Doctors explain to us that the immediate3 cause of insomnia is always some poisoned or depleted4 state of the body, and no doubt the fatigues5 and hasty meals of the day had left the bishop in a state of unprecedented6 chemical disorder7, with his nerves irritated by strange compounds and unsoothed by familiar lubricants. But chemical disorders10 follow mental disturbances12, and the core and essence of his trouble was an intellectual distress13. For the first time in his life he was really in doubt, about himself, about his way of living, about all his persuasions14. It was a general doubt. It was not a specific suspicion upon this point or that. It was a feeling of detachment and unreality at once extraordinarily15 vague and extraordinarily oppressive. It was as if he discovered himself flimsy and transparent16 in a world of minatory17 solidity and opacity18. It was as if he found himself made not of flesh and blood but of tissue paper.
But this intellectual insecurity extended into his physical sensations. It affected19 his feeling in his skin, as if it were not absolutely his own skin.
And as he lay there, a weak phantom20 mentally and bodily, an endless succession and recurrence21 of anxieties for which he could find no reassurance22 besieged24 him.
Chief of this was his distress for Eleanor.
She was the central figure in this new sense of illusion in familiar and trusted things. It was not only that the world of his existence which had seemed to be the whole universe had become diaphanous25 and betrayed vast and uncontrollable realities beyond it, but his daughter had as it were suddenly opened a door in this glassy sphere of insecurity that had been his abiding26 refuge, a door upon the stormy rebel outer world, and she stood there, young, ignorant, confident, adventurous27, ready to step out.
“Could it be possible that she did not believe?”
He saw her very vividly28 as he had seen her in the dining-room, slender and upright, half child, half woman, so fragile and so fearless. And the door she opened thus carelessly gave upon a stormy background like one of the stormy backgrounds that were popular behind portrait Dianas in eighteenth century paintings. Did she believe that all he had taught her, all the life he led was—what was her phrase?—a kind of magic world, not really real?
The wind blew through the door she opened, and scattered30 everything in the room. And still she held the door open.
He was astonished at himself. He started up in swift indignation. Had he not taught the child? Had he not brought her up in an atmosphere of faith? What right had she to turn upon him in this matter? It was—indeed it was—a sort of insolence31, a lack of reverence32....
It was strange he had not perceived this at the time.
But indeed at the first mention of “questionings” he ought to have thundered. He saw that quite clearly now. He ought to have cried out and said, “On your knees, my Norah, and ask pardon of God!”
Because after all faith is an emotional thing....
He began to think very rapidly and copiously33 of things he ought to have said to Eleanor. And now the eloquence34 of reverie was upon him. In a little time he was also addressing the tea-party at Morrice Deans'. Upon them too he ought to have thundered. And he knew now also all that he should have said to the recalcitrant35 employer. Thunder also. Thunder is surely the privilege of the higher clergy36—under Jove.
But why hadn't he thundered?
He gesticulated in the darkness, thrust out a clutching hand.
There are situations that must be gripped—gripped firmly. And without delay. In the middle ages there had been grip enough in a purple glove.
(2)
From these belated seizures37 of the day's lost opportunities the bishop passed to such a pessimistic estimate of the church as had never entered his mind before.
It was as if he had fallen suddenly out of a spiritual balloon into a world of bleak38 realism. He found himself asking unprecedented and devastating39 questions, questions that implied the most fundamental shiftings of opinion. Why was the church such a failure? Why had it no grip upon either masters or men amidst this vigorous life of modern industrialism, and why had it no grip upon the questioning young? It was a tolerated thing, he felt, just as sometimes he had felt that the Crown was a tolerated thing. He too was a tolerated thing; a curious survival....
This was not as things should be. He struggled to recover a proper attitude. But he remained enormously dissatisfied....
The church was no Levite to pass by on the other side away from the struggles and wrongs of the social conflict. It had no right when the children asked for the bread of life to offer them Gothic stone....
He began to make interminable weak plans for fulfilling his duty to his diocese and his daughter.
What could he do to revivify his clergy? He wished he had more personal magnetism40, he wished he had a darker and a larger presence. He wished he had not been saddled with Whippham's rather futile41 son as his chaplain. He wished he had a dean instead of being his own dean. With an unsympathetic rector. He wished he had it in him to make some resounding42 appeal. He might of course preach a series of thumping43 addresses and sermons, rather on the lines of “Fors Clavigera,” to masters and men, in the Cathedral. Only it was so difficult to get either masters or men into the Cathedral.
Well, if the people will not come to the bishop the bishop must go out to the people. Should he go outside the Cathedral—to the place where the trains met?
Interweaving with such thoughts the problem of Eleanor rose again into his consciousness.
Weren't there books she ought to read? Weren't there books she ought to be made to read? And books—and friends—that ought to be imperatively44 forbidden? Imperatively!
But how to define the forbidden?
He began to compose an address on Modern Literature (so-called).
It became acrimonious45.
Before dawn the birds began to sing.
