DURING all my stay at Bridgely Level I had been hearing more or less—an occasional remark—of a certain Sir Scorp, an Irish knight1 and art critic, a gentleman who had some of the finest Manets in the world. He had given Dublin its only significant collection of modern pictures—in fact, Ireland should be substituted for Dublin, and for this he was knighted. He was the art representative of some great museum in South Africa—at Johannesburg, I think,—and he was generally looked upon as an authority in the matter of pictures.
Barfleur came one evening to my hotel with the announcement that Sir Scorp was coming down to Bridgely Level to spend Saturday and Sunday, that he would bring his car and that together on Sunday we three would motor to Oxford2. Barfleur had an uncle who was a very learned master of Greek at that University and who, if we were quite nice and pleasant, might give us luncheon3. We were, I found, to take a little side trip on Saturday afternoon to a place called Penn, some twenty or twenty-five miles from Bridgely Level, in Buckinghamshire, whence William Penn had come originally.
Saturday was rainy and gloomy and I doubted whether we should do anything in such weather, but Barfleur was not easily put out. I wrote all morning in my alcove4, while Barfleur examined papers, and some time after two Sir Scorp arrived,—a pale, slender, dark-eyed man of thirty-five or thereabouts, with a keen, bird-like glance, a poised5, nervous, sensitive manner, and that elusive6, subtlety137 of reference and speech which makes the notable intellectual wherever you find him. For the ten thousandth time in my life, where intellectuals are concerned, I noticed that peculiarity8 of mind which will not brook9 equality save under compulsion. Where are your credentials10?—such minds invariably seem to ask. How do you come to be what you think you are? Is there a flaw in your intellectual or artistic11 armor? Let us see. So the duel12 of ideas and forms and methods of procedure begins, and you are made or unmade, in the momentary13 estimate of the individual, by your ability to withstand criticism. I liked Sir Scorp as intellectuals go. I liked his pale face, his trim black beard, his slim hands and his poised, nervous, elusive manner.
“Oh, yes. So you’re new to England. I envy you your early impression. I am reserving for the future the extreme pleasure of reading you.” These little opening civilities always amuse me. We are all on the stage and we play our parts perforce whether we do so consciously or not.
It appeared that the chauffeur14 had to be provided for, Sir Scorp had to be given a hasty lunch. He seemed to fall in with the idea of a short run to Penn before dark, even if the day were gloomy, and so, after feeding him quickly before the grate fire in the drawing-room, we were off—Sir Scorp, Barfleur, Berenice and Percy—Barfleur’s son—and myself. Sir Scorp sat with me in the tonneau and Barfleur and Percy in the front seat.
Sir Scorp made no effort to strike up any quick relationship with me—remained quite aloof15 and talked in generalities. I could see that he took himself very seriously—as well he might, seeing that, as I understood it, he had begun life with nothing. There were remarks—familiar ones concerning well-known painters, sculptors16, architects, and the social life of England.
This first afternoon trip was pleasant enough, acquainting me as it did with the character of the country about Bridgely Level for miles and miles. Up to this time I had been commiserated18 on the fact that it was winter and I was seeing England under the worst possible conditions, but I am not so sure that it was such a great disadvantage. To-day as we sped down some damp, slippery hillside where the river Thames was to be seen far below twisting like a letter S in the rain, I thought to myself that light and color—summer light and color—would help but little. The villages that we passed were all rain-soaked and preternaturally solemn. There were few if any people abroad. We did not pass a single automobile19 on the way to Penn and but a single railroad track. These little English villages for all the extended English railway system, are practically without railway communication. You have to drive or walk a number of miles to obtain suitable railway connection.
I recall the sag-roofed, moss-patterned, vine-festooned cottages of once red but now brownish-green brick, half hidden behind high brick walls where curiously20 clipped trees sometimes stood up in sentinel order, and vines and bushes seemed in a conspiracy21 to smother22 the doors and windows in an excess of knitted leafage. Until you see them no words can adequately suggest the subtlety7 of age and some old order of comfort, once prevailing23, but now obsolete24, which these little towns and separate houses convey. You know, at a glance, that they are not of this modern work-a-day world. You know at a glance that no power under the sun can save them. They are of an older day and an older thought—the thought perhaps that goes with Gray’s “Elegy” and Goldsmith’s “Traveller” and “Deserted Village.”
