Mr. Woodward
He was a tall thin man, with a slight stoop. He could not be called handsome, but his face had a strange dignity and power; he had a pallid5 complexion6, at times indeed like parchment from its bloodlessness, and dark hair which remained dark up to the very end. His[119] eyebrows7 were habitually8 drawn9 up, giving to his face a look of patient endurance; his eyelids10 drooped11 over his eyes, which gave his expression a certain appearance of cynicism, but when he opened them full, and turned them upon you, they were dark, passionate12, and with a peculiar13 brightness. His lips were full and large, with beautiful curves, but slightly compressed as a rule, which gave a sense of severity. He was clean shaven, and always very carefully dressed, but in somewhat secular14 style, with high collars, a frock-coat and waistcoat, a full white cambric tie, and—I shudder15 to relate it in these days—he was seldom to be seen in black trousers, but wore a shade of dark grey. If you had substituted a black tie for a white one you would have had an ordinary English layman16 dressed as though for town—for he always wore a tall hat. He often rode about the parish, when he wore a dark grey riding-suit with gaiters. I do not think he ever gave his clothes a thought, but he had the instincts of a fine gentleman, and loved neatness and cleanliness. He had never married, but his house was administered by an elderly sister—rather a grim, majestic17 personage, with a sharp ironical18 tongue, and no great indulgence[120] for weakness. Miss Woodward considered herself an invalid19, and only appeared in fine weather, driving in a smart little open carriage. They were people of considerable wealth, and the rectory, which was an important house standing20 in a large glebe, had two gardeners and good stables, and was furnished within, in a dignified21 way, with old solid furniture. Mr. Woodward had a large library, and at the little dinner-parties that he gave, where the food was of the simplest, the plate was ancient and abundant—old silver candlesticks and salvers in profusion—and a row of family pictures beamed on you from the walls. Mr. Woodward used to say, if any one admired any particular piece of plate, “Yes, I believe it is good; it was all collected by an old uncle of mine, who left it to me with his blessing22 for my lifetime. Of course I don’t quite approve of using it—I believe I ought not even to have two coats—but I can’t sell it, and meantime it looks very nice and does no harm.” The living was a wealthy one, but it was soon discovered that Mr. Woodward spent all that he received on that head in the parish. He did not pauperise idle parishioners, but he was always ready[121] with a timely gift to tide an honest man over a difficulty. He liked to start the boys in life, and would give a girl a little marriage portion. He paid for a parish nurse, but at the same time he insisted on almsgiving as a duty. “I don’t do these things to save you the trouble of giving,” he would say, “but to give you a lead; and if I find that the offertories go down, then my subscriptions23 will go down too;” but he would sometimes say that he feared he was making things difficult for his successor. “I can’t help that; if he is a good man the people will understand.”
The Church
Mr. Woodward was a great politician and used to say that it was a perpetual temptation to him to sit over the papers in the morning instead of doing his work. But the result was that he always had something to talk about, and his visits were enjoyed by the least spiritual of his parishioners. He was of course eclectic in his politics, and combined a good deal of radicalism24 with an intense love and veneration25 for the past. He restored his church with infinite care and taste, and was for ever beautifying it in small ways. He used to say that there were two kinds of church-goers—the people who liked the social[122] aspect of the service, who preferred a blaze of light, hearty26 singing, and the presence of a large number of people; but that were others who preferred it from the quiet and devotional side, and who were only distracted from the main object of the service by the presence of alert and critical persons. Consequently he had a little transept divided from the body of the church by a simple screen, and kept the lights low within it. The transept was approached by a separate door, and he invited people who could not come for the whole service to slip in for a little of it. At the same time there was plenty of room in the church, and as the parish is not thickly populated, so that you could be sure of finding a seat in any part of the church that suited your mood. He never would have a surpliced choir27; and in the morning service, nothing was sung except the canticles and hymns28; but there was a fine organ built at his expense, and he offered a sufficiently29 large salary to secure an organist of considerable taste and skill. He greatly believed in music, and part of the organist’s duty was to give a little recital30 once a week, which was generally well attended. He himself was always present at the choir practices,[123] and the result of the whole was that the congregation sang well, with a tone and a feeling that I have never heard in places where the indigenous31 materials for choral music were so scanty32.