His mind had seemed to be a little tranquillized, there had been a distinct feeling of subsidence sleepwards, when first one and then another little creature roused itself and the bishop to greet the gathering46 daylight.
It became a little clamour, a misty47 sea of sound in which individuality appeared and disappeared. For a time a distant cuckoo was very perceptible, like a landmark48 looming49 up over a fog, like the cuckoo in the Pastoral Symphony.
The bishop tried not to heed50 these sounds, but they were by their very nature insistent51 sounds. He lay disregarding them acutely.
Presently he pulled the coverlet over his ears.
A little later he sat up in bed.
Again in a slight detail he marked his strange and novel detachment from the world of his upbringing. His hallucination of disillusionment had spread from himself and his church and his faith to the whole animate52 creation. He knew that these were the voices of “our feathered songsters,” that this was “a joyous53 chorus” greeting the day. He knew that a wakeful bishop ought to bless these happy creatures, and join with them by reciting Ken's morning hymn54. He made an effort that was more than half habit, to repeat and he repeated with a scowling55 face and the voice of a schoolmaster:
“Awake my soul, and with the sun Thy daily stage of duty run....”
He got no further. He stopped short, sat still, thinking what utterly56 detestable things singing birds were. A. blackbird had gripped his attention. Never had he heard such vain repetitions. He struggled against the dark mood of criticism. “He prayeth best who loveth best—”
No, he did not love the birds. It was useless to pretend. Whatever one may say about other birds a cuckoo is a low detestable cad of a bird.
Then the bishop began to be particularly tormented57 by a bird that made a short, insistent, wheezing58 sound at regular intervals59 of perhaps twenty seconds. If a bird could have whooping-cough, that, he thought, was the sort of whoop60 it would have. But even if it had whooping-cough he could not pity it. He hung in its intervals waiting for the return of the wheeze61.
And then that blackbird reasserted itself. It had a rich boastful note; it seemed proud of its noisy reiteration62 of simple self-assertion. For some obscure reason the phrase “oleographic sounds” drifted into the bishop's thoughts. This bird produced the peculiar63 and irrational64 impression that it had recently made a considerable sum of money by shrewd industrialism. It was, he thought grimly, a genuine Princhester blackbird.
This wickedly uncharitable reference to his diocese ran all unchallenged through the bishop's mind. And others no less wicked followed it.
Once during his summer holidays in Florence he and Lady Ella had subscribed65 to an association for the protection of song-birds. He recalled this now with a mild wonder. It seemed to him that perhaps after all it was as well to let fruit-growers and Italians deal with singing-birds in their own way. Perhaps after all they had a wisdom....
He passed his hands over his face. The world after all is not made entirely66 for singing-birds; there is such a thing as proportion. Singing-birds may become a luxury, an indulgence, an excess.
Did the birds eat the fruit in Paradise?
Perhaps there they worked for some collective musical effect, had some sort of conductor in the place of this—hullabaloo....
The sunrise found the bishop with his head and shoulders out of the window trying to see that blackbird. He just wanted to look at it. He was persuaded it was a quite exceptional blackbird.
Again came that oppressive sense of the futility68 of the contemporary church, but this time it came in the most grotesque69 form. For hanging half out of the casement70 he was suddenly reminded of St. Francis of Assisi, and how at his rebuke71 the wheeling swallow stilled their cries.
But it was all so different then.
(3)
It was only after he had passed four similar nights, with intervening days of lassitude and afternoon siestas72, that the bishop realized that he was in the grip of insomnia.
He did not go at once to a doctor, but he told his trouble to every one he met and received much tentative advice. He had meant to have his talk with Eleanor on the morning next after their conversation in the dining-room, but his bodily and spiritual anaemia prevented him.
The fifth night was the beginning of the Whitsuntide Ember week, and he wore a red cassock and had a distracting and rather interesting day welcoming his ordination73 candidates. They had a good effect upon him; we spiritualize ourselves when we seek to spiritualize others, and he went to bed in a happier frame of mind than he had done since the day of the shock. He woke in the night, but he woke much more himself than he had been since the trouble began. He repeated that verse of Ken's:
“When in the night I sleepless74 lie, My soul with heavenly thoughts supply; Let no ill dreams disturb my rest, No powers of darkness me molest75.”
Almost immediately after these there floated into his mind, as if it were a message, the dear familiar words:
“He giveth his Beloved sleep.”
These words irradiated and soothed8 him quite miraculously76, the clouds of doubt seemed to dissolve and vanish and leave him safe and calm under a clear sky; he knew those words were a promise, and very speedily he fell asleep and slept until he was called.
But the next day was a troubled one. Whippham had muddled77 his timetable and crowded his afternoon; the strike of the transport workers had begun, and the ugly noises they made at the tramway depot79, where they were booing some one, penetrated80 into the palace. He had to snatch a meal between services, and the sense of hurry invaded his afternoon lectures to the candidates. He hated hurry in Ember week. His ideal was one of quiet serenity81, of grave things said slowly, of still, kneeling figures, of a sort of dark cool spiritual germination82. But what sort of dark cool spiritual germination is possible with an ass23 like Whippham about?
