Griffith ventured to suggest that Francis was, nevertheless, an honest man, and no mischief-maker.
Mrs. Gaunt soon disposed of this. "Oh, there are plenty of honest men in the world," said she; "but in one's spiritual director, one needs something more than that, and I have pined for it like a thirsty soul in the desert all these years. Poor good man, I love him dearly; but, thank heaven, he is going."
The next time Francis came, Mrs. Gaunt took an opportunity to inquire, but in the most delicate way, who was to be his successor.
"Well," said he, "I fear you will have no one for the present: I mean no one very fit to direct you in practical matters; but in all that tends directly to the welfare of the soul you will have one young in years but old in good works, and very much my superior in piety3."
"I think you do yourself injustice4, father," said Mrs. Gaunt, sweetly. She was always polite; and, to be always polite, you must be sometimes insincere.
"No, my daughter," said Father Francis, quietly, "thank God, I know my own defects, and they teach me a little humility5. I discharge my religious duties punctually, and find them wholesome6 and composing; but I lack that holy unction, that spiritual imagination, by which more favoured Christians8 have fitted themselves to converse9 with angels. I have too much body, I suppose, and too little soul. I own to you that I cannot look, forward to the hour of death as a happy release from the burden of the flesh. Life is pleasant to me; immortality11 tempts12 me not; the pure in heart delight me; but in the sentimental13 part of religion I feel myself dry and barren. I fear God, and desire to do His will; but I cannot love Him as the saints have done; my spirit is too dull, too gross. I have often been unable to keep pace with you in your pious14 and lofty aspirations15: and this softens16 my regret at quitting you; for you will be in better hands, my daughter."
Mrs. Gaunt was touched by her old friend's humility, and gave him both hands, with the tears in her eyes. But she said nothing; the subject was delicate; and really she could not honestly contradict him.
A day or two afterwards he brought his successor to the house; a man so remarkable17 that Mrs. Gaunt almost started at first sight of him. Born of an Italian mother, his skin was dark, and his eyes coal black; yet his ample but symmetrical forehead was singularly white and delicate. Very tall and spare, and both face and figure were of that exalted18 kind which make ordinary beauty seem dross19. In short, he was one of those ethereal priests the Roman Catholic Church produces every now and then by way of incredible contrast to the thickset peasants in black that form her staple20. This Brother Leonard looked and moved like a being who had come down from some higher sphere to pay the world a very little visit, and be very kind and patient with it all the time.
He was presented to Mrs. Gaunt, and bowed calmly, coldly, and with a certain mixture of humility and superiority, and gave her but one tranquil21 glance, then turned his eyes inward as before.
Mrs. Gaunt, on the contrary, was almost fluttered at being presented so suddenly to one who seemed to her Religion embodied22. She blushed, and looked timidly at him, and was anxious not to make an unfavourable impression.
She found it, however, very difficult to make any impression at all. Leonard had no small talk, and met her advances in that line with courteous23 monosyllables; and when she, upon this, turned and chatted with Father Francis, he did not wait for an opening to strike in, but sought a shelter from her commonplaces in his own thoughts.
Then Mrs. Gaunt yielded to her genuine impulse, and began to talk about the prospects24 of the Church, and what might be done to reconvert the British Isles25 to the true faith. Her cheek flushed, and her eye shone with the theme; and Francis smiled paternally26: but the young priest drew back; Mrs. Gaunt saw in a moment that he disapproved27 of a woman meddling28 with so high a matter uninvited. If he had said so she had spirit enough to have resisted; but the cold, lofty look of polite but grave disapproval29, dashed her courage and reduced her to silence.
She soon recovered so far as to be piqued30. She gave her whole attention to Francis, and, on parting with her guests, she curtsied coldly to Leonard, and said to Francis, "Ah, my dear friend, I foresee I shall miss you terribly."
I am afraid this pretty speech was intended as a side cut at Leonard.