That night at dinner, before and after, we fell into a most stirring argument. As I recall, it started139 with Sir Scorp’s insisting that St. Paul’s of London, which is a product of the skill of Sir Christopher Wren25, as are so many of the smaller churches of London, was infinitely26 superior externally to the comparatively new and still unfinished Roman Catholic Cathedral of Westminster. With that I could not agree. I have always objected, anyhow, to the ground plan of the Gothic cathedral, namely, the cross, as being the worst possible arrangement which could be devised for an interior. It is excellent as a scheme for three or four interiors—the arms of the cross being always invisible from the nave—but as one interior, how can it compare with the straight-lying basilica which gives you one grand forward sweep, or the solemn Greek temple with its pediment and glorifying27 rows of columns. Of all forms of architecture, other things being equal, I most admire the Greek, though the Gothic exteriorly28, even more than interiorly, has a tremendous appeal. It is so airy and florate.
However, St. Paul’s is neither Greek, Gothic, nor anything else very much—a staggering attempt on the part of Sir Christopher Wren to achieve something new which is to me not very successful. The dome29 is pleasing and the interior space is fairly impressive, but the general effect is botchy, and I think I said as much. Naturally this was solid ground for an argument and the battle raged to and fro,—through Greece, Rome, the Byzantine East and the Gothic realms of Europe and England. We finally came down to the skyscrapers30 of New York and Chicago and the railway terminals of various American cities, but I shall not go into that. What was more important was that it raised a question concerning the proletariate of England,—the common people from whom, or because of whom, all things are made to rise, and this was based on the final conclusion that all architecture is, or should be, an expression of140 national temperament31, and this as a fact was partly questioned and partly denied, I think. It began by my asking whether the little low cottages we had been seeing that afternoon—the quaint17 windows, varying gables, pointless but delicious angles, and the battered32, time-worn state of houses generally—was an expression of the English temperament. Mind you, I love what these things stand for. I love the simpleness of soul which somehow is conveyed by Burns and Wordsworth and Hardy33, and I would have none of change if life could be ordered so sweetly—if it could really stay. Alas34, I know it can not. Compared to the speed and skill which is required to manipulate the modern railway trains, the express companies, the hotels, the newspapers, all this is helpless, pathetic.
Sir Scorp’s answer was yes, that they were an expression, but that, nevertheless, the English mass was a beast of muddy brain. It did not—could not—quite understand what was being done. Above it were superimposed intellectual classes, each smaller and more enthusiastic and aware as you reach the top. At least, it has been so, he said, but now democracy and the newspapers are beginning to break up this lovely solidarity36 of simplicity37 and ignorance into something that is not so nice.
“People want to get on now,” he declared. “They want each to be greater than the other. They must have baths and telephones and railways and they want to undo38 this simplicity. The greatness of England has been due to the fact that the intellectual superior classes with higher artistic impulses and lovelier tendencies generally could direct the masses and like sheep they would follow. Hence all the lovely qualities of England; its ordered households, its beautiful cathedrals, its charming castles and estates, its good roads, its delicate141 homes, and order and precedences. The magnificent princes of the realm have been able to do so much for art and science because their great impulses need not be referred back to the mass—the ignorant, non-understanding mass—for sanction.”
Sir Scorp sprang with ease to Lorenzo, the magnificent, to the princes of Italy, to Rome and the Cæsars for illustration. He cited France and Louis. Democracy, he declared, is never going to do for all what the established princes could do. Democracy is going to be the death of art. Not so, I thought and said, for democracy can never alter the unalterable difference between high and low, rich and poor, little brain and big brain, strength and weakness. It cannot abolish difference and make a level plane. It simply permits the several planes to rise higher together. What is happening is that the human pot is boiling again. Nations are undergoing a transition period. We are in a maelstrom40, which means change and reconstruction41. America is going to flower next and grandly, and perhaps after that Africa, or Australia. Then, say, South America, and we come back to Europe by way of India, China, Japan and through Russia. All in turn and new great things from each again. Let’s hope so. A pretty speculation42, anyhow.
At my suggestion of American supremacy43, Sir Scorp, although he protested, no doubt honestly, that he preferred the American to any other foreign race, was on me in a minute with vital criticism and I think some measure of insular44 solidarity. The English do not love the Americans—that is sure. They admire their traits—some of them, but they resent their commercial progress. The wretched Americans will not listen to the wise British. They will not adhere to their noble and magnificent traditions. They go and do things quite142 out of order and the way in which they should be done, and then they come over to England and flaunt45 the fact in the noble Britisher’s face. This is above all things sad. It is evil, crass46, reprehensible47, anything you will, and the Englishman resents it. He even resents it when he is an Irish Englishman. He dislikes the German much—fears the outcome of a war from that quarter—but really he dislikes the American more. I honestly think he considers America far more dangerous than Germany. What are you going to do with that vast realm which is “the states”? It is upsetting the whole world by its nasty progressiveness, and this it should not be permitted to do. England should really lead. England should have invented all the things which the Americans have invented. England should be permitted to dictate48 to-day and to set the order of forms and procedures, but somehow it isn’t doing it. And, hang it all! the Americans are. We progressed through various other things,—an American operatic manager who was then in London attempting to revise English opera, an American tobacco company which had made a failure of selling tobacco to the English, but finally weariness claimed us all, and we retired49 for the night, determined50 to make Oxford on the morrow if the weather faired in the least.