In the fresh courage of the morning the bishop had arranged for that talk with Eleanor he had already deferred83 too long, and this had proved less satisfactory than he had intended it to be.
The bishop's experience with the ordination candidates was following the usual course. Before they came there was something bordering upon distaste for the coming invasion; then always there was an effect of surprise at the youth and faith of the neophytes and a real response of the spirit to the occasion. Throughout the first twenty-four hours they were all simply neophytes, without individuality to break up their uniformity of self-devotion. Then afterwards they began to develop little personal traits, and scarcely ever were these pleasing traits. Always one or two of them would begin haunting the bishop, giving way to an appetite for special words, special recognitions. He knew the expression of that craving84 on their faces. He knew the way-laying movements in room and passage that presently began.
This time in particular there was a freckled85 underbred young man who handed in what was evidently a carefully prepared memorandum86 upon what he called “my positions.” Apparently87 he had a muddle78 of doubts about the early fathers and the dates of the earlier authentic88 copies of the gospels, things of no conceivable significance.
The bishop glanced through this bale of papers—it had of course no index and no synopsis89, and some of the pages were not numbered—handed it over to Whippham, and when he proved, as usual, a broken reed, the bishop had the brilliant idea of referring the young man to Canon Bliss90 (of Pringle), “who has a special knowledge quite beyond my own in this field.”
But he knew from the young man's eye even as he said this that it was not going to put him off for more than a day or so.
The immediate result of glancing over these papers was, however, to enhance in the bishop's mind a growing disposition91 to minimize the importance of all dated and explicit92 evidences and arguments for orthodox beliefs, and to resort to vague symbolic93 and liberal interpretations94, and it was in this state that he came to his talk with Eleanor.
He did not give her much time to develop her objections. He met her half way and stated them for her, and overwhelmed her with sympathy and understanding. She had been “too literal.” “Too literal” was his keynote. He was a little astonished at the liberality of his own views. He had been getting along now for some years without looking into his own opinions too closely and he was by no means prepared to discover how far he had come to meet his daughter's scepticisms. But he did meet them. He met them so thoroughly96 that he almost conveyed that hers was a needlessly conservative and oldfashioned attitude.
Occasionally he felt he was being a little evasive, but she did not seem to notice it. As she took his drift, her relief and happiness were manifest. And he had never noticed before how clear and pretty her eyes were; they were the most honest eyes he had ever seen. She looked at him very steadily97 as he explained, and lit up at his points. She brightened wonderfully as she realized that after all they were not apart, they had not differed; simply they had misunderstood....
And before he knew where he was, and in a mere98 parenthetical declaration of liberality, he surprised himself by conceding her demand for Newnham even before she had repeated it. It helped his case wonderfully.
“Call in every exterior99 witness you can. The church will welcome them.... No, I want you to go, my dear....”
But his mind was stirred again to its depths by this discussion. And in particular he was surprised and a little puzzled by this Newnham concession100 and the necessity of making his new attitude clear to Lady Ella....
It was with a sense of fatality101 that he found himself awake again that night, like some one lying drowned and still and yet perfectly102 conscious at the bottom of deep cold water.
He repeated, “He giveth his Beloved sleep,” but all the conviction had gone out of the words.
(4)
Neither the bishop's insomnia nor his incertitudes about himself and his faith developed in a simple and orderly manner. There were periods of sustained suffering and periods of recovery; it was not for a year or so that he regarded these troubles as more than acute incidental interruptions of his general tranquillity103 or realized that he was passing into a new phase of life and into a new quality of thought. He told every one of the insomnia and no one of his doubts; these he betrayed only by an increasing tendency towards vagueness, symbolism, poetry and toleration. Eleanor seemed satisfied with his exposition; she did not press for further enlightenment. She continued all her outward conformities104 except that after a time she ceased to communicate; and in September she went away to Newnham. Her doubts had not visibly affected Clementina or her other sisters, and the bishop made no further attempts to explore the spiritual life of his family below the surface of its formal acquiescence105.
As a matter of fact his own spiritual wrestlings were almost exclusively nocturnal. During his spells of insomnia he led a curiously106 double existence. In the daytime he was largely the self he had always been, able, assured, ecclesiastical, except that he was a little jaded107 and irritable108 or sleepy instead of being quick and bright; he believed in God and the church and the Royal Family and himself securely; in the wakeful night time he experienced a different and novel self, a bare-minded self, bleakly109 fearless at its best, shamelessly weak at its worst, critical, sceptical, joyless, anxious. The anxiety was quite the worst element of all. Something sat by his pillow asking grey questions: “What are you doing? Where are you going? Is it really well with the children? Is it really well with the church? Is it really well with the country? Are you indeed doing anything at all? Are you anything more than an actor wearing a costume in an archaic110 play? The people turn their backs on you.”
He would twist over on his pillow. He would whisper hymns111 and prayers that had the quality of charms.
“He giveth his Beloved sleep”; that answered many times, and many times it failed.