But on the impassive ice the lightnings play.
Her new confessor retired31, and left her with a sense of inferiority, which would have been pleasing to her woman's nature, if Leonard himself had appeared less conscious of it, and had shown ever so little approval of herself; but, impressed upon her too sharply, it piqued and mortified32 her.
However, like a gallant33 champion, she awaited another encounter. She so rarely failed to please, she could not accept defeat.
Father Francis departed.
Mrs. Gaunt soon found that she really missed him. She had got into a habit of running to her confessor twice a week, and to her director nearly every day that he did not come of his own accord to her.
Her good sense showed her at once she must not take up Brother Leonard's time in this way. She went a long while, for her, without confession34: at last she sent a line to Leonard asking him when it would be convenient to him to confess her. Leonard wrote back to say that he received penitents36 in the chapel37 for two hours after matins every Monday, Tuesday, and Saturday.
However, she rode one morning, with her groom39 behind her, and had to wait until an old woman in a red cloak and black bonnet40 was first disposed of. She confessed a heap. And presently the soft but chill tones of Brother Leonard broke in with these freezing words: "My daughter, excuse me; but confession is one thing, gossip about ourselves is another."
This distinction was fine, but fatal. The next minute the fair penitent35 was in her carriage, her eyes filled with tears of mortification41.
"The man is a spiritual machine," said she; and her pride was mortified to the core.
In these happy days she used to open her heart to her husband; and she went so far as to say some bitter little feminine things of her new confessor, before him.
He took no notice at first; but at last he said one day, "Well, I am of your mind; he is very poor company compared with that jovial42 old blade, Francis. But why so many words, Kate? You don't use to bite twice at a cherry: if the milksop is not to your taste, give him the sack and be hanged to him." And with this homely43 advice Squire44 Gaunt dismissed the matter and went to the stable to give his mare45 a ball.
So you see Mrs. Gaunt was discontented with Francis for not being an enthusiast46, and nettled47 with Leonard for being one.
The very next Sunday morning she went and heard Leonard preach. His first sermon was an era in her life. After twenty years of pulpit prosers, there suddenly rose before her a sacred orator48; an orator born; blest with that divine and thrilling eloquence49 that no heart can really resist. He prepared his great theme with art at first; but, once warm, it carried him away and his hearers went with him like so many straws on the flood. And in the exercise of this great gift the whole man seemed transfigured; abroad, he was a languid, rather slouching priest, who crept about, a picture of delicate humility, but with a shade of meanness; for, religious prejudice apart, it is ignoble50 to sweep the wall in passing as he did, and eye the ground; but, once in the pulpit, his figure rose and swelled51 majestically52, and seemed to fly over them all like a guardian53 angel's; his sallow cheek burned, his great Italian eye shot black lightning at the impenitent54, and melted ineffably55 when he soothed56 the sorrowful.
Observe that great, mean, brown bird in the Zoological Gardens, which sits so tame on its perch57, and droops58 and slouches like a drowsy59 duck. That is the great and soaring eagle. Who would believe it, to look at him? Yet all he wants is to be put in his right place instead of his wrong. He is not himself in man's cages, belonging to God's sky. Even so Leonard was abroad in the world, but at home in the pulpit: and so he somewhat crept and slouched about the parish; but soared like an eagle in his native air.
Mrs. Gaunt sat thrilled, enraptured60, melted. She hung upon his words; and, when they ceased, she still sat motionless, spell-bound; loath61 to believe that accents so divine could really come to an end.
Even, whilst all the rest were dispersing62, she sat quite still, and closed her eyes. For her soul was too high-strung now to endure the chit-chat she knew would attack her on the road home—chit-chat that had been welcome enough, coming home from other preachers.
And by this means she came hot and undiluted to her husband; she laid her white hand on his shoulder, and said, "Oh, Griffith, I have heard the voice of God."
Griffith looked alarmed, and rather shocked than elated.