Mr. Woodward talked a good deal on religious subjects, but with an ease and a naturalness which saved his hearers from any feeling of awkwardness or affectation. I have never heard any one who seemed to live so naturally in the seen and the unseen together, and his transitions from mundane33 to religious talk were made with such simplicity34 that his hearers felt no embarrassment35 or pain. After all, the ethical36 side of life is what we are all interested in—moreover, Mr. Woodward had a decidedly magnetic gift—that gift which, if it had been accompanied with more fire and volubility, would have made him an orator37. As it was, the circle to whom he talked felt insensibly interested in what he spoke38 of, and at the same time there was such a transparent39 simplicity about the man that no one could have called him affected40. His talk it would be impossible to recall; it depended upon all sorts of subtle and delicate effects of personality. Indeed, I remember once after an[124] evening spent in his company, during which he had talked with an extraordinary pathos41 and emotion, I wrote down what I could remember of it. I look at it now and wonder what the spell was; it seems so ordinary, so simple, so, may I say, platitudinal.
Yet I may mention two or three of his chance sayings. I found him one day in his study deeply engrossed42 in a book which I saw was the Life of Darwin. He leapt to his feet to greet me, and after the usual courtesies said, “What a wonderful book this is—it is from end to end nothing but a cry for the Nicene Creed43! The man walks along, doing his duty so splendidly and nobly, with such single-heartedness and simplicity, and just misses the way all the time; the gospel he wanted is just the other side of the wall. But he must know now, I think. Whenever I go to the Abbey, I always go straight to his grave, and kneel down close beside it, and pray that his eyes may be opened. Very foolish and wrong, I dare say, but I can’t help it!”
Another day he found me working at a little pedigree of my father’s simple ancestors. I had hunted their names up in an old register,[125] and there was quite a line of simple persons to record. He looked over my shoulder at the sheet while I told him what it was. “Dear old folk!” he said, “I hope you say a prayer now and then for some of them; they belong to you and you to them, but I dare say they were sad Socinians, many of them (laughing). Well, that’s all over now. I wonder what they do with themselves over there?”
The Peacock
Mr. Woodward was of course adored by the people of the village. In his trim garden lived a couple of pea-fowl44—gruff and selfish birds, but very beautiful to look at. Mr. Woodward had a singular delight in watching the old peacock trail his glories in the sun. They roosted in a tree that overhung the road. There came to stay in the next village a sailor, a ne’er-do-weel, who used to hang about with a gun. One evening Mr. Woodward heard a shot fired in the lane, went out of his study, and found that the sailor had shot the peacock, who was lying on his back in the road, feebly poking45 out his claws, while the aggressor was pulling the feathers from his tail. Mr. Woodward was extraordinarily46 moved. The man caught in the act looked confused and bewildered. “Why did you shoot my poor old[126] bird?” said Mr. Woodward. The sailor in apology said he thought it was a pheasant. Mr. Woodward, on the verge47 of tears, carried the helpless fowl into the garden, but finding it was already dead, interred48 it with his own hands, told his sister at dinner what had happened, and said no more.
But the story spread, and four stalwart young parishioners of Mr. Woodward’s vowed49 vengeance50, caught the luckless sailor in a lane, broke his gun, and put him in the village pond, from which he emerged a lamentable51 sight, cursing and spluttering; the process was sternly repeated, and not until he handed over all his available cash for the purpose of replacing the bird did his judges desist. Another peacock was bought and presented to Mr. Woodward, the offender52 being obliged to make the presentation himself with an abject53 apology, being frankly54 told that the slightest deviation55 from the programme would mean another lustral washing.