The labour troubles of 1912 eased off as the year wore on, and the bitterness of the local press over the palace abated112 very considerably113. Indeed there was something like a watery114 gleam of popularity when he brought down his consistent friend, the dear old Princess Christiana of Hoch and Unter, black bonnet115, deafness, and all, to open a new wing of the children's hospital. The Princhester conservative paper took the occasion to inform the diocese that he was a fluent German scholar and consequently a persona grata with the royal aunts, and that the Princess Christiana was merely just one of a number of royalties116 now practically at the beck and call of Princhester. It was not true, but it was very effective locally, and seemed to justify117 a little the hauteur118 of which Lady Ella was so unjustly suspected. Yet it involved a possibility of disappointments in the future.
He went to Brighton-Pomfrey too upon the score of his general health, and Brighton-Pomfrey revised his general regimen, discouraged indiscreet fasting, and suggested a complete abstinence from red wine except white port, if indeed that can be called a red wine, and a moderate use of Egyptian cigarettes.
But 1913 was a strenuous119 year. The labour troubles revived, the suffragette movement increased greatly in violence and aggressiveness, and there sprang up no less than three ecclesiastical scandals in the diocese. First, the Kensitites set themselves firmly to make presentations and prosecutions120 against Morrice Deans, who was reserving the sacrament, wearing, they said, “Babylonish garments,” going beyond all reason in the matter of infant confession121, and generally brightening up Mogham Banks; next, a popular preacher in Wombash, published a book under the exasperating122 title, “The Light Under the Altar,” in which he showed himself as something between an Arian and a Pantheist, and treated the dogma of the Trinity with as little respect as one would show to an intrusive123 cat; while thirdly, an obscure but overworked missioner of a tin mission church in the new working-class district at Pringle, being discovered in some sort of polygamous relationship, had seen fit to publish in pamphlet form a scandalous admission and defence, a pamphlet entitled “Marriage True and False,” taking the public needlessly into his completest confidence and quoting the affairs of Abraham and Hosea, reviving many points that are better forgotten about Luther, and appealing also to such uncanonical authorities as Milton, Plato, and John Humphrey Noyes. This abnormal concurrence124 of indiscipline was extremely unlucky for the bishop. It plunged125 him into strenuous controversy126 upon three fronts, so to speak, and involved a great number of personal encounters far too vivid for his mental serenity.
The Pringle polygamist was the most moving as Morrice Deans was the most exacting127 and troublesome and the Wombash Pantheist the most insidiously128 destructive figure in these three toilsome disputes. The Pringle man's soul had apparently missed the normal distribution of fig-leaves; he was an illiterate129, open-eyed, hard-voiced, freckled, rational-minded creature, with large expository hands, who had come by a side way into the church because he was an indefatigable130 worker, and he insisted upon telling the bishop with an irrepressible candour and completeness just exactly what was the matter with his intimate life. The bishop very earnestly did not want these details, and did his utmost to avoid the controversial questions that the honest man pressed respectfully but obstinately131 upon him.
“Even St. Paul, my lord, admitted that it is better to marry than burn,” said the Pringle misdemeanant, “and here was I, my lord, married and still burning!” and, “I think you would find, my lord, considering all Charlotte's peculiarities132, that the situation was really much more trying than the absolute celibacy133 St. Paul had in view.”...
The bishop listened to these arguments as little as possible, and did not answer them at all. But afterwards the offender134 came and wept and said he was ruined and heartbroken and unfairly treated because he wasn't a gentleman, and that was distressing135. It was so exactly true—and so inevitable136. He had been deprived, rather on account of his voice and apologetics than of his offence, and public opinion was solidly with the sentence. He made a gallant137 effort to found what he called a Labour Church in Pringle, and after some financial misunderstandings departed with his unambiguous menage to join the advanced movement on the Clyde.
The Morrice Deans enquiry however demanded an amount of erudition that greatly fatigued138 the bishop. He had a very fair general knowledge of vestments, but he had never really cared for anything but the poetry of ornaments139, and he had to work strenuously140 to master the legal side of the question. Whippham, his chaplain, was worse than useless as a helper. The bishop wanted to end the matter as quickly, quietly, and favourably141 to Morrice Deans as possible; he thought Morrice Deans a thoroughly good man in his parish, and he believed that the substitution of a low churchman would mean a very complete collapse142 of church influence in Mogham Banks, where people were now thoroughly accustomed to a highly ornate service. But Morrice Deans was intractable and his pursuers indefatigable, and on several occasions the bishop sat far into the night devising compromises and equivocations that should make the Kensitites think that Morrice Deans wasn't wearing vestments when he was, and that should make Morrice Deans think he was wearing vestments when he wasn't. And it was Whippham who first suggested green tea as a substitute for coffee, which gave the bishop indigestion, as his stimulant143 for these nocturnal bouts144.
And while all this extra activity about Morrice Deans, these vigils and crammings and writings down, were using all and more energy than the bishop could well spare, he was also doing his quiet utmost to keep “The Light under the Altar” ease from coming to a head.
