“Why were you so glad to be friends with M. Paul?” asks the reader. “Had he not long been a friend to you? Had he not given proof on proof of a certain partiality in his feelings?”
Yes, he had; but still I liked to hear him say so earnestly — that he was my close, true friend; I liked his modest doubts, his tender deference5 — that trust which longed to rest, and was grateful when taught how. He had called me “sister.” It was well. Yes; he might call me what he pleased, so long as he confided6 in me. I was willing to be his sister, on condition that he did not invite me to fill that relation to some future wife of his; and tacitly vowed8 as he was to celibacy9, of this dilemma10 there seemed little danger.
Through most of the succeeding night I pondered that evening’s interview. I wanted much the morning to break, and then listened for the bell to ring; and, after rising and dressing11, I deemed prayers and breakfast slow, and all the hours lingering, till that arrived at last which brought me the lesson of literature. My wish was to get a more thorough comprehension of this fraternal alliance: to note with how much of the brother he would demean himself when we met again; to prove how much of the sister was in my own feelings; to discover whether I could summon a sister’s courage, and he a brother’s frankness.
He came. Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will not, match the expectation. That whole day he never accosted12 me. His lesson was given rather more quietly than usual, more mildly, and also more gravely. He was fatherly to his pupils, but he was not brotherly to me. Ere he left the classe, I expected a smile, if not a word; I got neither: to my portion fell one nod — hurried, shy.
This distance, I argued, is accidental — it is involuntary; patience, and it will vanish. It vanished not; it continued for days; it increased. I suppressed my surprise, and swallowed whatever other feelings began to surge.
Well might I ask when he offered fraternity —“Dare I rely on you?” Well might he, doubtless knowing himself, withhold13 all pledge. True, he had bid me make my own experiments — tease and try him. Vain injunction! Privilege nominal14 and unavailable! Some women might use it! Nothing in my powers or instinct placed me amongst this brave band. Left alone, I was passive; repulsed16, I withdrew; forgotten — my lips would not utter, nor my eyes dart17 a reminder18. It seemed there had been an error somewhere in my calculations, and I wanted for time to disclose it.
But the day came when, as usual, he was to give me a lesson. One evening in seven he had long generously bestowed19 on me, devoting it to the examination of what had been done in various studies during the past week, and to the preparation of work for the week in prospect20. On these occasions my schoolroom was anywhere, wherever the pupils and the other teachers happened to be, or in their close vicinage, very often in the large second division, where it was easy to choose a quiet nook when the crowding day pupils were absent, and the few boarders gathered in a knot about the surveillante’s estrade.
On the customary evening, hearing the customary hour strike, I collected my books and papers, my pen and ink, and sought the large division.
In classe there was no one, and it lay all in cool deep shadow; but through the open double doors was seen the carré, filled with pupils and with light; over hall and figures blushed the westering sun. It blushed so ruddily and vividly21, that the hues22 of the walls and the variegated23 tints24 of the dresses seemed all fused in one warm glow. The, girls were seated, working or studying; in the midst of their circle stood M. Emanuel, speaking good-humouredly to a teacher. His dark palet?t, his jetty hair, were tinged25 with many a reflex of crimson26; his Spanish face, when he turned it momentarily, answered the sun’s animated27 kiss with an animated smile. I took my place at a desk.
The orange-trees, and several plants, full and bright with bloom, basked28 also in the sun’s laughing bounty29; they had partaken it the whole day, and now asked water. M. Emanuel had a taste for gardening; he liked to tend and foster plants. I used to think that working amongst shrubs30 with a spade or a watering-pot soothed31 his nerves; it was a recreation to which he often had recourse; and now be looked to the orange-trees, the geraniums, the gorgeous cactuses, and revived them all with the refreshment32 their drought needed. His lips meantime sustained his precious cigar, that (for him) first necessary and prime luxury of life; its blue wreaths curled prettily33 enough amongst the flowers, and in the evening light. He spoke34 no more to the pupils, nor to the mistresses, but gave many an endearing word to a small spanieless (if one may coin a word), that nominally35 belonged to the house, but virtually owned him as master, being fonder of him than any inmate36. A delicate, silky, loving, and lovable little doggie she was, trotting37 at his side, looking with expressive38, attached eyes into his face; and whenever he dropped his bonnet-grec or his handkerchief, which he occasionally did in play, crouching39 beside it with the air of a miniature lion guarding a kingdom’s flag.
