IT was not so long after this that I journeyed southward. My plan was to leave London two days ahead of Barfleur, visit Canterbury and Dover, and meet with him there to travel to Paris together, and the Riviera. From the Riviera I was to go on to Rome and he was to return to England.
Among other pleasant social duties I paid a farewell visit to Sir Scorp, who shall appear often hereafter in these pages. During the Christmas holidays at Barfleur’s I had become well acquainted with this Irish knight2 and famed connoisseur3 of art, and while in London I had seen much of him. Here in his lovely mansion4 in Cheyne Walk I found him surrounded by what one might really call the grandeur5 of his pictures. His house contained distinguished6 examples of Rembrandt, Frans Hals, Van Dyck, Paul Potter, Velasquez, Mancini and others, and as I contemplated7 him on this occasion he looked not unlike one of the lymphatic cavaliers of Van Dyck’s canvases. A pale gentleman, this—very remote in his spirit, very far removed from the common run of life, concerned only with the ultimately artistic8, and wishing to be free of everything save the leisure to attend to this. He was not going to leave London, he thought, at this time, except possibly for a short visit to Paris. He was greatly concerned with the problem of finding a dilapidated “cahstle” which he could restore, live in, fill with his pictures and eventually sell, or dedicate to his beloved189 England as a memorial of himself. It must be a perfect example of Tudor architecture—that he invariably repeated. I gained the impression that he might fill it with interesting examples of some given school or artist and leave it as a public monument.
He urged upon me that I ought to go about the work of getting up a loan exhibit of representative American art, and have it brought to London. He commended me to the joys of certain cities and scenes—Pisa, San Miniato outside of Florence, the Villa9 Doria at Rome. I had to smile at the man’s profound artistic assurance, for he spoke10 exactly as a grandee11 recounting the glories of his kingdom. I admired the paleness of his forehead and his hands and cast one longing12 look at his inestimable Frans Hals. To think that any man in these days should have purchased for little a picture that can in all likelihood be sold for $500,000—it was like walking into Aladdin’s cave.
The morning I left it was gray as usual. I had brought in all my necessary belongings13 from Bridgely Level and installed them in my room at the hotel, packed and ready. The executive mind of Barfleur was on the qui vive to see that nothing was forgotten. A certain type of tie must be purchased for use on the Riviera—he had overlooked that. He thought my outing hat was not quite light enough in color, so we went back to change it. I had lost my umbrella in the excitement, and that had to be replaced. But finally, rushing to and fro in a taxi, loaded like a van with belongings, Barfleur breathing stertorously14 after each venture into a shop, we arrived at the Victoria Station. Never having been on the Continent before, I did not realize until we got there the wisdom of Barfleur’s insistence15 that I pack as much of my belongings as possible in bags, and as little as possible in trunks. Traveling first class, as most of those who have190 much luggage do, it is cheaper. As most travelers know, one can take as many as five or six parcels or bags in the compartment16 with one, and stow them on racks and under the seats, which saves a heavy charge for excess baggage. In some countries, such as Italy, nothing is carried free save your hand-luggage which you take in your compartment with you. In addition the rates are high. I think I paid as much as thirty shillings for the little baggage I had, over and above that which I took in my compartment with me. To a person with a frugal17 temperament18 such as mine, that is positively19 disconcerting. It was my first taste of what I came subsequently to look upon as greedy Europe.
As the train rushed southeastwards I did my best to see the pleasant country through which we were speeding—the region indicated on the map as North Downs. I never saw any portion of English country anywhere that I did not respond to the charming simplicity20 of it, and understand and appreciate the Englishman’s pride in it. It has all the quality of a pastoral poem—the charm of Arcady—fields of sheep, rows of quaint1 chimney pots and odd houses tucked away among the trees, exquisite21 moldy22 and sagging23 roofs, doorways24 and windows which look as though loving care had been spent on them. Although this was January, all the leafless trees were covered with a fine thin mold, as green as spring leaves. At Rochester the ruins of an ancient castle came into view and a cathedral which I was not to see. At Faversham I had to change from the Dover express to a local, and by noon I was at Canterbury and was looking for the Fleur-de-lis which had been recommended to me as the best hotel there. “At least,” observed Barfleur, quite solemnly to me as we parted, “I think you can drink the wine.” I smiled, for my taste in that respect was not so cultivated as his.