Mrs. Gaunt observed that, and tacked63 on, "Speaking by the lips of his servant." But she fired again the next moment, and said, "The grave hath given us back St. Paul in the Church's need; and I have heard him this day."
"Good heavens! where?"
"At St. Mary's Chapel."
Then Griffith looked very incredulous. Then she gushed64 out with, "What, because it is a small chapel, you think a great saint cannot be in it. Why, our Saviour65 was born in a stable, if you go to that."
"Well, but my dear, consider," said Griffith; "who ever heard of comparing a living man to St. Paul, for preaching? Why, he was an apostle, for one thing; and there are no apostles nowadays. He made Felix tremble on his throne, and almost persuaded Whatsename, another heathen gentleman, to be a Christian7."
"That is true," said the lady, thoughtfully; "but he sent one man that we know of to sleep. Catch Brother Leonard sending any man to sleep! And then nobody will ever say of him that he was long preaching."
"Why, I do say it," replied Griffith. "By the same token, I have been waiting dinner for you this half-hour, along of his preaching."
"Ah, that's because you did not hear him," retorted Mrs. Gaunt: "if you had, it would have seemed too short, and you would have forgotten all about your dinner for once."
Griffith made no reply, He even looked vexed66 at her enthusiastic admiration67. She saw, and said no more. But after dinner she retired to the grove68, and thought of the sermon and the preacher: thought of them all the more that she was discouraged from enlarging on them. And it would have been kinder, and also wiser, of Griffith, if he had encouraged her to let out her heart to him on this subject, although it did not happen to interest him. A husband should not chill an enthusiastic wife, and, above all, should never separate himself from her favourite topic, when she loves him well enough to try and share it with him.
Mrs. Gaunt, however, though her feelings were quick, was not cursed with a sickly or irritable69 sensibility; nor, on the other hand, was she one of those lovely little bores who cannot keep their tongues off their favourite theme. She quietly let the subject drop for a whole week; but the next Sunday morning she asked her husband if he would do her a little favour.
"It is just to go to chapel with me; and then you can judge for yourself."
Griffith looked rather sheepish at this proposal; and said he could not very well do that.
"Why not, dearest, just for once?"
"Well, you see, parties run so high in this parish; and everything one does is noted71. Why, if I was to go to chapel, they'd say directly, 'Look at Griffith Gaunt: he is so tied to his wife's apron72 he is going to give up the faith of his ancestors.'"
"The faith of your ancestors! That is a good jest. The faith of your grandfather at the outside: the faith of your ancestors was the faith of mine and me."
"Well, don't let us differ about a word," said Griffith; "you know what I mean. Did ever I ask you to go to church with me? and, if I were to ask you, would you go?"
Mrs. Gaunt coloured; but would not give in. "That is not the same thing," said she. "I do profess73 religion: you do not. You scarce think of God on week days; and, indeed, never mention his name except in the way of swearing; and on Sunday you go to church—for what? to doze74 before dinner, you know you do. Come now, with you 'tis no question of religion, but just of nap or no nap: for Brother Leonard won't let you sleep, I warn you fairly."
Griffith shook his head. "You are too hard on me, wife. I know I am not so good as you are, and never shall be; but that is not the fault of the Protestant faith, which hath reared so many holy men: and some of 'em our ancestors burnt alive, and will burn in hell themselves for the deed. But, look you, sweetheart, if I'm not a saint I'm a gentleman, and, say I wear my faith loose, I won't drag it in the dirt none the more for that. So you must excuse me."
Mrs. Gaunt was staggered; and, if Griffith had said no more, I think she would have withdrawn75 her request, and so the matter ended. But persons unversed in argument can seldom let well alone; and this simple squire must needs go on to say, "Besides, Kate, it would come to the parson's ears, and he is a friend of mine, you know. Why, I shall be sure to meet him to-morrow."
"Ay," retorted the lady, "by the cover-side. Well, when you do, tell him you refused your wife your company for fear of offending the religious views of a fox-hunting parson."