There were many plants, and as the amateur gardener fetched all the water from the well in the court, with his own active hands, his work spun40 on to some length. The great school-clock ticked on. Another hour struck. The carré and the youthful group lost the illusion of sunset. Day was drooping41. My lesson, I perceived, must to-night be very short; but the orange-trees, the cacti42, the camelias were all served now. Was it my turn?
Alas43! in the garden were more plants to be looked after — favourite rose-bushes, certain choice flowers; little Sylvie’s glad bark and whine44 followed the receding45 palet?t down the alleys47. I put up some of my books; I should not want them all; I sat and thought; and waited, involuntarily deprecating the creeping invasion of twilight48.
Sylvie, gaily49 frisking, emerged into view once more, heralding50 the returning palet?t; the watering-pot was deposited beside the well; it had fulfilled its office; how glad I was! Monsieur washed his hands in a little stone bowl. There was no longer time for a lesson now; ere long the prayer-bell must ring; but still we should meet; he would speak; a chance would be offered of reading in his eyes the riddle51 of his shyness. His ablutions over, he stood, slowly re-arranging his cuffs52, looking at the horn of a young moon, set pale in the opal sky, and glimmering53 faint on the oriel of Jean Baptiste. Sylvie watched the mood contemplative; its stillness irked her; she whined54 and jumped to break it. He looked down.
“Petite exigeante,” said he; “you must not be forgotten one moment, it seems.”
He stopped, lifted her in his arms, sauntered across the court, within a yard of the line of windows near one of which I sat: he sauntered lingeringly, fondling the spaniel in his bosom55, calling her tender names in a tender voice. On the front-door steps he turned; once again he looked at the moon, at the grey cathedral, over the remoter spires56 and house-roofs fading into a blue sea of night-mist; he tasted the sweet breath of dusk, and noted57 the folded bloom of the garden; he suddenly looked round; a keen beam out of his eye rased the white fa?ade of the classes, swept the long line of croisées. I think he bowed; if he did, I had no time to return the courtesy. In a moment he was gone; the moonlit threshold lay pale and shadowless before the closed front door.
Gathering59 in my arms all that was spread on the desk before me, I carried back the unused heap to its place in the third classe. The prayer-bell rang; I obeyed its summons.
The morrow would not restore him to the Rue4 Fossette, that day being devoted60 entirely61 to his college. I got through my teaching; I got over the intermediate hours; I saw evening approaching, and armed myself for its heavy ennuis. Whether it was worse to stay with my co-inmates, or to sit alone, I had not considered; I naturally took up the latter alternative; if there was a hope of comfort for any moment, the heart or head of no human being in this house could yield it; only under the lid of my desk could it harbour, nestling between the leaves of some book, gilding62 a pencil-point, the nib63 of a pen, or tinging64 the black fluid in that ink-glass. With a heavy heart I opened my desk-lid; with a weary hand I turned up its contents.
One by one, well-accustomed books, volumes sewn in familiar covers, were taken out and put back hopeless: they had no charm; they could not comfort. Is this something new, this pamphlet in lilac? I had not seen it before, and I re-arranged my desk this very day — this very afternoon; the tract65 must have been introduced within the last hour, while we were at dinner.
I opened it. What was it? What would it say to me?
It was neither tale nor poem, neither essay nor history; it neither sung, nor related, not discussed. It was a theological work; it preached and it persuaded.
