This pall was the pall of the Bishop5's wrath6; and there was so much of it that it actually reached over into the dwellings7 of the Dean and Chapter and blackened those white spots, and it got into the hitherto calm home of the Mayor, who had the misfortune to have business with the Bishop the very day after Ingeborg's return, and an edge of it—but quite enough to choke an old man—even invaded the cathedral, where it extinguished the head verger, a sunny octogenarian privileged to have his little joke with the Bishop, and who had it unfortunately as usual, and was instantly muffled8 in murkiness9 and never joked again.
That the Bishop should have allowed his private angers to overflow10 beyond his garden walls, he who had never been anything in public but a pattern in his personal beauty, his lofty calm, and his biblically flavoured eloquence11 of what the perfect bishop should be, shows the extreme disturbance12 of his mind. But it was not that he allowed it: it was that he could not help it. He had, thanks to his daughter, lost his self-control, and for that alone, without anything else she had done, he felt he could never forgive her.
Self-control gone, and with it self-respect. He ached, he positively13 ached during those first four black days in which his natural man was uppermost, a creature he had forgotten so long was it since he had heard of him, thoroughly14 to shake his daughter. And the terribleness of that in a bishop. The terribleness of being aware that his hands were twitching15 to shake—hands which he acutely knew should be laid on no one except in blessing16, consecrated17 hands, divinely appointed to bless and then dismiss in peace. That small unimportant thing, that small weak thing, the thing he had generously endowed with the great gift of life and along with that gift the chance it would never have had except for him of re-entering eternal blessedness, the thing he had fed and clothed, that had eaten out of his hand and been all bright tameness—to bring disgrace on him! Disgrace outside before the world, and inside before his abased19 and humiliated20 self. And she had brought it not only on a father, but on the best-known bishop on the bench; the best known also and most frequently mentioned, he had sometimes surmised21 with a kind of high humility22, in the—how could one put it with sufficient reverence23?—holy gossip of the angels. For in his highest moods he had humbly24 dared to believe he was not altogether untalked about in heaven. And here at the moment of much thankfulness and legitimate25 pride when his other daughter was so beautifully betrothed26 came this one, and with impish sacrilegiousness dragged him, her father, into the dust of base and furious instincts, the awful dust in which those sad animal men sit who wish to and do beat their women-folk.
He could not bring himself to speak to her. He would not allow her near him. Whatever her repentance27 might be it could never wipe out the memory of these hours of being forced by her to recognise what, after all the years of careful climbing upwards28 to goodness, he was still really like inside. Terrible to be stirred not only to unchristianity but to vulgarity. Terrible to be made to wish not only that you were not a Christian29 but not a gentleman. He, a prince of the Church, was desiring to be a navvy for a space during which he could be unconditionally30 active. He, a prince of the Church, was rent and distorted by feelings that would have disgraced a curate. He could never forgive her.
But the darkest hours pass, and just as the concerned diocese was beginning to fear appendicitis31 for him, unable in any other way to account for the way he remained invisible, he emerged from his first indignation into a chillier32 region in which, still much locked in his chamber33, he sought an outlet34 in prayer.
A bishop, and indeed any truly good and public man, is restricted in his outlets35. He can with propriety36 have only two—prayer and his wife; and in this case the wife was unavailable because of her sofa. For the first time the Bishop definitely resented the sofa. He told himself that the wife of a prelate, however ailing—and he believed with a man's simplicity37 on such points that she did ail—had no business to be inaccessible38 to real conversation. With no one else on earth except his wife can a prelate or any other truly good and public man have real conversation without losing dignity, or, if the conversation should become very real, without losing office. That is why most prelates are married. The best men wish to be real at times.
When Ingeborg stripped off her deferences, and, after having most scandalously run away and most scandalously entangled40 herself with an alien clerical rogue41, had the face to hold up her hands at him and accuse him, accuse him, her father, of being the cause of their shaking, the Bishop had been as much horrified42 as if his own garden path on which he had trodden pleasantly for years had rent itself asunder43 at his feet and gaped44 at him. He had made the path; he had paid to have it tidied and adorned45; and he required of it in return that it should keep quiet and be useful. To have it convulsed into an earthquake and its usefulness interrupted must be somebody's fault, and his instinct very properly was to go to his wife and tell her it was hers.