191
Of all the places I visited in England, not excluding Oxford25, I believe that Canterbury pleased me most. The day may have had something to do with it. It was warm and gray—threatening rain at times—but at times also the sun came out and gave the old English town a glow which was not unrelated to spring and Paradise. You will have to have a fondness for things English to like it—quaint, two-story houses with unexpected twists to their roofs, and oriel and bay windows which have been fastened on in the most unexpected places and in the strangest fashion. The colors, too, in some instances, are high for England—reds and yellows and blues26; but in the main a smoky red-brick tone prevails. The river Stour, which in America would be known as Stour’s Creek27, runs through the city in two branches; and you find it in odd places, walled in closely by the buildings, hung over by little balconies and doorsteps, the like of which I did not see again until I reached Venice. There were rooks in the sky, as I noticed, when I came out of the railway station; I was charmed with winding28 streets, and a general air of peace and quiet—but I could not descry29 the cathedral anywhere. I made my way up High Street—which is English for “Main”—and finally found my recommended inn, small and dark, but in the hands of Frenchmen and consequently well furnished in the matter of food. I came out after a time and followed this street to its end, passing the famous gate where the pilgrims used to sink on their knees and in that position pray their way to the cathedral. As usual my Baedeker gave me a world of information, but I could not stomach it, and preferred to look at the old stones of which the gate was composed, wondering that it had endured so long. The little that I knew of St. Augustine and King Ethelbert and Chaucer and Thomas à Becket and Laud30 came back to me. I could not have192 called it sacred ground, but it was colored at least with the romance of history, and I have great respect for what people once believed, whether it was sensible or not.
Canterbury is a city of twenty-eight thousand, with gas-works and railroads and an electric-power plant and moving pictures and a skating-rink. But, though it has all these and much more of the same kind, it nevertheless retains that indefinable something which is pure poetry and makes England exquisite. As I look at it now, having seen much more of other parts of Europe, the quality which produces this indefinable beauty in England is not so much embodied31 in the individual as in the race. If you look at architectural developments in other countries you have the feeling at times as if certain individuals had greatly influenced the appearance of a city or a country. This is true of Paris and Berlin, Florence and Milan. Some one seems to have worked out a scheme at some time or other. In England I could never detect an individual or public scheme of any kind. It all seemed to have grown up, like an unheralded bed of flowers. Again I am satisfied that it is the English temperament which, at its best, provides the indefinable lure32 which exists in all these places. I noticed it in the towns about Manchester where, in spite of rain and smoke, the same poetic33 hominess prevailed. Here in Canterbury, where the architecture dates in its variation through all of eight centuries, you feel the dominance of the English temperament which has produced it. To-day, in the newest sections of London—Hammersmith and Seven Kings, West Dulwich and North Finchley—you still feel it at work, accidentally or instinctively34 constructing this atmosphere which is common to Oxford and Canterbury. It is compounded of a sense of responsibility and cleanliness and religious feeling and strong national and193 family ties. You really feel in England the distinction of the fireside and the family heirloom; and the fact that a person must always keep a nice face on things, however bad they may be. The same spirit erects35 bird-boxes on poles in the yard and lays charming white stone doorsteps and plants vines to clamber over walls and windows. It is a sweet and poetic spirit, however dull it may seem by comparison with the brilliant iniquities36 of other realms. Here along this little river Stour the lawns came down to the water in some instances; the bridges over it were built with the greatest care; and although houses lined it on either side for several miles of its ramblings, it was nevertheless a clean stream. I noticed in different places, where the walls were quite free of any other marks, a poster giving the picture and the history of a murderer who was wanted by the police in Nottingham, and it came to me, in looking at it, that he would have a hard time anywhere in England concealing37 his identity. The native horror of disorder38 and scandal would cause him to be yielded up on the moment.