I lent to it my ear very willingly, for, small as it was, it possessed66 its own spell, and bound my attention at once. It preached Romanism; it persuaded to conversion67. The voice of that sly little book was a honeyed voice; its accents were all unction and balm. Here roared no utterance68 of Rome’s thunders, no blasting of the breath of her displeasure. The Protestant was to turn Papist, not so much in fear of the heretic’s hell, as on account of the comfort, the indulgence, the tenderness Holy Church offered: far be it from her to threaten or to coerce69; her wish was to guide and win. She persecute70? Oh dear no! not on any account!
This meek71 volume was not addressed to the hardened and worldly; it was not even strong meat for the strong: it was milk for babes: the mild effluence of a mother’s love towards her tenderest and her youngest; intended wholly and solely72 for those whose head is to be reached through the heart. Its appeal was not to intellect; it sought to win the affectionate through their affections, the sympathizing through their sympathies: St. Vincent de Paul, gathering his orphans73 about him, never spoke more sweetly.
I remember one capital inducement to apostacy was held out in the fact that the Catholic who had lost dear friends by death could enjoy the unspeakable solace74 of praying them out of purgatory75. The writer did not touch on the firmer peace of those whose belief dispenses76 with purgatory altogether: but I thought of this; and, on the whole, preferred the latter doctrine77 as the most consolatory78. The little book amused, and did not painfully displease79 me. It was a canting, sentimental80, shallow little book, yet something about it cheered my gloom and made me smile; I was amused with the gambols81 of this unlicked wolf-cub muffled82 in the fleece, and mimicking83 the bleat84 of a guileless lamb. Portions of it reminded me of certain Wesleyan Methodist tracts85 I had once read when a child; they were flavoured with about the same seasoning86 of excitation to fanaticism87. He that had written it was no bad man, and while perpetually betraying the trained cunning — the cloven hoof88 of his system — I should pause before accusing himself of insincerity. His judgment89, however, wanted surgical90 props91; it was rickety.
I smiled then over this dose of maternal92 tenderness, coming from the ruddy old lady of the Seven Hills; smiled, too, at my own disinclination, not to say disability, to meet these melting favours. Glancing at the title-page, I found the name of “Père Silas.” A fly-leaf bore in small, but clear and well-known pencil characters: “From P. C. D. E. to L— y.” And when I saw this I laughed: but not in my former spirit. I was revived.
A mortal bewilderment cleared suddenly from my head and vision; the solution of the Sphinx-riddle was won; the conjunction of those two names, Père Silas and Paul Emanuel, gave the key to all. The penitent93 had been with his director; permitted to withhold nothing; suffered to keep no corner of his heart sacred to God and to himself; the whole narrative94 of our late interview had been drawn95 from him; he had avowed96 the covenant of fraternity, and spoken of his adopted sister. How could such a covenant, such adoption97, be sanctioned by the Church? Fraternal communion with a heretic! I seemed to hear Père Silas annulling98 the unholy pact99; warning his penitent of its perils100; entreating101, enjoining102 reserve, nay103, by the authority of his office, and in the name, and by the memory of all M. Emanuel held most dear and sacred, commanding the enforcement of that new system whose frost had pierced to the marrow104 of my bones.
These may not seem pleasant hypotheses; yet, by comparison, they were welcome. The vision of a ghostly troubler hovering105 in the background, was as nothing, matched with the fear of spontaneous change arising in M. Paul himself.
At this distance of time, I cannot be sure how far the above conjectures106 were self-suggested: or in what measure they owed their origin and confirmation107 to another quarter. Help was not wanting.
This evening there was no bright sunset: west and east were one cloud; no summer night-mist, blue, yet rose-tinged, softened108 the distance; a clammy fog from the marshes109 crept grey round Villette. To-night the watering-pot might rest in its niche110 by the well: a small rain had been drizzling111 all the afternoon, and still it fell fast and quietly. This was no weather for rambling112 in the wet alleys, under the dripping trees; and I started to hear Sylvie’s sudden bark in the garden — her bark of welcome. Surely she was not accompanied and yet this glad, quick bark was never uttered, save in homage113 to one presence.