"Nay, Kate," said Griffith, "this is not to ask thy man to go with thee: 'tis to say go he must, willy nilly." With that he rose and rang the bell. "Order the chariot," said he, "I am to go with our dame76."
Mrs. Gaunt's face beamed with gratified pride and affection.
The chariot came round, and Griffith handed his dame in. He then gave an involuntary sigh, and followed her with a hang-dog look.
She heard the sigh, and saw the look, and laid her hand quickly on his shoulder, and said, gently but coldly, "Stay you at home, my dear. We shall meet at dinner."
"As you will," said he, cheerfully: and they went their several ways. He congratulated himself on her clemency77, and his own escape. She went along, sorrowful at having to drink so great a bliss78 alone; and thought it unkind and stupid of Griffith not to yield with a good grace if he could yield at all; and, indeed, women seem cleverer than men in this, that, when they resign their wills, they do it graciously and not by halves. Perhaps they are more accustomed to knock under; and you know practice makes perfect.
But every smaller feeling was swept away by the preacher, and Mrs. Gaunt came home full of pious and lofty thoughts.
She found her husband seated at the dinner-table, with one turnip79 before him; and even that was not comestible; for it was his grandfather's watch, with a face about the size of a new-born child's. "Forty-five minutes past one, Kate," said he, ruefully.
Mrs. Gaunt smiled affectionately. "Well, then, my dear, we had better order dinner an hour later next Sunday."
"But that will upset the servants, and spoil their Sunday."
"And am I to be their slave?" said Mrs. Gaunt, getting a little warm. "Dinner! dinner! What! shall I starve my soul, by hurrying away from the oracles83 of God to a sirloin? Oh, these gross appetites! how they deaden the immortal10 half, and wall out Heaven's music! For my part, I wish there was no such thing as eating and drinking; 'tis like falling from Heaven down into the mud, to come back from such divine discourse84 and be greeted with 'dinner! dinner! dinner!'"
The next Sunday, after waiting half an hour for her, Griffith began, his dinner without her.
And this time, on her arrival, instead of remonstrating85 with her, he excused himself. "Nothing," said he, "upsets a man's temper like waiting for his dinner."
"Well, but you have not waited."
"Yes, I did, a good half-hour. Till I could wait no longer."
"Well, dear, if I were you I would not have waited at all, or else waited till your wife came home."
"Ah, dame, that is all very well for you to say. You could live on hearing of sermons and smelling to rosebuds86. You don't know what 'tis to be a hungry man."
The next Sunday he sat sadly down, and finished his dinner without her. And she came home and sat down to half-empty dishes; and ate much less than she used when she had him to keep her company in it.
Griffith, looking on disconsolate87, told her she was more like a bird pecking, than a Christian eating of a Sunday.
"No matter, child," said she; "so long as my soul is filled with the bread of Heaven."
Leonard's eloquence suffered no diminution88, either in quantity or quality, and, after a while, Gaunt gave up his rule of never dining abroad on the Sunday. If his wife was not punctual, his stomach was: and he had not the same temptation to dine at home he used to have.
And, indeed, by degrees, instead of quietly enjoying his wife's company on that sweet day, he got to see less of her than on the week days.
该作者其它作品
《The Cloister and the Hearth回廊与壁炉》
该作者其它作品
《The Cloister and the Hearth回廊与壁炉》
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1
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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tempts
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| v.引诱或怂恿（某人）干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 )；使想要 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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paternally
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| adv.父亲似地；父亲一般地 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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penitents
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| n.后悔者( penitent的名词复数 )；忏悔者 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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impenitent
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| adj.不悔悟的，顽固的 | |
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ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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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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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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58
droops
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的名词复数 ) | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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remonstrating
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的现在分词 )；告诫 | |
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rosebuds
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| 蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女，初入社交界的少女( rosebud的名词复数 ) | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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