But there was the sofa.
He desired to converse46 with his wife. He had an intolerable desire for even as few as five minutes' real conversation with her. He wanted to talk about the manner in which Ingeborg must have been brought up, about the amount of punishment she had received in childhood; he wished to be informed as to the exact nature of the participation47 her mother had taken in her moral education; he wished to discuss the responsibility of mothers, and to explain his views on the consequences of maternal48 neglect; and he wanted, too, to draw his wife's attention to the fact she easily apparently49 overlooked, that he had bestowed50 a name grown celebrated51 on her, and a roof that through his gifts and God's mercy was not an ordinary but a palace roof, and that in return the least he might expect.... In short, he wanted to talk.
But when driven by his urgencies he went to her room to break down the barricade52 of the sofa, he found not only Richards hovering53 there tactfully, but the doctor; for Mrs. Bullivant had foreseen her husband's probable desire for conversation, and the doctor, a well-trained man, was in the act of prescribing complete silence.
It was then that, thwarted54 and debarred from the outlet a man prefers, he sought his other outlet, and laid all these distressful55 matters in prayer at the feet of heaven. On his knees in his chamber he earnestly begged forgiveness for his descent to naturalness, and a restoration of his self-respect. Without his self-respect what would become of him? He had lived with it so intimately and long. Fervently56 he desired the molten moments in which his hands had twitched57, wiped out, and forgotten. He asked for help to conduct himself henceforth with calm. He implored59 to be given patience. He implored to be given self-control. And presently, after two days of his spare moments spent in this manner, he was sitting upon a chair and telling himself that the main objection to praying, if one might say so with all due reverence, is that it is one-sided. It is a monologue60, said the Bishop—also with all due reverence—and in troubles of the kind he was in one needs to be sure one is being attended to. He did not think he could possibly be being attended to, because, pray as he might, withdraw and wrestle61 as he might, he continued to want to shake his daughter.
For there was the constant irritation62 going on of the affairs of the diocese getting into a more hopeless disorder63. All that time she was away guiltily gadding64, and now all this time she was not away but unavailable till she should have utterly65 repented66, his letters were piling themselves up into confused heaps, and his engagements were a wilderness67 in which he wandered alone in the dark. The chaplain and the typist did what they could, but they had not been with him so long as his daughter and were not possessed68 of the mechanical brainlessness that makes a woman so satisfactory as a secretary. His daughter, not having what might be called actual brains, was not troubled by thought. The distresses69 of possible alternatives did not disturb her. She did not, therefore, disturb him by suggesting them. She was mechanically meticulous70. She respected detail. She remembered. She knew not only what had to be done, which was easy, but what had to be done exactly first. And both the chaplain and the typist were men with ideas, and instead of assisting him along one straight and narrow path which is the only way of really getting anywhere, including, remembered the Bishop, to heaven, they were constantly looking to the right and the left, doubting, weighing, hesitating. The chaplain had as many eyes for a question as a fly, and saw it from as many angles. Fairness, desirability, the probable views of the other side, their equal Tightness, these things faltered71 interminably round each letter to be answered, were hesitated over interminably in the mellow72 intonations73 of that large-minded, well-educated young man's voice, and he was echoed and supported by the typist, who was also from Oxford74, and had been given this chance of nearness to the most distinguished75 of bishops76 at such a youthful age that the undergraduate milk had not yet dried on the corners of his eloquent77 and hesitating mouth, and gave a peculiarly sickly flavour, thought the irritated Bishop, to whatever came out of it.
The Bishop felt that if this went on much longer the work of the diocese would come to a standstill. In ten days the Easter recess78 would be over, and he was due in the House of Lords, where he had been put down for a speech on the Home Rule Bill from the point of view of simple faith, and how was he to leave things in this muddle79 at home, and how was he to have the peace of mind, the empty clarity, appropriate to a proper approach of the measure if his inward eye went roving away to Redchester all the time and to the increasing confusion on his study table?
