THE EVERLASTING1 GOSPEL.
TWELVE middle-class Englishmen and an official sat in inquest on the body of Frederic. They gazed shyly and uninterestedly upon it and then heard the evidence to the effect that he was most happily married and was without financial worry of any kind. . . . The verdict, in view of the fact that the revolver was in the deceased’s overcoat pocket, was one of death by misadventure.
Francis learned the truth from Mr. Clibran-Bell. Mrs. Folyat was not told, neither was Jessie. Queer things were rumoured2, however, and Mrs. Folyat began to feel—not absolutely without foundation—that she was looked upon askance. She went into deep mourning and raised Frederic to sainthood, and surrounded herself with relics3 from among his personal belongings4. She brooded over the past and began to piece together her scattered5 memories. Nothing took clear shape except, what she had not seen at the time, the long coolness between her husband and her son, and she began to charge and reproach Francis with it. By vilifying6 Francis she had the illusion that she was exalting7 Frederic. She kept insisting that Francis must be sorry now that her poor angel was dead. Francis was remorseful8. He was probing deeper and deeper into the unillumined past, groping his way through tortuous9 mole-galleries. The perpetual false deification of Frederic bothered him, his wife’s voice, lachrymose10 and thin, dinning11 in his ears, was [Pg 335]an exasperation12. He was busy, frantically13 busy, forcing his way with all the strength of his nature out of the slough14 of despond into which he had fallen, and she seemed intent on thrusting him out of the slough into a sea of treacly mud. At length, one day, when she had raised Frederic a peg15 higher in her idolatrous beatification, suddenly the truth was wrenched16 from him:
“Can you not see that he meant to kill himself?”
“Oh! Frank . . . !”
He could despitefully have bitten his tongue out for having said it, but, having done so, he owed it to her to go on. It might prove her salvation17. It might bring her back to him so that together they might perceive and win to the ways of brightness.
“He took the pistol with him in his pocket. He had no luggage with him. He had locked the door of his office and paid up his clerks’ wages and the premiums18 of his pupils.”
“Oh! Frank . . . Oh! Frank!”
And Francis hoped that she would turn to him and understand, but her very anguish19 of sorrow she must turn to self-indulgence, and she moved from the luxury of worship to the luxury of self-accusation:
“We drove him to it. All of us. We never understood him.”
She told Jessie, who was prostrated20 by the knowledge, and Mr. Clibran-Bell refused ever to enter the Folyats’ house again.
Francis passed through the very blackest hours of all after that. He prayed to his God but was not comforted; his mind would run only in the harshest channels of the faith he had spent his life in teaching. The God he found was a jealous God, a God of cruelty and vengeance21 and punishment. In vain he told himself that this was the just visitation of sins. He could not believe it. All his spirit craved22 for the belief in mercy, the living eternity23, the life everlasting. He was hemmed24 in by the habit of years, and long familiarity with things sacred, all the vocabulary of paradox25 that had flowed so easily from his lips week in, week out, year after year. He [Pg 336]wanted the truth of it, but it was all words, words, words, a rain of fine dust falling upon his intelligence, blinding his eyes. He needed that in his religion which could square with and illuminate26 the facts of his existence, but ever the darkness grew more impenetrable.
For three weeks he went on mechanically with his work, going blindly through the ritual which he had fought so hard to establish, but always when he came to the Benediction27 and commended the congregation to the Peace of God, he knew, could not away with the knowledge, that there was no peace in his own heart, and he rebuked28 himself and called himself Hypocrite.
He could not take refuge in self-torment. His need was too great. He told himself that he no longer believed, and prayed for help in his unbelief. But there had always been faith in him. Nothing had ever shaken it. His necessity lay in the fact that the symbols he had always used were cheapened, worn, debased. His mind could not change. It was definitely cast in the story of the Godhead in Man in the person of Jesus of Nazareth, born of the Virgin29 birth, persecuted30 and slain31 by the Jews to rise again in glory to the eternal salvation of souls. . . . The teaching of this gospel should, if it had any purpose, lead to noble life, a superb preparation for eternity. But whither had it led himself? To the smallest of small lives, to the ruin of two of his children, fallen into the very snares32 against which they had been warned with all the threats of eternal punishment and Hell fire at the command of an appointed minister of the Christian33 religion. . . . He tried to look beyond his own family, to see what effect the Gospel had had upon his parishioners and he could not disguise from himself the pitifulness of their condition. To consider the effect of the Christian religion upon the history of the world was too large an undertaking34 for him.
Serge had said that he was of those who believe that understanding is not vouchsafed35 to us. What did he mean? . . . Words haunted him:—“To justify36 the works of Man to God,” or was it “To justify the works of God to Man”? Surely the last. The works of Man could [Pg 337]not be justified37. He felt himself to be near the clue he was seeking, but the effort to follow it was beyond him. For him the only tie between Man and God was Jesus Christ.
He read the Gospels, and soon gave up trying to unravel38 the hard sayings, but he read again and again every passage in which the words Love and Mercy occurred. They soothed39 him, and, reading over and over the gentleness of Jesus under persecution40, he became softened41 and very tender, and sought the company of children, his grandchildren.
He rested for a fortnight and then took up his work, for one Sunday only. All the old business of threatening and hectoring and denouncing and holding the wrath42 of God back with prayer, and piling up mountains upon mountains of sin to teach the love and mercy of the Gospel through and after punishment, everlasting and relentless43, was empty, all sound and fury.