This man he hated.
And he dreaded146 him as well as hated him. Chasters, the author of “The Light under the Altar,” was a man who not only reasoned closely but indelicately. There was a demonstrating, jeering147, air about his preaching and writing, and everything he said and did was saturated148 by the spirit of challenge. He did not so much imitate as exaggerate the style of Matthew Arnold. And whatever was done publicly against him would have to be done very publicly because his book had got him a London reputation.
From the bishop's point of view Chasters was one of nature's ignoblemen. He seemed to have subscribed to the Thirty-Nine Articles and passed all the tests and taken all the pledges that stand on the way to ordination, chiefly for the pleasure of attacking them more successfully from the rear; he had been given the living of Wombash by a cousin, and filled it very largely because it was not only more piquant149 but more remunerative150 and respectable to be a rationalist lecturer in a surplice. And in a hard kind of ultra-Protestant way his social and parochial work was not badly done. But his sermons were terrible. “He takes a text,” said one informant, “and he goes on firstly, secondly151, thirdly, fourthly, like somebody tearing the petals152 from a flower. 'Finally,' he says, and throws the bare stalk into the dustbin.”
The bishop avoided “The Light under the Altar” for nearly a year. It was only when a second book was announced with the winning title of “The Core of Truth in Christianity” that he perceived he must take action. He sat up late one night with a marked copy, a very indignantly marked copy, of the former work that an elderly colonel, a Wombash parishioner, an orthodox Layman153 of the most virulent154 type, had sent him. He perceived that he had to deal with a dialectician of exceptional ability, who had concentrated a quite considerable weight of scholarship upon the task of explaining away every scrap155 of spiritual significance in the Eucharist. From Chasters the bishop was driven by reference to the works of Legge and Frazer, and for the first time he began to measure the dimensions and power of the modern criticism of church doctrine156 and observance. Green tea should have lit his way to refutation; instead it lit up the whole inquiry157 with a light of melancholy158 confirmation159. Neither by night nor by day could the bishop find a proper method of opening a counter attack upon Chasters, who was indisputably an intellectually abler man and a very ruthless beast indeed to assail160, and meanwhile the demand that action should be taken increased.
The literature of church history and the controversies161 arising out of doctrinal development became the employment of the bishop's leisure and a commanding preoccupation. He would have liked to discuss with some one else the network of perplexities in which he was entangling162 himself, and more particularly with Canon Bliss, but his own positions were becoming so insecure that he feared to betray them by argument. He had grown up with a kind of intellectual modesty163. Some things he had never yet talked about; it made his mind blench164 to think of talking about them. And his great aching gaps of wakefulness began now, thanks to the green tea, to be interspersed165 with theological dreams and visions of an extravagant166 vividness. He would see Frazer's sacrificial kings butchered picturesquely167 and terribly amidst strange and grotesque rituals; he would survey long and elaborate processions and ceremonials in which the most remarkable168 symbols were borne high in the sight of all men; he would cower169 before a gigantic and threatening Heaven. These green-tea dreams and visions were not so much phases of sleep as an intensification170 and vivid furnishing forth171 of insomnia. It added greatly to his disturbance11 that—exceeding the instructions of Brighton-Pomfrey—he had now experimented ignorantly and planlessly with one or two narcotics172 and sleeping mixtures that friends and acquaintances had mentioned in his hearing. For the first time in his life he became secretive from his wife. He knew he ought not to take these things, he knew they were physically173 and morally evil, but a tormenting174 craving drove him to them. Subtly and insensibly his character was being undermined by the growing nervous trouble.
He astonished himself by the cunning and the hypocritical dignity he could display in procuring175 these drugs. He arranged to have a tea-making set in his bedroom, and secretly substituted green tea, for which he developed a powerful craving, in the place of the delicate China tea Lady Ella procured176 him.
(5)
These doctrinal and physical anxieties and distresses177 were at their worst in the spring and early summer of 1914. That was a time of great mental and moral disturbance. There was premonition in the air of those days. It was like the uneasiness sensitive people experience before a thunderstorm. The moral atmosphere was sullen178 and close. The whole world seemed irritable and mischievous179. The suffragettes became extraordinarily malignant180; the democratic movement went rotten with sabotage181 and with a cant9 of being “rebels”; the reactionary182 Tories and a crew of noisy old peeresses set themselves to create incurable183 confusion again in the healing wounds of Ireland, and feuds184 and frantic185 folly186 broke out at every point of the social and political edifice187. And then a bomb burst at Sarajevo that silenced all this tumult188. The unstable189 polity of Europe heeled over like a ship that founders190.
Through the swiftest, tensest week in history Europe capsized into war.
(6)
The first effect of the war upon the mind of the bishop, as upon most imaginative minds, was to steady and exalt191 it. Trivialities and exasperations seemed swept out of existence. Men lifted up their eyes from disputes that had seemed incurable and wrangling192 that promised to be interminable, and discovered a plain and tragic193 issue that involved every one in a common call for devotion. For a great number of men and women who had been born and bred in security, the August and September of 1914 were the supremely194 heroic period of their lives. Myriads195 of souls were born again to ideas of service and sacrifice in those tremendous days.
