Life was a very pursuing thing. She recalled the figure of Sempack, so prone3 to fall into inactive poses, and how combative4 necessity, with a face singularly like Philip’s, was forcing its way through his reluctant and comprehensive wisdom. She loved Philip, she had instigated5 Philip to give himself to these storming purposive activities, but just now also there was a shadowy resentment6 that he drove her along the path she herself had indicated. In her present mood Philip’s energy blended in thought with the kicking, struggling energy within, behaving already like another Philip eager to get at issue with the world. She thought of her child still as It, and marvelled7 how little she had pictured its individuality or troubled about its outlook. She had questioned Mrs. McManus and learnt how widespread was this imaginative indifference8 of expectant mothers. She had had a few dreams of something infantile and delightful9 flitting about the great garden, but they were always shadowy, and now it seemed that It was not to spend its childhood in the garden. Philip said they were to leave Casa Terragena. He, she and It. She did not want to leave Casa Terragena. She did not want to leave this room and this bed any more.
She knew this was a mood. She knew that when the time came she would leave Casa Terragena with a stout10 heart. Philip was her mate and captain and leader and whither he led she would go. But this afternoon she saw that without emotion, as an accepted fact of her circumstances and moral nature. The garden had become very dear to her in these last few weeks, very close and significant. Here it was that she had first experienced that sense of God at hand that comforted and sustained her now so mightily11. She would be loth to leave the place. But God could be apprehended12 in many places. And she would remember.
There was something here that her mind made an effort to retain and examine. This apprehension13 of God was a matter about which she had to write to Philip. She had never told him about it. It was very secret and difficult to tell. For some days she had been brooding upon that. Yesterday and the day before she had had a peculiar14 disposition15 to put things tidy. She wanted everything in order, apple-pie order. She had made Frant unpack16 her clothes and linen17 from drawers and cupboards and helped her to replace it with a meticulous18 precision. She had put her writing-desk in order and tapped her row of little reference books into the exactest line. The green leather book had been minutely corrected and at last her mind had settled upon the one conclusive19 act of tidying up that remained for her to do, to explain to Philip about her God. But she was as lazy now as she was orderly. She had no sooner taken a sheet of paper to write than she decided20 to lie down. A queer disturbing sensation had come to her when she had posed herself to write, a novel challenging sensation. She would rest a little while and then she would write.
It was very important that Philip should hear from her about her God. It was the one thing wanting, she found, in his latest letters. They seemed so hard and contentious21, quarrelsome was the word, they were quarrelsome and aggressive, because they lacked any sense of this mighty22 serenity23 that was behind and above and about all the details and conflicts of life. Philip had discovered the imperative24 of right-living, but he had still to perceive the Friend and Father who made all right things right. “Friend and Father” one said, and “He,” but these were words as ineffectual as a child’s clay models of loveliness and life. One said “He” because there seems to be more will and purposiveness in “He” than in She or It, but for all that it was a misleading pronoun, cumbered with the suggestion of a man. This that sustained the world for her, was not a person, but infinitely25 more than a person. As a person is more than a heap of stuff. And still one had to say “He”!
Soon now and very near to her was the crisis of maternity26. She knew that to bear a child for the first time is more dangerous than to follow the most dangerous of trades. Irrational27 things may happen. Yet she felt no dismay at this physical storm that gathered for her. For some time now her mind had been tranquil28 as it had never been tranquil in her life before. It had been as though she drifted swiftly on a broad smooth stream that poured steadfastly29 towards a narrow gorge30 and inevitable31 rapids. Fearlessly she had swept forward through the days. On that unruffled surface everything was mirrored with the peculiar brightness and clarity of reflected things. Why was she not afraid?
Already there were eddies32. The frail33 skiff of her being had turned about and rocked once and again. She could face it. She did not need Philip nor any comforting hand. Philip was all right and she loved him, but she did not mind in the least now that he was far away. She had her comfort and her courage, in herself and all about her. She whispered: “Though He slay34 me, yet will I trust in Him.” She looked at the sheets of Philip’s letter within reach of her fingers and withal it seemed ten thousand miles away. All that was in suspense35 now and remote and for a while quite unimportant; it could wait; for the present she was with God. So near, so palpably near was He to her that her whole being swam in His. He would be with her in the darkness; He would be with her amidst the strangeness and pain.
Something stirred within her and she put out her hand and took the little green leather book that lay on her bedside table. She had to tell all that to Philip. And it was so difficult to tell Philip. Now. Difficult to tell Philip at any time. She would set something of it down if she could in case —— For some reason her hand was out of control but she contrived36 to scribble37 the words that sustained her: “Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”
There came a sudden pain, an unaccustomed urgent pain, that made her set aside her writing hurriedly and press the little bell-push that would summon Mrs. McManus to the fray38. The green leather book fell on the floor, disregarded.
The rapids had begun.
点击收听单词发音
1 enveloped | |
v.包围,笼罩,包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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2 fatigued | |
adj. 疲乏的 | |
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3 prone | |
adj.(to)易于…的,很可能…的;俯卧的 | |
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4 combative | |
adj.好战的;好斗的 | |
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5 instigated | |
v.使(某事物)开始或发生,鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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7 marvelled | |
v.惊奇,对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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9 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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11 mightily | |
ad.强烈地;非常地 | |
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12 apprehended | |
逮捕,拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 ); 理解 | |
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13 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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14 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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15 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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16 unpack | |
vt.打开包裹(或行李),卸货 | |
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17 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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18 meticulous | |
adj.极其仔细的,一丝不苟的 | |
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19 conclusive | |
adj.最后的,结论的;确凿的,消除怀疑的 | |
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20 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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21 contentious | |
adj.好辩的,善争吵的 | |
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22 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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23 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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24 imperative | |
n.命令,需要;规则;祈使语气;adj.强制的;紧急的 | |
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25 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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26 maternity | |
n.母性,母道,妇产科病房;adj.孕妇的,母性的 | |
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27 irrational | |
adj.无理性的,失去理性的 | |
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28 tranquil | |
adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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29 steadfastly | |
adv.踏实地,不变地;岿然;坚定不渝 | |
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30 gorge | |
n.咽喉,胃,暴食,山峡;v.塞饱,狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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31 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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32 eddies | |
(水、烟等的)漩涡,涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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33 frail | |
adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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34 slay | |
v.杀死,宰杀,杀戮 | |
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35 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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36 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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37 scribble | |
v.潦草地书写,乱写,滥写;n.潦草的写法,潦草写成的东西,杂文 | |
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38 fray | |
v.争吵;打斗;磨损,磨破;n.吵架;打斗 | |
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