Through the glass door and the arching berceau, I commanded the deep vista114 of the allée défendue: thither115 rushed Sylvie, glistening116 through its gloom like a white guelder-rose. She ran to and fro, whining117, springing, harassing118 little birds amongst the bushes. I watched five minutes; no fulfilment followed the omen15. I returned to my books; Sylvie’s sharp bark suddenly ceased. Again I looked up. She was standing119 not many yards distant, wagging her white feathery tail as fast as the muscle would work, and intently watching the operations of a spade, plied120 fast by an indefatigable121 hand. There was M. Emanuel, bent122 over the soil, digging in the wet mould amongst the rain-laden and streaming shrubs, working as hard as if his day’s pittance123 were yet to earn by the literal sweat of his brow.
In this sign I read a ruffled124 mood. He would dig thus in frozen snow on the coldest winter day, when urged inwardly by painful emotion, whether of nervous excitation, or, sad thoughts of self-reproach. He would dig by the hour, with knit brow and set teeth, nor once lift his head, or open his lips.
Sylvie watched till she was tired. Again scampering125 devious126, bounding here, rushing there, snuffing and sniffing127 everywhere; she at last discovered me in classe. Instantly she flew barking at the panes128, as if to urge me forth129 to share her pleasure or her master’s toil130; she had seen me occasionally walking in that alley46 with M. Paul; and I doubt not, considered it my duty to join him now, wet as it was.
She made such a bustle131 that M. Paul at last looked up, and of course perceived why, and at whom she barked. He whistled to call her off; she only barked the louder. She seemed quite bent upon having the glass door opened. Tired, I suppose, with her importunity132, he threw down his spade, approached, and pushed the door ajar. Sylvie burst in all impetuous, sprang to my lap, and with her paws at my neck, and her little nose and tongue somewhat overpoweringly busy about my face, mouth, and eyes, flourished her bushy tail over the desk, and scattered134 books and papers far and wide.
M. Emanuel advanced to still the clamour and repair the disarrangement. Having gathered up the books, he captured Sylvie, and stowed her away under his palet?t, where she nestled as quiet as a mouse, her head just peeping forth. She was very tiny, and had the prettiest little innocent face, the silkiest long ears, the finest dark eyes in the world. I never saw her, but I thought of Paulina de Bassompierre: forgive the association, reader, it would occur.
M. Paul petted and patted her; the endearments135 she received were not to be wondered at; she invited affection by her beauty and her vivacious136 life.
While caressing137 the spaniel, his eye roved over the papers and books just replaced; it settled on the religious tract. His lips moved; he half checked the impulse to speak. What! had he promised never to address me more? If so, his better nature pronounced the vow7 “more honoured in the breach138 than in the observance,” for with a second effort, he spoke. —“You have not yet read the brochure, I presume? It is not sufficiently139 inviting140?”
I replied that I had read it.
He waited, as if wishing me to give an opinion upon it unasked. Unasked, however, I was in no mood to do or say anything. If any concessions141 were to be made — if any advances were demanded — that was the affair of the very docile142 pupil of Père Silas, not mine. His eye settled upon me gently: there was mildness at the moment in its blue ray — there was solicitude143 — a shade of pathos144; there were meanings composite and contrasted — reproach melting into remorse145. At the moment probably, he would have been glad to see something emotional in me. I could not show it. In another minute, however, I should have betrayed confusion, had I not bethought myself to take some quill-pens from my desk, and begin soberly to mend them.
I knew that action would give a turn to his mood. He never liked to see me mend pens; my knife was always dull-edged — my hand, too, was unskilful; I hacked146 and chipped. On this occasion I cut my own finger — half on purpose. I wanted to restore him to his natural state, to set him at his ease, to get him to chide147.
“Maladroit!” he cried at last, “she will make mincemeat of her hands.”
He put Sylvie down, making her lie quiet beside his bonnet-grec, and, depriving me of the pens and penknife, proceeded to slice, nib, and point with the accuracy and celerity of a machine.
