 strategy of those good fathers. Knowing, as they do, how to work each proper engine, it would have been ultimately impossible for Hilda to resist the attractions of a faith, which so marvellously adapts itself to every human need. Not, indeed, that it can satisfy the soul’s cravings, but, at least, it can sometimes help the soul towards a higher satisfaction than the faith contains within itself. It supplies a multitude of external forms, in which the spiritual may be clothed and manifested; it has many painted windows, as it were, through which the celestial5 sunshine, else disregarded, may make itself gloriously perceptible in visions of beauty and splendor6. There is no one want or weakness of human nature for which Catholicism will own itself without a remedy; cordials, certainly, it possesses in abundance, and sedatives7 in inexhaustible variety, and what may once have been genuine medicaments, though a little the worse for long keeping.
To do it justice, Catholicism is such a miracle of fitness for its own ends, many of which might seem to be admirable ones, that it is difficult to imagine it a contrivance of mere8 man. Its mighty9 machinery10 was forged and put together, not on middle earth, but either above or below. If there were but angels to work it, instead of the very different class of engineers who now manage its cranks and safety valves, the system would soon vindicate11 the dignity and holiness of its origin.
Hilda had heretofore made many pilgrimages among the churches of Rome, for the sake of wondering at their gorgeousness. Without a glimpse at these palaces of worship, it is impossible to imagine the magnificence of the religion that reared them. Many of them shine with burnished12 gold. They glow with pictures. Their walls, columns, and arches seem a quarry13 of precious stones, so beautiful and costly14 are the marbles with which they are inlaid. Their pavements are often a mosaic15, of rare workmanship. Around their lofty cornices hover16 flights of sculptured angels; and within the vault17 of the ceiling and the swelling18 interior of the dome19, there are frescos of such brilliancy, and wrought20 with so artful a perspective, that the sky, peopled with sainted forms, appears to be opened only a little way above the spectator. Then there are chapels21, opening from the side aisles24 and transepts, decorated by princes for their own burial places, and as shrines26 for their especial saints. In these, the splendor of the entire edifice27 is intensified28 and gathered to a focus. Unless words were gems30, that would flame with many-colored light upon the page, and throw thence a tremulous glimmer31 into the reader’s eyes, it were wain to attempt a description of a princely chapel22.
Restless with her trouble, Hilda now entered upon another pilgrimage among these altars and shrines. She climbed the hundred steps of the Ara Coeli; she trod the broad, silent nave32 of St. John Lateran; she stood in the Pantheon, under the round opening in the dome, through which the blue sunny sky still gazes down, as it used to gaze when there were Roman deities33 in the antique niches34. She went into every church that rose before her, but not now to wonder at its magnificence, when she hardly noticed more than if it had been the pine-built interior of a New England meeting-house.
She went—and it was a dangerous errand—to observe how closely and comfortingly the popish faith applied35 itself to all human occasions. It was impossible to doubt that multitudes of people found their spiritual advantage in it, who would find none at all in our own formless mode of worship; which, besides, so far as the sympathy of prayerful souls is concerned, can be enjoyed only at stated and too unfrequent periods. But here, whenever the hunger for divine nutriment came upon the soul, it could on the instant be appeased36. At one or another altar, the incense37 was forever ascending38; the mass always being performed, and carrying upward with it the devotion of such as had not words for their own prayer. And yet, if the worshipper had his individual petition to offer, his own heart-secret to whisper below his breath, there were divine auditors39 ever ready to receive it from his lips; and what encouraged him still more, these auditors had not always been divine, but kept, within their heavenly memories, the tender humility40 of a human experience. Now a saint in heaven, but once a man on earth.
Hilda saw peasants, citizens, soldiers, nobles, women with bare heads, ladies in their silks, entering the churches individually, kneeling for moments or for hours, and directing their inaudible devotions to the shrine25 of some saint of their own choice. In his hallowed person, they felt themselves possessed41 of an own friend in heaven. They were too humble42 to approach the Deity43 directly. Conscious of their unworthiness, they asked the mediation44 of their sympathizing patron, who, on the score of his ancient martyrdom, and after many ages of celestial life, might venture to talk with the Divine Presence, almost as friend with friend. Though dumb before its Judge, even despair could speak, and pour out the misery45 of its soul like water, to an advocate so wise to comprehend the case, and eloquent46 to plead it, and powerful to win pardon whatever were the guilt47. Hilda witnessed what she deemed to be an example of this species of confidence between a young man and his saint. He stood before a shrine, writhing48, wringing49 his hands, contorting his whole frame in an agony of remorseful50 recollection, but finally knelt down to weep and pray. If this youth had been a Protestant, he would have kept all that torture pent up in his heart, and let it burn there till it seared him into indifference51.