The above story testifies to the sort of position which Mr. Woodward held in his parish; and what is the most remarkable part of it, indicates the esteem56 with which he was regarded by the most difficult members of a congregation[127] to conciliate—the young men. But then Mr. Woodward was at ease with the young men. He had talked to them as boys, with a grave politeness which many people hold to be unnecessary in the case of the young. He had encouraged them to come to him in all sorts of little troubles. The men who had resented the loss of Mr. Woodward’s peacock knew him as an intimate and honoured family friend; he had tided one over a small money difficulty, and smoothed the path of an ambition for another. He had claimed no sacerdotal rights over the liberties of his people, but such allegiance as he had won was the allegiance that always waits upon sympathy and goodwill57; and further, he was shrewd and practical in small concerns, and had the great gift of foreseeing contingencies58. He never forgot the clerical character, but he made it unobtrusive, kept it waiting round the corner, and it was always there when it was wanted.
The Professor
I was present once at an interesting conversation between Mr. Woodward and a distinguished59 university professor who by some accident was staying with myself. The professor had expressed himself as much interested[128] in the conditions of rural life and was lamenting60 to me the dissidence which he thought was growing up between the clergy1 and their flocks. I told him about Mr. Woodward and took him to tea. The professor with a courteous61 frankness attacked Mr. Woodward on the same point. He said that he believed that the raising of theological and clerical standards had had the effect of turning the clergy into a class, enthusiastic, no doubt, but interested in a small circle of things to which they attached extreme importance, though they were mostly traditional or antiquarian. He said that they were losing their hold on English life, and inclined not so much to uphold a scrupulous62 standard of conduct, as to enforce a preoccupation in doctrinal and liturgical63 questions, interesting enough, but of no practical importance. Mr. Woodward did not contradict him; the professor, warming to his work, said that the ordinary village sermon was of a futile64 kind, and possessed65 no shrewdness or definiteness as a rule. Mr. Woodward asked him to expand the idea—what ought the clergy to preach about? “Well,” said the professor, “they ought to touch on politics—not party politics, of course, but social measures,[129] historical developments and so forth66. I was present,” he went on, “some years ago when, in a country town, the Bishop of the diocese preached a sermon at the parish church, the week after the French had been defeated at Sedan, and the Bishop made not the slightest allusion67 to the event, though it was the dominant68 idea in the minds of the sensible members of the congregation; the clergy ought not only to preach politics—they ought to talk politics—they ought to show that they have the same interests as their people.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Woodward, leaning forward, “I agree with much that you say, Professor—very much; but you look at things in a different perspective. We don’t think much about politics here in the country—home politics a little, but foreign politics not at all. When we hear of rumours69 of war we are not particularly troubled;” (with a smile) “and when I have to try and encourage an old bedridden woman who is very much bewildered with this world, and has no imagination left to deal with the next—and who is sadly afraid of her long journey in the dark—when I have to try and argue with a naughty boy who has got some poor girl into trouble, and doesn’t[130] feel in his heart that he has done a selfish or a brutal70 thing, am I to talk to them about the battle of Sedan, or even about the reform of the House of Lords?”
The professor smiled grimly, but perhaps a little foolishly, and did not take up the challenge. But Mr. Woodward said to me a few days afterwards: “I was very much interested in your friend the professor—a most amiable71, and, I should think, unselfish person. How good of him to interest himself in the parish clergy! But you know, my dear boy, the intellectual atmosphere is a difficult one to live in—a man needs some very human trial of his own to keep him humble72 and sane73. I expect the professor wants a long illness!” (smiling) “No, I dare say he is very good in his own place, and does good work for Christ, but he is a man clothed in soft raiment in these wilds, and you and I must do all we can to prevent him from rewriting the Lord’s Prayer. I am afraid he thinks there is a sad absence of the intellectual element in it. It must be very distressing74 to him to think how often it is used; and yet there is not an allusion to politics in it—not even to comprehensive measures of social reform.”