“Did I like the little book?” he now inquired.
Suppressing a yawn, I said I hardly knew.
“Had it moved me?”
“I thought it had made me a little sleepy.”
(After a pause:) “Allons donc! It was of no use taking that tone with him. Bad as I was — and he should be sorry to have to name all my faults at a breath — God and nature had given me ‘trop de sensibilité et de sympathie’ not to be profoundly affected148 by an appeal so touching149.”
“Indeed!” I responded, rousing myself quickly, “I was not affected at all — not a whit58.”
And in proof, I drew from my pocket a perfectly150 dry handkerchief, still clean and in its folds.
Hereupon I was made the object of a string of strictures rather piquant151 than polite. I listened with zest152. After those two days of unnatural153 silence, it was better than music to hear M. Paul haranguing154 again just in his old fashion. I listened, and meantime solaced155 myself and Sylvie with the contents of a bonbonnière, which M. Emanuel’s gifts kept well supplied with chocolate comfits: It pleased him to see even a small matter from his hand duly appreciated. He looked at me and the spaniel while we shared the spoil; he put up his penknife. Touching my hand with the bundle of new-cut quills156, he said:—“Dites donc, petite soeur — speak frankly157 — what have you thought of me during the last two days?”
But of this question I would take no manner of notice; its purport158 made my eyes fill. I caressed159 Sylvie assiduously. M. Paul, leaning — over the desk, bent towards me:—“I called myself your brother,” he said: “I hardly know what I am — brother — friend — I cannot tell. I know I think of you — I feel I wish, you well — but I must check myself; you are to be feared. My best friends point out danger, and whisper caution.”
“You do right to listen to your friends. By all means be cautious.”
“It is your religion — your strange, self-reliant, invulnerable creed160, whose influence seems to clothe you in, I know not what, unblessed panoply161. You are good — Père Silas calls you good, and loves you — but your terrible, proud, earnest Protestantism, there is the danger. It expresses itself by your eye at times; and again, it gives you certain tones and certain gestures that make my flesh creep. You are not demonstrative, and yet, just now — when you handled that tract — my God! I thought Lucifer smiled.”
“Certainly I don’t respect that tract — what then?”
“Not respect that tract? But it is the pure essence of faith, love, charity! I thought it would touch you: in its gentleness, I trusted that it could not fail. I laid it in your desk with a prayer: I must indeed be a sinner: Heaven will not hear the petitions that come warmest from my heart. You scorn my little offering. Oh, cela me fait mal!”
“Monsieur, I don’t scorn it — at least, not as your gift. Monsieur, sit down; listen to me. I am not a heathen, I am not hard-hearted, I am not unchristian, I am not dangerous, as they tell you; I would not trouble your faith; you believe in God and Christ and the Bible, and so do I.”
“But do you believe in the Bible? Do you receive Revelation? What limits are there to the wild, careless daring of your country and sect162. Père Silas dropped dark hints.”
By dint163 of persuasion164, I made him half-define these hints; they amounted to crafty165 Jesuit-slanders. That night M. Paul and I talked seriously and closely. He pleaded, he argued. I could not argue — a fortunate incapacity; it needed but triumphant166, logical opposition167 to effect all the director wished to be effected; but I could talk in my own way — the way M. Paul was used to — and of which he could follow the meanderings and fill the hiatus, and pardon the strange stammerings, strange to him no longer. At ease with him, I could defend my creed and faith in my own fashion; in some degree I could lull168 his prejudices. He was not satisfied when he went away, hardly was he appeased169; but he was made thoroughly170 to feel that Protestants were not necessarily the irreverent Pagans his director had insinuated171; he was made to comprehend something of their mode of honouring the Light, the Life, the Word; he was enabled partly to perceive that, while their veneration172 for things venerable was not quite like that cultivated in his Church, it had its own, perhaps, deeper power — its own more solemn awe173.