Often and long, Hilda lingered before the shrines and chapels of the Virgin52, and departed from them with reluctant steps. Here, perhaps, strange as it may seem, her delicate appreciation53 of art stood her in good stead, and lost Catholicism a convert. If the painter had represented Mary with a heavenly face, poor Hilda was now in the very mood to worship her, and adopt the faith in which she held so elevated a position. But she saw that it was merely the flattered portrait of an earthly beauty; the wife, at best, of the artist; or, it might be, a peasant girl of the Campagna, or some Roman princess, to whom he desired to pay his court. For love, or some even less justifiable54 motive55, the old painter had apotheosized these women; he thus gained for them, as far as his skill would go, not only the meed of immortality56, but the privilege of presiding over Christian58 altars, and of being worshipped with far holier fervors than while they dwelt on earth. Hilda’s fine sense of the fit and decorous could not be betrayed into kneeling at such a shrine.
She never found just the virgin mother whom she needed. Here it was an earthly mother, worshipping the earthly baby in her lap, as any and every mother does, from Eve’s time downward. In another picture, there was a dim sense, shown in the mother’s face, of some divine quality in the child. In a third, the artist seemed to have had a higher perception, and had striven hard to shadow out the Virgin’s joy at bringing the Saviour59 into the world, and her awe60 and love, inextricably mingled61, of the little form which she pressed against her bosom62. So far was good. But still, Hilda looked for something more; a face of celestial beauty, but human as well as heavenly, and with the shadow of past grief upon it; bright with immortal57 youth, yet matronly and motherly; and endowed with a queenly dignity, but infinitely63 tender, as the highest and deepest attribute of her divinity.
“Ah,” thought Hilda to herself, “why should not there be a woman to listen to the prayers of women? A mother in heaven for all motherless girls like me? In all God’s thought and care for us, can he have withheld64 this boon65, which our weakness so much needs?”
Oftener than to the other churches, she wandered into St. Peter’s. Within its vast limits, she thought, and beneath the sweep of its great dome, there should be space for all forms of Christian truth; room both for the faithful and the heretic to kneel; due help for every creature’s spiritual want.
Hilda had not always been adequately impressed by the grandeur66 of this mighty cathedral. When she first lifted the heavy leathern curtain, at one of the doors, a shadowy edifice in her imagination had been dazzled out of sight by the reality. Her preconception of St. Peter’s was a structure of no definite outline, misty67 in its architecture, dim and gray and huge, stretching into an interminable perspective, and overarched by a dome like the cloudy firmament68. Beneath that vast breadth and height, as she had fancied them, the personal man might feel his littleness, and the soul triumph in its immensity. So, in her earlier visits, when the compassed splendor Of the actual interior glowed before her eyes, she had profanely69 called it a great prettiness; a gay piece of cabinet work, on a Titanic70 scale; a jewel casket, marvellously magnified.
This latter image best pleased her fancy; a casket, all inlaid in the inside with precious stones of various hue71, so that there Should not be a hair’s-breadth of the small interior unadorned with its resplendent gem29. Then, conceive this minute wonder of a mosaic box, increased to the magnitude of a cathedral, without losing the intense lustre73 of its littleness, but all its petty glory striving to be sublime74. The magic transformation75 from the minute to the vast has not been so cunningly effected but that the rich adornment76 still counteracts77 the impression of space and loftiness. The spectator is more sensible of its limits than of its extent.
Until after many visits, Hilda continued to mourn for that dim, illimitable interior, which with her eyes shut she had seen from childhood, but which vanished at her first glimpse through the actual door. Her childish vision seemed preferable to the cathedral which Michael Angelo, and all the great architects, had built; because, of the dream edifice, she had said, “How vast it is!” while of the real St. Peter’s she could only say, “After all, it is not so immense!” Besides, such as the church is, it can nowhere be made visible at one glance. It stands in its own way. You see an aisle23, or a transept; you see the nave, or the tribune; but, on account of its ponderous78 piers79 and other obstructions80, it is only by this fragmentary process that you get an idea of the cathedral.
There is no answering such objections. The great church smiles calmly upon its critics, and, for all response, says, “Look at me!” and if you still murmur81 for the loss of your shadowy perspective, there comes no reply, save, “Look at me!” in endless repetition, as the one thing to be said. And, after looking many times, with long intervals82 between, you discover that the cathedral has gradually extended itself over the whole compass of your idea; it covers all the site of your visionary temple, and has room for its cloudy pinnacles83 beneath the dome.
One afternoon, as Hilda entered St. Peter’s in sombre mood, its interior beamed upon her with all the effect of a new creation. It seemed an embodiment of whatever the imagination could conceive, or the heart desire, as a magnificent, comprehensive, majestic84 symbol of religious faith. All splendor was included within its verge85, and there was space for all. She gazed with delight even at the multiplicity of ornament86. She was glad at the cherubim that fluttered upon the pilasters, and of the marble doves, hovering87 unexpectedly, with green olive-branches of precious stones. She could spare nothing, now, of the manifold magnificence that had been lavished88, in a hundred places, richly enough to have made world-famous shrines in any other church, but which here melted away into the vast sunny breadth, and were of no separate account. Yet each contributed its little all towards the grandeur of the whole.