The next morning I arose, glad that we had had such a forceful argument. It was worth while, for it brought us all a little closer together. Barfleur, the children and I ate breakfast together while we were waiting for Scorp to come down and wondering whether we should really go, it was so rainy. Barfleur gave me a book on Oxford, saying that if I was truly interested I should look up beforehand the things that I was to see. Before a pleasant grate fire I studied this volume, but my mind was disturbed by the steadily51 approaching fact of the trip itself, and I made small progress. Somehow143 during the morning the plan that Barfleur had of getting us invited to luncheon by his uncle at Oxford disappeared and it turned out that we were to go the whole distance and back in some five or six hours, having only two or three hours for sightseeing.
At eleven Sir Scorp came down and then it was agreed that the rain should make no difference. We would go, anyhow.
I think I actually thrilled as we stepped into the car, for somehow the exquisite52 flavor and sentiment of Oxford was reaching me here. I hoped we would go fast so that I should have an opportunity to see much of it. We did speed swiftly past open fields where hay cocks were standing39 drearily53 in the drizzling54 rain, and down dark aisles55 of bare but vine-hung trees, and through lovely villages where vines and small oddly placed windows and angles and green-grown, sunk roofs made me gasp56 for joy. I imagined how they would look in April and May with the sun shining, the birds flying, a soft wind blowing. I think I could smell the odor of roses here in the wind and rain. We tore through them, it seemed to me, and I said once to the driver, “Is there no law against speeding in England?”
“Yes,” he replied, “there is, but you can’t pay any attention to that if you want to get anywhere.”
There were graceful57 flocks of crows flying here and there. There were the same gray little moss-grown churches with quaint belfries and odd vine-covered windows. There were the same tree-protected borders of fields, some of them most stately where the trees were tall and dark and sad in the rain. I think an open landscape, such as this, with green, wet grass or brown stubble and low, sad, heavy, gray clouds for sky and background, is as delicious as any landscape that ever was. And it was surely not more than one hour and a half after we144 left Bridgely before we began to rush through the narrow, winding58 streets where houses, always brick and stone and red walls with tall gates and vines above them, lined either side of the way. It was old—you could see that, even much that could be considered new in England was old according to the American standard. The plan of the city was odd to me because unlike the American cities, praise be! there was no plan. Not an east and west street, anywhere. Not a north and south one. Not a four- or five-story building anywhere, apparently59, and no wood; just wet, gray stone and reddish-brown brick and vines. When I saw High Street and the façade of Queens College I leaped for joy. I can think of nothing lovelier in either marble or bronze than this building line. It is so gentle, so persuasive60 of beautiful thought, such an invitation to reflection and tender romance. It is so obvious that men have worked lovingly over this. It is so plain there has been great care and pains and that life has dealt tenderly with all. It has not been destroyed or revised and revivified, but just allowed to grow old softly and gracefully61.
Owing to our revised plans for luncheon I had several marmalade sandwiches in my hand, laid in an open white paper which Barfleur had brought and passed around, the idea being that we would not have time for lunch if we wished to complete our visit and get back by dark. Sir Scorp had several meat sandwiches in another piece of paper equally flamboyant62. I was eating vigorously, for the ride had made me hungry, the while my eyes searched out the jewel wonders of the delicious prospect63 before me.
“This will never do,” observed Sir Scorp, folding up his paper thoughtfully, “invading these sacred precincts in this ribald manner. They’ll think we’re a lot of American sightseers come to despoil64 the place.”
“Such being the case,” I replied, “we’ll disgrace Barfleur for life. He has relations here. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
“Come, Dreiser. Give me those sandwiches.”
It was Barfleur, of course.
I gave over my feast reluctantly. Then we went up the street, shoulder to shoulder, as it were, Berenice walking with first one and another. I had thought to bring my little book on Oxford and to my delight I could see that it was even much better than the book indicated.