Black and evil thing as the war was, it was at any rate a great thing; it did this much for countless196 minds that for the first time they realized the epic197 quality of history and their own relationship to the destinies of the race. The flimsy roof under which we had been living our lives of comedy fell and shattered the floor under our feet; we saw the stars above and the abyss below. We perceived that life was insecure and adventurous, part of one vast adventure in space and time....
Presently the smoke and dust of battle hid the great distances again, but they could not altogether destroy the memories of this revelation.
For the first two months the bishop's attention was so detached from his immediate surroundings and employments, so absorbed by great events, that his history if it were told in detail would differ scarcely at all from the histories of most comparatively unemployed198 minds during those first dramatic days, the days when the Germans made their great rush upon Paris and it seemed that France was down, France and the whole fabric199 of liberal civilization. He emerged from these stunning200 apprehensions201 after the Battle of the Marne, to find himself busy upon a score of dispersed202 and disconnected war jobs, and trying to get all the new appearances and forces and urgencies of the war into relations with himself. One thing became very vivid indeed, that he wasn't being used in any real and effective way in the war. There was a mighty203 going to and fro upon Red Cross work and various war committees, a vast preparation for wounded men and for the succour of dislocated families; a preparation, that proved to be needless, for catastrophic unemployment. The war problem and the puzzle of German psychology204 ousted205 for a time all other intellectual interests; like every one else the bishop swam deep in Nietzsche, Bernhardi, Houston Stewart Chamberlain, and the like; he preached several sermons upon German materialism206 and the astonishing decay of the German character. He also read every newspaper he could lay his hands on—like any secular207 man. He signed an address to the Russian Orthodox church, beginning “Brethren,” and he revised his impressions of the Filioque controversy. The idea of a reunion of the two great state churches of Russia and England had always attracted him. But hitherto it had been a thing quite out of scale, visionary, utopian. Now in this strange time of altered perspectives it seemed the most practicable of suggestions. The mayor and corporation and a detachment of the special reserve in uniform came to a great intercession service, and in the palace there were two conferences of local influential208 people, people of the most various types, people who had never met tolerantly before, expressing now opinions of unprecedented breadth and liberality.
All this sort of thing was fresh and exciting at first, and then it began to fall into a routine and became habitual209, and as it became habitual he found that old sense of detachment and futility was creeping back again. One day he realized that indeed the whole flood and tumult of the war would be going on almost exactly as it was going on now if there had been neither cathedral nor bishop in Princhester. It came to him that if archbishops were rolled into patriarchs and patriarchs into archbishops, it would matter scarcely more in the world process that was afoot than if two men shook hands while their house was afire. At times all of us have inappropriate thoughts. The unfortunate thought that struck the bishop as a bullet might strike a man in an exposed trench211, as he was hurrying through the cloisters212 to a special service and address upon that doubly glorious day in our English history, the day of St. Crispin, was of Diogenes rolling his tub.
It was a poisonous thought.
It arose perhaps out of an article in a weekly paper at which he had glanced after lunch, an article written by one of those sceptical spirits who find all too abundant expression in our periodical literature. The writer boldly charged the “Christian churches” with absolute ineffectiveness. This war, he declared, was above all other wars a war of ideas, of material organization against rational freedom, of violence against law; it was a war more copiously discussed than any war had ever been before, the air was thick with apologetics. And what was the voice of the church amidst these elemental issues? Bishops210 and divines who were patriots213 one heard discordantly214 enough, but where were the bishops and divines who spoke215 for the Prince of Peace? Where was the blessing216 of the church, where was the veto of the church? When it came to that one discovered only a broad preoccupied217 back busied in supplementing the Army Medical Corps218 with Red Cross activities, good work in its way—except that the canonicals seemed superfluous219. Who indeed looked to the church for any voice at all? And so to Diogenes.
The bishop's mind went hunting for an answer to that indictment220. And came back and came back to the image of Diogenes.
It was with that image dangling221 like a barbed arrow from his mind that the bishop went into the pulpit to preach upon St. Crispin's day, and looked down upon a thin and scattered congregation in which the elderly, the childless, and the unoccupied predominated.
That night insomnia resumed its sway.
Of course the church ought to be controlling this great storm, the greatest storm of war that had ever stirred mankind. It ought to be standing95 fearlessly between the combatants like a figure in a wall painting, with the cross of Christ uplifted and the restored memory of Christendom softening222 the eyes of the armed nations. “Put down those weapons and listen to me,” so the church should speak in irresistible223 tones, in a voice of silver trumpets224.
Instead it kept a long way from the fighting, tucked up its vestments, and was rolling its local tubs quite briskly.