She would not have banished89 one of those grim popes, who sit each over his own tomb, scattering90 cold benedictions91 out of their marble hands; nor a single frozen sister of the Allegoric family, to whom—as, like hired mourners at an English funeral, it costs them no wear and tear of heart—is assigned the office of weeping for the dead. If you choose to see these things, they present themselves; if you deem them unsuitable and out of place, they vanish, individually, but leave their life upon the walls.
The pavement! it stretched out illimitably, a plain of many-colored marble, where thousands of worshippers might kneel together, and shadowless angels tread among them without brushing their heavenly garments against those earthly ones. The roof! the dome! Rich, gorgeous, filled with sunshine, cheerfully sublime, and fadeless after centuries, those lofty depths seemed to translate the heavens to mortal comprehension, and help the spirit upward to a yet higher and wider sphere. Must not the faith, that built this matchless edifice, and warmed, illuminated92, and overflowed93 from it, include whatever can satisfy human aspirations94 at the loftiest, or minister to human necessity at the sorest? If Religion had a material home, was it not here?
As the scene which we but faintly suggest shone calmly before the New England maiden95 at her entrance, she moved, as if by very instinct, to one of the vases of holy water, upborne against a column by two mighty cherubs96. Hilda dipped her fingers, and had almost signed the cross upon her breast, but forbore, and trembled, while shaking the water from her finger-tips. She felt as if her mother’s spirit, somewhere within the dome, were looking down upon her child, the daughter of Puritan forefathers97, and weeping to behold98 her ensnared by these gaudy99 superstitions100. So she strayed sadly onward101, up the nave, and towards the hundred golden lights that swarm102 before the high altar. Seeing a woman; a priest, and a soldier kneel to kiss the toe of the brazen103 St. Peter, who protrudes104 it beyond his pedestal for the purpose, polished bright with former salutations, while a child stood on tiptoe to do the same, the glory of the church was darkened before Hilda’s eyes. But again she went onward into remoter regions. She turned into the right transept, and thence found her way to a shrine, in the extreme corner of the edifice, which is adorned72 with a mosaic copy of Guido’s beautiful Archangel, treading on the prostrate105 fiend.
This was one of the few pictures, which, in these dreary106 days, had not faded nor deteriorated107 in Hilda’s estimation; not that it was better than many in which she no longer took an interest; but the subtile delicacy108 of the painter’s genius was peculiarly adapted to her character. She felt, while gazing at it, that the artist had done a great thing, not merely for the Church of Rome, but for the cause of Good. The moral of the picture, the immortal youth and loveliness of virtue109, and its irresistibles might against ugly Evil, appealed as much to Puritans as Catholics.
Suddenly, and as if it were done in a dream, Hilda found herself kneeling before the shrine, under the ever-burning lamp that throws its rays upon the Archangel’s face. She laid her forehead on the marble steps before the altar, and sobbed110 out a prayer; she hardly knew to whom, whether Michael, the Virgin, or the Father; she hardly knew for what, save only a vague longing111, that thus the burden of her spirit might be lightened a little.
In an instant she snatched herself up, as it were, from her knees, all a-throb with the emotions which were struggling to force their way out of her heart by the avenue that had so nearly been opened for them. Yet there was a strange sense of relief won by that momentary112, passionate113 prayer; a strange joy, moreover, whether from what she had done, or for what she had escaped doing, Hilda could not tell. But she felt as one half stifled114, who has stolen a breath of air.
Next to the shrine where she had knelt there is another, adorned with a picture by Guercino, representing a maiden’s body in the jaws115 of the sepulchre, and her lover weeping over it; while her beatified spirit looks down upon the scene, in the society of the Saviour and a throng116 of saints. Hilda wondered if it were not possible, by some miracle of faith, so to rise above her present despondency that she might look down upon what she was, just as Petronilla in the picture looked at her own corpse117. A hope, born of hysteric trouble, fluttered in her heart. A presentiment118, or what she fancied such, whispered her, that, before she had finished the circuit of the cathedral, relief would come.
The unhappy are continually tantalized119 by similar delusions120 of succor121 near at hand; at least, the despair is very dark that has no such will-o’-the-wisp to glimmer in it.
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1
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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sedatives
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| n.镇静药，镇静剂( sedative的名词复数 ) | |
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8
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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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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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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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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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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mediation
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| n.调解 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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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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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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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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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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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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profanely
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| adv.渎神地，凡俗地 | |
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70
titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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71
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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73
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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76
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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counteracts
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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79
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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80
obstructions
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| n.障碍物( obstruction的名词复数 )；阻碍物；阻碍；阻挠 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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82
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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83
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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86
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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88
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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91
benedictions
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| n.祝福( benediction的名词复数 )；（礼拜结束时的）赐福祈祷；恩赐；（大写）（罗马天主教）祈求上帝赐福的仪式 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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cherubs
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| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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100
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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102
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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103
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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104
protrudes
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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107
deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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109
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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110
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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111
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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112
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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113
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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114
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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115
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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116
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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117
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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118
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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119
tantalized
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| v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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