Practically, at the end of six months, he had renounced17 the friendship once so charming and comforting. His privation had two faces, and the face it had turned to him on the occasion of his last attempt to cultivate that friendship was the one he could look at least. This was the privation he inflicted18; the other was the privation he bore. The conditions she never phrased he used to murmur19 to himself in solitude20: “One more, one more—only just one.” Certainly he was going down; he often felt it when he caught himself, over his work, staring at vacancy21 and giving voice to that inanity22. There was proof enough besides in his being so weak and so ill. His irritation took the form of melancholy23, and his melancholy that of the conviction that his health had quite failed. His altar moreover had ceased to exist; his chapel24, in his dreams, was a great dark cavern25. All the lights had gone out—all his Dead had died again. He couldn’t exactly see at first how it had been in the power of his late companion to extinguish them, since it was neither for her nor by her that they had been called into being. Then he understood that it was essentially26 in his own soul the revival27 had taken place, and that in the air of this soul they were now unable to breathe. The candles might mechanically burn, but each of them had lost its lustre28. The church had become a void; it was his presence, her presence, their common presence, that had made the indispensable medium. If anything was wrong everything was—her silence spoiled the tune15.
Then when three months were gone he felt so lonely that he went back; reflecting that as they had been his best society for years his Dead perhaps wouldn’t let him forsake them without doing something more for him. They stood there, as he had left them, in their tall radiance, the bright cluster that had already made him, on occasions when he was willing to compare small things with great, liken them to a group of sea-lights on the edge of the ocean of life. It was a relief to him, after a while, as he sat there, to feel they had still a virtue29. He was more and more easily tired, and he always drove now; the action of his heart was weak and gave him none of the reassurance30 conferred by the action of his fancy. None the less he returned yet again, returned several times, and finally, during six months, haunted the place with a renewal31 of frequency and a strain of impatience32. In winter the church was unwarmed and exposure to cold forbidden him, but the glow of his shrine was an influence in which he could almost bask33. He sat and wondered to what he had reduced his absent associate and what she now did with the hours of her absence. There were other churches, there were other altars, there were other candles; in one way or another her piety34 would still operate; he couldn’t absolutely have deprived her of her rites35. So he argued, but without contentment; for he well enough knew there was no other such rare semblance36 of the mountain of light she had once mentioned to him as the satisfaction of her need. As this semblance again gradually grew great to him and his pious37 practice more regular, he found a sharper and sharper pang38 in the imagination of her darkness; for never so much as in these weeks had his rites been real, never had his gathered company seemed so to respond and even to invite. He lost himself in the large lustre, which was more and more what he had from the first wished it to be—as dazzling as the vision of heaven in the mind of a child. He wandered in the fields of light; he passed, among the tall tapers39, from tier to tier, from fire to fire, from name to name, from the white intensity40 of one clear emblem41, of one saved soul, to another. It was in the quiet sense of having saved his souls that his deep strange instinct rejoiced. This was no dim theological rescue, no boon42 of a contingent43 world; they were saved better than faith or works could save them, saved for the warm world they had shrunk from dying to, for actuality, for continuity, for the certainty of human remembrance.
By this time he had survived all his friends; the last straight flame was three years old, there was no one to add to the list. Over and over he called his roll, and it appeared to him compact and complete. Where should he put in another, where, if there were no other objection, would it stand in its place in the rank? He reflected, with a want of sincerity44 of which he was quite conscious, that it would be difficult to determine that place. More and more, besides, face to face with his little legion, over endless histories, handling the empty shells and playing with the silence—more and more he could see that he had never introduced an alien. He had had his great companions, his indulgences—there were cases in which they had been immense; but what had his devotion after all been if it hadn’t been at bottom a respect? He was, however, himself surprised at his stiffness; by the end of the winter the responsibility of it was what was uppermost in his thoughts. The refrain had grown old to them, that plea for just one more. There came a day when, for simple exhaustion45, if symmetry should demand just one he was ready so far to meet symmetry. Symmetry was harmony, and the idea of harmony began to haunt him; he said to himself that harmony was of course everything. He took, in fancy, his composition to pieces, redistributing it into other lines, making other juxtapositions46 and contrasts. He shifted this and that candle, he made the spaces different, he effaced47 the disfigurement of a possible gap. There were subtle and complex relations, a scheme of cross-reference, and moments in which he seemed to catch a glimpse of the void so sensible to the woman who wandered in exile or sat where he had seen her with the portrait of Acton Hague. Finally, in this way, he arrived at a conception of the total, the ideal, which left a clear opportunity for just another figure. “Just one more—to round it off; just one more, just one,” continued to hum in his head. There was a strange confusion in the thought, for he felt the day to be near when he too should be one of the Others. What in this event would the Others matter to him, since they only mattered to the living? Even as one of the Dead what would his altar matter to him, since his particular dream of keeping it up had melted away? What had harmony to do with the case if his lights were all to be quenched48? What he had hoped for was an instituted thing. He might perpetuate49 it on some other pretext50, but his special meaning would have dropped. This meaning was to have lasted with the life of the one other person who understood it.