I found that Père Silas (himself, I must repeat, not a bad man, though the advocate of a bad cause) had darkly stigmatized174 Protestants in general, and myself by inference, with strange names, had ascribed to us strange “isms;” Monsieur Emanuel revealed all this in his frank fashion, which knew not secretiveness, looking at me as he spoke with a kind, earnest fear, almost trembling lest there should be truth in the charges. Père Silas, it seems, had closely watched me, had ascertained175 that I went by turns, and indiscriminately, to the three Protestant Chapels176 of Villette — the French, German, and English — id est, the Presbyterian, Lutheran, Episcopalian. Such liberality argued in the father’s eyes profound indifference177 — who tolerates all, he reasoned, can be attached to none. Now, it happened that I had often secretly wondered at the minute and unimportant character of the differences between these three sects178 — at the unity133 and identity of their vital doctrines179: I saw nothing to hinder them from being one day fused into one grand Holy Alliance, and I respected them all, though I thought that in each there were faults of form, incumbrances, and trivialities. Just what I thought, that did I tell M. Emanuel, and explained to him that my own last appeal, the guide to which I looked, and the teacher which I owned, must always be the Bible itself, rather than any sect, of whatever name or nation.
He left me soothed, yet full of solicitude, breathing a wish, as strong as a prayer, that if I were wrong, Heaven would lead me right. I heard, poured forth on the threshold, some fervid180 murmurings to “Marie, Reine du Ciel,” some deep aspiration181 that his hope might yet be mine.
Strange! I had no such feverish182 wish to turn him from the faith of his fathers. I thought Romanism wrong, a great mixed image of gold and clay; but it seemed to me that this Romanist held the purer elements of his creed with an innocency183 of heart which God must love.
The preceding conversation passed between eight and nine o’clock of the evening, in a schoolroom of the quiet Rue Fossette, opening on a sequestered184 garden. Probably about the same, or a somewhat later hour of the succeeding evening, its echoes, collected by holy obedience185, were breathed verbatim in an attent ear, at the panel of a confessional, in the hoary186 church of the Magi. It ensued that Père Silas paid a visit to Madame Beck, and stirred by I know not what mixture of motives187, persuaded her to let him undertake for a time the Englishwoman’s spiritual direction.
Hereupon I was put through a course of reading — that is, I just glanced at the books lent me; they were too little in my way to be thoroughly read, marked, learned, or inwardly digested. And besides, I had a book up-stairs, under my pillow, whereof certain chapters satisfied my needs in the article of spiritual lore188, furnishing such precept189 and example as, to my heart’s core, I was convinced could not be improved on.
Then Père Silas showed me the fair side of Rome, her good works; and bade me judge the tree by its fruits.
In answer, I felt and I avowed that these works were not the fruits of Rome; they were but her abundant blossoming, but the fair promise she showed the world, That bloom, when set, savoured not of charity; the apple full formed was ignorance, abasement191, and bigotry192. Out of men’s afflictions and affections were forged the rivets193 of their servitude. Poverty was fed and clothed, and sheltered, to bind194 it by obligation to “the Church;” orphanage195 was reared and educated that it might grow up in the fold of “the Church;” sickness was tended that it might die after the formula and in the ordinance196 of “the Church;” and men were overwrought, and women most murderously sacrificed, and all laid down a world God made pleasant for his creatures’ good, and took up a cross, monstrous197 in its galling198 weight, that they might serve Rome, prove her sanctity, confirm her power, and spread the reign199 of her tyrant200 “Church.”
For man’s good was little done; for God’s glory, less. A thousand ways were opened with pain, with blood-sweats, with lavishing201 of life; mountains were cloven through their breasts, and rocks were split to their base; and all for what? That a Priesthood might march straight on and straight upward to an all-dominating eminence202, whence they might at last stretch the sceptre of their Moloch “Church.”
It will not be. God is not with Rome, and, were human sorrows still for the Son of God, would he not mourn over her cruelties and ambitions, as once he mourned over the crimes and woes203 of doomed205 Jerusalem!