(7)
And then came the aggravation225 of all these distresses by an abrupt226 abandonment of smoking and alcohol. Alcoholic227 relaxation228, a necessary mitigation of the unreality of peacetime politics, becomes a grave danger in war, and it was with an understandable desire to forward the interests of his realm that the King decided to set his statesmen an example—which unhappily was not very widely followed—by abstaining229 from alcohol during the continuance of the struggle. It did however swing over the Bishop of Princhester to an immediate and complete abandonment of both drink and tobacco. At that time he was finding comfort for his nerves in Manila cheroots, and a particularly big and heavy type of Egyptian cigarette with a considerable amount of opium230, and his disorganized system seized upon this sudden change as a grievance231, and set all his jangling being crying aloud for one cigarette—just one cigarette.
The cheroots, it seemed, he could better spare, but a cigarette became his symbol for his lost steadiness and ease.
It brought him low.
The reader has already been told the lamentable232 incident of the stolen cigarette and the small boy, and how the bishop, tormented by that shameful233 memory, cried aloud in the night.
The bishop rolled his tub, and is there any tub-rolling in the world more busy and exacting than a bishop's? He rolled in it spite of ill-health and insomnia, and all the while he was tormented by the enormous background of the world war, by his ineffective realization234 of vast national needs, by his passionate235 desire, for himself and his church, not to be ineffective.
The distressful236 alternation between nights of lucid doubt and days of dull acquiescence was resumed with an intensification of its contrasts. The brief phase of hope that followed the turn of the fighting upon the Maine, the hope that after all the war would end swiftly, dramatically, and justly, and everything be as it had been before—but pleasanter, gave place to a phase that bordered upon despair. The fall of Antwerp and the doubts and uncertainties237 of the Flanders situation weighed terribly upon the bishop. He was haunted for a time by nightmares of Zeppelins presently raining fire upon London. These visions became Apocalyptic238. The Zeppelins came to England with the new year, and with the close of the year came the struggle for Ypres that was so near to being a collapse of the allied239 defensive240. The events of the early spring, the bloody241 failure of British generalship at Neuve Chapelle, the naval242 disaster in the Dardanelles, the sinking of the Falaba, the Russian defeat in the Masurian Lakes, all deepened the bishop's impression of the immensity of the nation's difficulties and of his own unhelpfulness. He was ashamed that the church should hold back its curates from enlistment243 while the French priests were wearing their uniforms in the trenches244; the expedition of the Bishop of London to hold open-air services at the front seemed merely to accentuate245 the tub-rolling. It was rolling the tub just where it was most in the way.
What was wrong? What was wanting?
The Westminster Gazette, The Spectator, and several other of the most trusted organs of public opinion were intermittently246 discussing the same question. Their discussions implied at once the extreme need that was felt for religion by all sorts of representative people, and the universal conviction that the church was in some way muddling247 and masking her revelation. “What is wrong with the Churches?” was, for example, the general heading of The Westminster Gazette's correspondence.
One day the bishop skimmed a brief incisive248 utterance249 by Sir Harry250 Johnston that pierced to the marrow251 of his own shrinking convictions. Sir Harry is one of those people who seem to write as well as speak in a quick tenor252. “Instead of propounding253 plainly and without the acereted mythology254 of Asia Minor255, Greece and Rome, the pure Gospel of Christ.... they present it overloaded256 with unbelievable myths (such as, among a thousand others, that Massacre257 of the Innocents which never took place).... bore their listeners by a Tibetan repetition of creeds258 that have ceased to be credible259.... Mutually contradictory260 propositions.... Prayers and litanies composed in Byzantine and mediaeval times.... the want of actuality, the curious silliness which has, ever since the destruction of Jerusalem, hung about the exposition of Christianity.... But if the Bishops continue to fuss about the trappings of religion.... the maintenance of codes compiled by people who lived sixteen hundred or two thousand five hundred years ago.... the increasingly educated and practical-minded working classes will not come to church, weekday or Sunday.”
The bishop held the paper in his hand, and with a mind that he felt to be terribly open, asked himself how true that sharp indictment might be, and, granting its general truth, what was the duty of the church, that is to say of the bishops, for as Cyprian says, ecelesia est in episcopo. We say the creeds; how far may we unsay them?
So far he had taken no open action against Chasters. Suppose now he were to side with Chasters and let the whole diocese, the church of Princhester, drift as far as it chose under his inaction towards an extreme modernism, risking a conflict with, and if necessary fighting, the archbishop.... It was but for a moment that his mind swung to this possibility and then recoiled261. The Laymen262, that band of bigots, would fight. He could not contemplate263 litigation and wrangling about the teaching of the church. Besides, what were the “trappings of religion” and what the essentials? What after all was “the pure gospel of Christ” of which this writer wrote so glibly264? He put the paper down and took a New Testament265 from his desk and opened it haphazard266. He felt a curious wish that he could read it for the first time. It was over-familiar. Everything latterly in his theology and beliefs had become over-familiar. It had all become mechanical and dead and unmeaning to his tired mind....
Whippham came with a reminder267 of more tub-rolling, and the bishop's speculations268 were broken off.