In March he had an illness during which he spent a fortnight in bed, and when he revived a little he was told of two things that had happened. One was that a lady whose name was not known to the servants (she left none) had been three times to ask about him; the other was that in his sleep and on an occasion when his mind evidently wandered he was heard to murmur again and again: “Just one more—just one.” As soon as he found himself able to go out, and before the doctor in attendance had pronounced him so, he drove to see the lady who had come to ask about him. She was not at home; but this gave him the opportunity, before his strength should fall again, to take his way to the church. He entered it alone; he had declined, in a happy manner he possessed51 of being able to decline effectively, the company of his servant or of a nurse. He knew now perfectly52 what these good people thought; they had discovered his clandestine53 connexion, the magnet that had drawn54 him for so many years, and doubtless attached a significance of their own to the odd words they had repeated to him. The nameless lady was the clandestine connexion—a fact nothing could have made clearer than his indecent haste to rejoin her. He sank on his knees before his altar while his head fell over on his hands. His weakness, his life’s weariness overtook him. It seemed to him he had come for the great surrender. At first he asked himself how he should get away; then, with the failing belief in the power, the very desire to move gradually left him. He had come, as he always came, to lose himself; the fields of light were still there to stray in; only this time, in straying, he would never come back. He had given himself to his Dead, and it was good: this time his Dead would keep him. He couldn’t rise from his knees; he believed he should never rise again; all he could do was to lift his face and fix his eyes on his lights. They looked unusually, strangely splendid, but the one that always drew him most had an unprecedented55 lustre. It was the central voice of the choir56, the glowing heart of the brightness, and on this occasion it seemed to expand, to spread great wings of flame. The whole altar flared—dazzling and blinding; but the source of the vast radiance burned clearer than the rest, gathering57 itself into form, and the form was human beauty and human charity, was the far-off face of Mary Antrim. She smiled at him from the glory of heaven—she brought the glory down with her to take him. He bowed his head in submission58 and at the same moment another wave rolled over him. Was it the quickening of joy to pain? In the midst of his joy at any rate he felt his buried face grow hot as with some communicated knowledge that had the force of a reproach. It suddenly made him contrast that very rapture59 with the bliss60 he had refused to another. This breath of the passion immortal61 was all that other had asked; the descent of Mary Antrim opened his spirit with a great compunctious throb62 for the descent of Acton Hague. It was as if Stransom had read what her eyes said to him.
After a moment he looked round in a despair that made him feel as if the source of life were ebbing63. The church had been empty—he was alone; but he wanted to have something done, to make a last appeal. This idea gave him strength for an effort; he rose to his feet with a movement that made him turn, supporting himself by the back of a bench. Behind him was a prostrate64 figure, a figure he had seen before; a woman in deep mourning, bowed in grief or in prayer. He had seen her in other days—the first time of his entrance there, and he now slightly wavered, looking at her again till she seemed aware he had noticed her. She raised her head and met his eyes: the partner of his long worship had come back. She looked across at him an instant with a face wondering and scared; he saw he had made her afraid. Then quickly rising she came straight to him with both hands out.
“Then you could come? God sent you!” he murmured with a happy smile.
“You’re very ill—you shouldn’t be here,” she urged in anxious reply.
“God sent me too, I think. I was ill when I came, but the sight of you does wonders.” He held her hands, which steadied and quickened him. “I’ve something to tell you.”
“Don’t tell me!” she tenderly pleaded; “let me tell you. This afternoon, by a miracle, the sweetest of miracles, the sense of our difference left me. I was out—I was near, thinking, wandering alone, when, on the spot, something changed in my heart. It’s my confession—there it is. To come back, to come back on the instant—the idea gave me wings. It was as if I suddenly saw something—as if it all became possible. I could come for what you yourself came for: that was enough. So here I am. It’s not for my own—that’s over. But I’m here for them.” And breathless, infinitely65 relieved by her low precipitate66 explanation, she looked with eyes that reflected all its splendour at the magnificence of their altar.
“They’re here for you,” Stransom said, “they’re present to-night as they’ve never been. They speak for you—don’t you see?—in a passion of light; they sing out like a choir of angels. Don’t you hear what they say?—they offer the very thing you asked of me.”
“Don’t talk of it—don’t think of it; forget it!” She spoke67 in hushed supplication68, and while the alarm deepened in her eyes she disengaged one of her hands and passed an arm round him to support him better, to help him to sink into a seat.
He let himself go, resting on her; he dropped upon the bench and she fell on her knees beside him, his own arm round her shoulder. So he remained an instant, staring up at his shrine. “They say there’s a gap in the array—they say it’s not full, complete. Just one more,” he went on, softly—“isn’t that what you wanted? Yes, one more, one more.”
“Yes, one more,” he repeated, simply; “just one!” And with this his head dropped on her shoulder; she felt that in his weakness he had fainted. But alone with him in the dusky church a great dread70 was on her of what might still happen, for his face had the whiteness of death.
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1
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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3
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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eventual
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| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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6
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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7
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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8
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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9
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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10
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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11
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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12
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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13
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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14
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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15
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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16
renouncement
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| n.否认，拒绝 | |
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17
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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18
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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20
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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21
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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22
inanity
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| n.无意义，无聊 | |
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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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24
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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29
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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30
reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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31
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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32
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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33
bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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35
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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38
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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39
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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40
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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41
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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42
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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43
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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44
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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45
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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46
juxtapositions
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| n.并置，并列( juxtaposition的名词复数 ) | |
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47
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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48
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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49
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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50
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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51
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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52
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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53
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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54
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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55
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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56
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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57
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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58
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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59
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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60
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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61
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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62
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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63
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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64
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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65
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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66
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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67
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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68
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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69
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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