The night was exceedingly close. Willard Bent1, after Spink’s departure, had undressed and stretched himself on his camp bed; but the mosquitoes roared like lions, and lying down made him more wakeful.
“In any Christian2 country,” he mused3, “this would mean a thunderstorm and a cool-off. Here it just means months and months more of the same thing.” And he thought enviously4 of Spink, who, in two or three days, his “deal” concluded, would be at sea again, heading for the north.
Bent was honestly distressed5 at his own state of mind: he had feared that Harry6 Spink would “unsettle” Mr. Blandhorn, and, instead, it was he himself who had been unsettled. Old slumbering7 distrusts and doubts, bursting through his surface-apathy, had shot up under the drummer’s ironic8 eye. It was not so much Spink, individually, who had loosened the crust of Bent’s indifference9; it was the fact of feeling his whole problem suddenly viewed and judged from the outside. At Eloued, he was aware, nobody, for a long time, had thought much about the missionaries10. The French authorities were friendly, the Pacha was tolerant, the American Consul11 at Mogador had always stood by them in any small difficulties. But beyond that they were virtually non-existent. Nobody’s view of life was really affected12 by their presence in the great swarming13 mysterious city: if they should pack up and leave that night, the story-tellers of the market would not interrupt their tales, or one less bargain be struck in the bazaar14. Ayoub would still doze15 in the door, and old Myriem continue her secret life on the roofs . . .
The roofs were of course forbidden to the missionaries, as they are to men in all Moslem16 cities. But the Mission-house stood close to the walls, and Mr. Blandhorn’s room, across the passage, gave on a small terrace overhanging the court of a caravansary upon which it was no sin to look. Willard wondered if it were any cooler on the terrace.
Some one tapped on his open door, and Mr. Blandhorn, in turban and caftan, entered the room, shading a small lamp.
“My dear Willard — can you sleep?”
“No, sir.” The young man stumbled to his feet.
“Nor I. The heat is really . . . Shall we seek relief on the terrace?”
Bent followed him, and having extinguished the lamp Mr. Blandhorn led the way out. He dragged a strip of matting to the edge of the parapet, and the two men sat down on it side by side.
There was no moon, but a sky so full of stars that the city was outlined beneath it in great blue-gray masses. The air was motionless, but every now and then a wandering tremor18 stirred it and died out. Close under the parapet lay the bales and saddle-packs of the caravansary, between vaguer heaps, presumably of sleeping camels. In one corner, the star-glitter picked out the shape of a trough brimming with water, and stabbed it with long silver beams. Beyond the court rose the crenellations of the city walls, and above them one palm stood up like a tree of bronze.
“Africa — ” sighed Mr. Blandhorn.
Willard Bent started at the secret echo of his own thoughts.
“Yes. Never anything else, sir — ”
“Ah — ” said the old man.
A tang-tang of stringed instruments, accompanied by the lowing of an earthenware19 drum, rose exasperatingly20 through the night. It was the kind of noise that, one knew, had been going on for hours before one began to notice it, and would go on, unchecked and unchanging, for endless hours more: like the heat, like the drought — like Africa.
Willard slapped at a mosquito.
“It’s a party at the wool-merchant’s, Myriem tells me,” Mr. Blandhorn remarked. It really seemed as if, that night, the thoughts of the two men met without the need of words. Willard Bent was aware that, for both, the casual phrase had called up all the details of the scene: fat merchants in white bunches on their cushions, negresses coming and going with trays of sweets, champagne21 clandestinely22 poured, ugly singing-girls yowling, slim boys in petticoats dancing — perhaps little Ahmed among them.
“I went down to the court just now. Ayoub has disappeared,” Mr. Blandhorn continued. “Of course. When I heard in the bazaar that a black caravan17 was in from the south I knew he’d be off . . . ”
Mr. Blandhorn lowered his voice. “Willard — have you reason to think . . . that Ayoub joins in their rites23?”
“Myriem has always said he was a Hamatcha, sir. Look at those queer cuts and scars on him . . . It’s a much bloodier24 sect25 than the Aissaouas.”