The trail of Ingeborg was over all his day. When, warm and ruffled80 from prayer, he plunged81 down into his work again, he could not do a thing without being reminded she was not there. He was forced to think of her every moment of his time. It was ignoble82, but without her he was like an actor who has learned not his part but to lean on the prompter, and who finds himself on the stage with the prompter gone dead in his box. She was dead to him, dead in obstinate83 sin; and dignity demanded she should continue dead until she came of her own accord and told him she had done with that terrible affair of the East Prussian pastor84. He did not know whether he would then forgive her—he would probably defer39 forgiveness as a disciplinary measure, after having implored heaven's guidance—but he would allow a certain amount of resurrection, sufficient to enable her to sit up at her desk every day and disentangle the confusion her wickedness alone had caused. In the evenings she would, he thought, at any rate for a time, be best put back in her grave.
At this point he began to be able to say "Poor girl," and to feel that he pitied her.
But it was not till the end of the week, as Sunday drew near, that his prayers did after all begin to be answered, and he regained85 enough control of his words if not of his thoughts to be able to reappear among his family and show nothing less becoming than reserve. He even succeeded, though without speaking to her, in kissing Ingeborg's forehead night and morning and making the sign of the Cross over her when she went to bed as he had done from her earliest years. She seemed smaller than ever, hardly there at all, and made him think of an empty dress walking about with a head on it. Contemplating86 her when she was not looking his desire to shake her became finally quenched87 by the perception that really there would be nothing to shake. It would be like shaking out mere88 clothes, garments with the body gone out of them; there would be dust, but little satisfaction. She had evidently been feeling, he was slightly soothed89 to observe, for not only was her dress empty but her face seemed diminished, and she certainly was remarkably90 pale. She struck him as very unattractive, entirely91 designed by Providence92 for a happy home life. And to think that this nothing, this amazing littleness—well, well; poor girl.
On the Sunday afternoon he determined93 to help her by getting into touch with her from the pulpit. On that day he several times assured himself before preaching that his only feeling in the sad affair was one of concern for her and grief. The pulpit, he knew from experience, was a calm and comfort-bringing place when he was in it; it was, indeed, his way with a pulpit that had brought the Bishop to the pinnacle94 of the Church on which he found himself. He was at his best in it, knowing it for a blessed spot, free from controversy95, pure from contradiction, a place where personal emotions could find no footing owing to the wise custom that prevented congregations from answering back. Put into common terms, the terms of his undergraduate days, he could let himself rip in the pulpit; and the Bishop was in a ripped condition altogether at his greatest.
He spoke96 that Sunday specially97 to Ingeborg, and he told himself that what had come straight from his heart must needs go straight to hers. The Bible was very plain. It did not mince98 matters as to the dangers she was running. The punishment for her class of sin right through it was various and severe. Not that the ravens99 of another age and the eagles of a different climate—he had taken as his text that passage, or rather portion of a passage—he described it as remarkable—in the Proverbs: "The ravens of the valley shall pick it out and the young eagles shall eat it"—were likely ever miraculously100 to appear in Redchester, though even on that point the Bishop held that nothing was certain; but there were, he explained, spiritual ravens and eagles provided by an all-merciful Providence for latter-day requirements whose work was even more thorough and destructive. He earnestly implored those members of his flock who knew themselves guilty of the particular sin the passage referred to, to seek forgiveness of their parents before Heaven interfered101. He pointed18 out that what is most needed, if people are to live with any zest102 and fine result at all, is encouragement, and what encouragement could equal full and free forgiveness? The Bible, he said, understood this very well, and the Prodigal103 Son's father never hesitated in his encouragement. It seemed difficult to suppose one could equal the lavishness104 of the best robe, the ring, the shoes, and the fatted calf105, yet he felt certain—he knew there were fathers at that very moment, there in that town, nay106, in that cathedral, ready with all and more than that. Who would wish to punish his dear child, the soul given into his hands to be whitened for heaven? One knew from one's own experience—all who had once been children must know—how sorry one was for having done wrong, how bleeding one felt about it; and just then, just at that moment of sorrow, of heart's blood, was not what one needed so that one might get on one's feet again quickly and do better than ever, not punishment but forgiveness? A frequent and free forgiveness, said the Bishop, and his voice was beautiful as he said it, was one of the chief necessities of life. What poor children want, poor frail107 children, so infinitely108 apt to fall, so infinitely clumsy at getting up, is a continual wiping out and never thinking again of the yesterdays, a daily presentation by authority to yesterday's stumblers of that most bracing109 object, the cleaned and empty slate110. Why, it was as necessary, he declared, his fine face aglow111, if one was to work well and add one's cheerful contribution to the world's happiness, as a nourishing and sufficient breakfast—the congregation thrilled at this homely112 touch—and to numb113 a human being's powers of cheerful contribution by punishment was waste. How cruel, then, to force a father by one's stubbornness to punish; how cruel and how sinful to hinder him, by not seeking out at once what he so freely offered, to hinder him from bringing forth58 his best robe, his ring, his fatted calf. What a heavy responsibility towards their fathers did children bear, said the Bishop, who had ceased himself being anybody's child many years before. This, he said, is a sermon to children; to erring114 children; to those sad children who have gone astray. We are all children here, he explained, and if life has been with us so long that we can no longer find any one we may still with any certainty call father, we are yet to the end Children of the Kingdom. But, he continued, though every single soul in this cathedral is necessarily some one's child, not every single soul in it is inevitably115 some one's father, and he would say a few words to the fathers and remind them of the infinite effect of love. To punish your child is to make its repentance go sour within it. Do not punish it. Love it. Love it continuously, generously, if needs be obstinately116; smite117 its hardness, as once a rock was smitten118, with the rod of generosity119. Give it a chance of gushing120 forth into living repentance. Generosity begets121 generosity. Love begets love. Show your love. Show your generosity. Forgive freely, magnificently. Oh, my brothers, oh, my children, my little sorry children, what could not one, what would not one do in return for love?
The Bishop's face was lifted up as he finished to the light of the west window. His voice was charged with feeling. He had forgotten the ravens and eagles of the beginning, for he never allowed his beginnings to disturb his endings, well knowing his congregation forgot them, too. He was an artist at reaching into the hearts of the uneducated. Everything helped him—his beauty, his voice, and the manifest way in which his own words moved him.
