Father Damon slept the sleep of exhaustion1. In this for a time the mind joined in the lethargy of the body. But presently, as the vital currents were aroused, the mind began to play its fantastic tricks. He was a seminary student, he was ordained2, he was taking his vows4 before the bishop5, he was a robust6 and consecrated7 priest performing his first service, shining, it seemed to him, before the congregation in the purity of his separation from the world. How strong he felt. And then came perplexities, difficulties, interests, and conflicting passions in life that he had not suspected, good that looked like evil, and evil that had an alloy8 of virtue9, and the way was confused. And then there was a vision of a sort of sister of charity working with him in the evil and the good, drawing near to him, and yet repelling10 him with a cold, scientific skepticism that chilled him like blasphemy11; but so patient was she, so unconscious of self, that gradually he lost this feeling of repulsion and saw only the woman, that wonderful creation, tender, pitiful comrade, the other self. And then there was darkness and blindness, and he stood once more before his congregation, speaking words that sounded hollow, hearing responses that mocked him, stared at by accusing eyes that knew him for a hypocrite. And he rushed away and left them, hearing their laughter as he went, and so into the street--plainly it was Rivington Street--and faces that he knew had a smile and a sneer12, and he heard comments as he passed "Hulloa, Father Damon, come in and have a drink." "I say, Father Damon, I seen her going round into Grand Street."
When Father Monies looked in, just before daylight, Father Damon was still sleeping, but tossing restlessly and muttering incoherently; and he did not arouse him for the early devotions.
It was very late when he awoke, and opened his eyes to a confused sense of some great calamity13. Father Monies was standing14 by the bedside with a cup of coffee.
"You have had a good sleep. Now take this, and then you may get up. The breakfast will wait for you."
Father Damon started up. "Why didn't you call me? I am late for the mission."
"Oh, Bendes has gone down long ago. You must take it easy; rest today. You'll be all right. You haven't a bit of fever."
"But," still declining the coffee, "before I break my fast, I have something to say to you. I--"
"Get some strength first. Besides, I have an engagement. I cannot wait. Pull yourself together; I may not be back before evening."
So it was fated that he should be left still with himself. After his coffee he dressed slowly, as if it were not he, but some one else going through this familiar duty, as if it were scarcely worth while to do anything any more. And then, before attempting his breakfast, he went into the little oratory15, and remained long in the attitude of prayer, trying to realize what he was and what he had done. He prayed for himself, for help, for humility16, and he prayed for her; he had been used of late to pray for her guidance, now he prayed that she might be sustained.
When he came forth17 it was in a calmer frame of mind. It was all clear now. When Father Monies returned he would confess, and take his penance18, and resolutely19 resume his life. He understood life better now. Perhaps this blow was needed for his spiritual pride.
It was a mild winter day, bright, and with a touch of summer, such as sometimes gets shuffled20 into our winter calendar. The book that he took up did not interest him; he was in no mood for the quiet meditation21 that it usually suggested to him, and he put it down and strolled out, directing his steps farther up the height, and away from the suburban22 stir. As he went on there was something consonant23 with his feelings in the bare wintry landscape, and when he passed the ridge24 and walked along the top of the river slope, he saw, as it seemed to him he had not seen it before, that lovely reach of river, the opposite wooded heights, the noble pass above, the peacefulness and invitation of nature. Had he a new sense to see all this? There was a softness in the distant outline, villas25 peeped out here and there, carriages were passing in the road below, there was a cheerful life in the stream--there was a harmony in the aspect of nature and humanity from this height. Was not the world beautiful? and human emotion, affection, love, were they alien to the Divine intention?
She loved beauty; she was fond of flowers; often she had spoken to him of her childish delight in her little excursions, rarely made, into the country. He could see her now standing just there and feasting her eyes on this noble panorama26, and he could see her face all aglow27, as she might turn to him and say, "Isn't it beautiful, Father Damon?" And she was down in those reeking28 streets, climbing about in the foul29 tenement-houses, taking a sick child in her arms, speaking a word of cheer--a good physician going about doing good!