How shall one do justice to so exquisite a thing as Oxford,—twenty-two colleges and halls, churches, museums and the like, with all their lovely spires65, towers, buttresses66, ancient walls, ancient doors, pinnacles67, gardens, courts, angles and nooks which turn and wind and confront each other and break into broad views and delicious narrow vistas68 with a grace and an uncertainty69 which delights and surprises the imagination at every turn. I can think of nothing more exquisite than these wonderful walls, so old that whatever color they were originally, they now are a fine mottled black and gray, with uncertain patches of smoky hue70, and places where the stone has crumbled71 to a dead white. Time has done so much; tradition has done so much; pageantry and memory; the art of the architect, the perfect labor72 of builder, the beauty of the stone itself, and then nature—leaves and trees and the sky! This day of rain and lowery clouds—though Sir Scorp insisted it could stand no comparison with sunshine and spring and the pathos73 of a delicious twilight74 was yet wonderful to me. Grays and blacks and dreary75 alterations76 of storm clouds have a remarkable77 value when joined with so delicate and gracious a thing as perfectly78 arranged stone. We wandered through alleys79 and courts and across the quadrangles of University College, Baliol College, Wadham College, Oriel College, up High Street,146 through Park Street, into the Chapel80 of Queens College, into the banquet of Baliol and again to the Bodleian Library, and thence by strange turns and lovely gateways81 to an inn for tea. It was raining all the while and I listened to disquisitions by Sir Scorp on the effect of the personalities82, and the theories of both Inigo Jones and Christopher Wren, not only on these buildings but on the little residences in the street. Everywhere, Sir Scorp, enthusiast35 that he is, found something—a line of windows done in pure Tudor, a clock tower after the best fashion of Jones, a façade which was Wren pure and simple. He quarreled delightfully83, as the artist always will, with the atrocity84 of this restoration or that failure to combine something after the best manner, but barring the worst errors which showed quite plainly enough in such things as the Oxford art gallery and a modern church or two—it was all perfect. Time and tradition have softened85, petted, made lovely even the plainest surfaces.
I learned from Barfleur where Walter Pater and Oscar Wilde lived, where Shelley’s essay on atheism86 was burned, and where afterwards a monument was erected87 to him, where some English bishops88 were burned for refusing to recant their religious beliefs and where the dukes and princes of the realm were quartered in their college days. Sir Scorp descanted on the pity of the fact, that some, who would have loved a world such as this in their youth, could never afford to come here, while others who were as ignorant as boors89 and as dull as swine, were for reasons of wealth and family allowed to wallow in a world of art which they could not possibly appreciate. Here as elsewhere I learned that professors were often cads and pedants—greedy, jealous, narrow, academic. Here as elsewhere precedence was the great fetish of brain and the silly riot of the average college student147 was as common as in the meanest school. Life is the same, be art great or little, and the fame of even Oxford cannot gloss90 over the weakness of a humanity that will alternately be low and high, shabby and gorgeous, narrow and vast.
The last thing we saw were some very old portions of Christ College, which had been inhabited by Dominican monks91, I believe, in their day, and this thrilled and delighted me quite as much as anything. I forgot all about the rain in trying to recall the type of man and the type of thought that must have passed in and out of those bolt-riven doors, but it was getting time to leave and my companions would have none of my lagging delight.
It was blowing rain and as we were leaving Oxford I lost my cap and had to walk back after it. Later I lost my glove! As we rode my mind went back over the ancient chambers92, the paneled woodwork, stained glass windows, and high vaulted93 ceilings I had just seen. The heavy benches and somber94 portraits in oil sustained themselves in my mind clearly. Oxford, I said to myself, was a jewel architecturally. Another thousand years and it would be as a dream of the imagination. I feel now as if its day were done; as if so much gentle beauty can not endure. I had seen myself the invasion of the electric switch board and the street car in High Street, and of course other things will come. Already the western world is smiling at a solemnity and a beauty which are noble and lovely to look upon, but which cannot keep pace with a new order and a new need.
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1
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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commiserated
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| v.怜悯，同情( commiserate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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conspiracy
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smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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infinitely
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glorifying
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| 赞美( glorify的现在分词 )； 颂扬； 美化； 使光荣 | |
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exteriorly
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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skyscrapers
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| n.摩天大楼 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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enthusiast
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solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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maelstrom
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| n.大乱动；大漩涡 | |
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reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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flaunt
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| vt.夸耀，夸饰 | |
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crass
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| adj.愚钝的，粗糙的；彻底的 | |
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reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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56
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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despoil
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| v.夺取，抢夺 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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gateways
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| n.网关( gateway的名词复数 )；门径；方法；大门口 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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atheism
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| n.无神论，不信神 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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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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boors
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| n.农民( boor的名词复数 )；乡下佬；没礼貌的人；粗野的人 | |
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gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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