And the typist, as he walked back to the Palace with the chaplain across the daisies of the Close, was unable to agree with the chaplain that a course at Oxford even now in close reasoning might help the Bishop. The typist thought it would spoil him; and offered to lay the chaplain twenty to one that Redchester that afternoon would be full of erring children upsetting their fathers' Sunday by wanting to be forgiven.
It was; and Ingeborg was one of them.
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1
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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7
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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murkiness
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| n.阴暗；混浊；可疑；黝暗 | |
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10
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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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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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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abased
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| 使谦卑( abase的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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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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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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unconditionally
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| adv.无条件地 | |
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appendicitis
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| n.阑尾炎，盲肠炎 | |
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chillier
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| adj.寒冷的，冷得难受的( chilly的比较级 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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outlets
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| n.出口( outlet的名词复数 )；经销店；插座；廉价经销店 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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40
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的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的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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42
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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44
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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45
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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46
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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47
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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48
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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49
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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50
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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52
barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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53
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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54
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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55
distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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56
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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57
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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58
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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61
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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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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gadding
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| n.叮搔症adj.蔓生的v.闲逛( gad的现在分词 )；游荡；找乐子；用铁棒刺 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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72
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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73
intonations
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| n.语调，说话的抑扬顿挫( intonation的名词复数 )；（演奏或唱歌中的）音准 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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76
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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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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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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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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81
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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82
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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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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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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98
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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101
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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102
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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103
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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104
lavishness
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| n.浪费，过度 | |
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105
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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106
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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107
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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108
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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109
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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110
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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111
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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112
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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113
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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114
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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115
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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116
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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117
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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118
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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119
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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120
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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121
begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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