[131]
Mr. Woodward’s Sermons
Mr. Woodward’s sermons were always a pleasure to me. He told me once that he had a great dislike to using conventional religious language; and thus, though he was in belief something of a High Churchman, he was so careful to avoid catch-words or party formulas that few people suspected how high the doctrine75 was. I took an elderly evangelical aunt to church once, when Mr. Woodward preached a sermon on baptismal regeneration of rather an advanced type. I shuddered76 to think of the denunciations which I anticipated after church; indeed, I should not have been surprised if my aunt had gathered up her books—she was a masculine personage—and swept out of the building. Both on the contrary, she listened intently, rather moist-eyed, I thought, to the discourse77, and afterwards spoke to me with extreme emphasis of it as a real gospel sermon. Mr. Woodward wrote his sermons, but often I think departed from the text. He discoursed78 with a simple tranquillity79 of manner that made each hearer feel as if he was alone with him. His allusions80 to local events were thrilling in their directness and pathos; and in passing, I may say that he was the only man I ever heard who[132] made the giving out of notices, both in manner and matter, into a fine art. On Christmas Day he used to speak about the events of the year; one winter there was a bad epidemic81 of diphtheria in the village, and several children died. The shepherd on one of the farms, a somewhat gruff and unsociable character, lost two little children on Christmas Eve. Mr. Woodward, unknown to me at the time, had spent the evening with the unhappy man, who was almost beside himself with grief.
The Christmas Sermon
In the sermon he began quite simply, describing the scene of the first Christmas Eve in a few picturesque82 words. Then he quoted Christina Rossetti’s Christmas Carol—
Wintry winds made moan,”
dwelling84 on the exquisite85 words in a way which brought the tears to my eyes. When he came to the lines describing the gifts made to Christ—
“If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,”
he stopped dead for some seconds. I feel sure that he had not thought of the application[133] before. Then he looked down the church and said—
“I spent a long time yesterday in the house of one who follows the calling of a shepherd among us.... He has given two lambs to Christ.”
There was an uncontrollable throb86 of emotion in the large congregation, and I confess that the tears filled my eyes. Mr. Woodward went on—
“Yes, it has pleased God to lead him through deep waters; but I do not think that he will altogether withhold87 from him something of his Christmas joy. He knows that they are safe with Christ—safe with Christ, and waiting for him there—and that will be more and more of a joy, and less and less of a sorrow as the years go on, till God restores him the dear children He has taken from him now. We must not forget him in our prayers.”
Then after a pause he resumed. There was no rhetoric88 or oratory89 about it; but I have never in my life heard anything so absolutely affecting and moving—any word which seemed to go so straight from heart to heart; it was the genius of humanity.
[134]
A few months after this Mr. Woodward died, as he always wished to die, quite suddenly, in his chair. He had often said to me that he did hope he wouldn’t die in bed, with bed-clothes tucked under his chin, and medicine bottles by him; he said he was sure he would not make an edifying90 end under the circumstances. His heart had long been weak; and he was found sitting with his head on his breast as though asleep, smiling to himself. In one hand his pen was still clasped. I have never seen such heartfelt grief as was shown at his funeral. His sister did not survive him a month. The week after her death I walked up to the rectory, and found the house being dismantled91. Mr. Woodward’s books were being packed into deal cases; the study was already a dusty, awkward room. It was strange to think of the sudden break-up of that centre of beautiful life and high example. All over and done! Yet not all; there are many grateful hearts who do not forget Mr. Woodward; and what he would have thought and what he would have said are still the natural guide for conduct in a dozen simple households. If death must come, it was so that he would have wished it; and Mr.[135] Woodward could be called happy in life and death perhaps more than any other man I have known.
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1
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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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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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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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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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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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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ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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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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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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liturgical
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| adj.礼拜仪式的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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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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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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