And it might have been! Why was it that this peace of nature should bring up her image, and that they should seem in harmony? Was not the love of beauty and of goodness the same thing? Did God require in His service the atrophy30 of the affections? As long as he was in the world was it right that he should isolate31 himself from any of its sympathies and trials? Why was it not a higher life to enter into the common lot, and suffer, if need be, in the struggle to purify and ennoble all? He remembered the days he had once passed in the Trappist monastery32 of Gethsemane. The perfect peace of mind of the monks33 was purchased at the expense of the extirpation34 of every want, all will, every human interest. Were these men anything but specimens35 in a Museum of Failures? And yet, for the time being, it had seemed attractive to him, this simple vegetable existence, whose only object was preparation for death by the extinction36 of all passion and desire. No, these were not soldiers of the Lord, but the fainthearted, who had slunk into the hospital.
All this afternoon he was drifting in thought, arraigning37 his past life, excusing it, condemning38 it, and trying to forecast its future. Was this a trial of his constancy and faith, or had he made a mistake, entered upon a slavish career, from which he ought to extricate39 himself at any cost of the world's opinion? But presently he was aware that in all these debates with himself her image appeared. He was trying to fit his life to the thought of her. And when this became clearer in his tortured mind, the woman appeared as a temptation. It was not, then, the love of beauty, not even the love of humanity, and very far from being the service of his Master, that he was discussing, but only his desire for one person. It was that, then, that made him, for that fatal instant, forget his vow3, and yield to the impulse of human passion. The thought of that moment stung him with confusion and shame. There had been moments in this afternoon wandering--when it had seemed possible for him to ask for release, and to take up a human, sympathetic life with her, in mutual40 consecration41 in the service of the Lord's poor. Yes, and by love to lead her into a higher conception of the Divine love. But this breaking a solemn vow at the dictates42 of passion was a mortal sin--there was no other name for it--a sin demanding repentance43 and expiation44.
As he at last turned homeward, facing the great city and his life there, this became more clear to him. He walked rapidly. The lines of his face became set in a hard judgment45 of himself. He thought no more of escaping from himself, but of subduing46 himself, stamping out the appeals of his lower nature. It was in this mood that he returned.
Father Monies was awaiting him, and welcomed him with that look of affection, of more than brotherly love, which the good man had for the younger priest.
"I hope your walk has done you good."
"Perhaps," Father Damon replied, without any leniency47 in his face; "but that does not matter. I must tell you what I could not last night. Can you hear me?"
They went together into the oratory. Father Damon did not spare himself. He kept nothing back that could heighten the enormity of his offense48.
And Father Monies did not attempt to lessen49 the impression upon himself of the seriousness of the scandal. He was shocked. He was exceedingly grave, but he was even more pitiful. His experience of life had been longer than that of the penitent50. He better knew its temptations. His own peace had only been won by long crucifixion of the natural desires.
"I have nothing to say as to your own discipline. That you know. But there is one thing. You must face this temptation, and subdue51 it."
"You mean that I must go back to my labor52 in the city?"
"Yes. You can rest here a few days if you feel too weak physically53."
"No; I am well enough." He hesitated. "I thought perhaps some other field, for a time?"
"There is no other field for you. It is not for the moment the question of where you can do most good. You are to reinstate yourself. You are a soldier of the Lord Jesus, and you are to go where the battle is most dangerous."
That was the substance of it all. There was much affectionate counsel and loving sympathy mingled54 with all the inflexible55 orders of obedience56, but the sin must be faced and extirpated57 in presence of the enemy.
On the morrow Father Damon went back to his solitary58 rooms, to his chapel59, to the round of visitations, to his work with the poor, the sinful, the hopeless. He did not seek her; he tried not to seem to avoid her, or to seem to shun60 the streets where he was most likely to meet her, and the neighborhoods she frequented. Perhaps he did avoid them a little, and he despised himself for doing it. Almost involuntarily he looked to the bench by the chapel door which she occasionally occupied at vespers. She was never there, and he condemned61 himself for thinking that she might be; but yet wherever he walked there was always the expectation that he might encounter her. As the days went by and she did not appear, his expectation became a kind of torture. Was she ill, perhaps? It could not be that she had deserted62 her work.