Oh, lovers of power! Oh, mitred aspirants206 for this world’s kingdoms! an hour will come, even to you, when it will be well for your hearts — pausing faint at each broken beat — that there is a Mercy beyond human compassions, a Love, stronger than this strong death which even you must face, and before it, fall; a Charity more potent207 than any sin, even yours; a Pity which redeems208 worlds — nay, absolves209 Priests.
My third temptation was held out in the pomp of Rome — the glory of her kingdom. I was taken to the churches on solemn occasions — days of fête and state; I was shown the Papal ritual and ceremonial. I looked at it.
Many people — men and women — no doubt far my superiors in a thousand ways, have felt this display impressive, have declared that though their Reason protested, their Imagination was subjugated210. I cannot say the same. Neither full procession, nor high mass, nor swarming211 tapers212, nor swinging censers, nor ecclesiastical millinery, nor celestial213 jewellery, touched my imagination a whit. What I saw struck me as tawdry, not grand; as grossly material, not poetically214 spiritual.
This I did not tell Père Silas; he was old, he looked venerable: through every abortive215 experiment, under every repeated disappointment, he remained personally kind to me, and I felt tender of hurting his feelings. But on the evening of a certain day when, from the balcony of a great house, I had been made to witness a huge mingled216 procession of the church and the army — priests with relics217, and soldiers with weapons, an obese218 and aged219 archbishop, habited in cambric and lace, looking strangely like a grey daw in bird-of-paradise plumage, and a band of young girls fantastically robed and garlanded — then I spoke my mind to M. Paul.
“I did not like it,” I told him; “I did not respect such ceremonies; I wished to see no more.”
And having relieved my conscience by this declaration, I was able to go on, and, speaking more currently and clearly than my wont220, to show him that I had a mind to keep to my reformed creed; the more I saw of Popery the closer I clung to Protestantism; doubtless there were errors in every church, but I now perceived by contrast how severely221 pure was my own, compared with her whose painted and meretricious222 face had been unveiled for my admiration223. I told him how we kept fewer forms between us and God; retaining, indeed, no more than, perhaps, the nature of mankind in the mass rendered necessary for due observance. I told him I could not look on flowers and tinsel, on wax-lights and embroidery224, at such times and under such circumstances as should be devoted to lifting the secret vision to Him whose home is Infinity225, and His being — Eternity226. That when I thought of sin and sorrow, of earthly corruption227, mortal depravity, weighty temporal woe204 — I could not care for chanting priests or mumming officials; that when the pains of existence and the terrors of dissolution pressed before me — when the mighty228 hope and measureless doubt of the future arose in view — then, even the scientific strain, or the prayer in a language learned and dead, harassed229: with hindrance230 a heart which only longed to cry —“God be merciful to me, a sinner!”
When I had so spoken, so declared my faith, and so widely severed231 myself, from him I addressed — then, at last, came a tone accordant, an echo responsive, one sweet chord of harmony in two conflicting spirits.
“Whatever say priests or controversialists,” murmured M. Emanuel, “God is good, and loves all the sincere. Believe, then, what you can; believe it as you can; one prayer, at least, we have in common; I also cry —‘O Dieu, sois appaisé envers moi qui suis pécheur!’”
He leaned on the back of my chair. After some thought he again spoke:
“How seem in the eyes of that God who made all firmaments, from whose nostrils232 issued whatever of life is here, or in the stars shining yonder — how seem the differences of man? But as Time is not for God, nor Space, so neither is Measure, nor Comparison. We abase190 ourselves in our littleness, and we do right; yet it may be that the constancy of one heart, the truth and faith of one mind according to the light He has appointed, import as much to Him as the just motion of satellites about their planets, of planets about their suns, of suns around that mighty unseen centre incomprehensible, irrealizable, with strange mental effort only divined.
“God guide us all! God bless you, Lucy!”