Through the nagging26 throb27 of the instruments came a sound of human wailing28, cadenced29, terrible, relentless30, carried from a long way off on a lift of the air. Then the air died, and the wailing with it.
“From somewhere near the Potter’s Field . . . there’s where the caravan is camping,” Willard murmured.
The old man made no answer. He sat with his head bowed, his veined hands grasping his knees; he seemed to his disciple31 to be whispering fragments of Scripture32.
“Willard, my son, this is our fault,” he said at length.
“What —? Ayoub?”
“Ayoub is a poor ignorant creature, hardly more than an animal. Even when he witnessed for Jesus I was not very sure the Word reached him. I refer to — to what Harry Spink said this evening . . . It has kept me from sleeping, Willard Bent.”
“Yes — I know, sir.”
“Harry Spink is a worldly-minded man. But he is not a bad man. He did a manly33 thing when he left us, since he did not feel the call. But we have felt the call, Willard, you and I— and when a man like Spink puts us a question such as he put this evening we ought to be able to answer it. And we ought not to want to avoid answering it.”
“You mean when he said: ‘What is there in it for Jesus?’”
“The phrase was irreverent, but the meaning reached me. He meant, I take it: ‘What have your long years here profited to Christ?’ You understood it so —?”
“Yes. He said to me in the bazaar: ‘What’s your bag?’”
Mr. Blandhorn sighed heavily. For a few minutes Willard fancied he had fallen asleep; but he lifted his head and, stretching his hand out, laid it on his disciple’s arm.
“The Lord chooses His messengers as it pleaseth Him: I have been awaiting this for a long time.” The young man felt his arm strongly grasped. “Willard, you have been much to me all these years; but that is nothing. All that matters is what you are to Christ . . . and the test of that, at this moment, is your willingness to tell me the exact truth, as you see it.”
Willard Bent felt as if he were a very tall building, and his heart a lift suddenly dropping down from the roof to the cellar. He stirred nervously34, releasing his arm, and cleared his throat; but he made no answer. Mr. Blandhorn went on.
“Willard, this is the day of our accounting35 — of my accounting. What have I done with my twenty-five years in Africa? I might deceive myself as long as my wife lived — I cannot now.” He added, after a pause: “Thank heaven she never doubted . . . ”
The younger man, with an inward shiver, remembered some of Mrs. Blandhorn’s confidences. “I suppose that’s what marriage is,” he mused — “just a fog, like everything else.”
Aloud he asked: “Then why should you doubt, sir?”
“Because my eyes have been opened — ”
“By Harry Spink?” the disciple sneered36.
The old man raised his hand. “‘Out of the mouths of babes — ’ But it is not Harry Spink who first set me thinking. He has merely loosened my tongue. He has been the humble37 instrument compelling me to exact the truth of you.”
Again Bent felt his heart dropping down a long dark shaft38. He found no words at the bottom of it, and Mr. Blandhorn continued: “The truth and the whole truth, Willard Bent. We have failed — I have failed. We have not reached the souls of these people. Those who still come to us do so from interested motives39 — or, even if I do some few of them an injustice40, if there is in some a blind yearning41 for the light, is there one among them whose eyes we have really opened?”
Willard Bent sat silent, looking up and down the long years, as if to summon from the depths of memory some single incident that should permit him to say there was.
“You don’t answer, my poor young friend. Perhaps you have been clearer-sighted; perhaps you saw long ago that we were not worthy42 of our hire.”
“I never thought that of you, sir!”
“Nor of yourself? For we have been one — or so I have believed — in all our hopes and efforts. Have you been satisfied with your results?”
Willard saw the dialectical trap, but some roused force in him refused to evade43 it. “No, sir — God knows.”
“Then I am answered. We have failed: Africa has beaten us. It has always been my way, as you know, Willard, to face the truth squarely,” added the old man who had lived so long in dreams; “and now that this truth has been borne in on me, painful as it is, I must act on it . . . act in accordance with its discovery.”