His conclusion was, not that the Christian religion had become theatrical44, rhetorical, mechanical, inhuman45 and unjust, but that he himself by his own life had become unworthy to administer it. Like many Christians46, faced with the difficult, almost (in these days) impossible, task of distilling47 the essential truth from its accumulation of tainted48 lumber49, he took refuge, without seeing any inconsistency, in the ascetic50 ideal, thinking that a life of absolute chastity and poverty and abstraction from the things of this world would give a man the right to hurl51 thunder and the lightnings of the Jewish Bible at his fellow men. And yet in his heart, as, latent in the hearts of all men, was the true faith in the ineffable52 love,
. . . che muove ’l Sole e l’altre stelle.
He could not disentangle this love, this spirit of man, from the superstition53 of the ages, and could not therefore let it freely move his own existence. He told himself that he had failed, that he ought never to have entered the priesthood, that he was an old man and could not change. No other course lay open to him than to retire.
[Pg 338]
He wrote to his Bishop54 to ask his leave, and, if it were granted, to apply for a pension from the Diocesan fund.
Never again did he conduct Divine service in any church.
He felt infinitely55 happier when he had done this, and a new brightness came to Mrs. Folyat and Mary when they knew they were to escape from the town where they had come by so much suffering, and the numbing56 monotony of a rather idle existence in drab surroundings. They set their faces southwards, for they had decided57 to live in Potsham, where Francis had held his first curacy. They were going to live in Crabtrees, where Francis Folyat and Martha Brett had met and loved each other so long ago, and all day long Francis would be busy in the garden running down to the river, and all day long Martha would sit in the gazebo and look out at the water, and see the tide coming in, and the herons fishing, and the boats go sailing by, all as it had been long ago, peaceful and beautiful. . . . Already, weeks before they could go, the peace of it began to fill the house in Burdley Park, and the dark past slipped away from them and Francis began to feel the richness of old age, when best and worst have been done, and the fruits of reflection can be gathered in.
Often as he sat working in the greenhouse, or in the study turning over his books—he had gone back to the loves of his early days, Fielding and Don Quixote—Francis would think of Serge, and the day when together they had walked away from Mrs. Entwistle’s cottage. That memory preoccupied58 him more and more, and he felt a desire to see Annie Lipsett again before he went away. She wrote to him at long intervals59 to let him know that she had not forgotten. His feeling about the episode had always been spiced with the joy of forbidden things. It had been entirely60 separate from the rest of his life, and yet, unknown to him, it had informed the whole of it, and, in his most need, had given him the assurance of love and mercy which had upheld him in the face of the doctrine61 and dogma of his Church, even though he had seemed to [Pg 339]himself to be upholding the Church by the sacrifice of himself.
He found Annie Lipsett busy and thoughtful. She was going to be married to an auctioneer who had been a lodger62 in her mother’s house. She had just had a letter from Serge in Ceylon and its friendliness63 had removed her last anxieties.
“You see, sir,” she said to Francis, “Mr. Serge found me when everything was as complicated as that piece of lace, and he made it all simple. And after that, being with him made one able to bear everything, because one felt that, whatever it was, it would go away. He used to say that being unhappy and dark in your mind was just the same as being unwell in your body, and if it was taken in time there was always a cure for it. So funny he used to be about it. He was always talking to me about the boy, and he used to say that I must teach him nothing, because children are always right by themselves until they begin to imitate grown-up people, and bad things are easier to imitate than good because they are grotesque64, and grown-up people have always to be learning good things from children over and over again.”
“I have never forgotten that day when I came to see you.”
“Nor I, sir.”
“We’re going away, for ever. It is queer, but you are the only person whom I really wanted to see before I left. We have never seemed to belong to this place.”
“I used to hate it too, but Mr. Serge made me laugh at it all. He said it was just an accident, though I didn’t know what he meant by that. I often didn’t really understand Mr. Serge, except about the boy, but then I could see that everything he said was true.”
“I hope you will be very, very happy.”
Annie surprised Francis by putting her arms round his neck and kissing him. He returned the kiss.
It was only some time after he had left her that it struck him that he had never once thought of Frederic in connection with her. When he called Frederic to his mind [Pg 340]it was always as a graceful65, impudent66, funny little boy. He had never known the man Frederic. Frederic had never been a man.
Even in our town the green of spring was showing and the zestful67 wind was blowing upon the blackened houses when Francis, his wife and Mary left upon their long journey to the south. Gleeful and glad they were, and the spring was in their hearts and the keen adventurousness68 of escape. After long captivity69 they were shaking from their shoes the dust of the hostile city, leaving in its toils70 the sole hostage of all their family, Annette, doomed71 to the life of drudgery72 to which that city condemns73 its women, for, except they be born in drudgery, the sons of its women could never endure its service, nor would they be fitted for it.
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1
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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vilifying
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| v.中伤，诽谤( vilify的现在分词 ) | |
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exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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lachrymose
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| adj.好流泪的，引人落泪的；adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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dinning
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| vt.喧闹（din的现在分词形式） | |
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12
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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15
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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premiums
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| n.费用( premium的名词复数 )；保险费；额外费用；（商品定价、贷款利息等以外的）加价 | |
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19
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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21
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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23
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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24
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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27
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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28
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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30
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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32
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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33
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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35
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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36
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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38
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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39
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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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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41
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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42
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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43
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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44
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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45
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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46
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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47
distilling
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| n.蒸馏（作用）v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )( distilled的过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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48
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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49
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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50
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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51
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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52
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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53
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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54
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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56
numbing
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| adj.使麻木的，使失去感觉的v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的现在分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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59
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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60
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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61
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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64
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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zestful
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| adj.有滋味 | |
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adventurousness
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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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toils
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| 网 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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73
condemns
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的第三人称单数 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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