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1
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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ratified
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| v.批准，签认（合约等）( ratify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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5
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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6
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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7
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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8
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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9
celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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10
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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11
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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13
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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14
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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15
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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16
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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17
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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18
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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19
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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21
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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22
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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23
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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24
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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25
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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27
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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28
basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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29
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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30
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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31
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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32
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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33
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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34
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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35
nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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36
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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37
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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38
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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39
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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40
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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41
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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42
cacti
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| n.（复）仙人掌 | |
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43
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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44
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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45
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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46
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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47
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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48
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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49
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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50
heralding
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| v.预示( herald的现在分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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51
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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52
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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53
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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54
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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55
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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56
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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57
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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58
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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59
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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60
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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61
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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62
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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63
nib
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| n.钢笔尖；尖头 | |
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64
tinging
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的现在分词 ) | |
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65
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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66
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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67
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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68
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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69
coerce
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| v.强迫，压制 | |
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70
persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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71
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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72
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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73
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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74
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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75
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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76
dispenses
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| v.分配，分与；分配( dispense的第三人称单数 )；施与；配（药） | |
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77
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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78
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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79
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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80
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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81
gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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82
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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83
mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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84
bleat
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| v.咩咩叫，(讲)废话，哭诉；n.咩咩叫，废话，哭诉 | |
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85
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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86
seasoning
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| n.调味；调味料；增添趣味之物 | |
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87
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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88
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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89
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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90
surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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91
props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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92
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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93
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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94
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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95
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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96
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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97
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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98
annulling
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| v.宣告无效( annul的现在分词 )；取消；使消失；抹去 | |
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99
pact
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| n.合同，条约，公约，协定 | |
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100
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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101
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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102
enjoining
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| v.命令( enjoin的现在分词 ) | |
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103
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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104
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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105
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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106
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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107
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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108
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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109
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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110
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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111
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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112
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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113
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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114
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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115
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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116
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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117
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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118
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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119
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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120
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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121
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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122
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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123
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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124
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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125
scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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126
devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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127
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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128
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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129
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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130
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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131
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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132
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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133
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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134
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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135
endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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136
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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137
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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138
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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139
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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140
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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141
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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142
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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143
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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144
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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145
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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146
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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147
chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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148
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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149
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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150
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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151
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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152
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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153
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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154
haranguing
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的现在分词 ) | |
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155
solaced
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的过去分词 ) | |
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156
quills
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| n.（刺猬或豪猪的）刺( quill的名词复数 )；羽毛管；翮；纡管 | |
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157
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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158
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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159
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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161
panoply
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| n.全副甲胄，礼服 | |
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162
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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163
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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164
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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165
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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166
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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167
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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168
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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169
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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170
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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171
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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172
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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173
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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174
stigmatized
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| v.使受耻辱，指责，污辱( stigmatize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
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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177
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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178
sects
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| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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179
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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180
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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181
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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182
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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183
innocency
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| 无罪，洁白 | |
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184
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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185
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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186
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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187
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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188
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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189
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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190
abase
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| v.降低，贬抑 | |
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191
abasement
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| n.滥用 | |
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192
bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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193
rivets
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| 铆钉( rivet的名词复数 ) | |
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194
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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195
orphanage
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| n.孤儿院 | |
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196
ordinance
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| n.法令；条令；条例 | |
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197
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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198
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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199
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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200
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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201
lavishing
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的现在分词 ) | |
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202
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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203
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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204
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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205
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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206
aspirants
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| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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207
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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208
redeems
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| 补偿( redeem的第三人称单数 )； 实践； 解救； 使…免受责难 | |
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209
absolves
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的第三人称单数 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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210
subjugated
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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211
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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212
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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213
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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214
poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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215
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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216
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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217
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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218
obese
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| adj.过度肥胖的，肥大的 | |
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219
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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220
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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221
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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222
meretricious
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| adj.华而不实的，俗艳的 | |
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223
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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224
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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225
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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226
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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227
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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228
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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229
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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230
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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231
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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232
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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