He drew a long breath, as if oppressed by the weight of his resolution, and sat silent for a moment, fanning his face with a corner of his white draperies.
“And here too — here too I must have your help, Willard,” he began presently, his hand again weighing on the young man’s arm. “I will tell you the conclusions I have reached; and you must answer me — as you would answer your Maker44.”
“Yes, sir.”
The old man lowered his voice. “It is our lukewarmness, Willard — it is nothing else. We have not witnessed for Christ as His saints and martyrs45 witnessed for Him. What have we done to fix the attention of these people, to convince them of our zeal46, to overwhelm them with the irresistibleness of the Truth? Answer me on your word — what have we done?”
Willard pondered. “But the saints and martyrs . . . were persecuted47, sir.”
“Persecuted! You have spoken the word I wanted.”
“But the people here,” Willard argued, “don’t want to persecute48 anybody. They’re not fanatical unless you insult their religion.”
Mr. Blandhorn’s grasp grew tighter. “Insult their religion! That’s it . . . tonight you find just the words . . . ”
Willard felt his arm shake with the tremor that passed through the other’s body. “The saints and martyrs insulted the religion of the heathen — they spat50 on it, Willard — they rushed into the temples and knocked down the idols51. They said to the heathen: ‘Turn away your faces from all your abominations’; and after the manner of men they fought with beasts at Ephesus. What is the Church on earth called? The Church Militant52! You and I are soldiers of the Cross.”
The missionary53 had risen and stood leaning against the parapet, his right arm lifted as if he spoke49 from a pulpit. The music at the wool-merchant’s had ceased, but now and then, through the midnight silence, there came an echo of ritual howls from the Potters’ Field.
Willard was still seated, his head thrown back against the parapet, his eyes raised to Mr. Blandhorn. Following the gesture of the missionary’s lifted hand, from which the muslin fell back like the sleeve of a surplice, the young man’s gaze was led upward to another white figure, hovering54 small and remote above their heads. It was a muezzin leaning from his airy balcony to drop on the blue-gray masses of the starlit city the cry: “Only Allah is great.”
Mr. Blandhorn saw the white figure too, and stood facing it with motionless raised arm.
“Only Christ is great, only Christ crucified!” he suddenly shouted in Arabic with all the strength of his broad lungs.
The figure paused, and seemed to Willard to bend over, as if peering down in their direction; but a moment later it had moved to the other corner of the balcony, and the cry fell again on the sleeping roofs:
“Allah — Allah — only Allah!”
“Christ — Christ — only Christ crucified!” roared Mr. Blandhorn, exalted55 with wrath56 and shaking his fist at the aerial puppet.
The puppet once more paused and peered; then it moved on and vanished behind the flank of the minaret57.
The missionary, still towering with lifted arm, dusky-faced in the starlight, seemed to Willard to have grown in majesty58 and stature59. But presently his arm fell and his head sank into his hands. The young man knelt down, hiding his face also, and they prayed in silence, side by side, while from the farther corners of the minaret, less audibly, fell the infidel call.
Willard, his prayer ended, looked up, and saw that the old man’s garments were stirred as if by a ripple60 of air. But the air was quite still, and the disciple perceived that the tremor of the muslin was communicated to it by Mr. Blandhorn’s body.
“He’s trembling — trembling all over. He’s afraid of something. What’s he afraid of?” And in the same breath Willard had answered his own question: “He’s afraid of what he’s made up his mind to do.”
收听单词发音 |
1
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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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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missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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Moslem
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| n.回教徒，穆罕默德信徒；adj.回教徒的，回教的 | |
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caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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exasperatingly
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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clandestinely
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| adv.秘密地，暗中地 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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bloodier
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| adj.血污的( bloody的比较级 )；流血的；屠杀的；残忍的 | |
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sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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cadenced
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| adj.音调整齐的，有节奏的 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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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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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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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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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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51
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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52
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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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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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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minaret
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| n.（回教寺院的）尖塔 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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