And then he began to examine himself with a morbid63 introspection. Had the hope that he should see her occasionally influenced him at all in his obedience to Father Monies? Had he, in fact, a longing64 to be in the streets where she had walked, among the scenes that had witnessed her beautiful devotion? Had his willingness to take up this work again been because it brought him nearer to her in spirit?
No, she could not be ill. He heard her spoken of, here and there, in his calls and ministrations to the sick and dying. Evidently she was going about her work as usual. Perhaps she was avoiding him. Or perhaps she did not care, after all, and had lost her respect for him when he discovered to her his weakness. And he had put himself on a plane so high above her.
There was no conscious wavering in his purpose. But from much dwelling65 upon the thought, from much effort rather to put it away, his desire only to see her grew stronger day by day. He had no fear. He longed to test himself. He was sure that he would be impassive, and be all the stronger for the test. He was more devoted66 than ever in his Work. He was more severe with himself, more charitable to others, and he could not doubt that he was gaining a hold-yes, a real hold-upon the lives of many about him. The attendance was better at the chapel; more of the penitent and forlorn came to him for help. And how alone he was! My God, never even to see her!
In fact, Ruth Leigh was avoiding him. It was partly from a womanly reserve--called into expression in this form for the first time--and partly from a wish to spare him pain. She had been under no illusion from the first about the hopelessness of the attachment67. She comprehended his character so thoroughly68 that she knew that for him any fall from his ideal would mean his ruin. He was one of the rare spirits of faith astray in a skeptical69 age. For a time she had studied curiously70 his efforts to adapt himself to his surroundings. One of these was joining a Knights71 of Labor lodge72. Another was his approach to the ethical-culture movement of some of the leaders in the Neighborhood Guild73. Another was his interest in the philanthropic work of agnostics like herself. She could see that he, burning with zeal74 to save the souls of men, and believing that there was no hope for the world except in the renunciation of the world, instinctively75 shrank from these contacts, which, nevertheless, he sought in the spirit of a Jesuit missionary76 to a barbarous tribe.
It was possible for such a man to be for a time overmastered by human passion; it was possible even that he might reason himself temporarily into conduct that this natural passion seemed to justify77; yet she never doubted that there would follow an awakening78 from that state of mind as from a horrible delusion79. It was simply because Ruth Leigh was guided by the exercise of reason, and had built up her scheme of life upon facts that she believed she could demonstrate, that she saw so clearly their relations, and felt that the faith, which was to her only a vagary80 of the material brain, was to him an integral part of his life.
Love, to be sure, was as unexpected in her scheme of life as it was in his; but there was on her part no reason why she should not yield to it. There was every reason in her nature and in her theory why she should, for, bounded as her vision of life was by this existence, love was the highest conceivable good in life. It had been with a great shout of joy that the consciousness had come to her that she loved and was loved. Though she might never see him again, this supreme81 experience for man or woman, this unsealing of the sacred fountain of life, would be for her an enduring sweetness in her lonely and laborious82 pilgrimage. How strong love is they best know to whom it is offered and denied.
And why, so far as she was concerned, should she deny it? An ordinary woman probably would not. Love is reason enough. Why should artificial conventions defeat it? Why should she sacrifice herself, if he were willing to brave the opinion of the world for her sake? Was it any new thing for good men to do this? But Ruth Leigh was not an ordinary woman. Perhaps if her intellect had not been so long dominant83 over her heart it would have been different. But the habit of being guided by reason was second nature. She knew that not only his vow, but the habit of life engendered84 by the vow, was an insuperable barrier. And besides, and this was the touchstone of her conception of life and duty, she felt that if he were to break his vow, though she might love him, her respect for him would be impaired85.