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1
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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2
insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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depleted
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| adj. 枯竭的, 废弃的 动词deplete的过去式和过去分词 | |
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fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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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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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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13
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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15
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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16
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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17
minatory
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| adj.威胁的；恫吓的 | |
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18
opacity
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| n.不透明；难懂 | |
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19
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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21
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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22
reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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23
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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24
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
diaphanous
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| adj.(布)精致的，半透明的 | |
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26
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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27
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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28
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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29
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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30
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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31
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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32
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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33
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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34
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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35
recalcitrant
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| adj.倔强的 | |
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36
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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37
seizures
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| n.起获( seizure的名词复数 )；没收；充公；起获的赃物 | |
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38
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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39
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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40
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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41
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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42
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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43
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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44
imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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45
acrimonious
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| adj.严厉的，辛辣的，刻毒的 | |
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46
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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47
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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48
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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49
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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50
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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51
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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52
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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53
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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54
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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55
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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56
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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57
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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58
wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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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
whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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61
wheeze
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| n.喘息声，气喘声；v.喘息着说 | |
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62
reiteration
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| n. 重覆, 反覆, 重说 | |
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63
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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64
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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65
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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66
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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67
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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68
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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69
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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70
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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71
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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72
siestas
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| n.（气候炎热国家的）午睡，午休( siesta的名词复数 ) | |
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73
ordination
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| n.授任圣职 | |
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74
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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75
molest
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| vt.骚扰，干扰，调戏 | |
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76
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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77
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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78
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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79
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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80
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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81
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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82
germination
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| n.萌芽，发生；萌发；生芽；催芽 | |
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83
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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84
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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85
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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87
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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88
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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synopsis
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| n.提要，梗概 | |
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90
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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91
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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92
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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94
interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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100
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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101
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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102
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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103
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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104
conformities
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| n.符合（conformity的复数形式） | |
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105
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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106
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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107
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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108
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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109
bleakly
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| 无望地，阴郁地，苍凉地 | |
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110
archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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111
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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112
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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113
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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114
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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115
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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116
royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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117
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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118
hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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119
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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120
prosecutions
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| 起诉( prosecution的名词复数 )； 原告； 实施； 从事 | |
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121
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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122
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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123
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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124
concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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125
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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126
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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127
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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128
insidiously
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| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
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129
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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130
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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131
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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132
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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133
celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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134
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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135
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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136
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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137
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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138
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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139
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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140
strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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141
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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142
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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143
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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144
bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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145
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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147
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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148
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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149
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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150
remunerative
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| adj.有报酬的 | |
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151
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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152
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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153
layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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154
virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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155
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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156
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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157
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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158
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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159
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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160
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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161
controversies
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| 争论 | |
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162
entangling
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| v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的现在分词 ) | |
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163
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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164
blench
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| v.退缩，畏缩 | |
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165
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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166
extravagant
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|
| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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167
picturesquely
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168
remarkable
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|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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169
cower
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| v.畏缩，退缩，抖缩 | |
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170
intensification
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| n.激烈化，增强明暗度；加厚 | |
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171
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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172
narcotics
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| n.麻醉药( narcotic的名词复数 )；毒品；毒 | |
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173
physically
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|
| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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174
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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175
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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176
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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177
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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178
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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179
mischievous
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|
| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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180
malignant
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|
| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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181
sabotage
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| n.怠工，破坏活动，破坏；v.从事破坏活动，妨害，破坏 | |
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182
reactionary
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| n.反动者，反动主义者；adj.反动的，反动主义的，反对改革的 | |
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183
incurable
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|
| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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184
feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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185
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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186
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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187
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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188
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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189
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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190
founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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191
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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192
wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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193
tragic
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|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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194
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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195
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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196
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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197
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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198
unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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199
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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200
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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201
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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202
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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203
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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204
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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205
ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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206
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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207
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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208
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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209
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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210
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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211
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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212
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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213
patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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214
discordantly
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| adv.不一致地，不和谐地 | |
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215
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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216
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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217
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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218
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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219
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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220
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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221
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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222
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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223
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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224
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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225
aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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226
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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227
alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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228
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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229
abstaining
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| 戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的现在分词 )； 弃权（不投票） | |
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230
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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231
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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232
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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233
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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234
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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235
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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236
distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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237
uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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238
apocalyptic
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| adj.预示灾祸的，启示的 | |
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239
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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240
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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241
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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242
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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243
enlistment
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| n.应征入伍，获得，取得 | |
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244
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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245
accentuate
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| v.着重，强调 | |
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246
intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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247
muddling
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| v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的现在分词 )；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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248
incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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249
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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250
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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251
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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252
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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253
propounding
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的现在分词 ) | |
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254
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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255
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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256
overloaded
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| a.超载的，超负荷的 | |
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257
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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258
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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259
credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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260
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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261
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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262
laymen
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| 门外汉，外行人( layman的名词复数 )； 普通教徒（有别于神职人员） | |
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263
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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264
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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265
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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266
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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267
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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268
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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