It was a singular phenomenon--very much remarked at the time--that the women who did not in the least share Father Damon's spiritual faith, and would have called themselves in contradistinction materialists, were those who admired him most, were in a way his followers86, loved to attend his services, were inspired by his personality, and drawn87 to him in a loving loyalty88. The attraction to these very women was his unworldliness, his separateness, his devotion to an ideal which in their reason seemed a delusion. And no women would have been more sensitive than they to his fall from his spiritual pinnacle89.
It was easy with a little contrivance to avoid meeting him. She did not go to the chapel or in its neighborhood when he was likely to be going to or from service. She let others send for him when in her calls his ministration was required, and she was careful not to linger where he was likely to come. A little change in the time of her rounds was made without neglecting her work, for that she would not do, and she trusted that if accident threw him in her way, circumstances would make it natural and not embarrassing. And yet his image was never long absent from her thoughts; she wondered if he were dejected, if he were ill, if he were lonely, and mostly there was for him a great pity in her heart, a pity born, alas90! of her own sense of loneliness.
How much she was repressing her own emotions she knew one evening when she returned from her visits and found a letter in his handwriting. The sight of it was a momentary91 rapture92, and then the expectation of what it might contain gave her a feeling of faintness. The letter was long. Its coming needs a word of explanation.
Father Damon had begun to use the Margaret Fund. He found that its judicious93 use was more perplexing than he had supposed. He needed advice, the advice of those who had more knowledge than he had of the merits of relief cases. And then there might be many sufferers whom he in his limited field neglected. It occurred to him that Dr. Leigh would be a most helpful co-almoner. No sooner did this idea come to him than he was spurred to put it into effect. This common labor would be a sort of bond between them, a bond of charity purified from all personal alloy. He went at once to Mr. Henderson's office and told him his difficulties, and about Dr. Leigh's work, and the opportunities she would have. Would it not be possible for Dr. Leigh to draw from the fund on her own checks independent of him? Mr. Henderson thought not. Dr. Leigh was no doubt a good woman, but he didn't know much about woman visitors and that sort; their sympathies were apt to run away with them, and he should prefer at present to have the fund wholly under Father Damon's control. Some time, he intimated, he might make more lasting94 provisions with trustees. It would be better for Father Damon to give Dr. Leigh money as he saw she needed it.
The letter recited this at length; it had a check endorsed95, and the writer asked the doctor to be his almoner. He dwelt very much upon the relief this would be to him, and the opportunity it would give her in many emergencies, and the absolute confidence he had in her discretion96, as well as in her quick sympathy with the suffering about them. And also it would be a great satisfaction to him to feel that he was associated with her in such a work.
In its length, in its tone of kindliness97, of personal confidence, especially in its length, it was evident that the writing of it had been a pleasure, if not a relief, to the sender. Ruth read it and reread it. It was as if Father Damon were there speaking to her. She could hear the tones of his voice. And the glance of love--that last overmastering appeal and cry thrilled through her soul.
But in the letter there was no love; to any third person it would have read like an ordinary friendly philanthropic request. And her reply, accepting gratefully his trust, was almost formal, only the writer felt that she was writing out of her heart.
收听单词发音 |
1
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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7
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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12
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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13
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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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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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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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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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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consonant
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| n.辅音；adj.[音]符合的 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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28
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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29
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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30
atrophy
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| n./v.萎缩，虚脱，衰退 | |
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31
isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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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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extirpation
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| n.消灭，根除，毁灭；摘除 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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arraigning
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| v.告发( arraign的现在分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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38
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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39
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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40
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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41
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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42
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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43
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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44
expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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45
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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46
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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47
leniency
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| n.宽大（不严厉） | |
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48
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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49
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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50
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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51
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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52
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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53
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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54
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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55
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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56
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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57
extirpated
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| v.消灭，灭绝( extirpate的过去式和过去分词 )；根除 | |
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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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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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skeptical
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| adj.怀疑的，多疑的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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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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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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vagary
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| n.妄想，不可测之事，异想天开 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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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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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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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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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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endorsed
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| vt.& vi.endorse的过去式或过去分词形式v.赞同( endorse的过去式和过去分词 )；在（尤指支票的）背面签字；在（文件的）背面写评论；在广告上说本人使用并赞同某产品 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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