In my wanderings, which were purely39 casual and haphazard40, I finally came upon the cathedral which loomed41 up suddenly through a curving street under a leaden sky. It was like a lovely song, rendered with great pathos42. Over a Gothic gate of exquisite workmanship and endless labor43, it soared—two black stone towers rising shapely and ornate into the gray air. I looked up to some lattices which gave into what might have been the belfry, and saw birds perched just as they should have been. The walls, originally gray, had been turned by time and weather into a soft spongy black which somehow fitted in exquisitely44 with the haze45 of the landscape. I had a curious sensation of darker and lighter46 shades of gray—lurking47 pools of darkness here and there, and brightness in spots that became almost silver. The cathedral194 grounds were charmingly enclosed in vine-covered walls that were nevertheless worked out in harmonious48 detail of stone. An ancient walk of some kind, overhung with broken arches that had fallen into decay, led away into a green court which, by a devious49 process of other courts and covered arches, gave into the cloister50 proper. I saw an old deacon, or canon, of the church walking here in stately meditation51; and a typical English yeoman, his trousers fastened about the knee by the useless but immemorial strap52, came by, wheeling a few bricks in a barrow. There were endless courts, it seemed to me, surrounded by two-story buildings, all quaint in design, and housing Heaven-knows-what subsidiary factors of the archiepiscopal life. They seemed very simple habitations to me. Children played here on the walks and grass, gardeners worked at vines and fences, and occasional workmen appeared—men who, I supposed, were connected with the architectural repairs which were being made to the façade. As I stood in the courtyard of the archbishop’s house, which was in front and to the left of the cathedral as you faced it, a large blue-gray touring-car suddenly appeared, and a striking-looking ecclesiastic53 in a shovel54 hat stepped out. I had the wish and the fancy that I was looking at the archbishop himself—a sound, stern, intellectual-looking person—but I did not ask. He gave me a sharp, inquiring look, and I withdrew beyond these sacred precincts and into the cathedral itself, where a tinny-voiced bell was beginning to ring for afternoon service.
I am sure I shall never forget the interior of Canterbury. It was the first really old, great cathedral that I had seen—for I had not prized very highly either St. Paul’s or St. Alban’s. I had never quite realized how significant these structures must have been in an age when they were far and away the most important buildings195 of the time. No king’s palace could ever have had the importance of Canterbury, and the cry from the common peasant to the Archiepiscopal see must have been immense. Here really ruled the primate55 of all England, and here Becket was murdered.
Of all known architectural forms the Gothic corresponds more nearly to the finest impulse in nature itself—that is, to produce the floreated form. The aisles56 of the trees are no more appealing artistically57 than those of a great cathedral, and the overhanging branches through which the light falls have not much more charm than some of these perfect Gothic ceilings sustained by their many branching arms of stone. Much had happened, apparently58, to the magnificent stained-glass windows which must have filled the tall-pointed openings at different periods, and many of them have been replaced by plain frosted glass. Those that remain are of such richness of color and such delightful59 variety of workmanship that, seen at the end of long stretches of aisles and ambulatories, they are like splotches of blood or deep indigo60, throwing a strange light on the surrounding stone.
I presently fell in tow of a guide. It is said to-day that Americans are more like the Germans than like the English; but from the types I encountered in England I think the variety of American temperaments61 spring naturally from the mother country. Four more typical New England village specimens62 I never saw than these cathedral ushers63 or guides. They were sitting on the steps leading up to the choir64, clad in cap and gown, engaged in cheerful gossip.
“Your turn, Henry,” said one, and the tallest of the three came around and unlocked the great iron gates which give into the choir. Then began, for my special benefit, a magnificent oration65. We were joined, after we had gone a little way, by a party of ladies from Pennsylvania196 who were lurking in one of the transepts; and nothing would do but my guide must go back to the iron entrance-way to the choir and begin all over. Not a sentence was twisted, not a pause misplaced. “Good heavens,” I thought, “he does that every day in the year, perhaps a dozen times a day.” He was like a phonograph with but one record, which is repeated endlessly. Nevertheless, the history of the archbishops, the Black Prince, the Huguenot refugees, the carving66 of the woodwork and the disappearance67 of the windows was all interesting. After having made the rounds of the cathedral, we came out into the cloister, the corridors of which were all black and crumbling68 with age, and he indicated the spot and described the manner in which Becket had been stabbed and had fallen. I don’t know when a bit of history has moved me so much.
It was the day—the gentle quality of it—its very spring-like texture69 that made it all so wonderful. The grass in this black court was as green as new lettuce70; the pendants and facets71 of the arches were crumbling into black sand—and spoke seemingly of a thousand years. High overhead the towers and the pinnacles72, soaring as gracefully73 as winged living things, looked down while I faced the black-gowned figure of my guide and thought of the ancient archbishop crossing this self-same turf (how long can be the life of grass?).
When I came outside the gate into the little square or triangle which faces it I found a beautiful statue of the lyric74 muse—a semi-nude dancing girl erected75 to the memory of Christopher Marlowe. It surprised me a little to find it here, facing Canterbury, in what might be called the sacred precincts of religious art; but it is suitably placed and brought back to my mind the related kingdom of poetry.
All the little houses about have heavy overhanging197 eaves and diamond-shaped, lead-paned windows. The walls are thick and whitewashed76, ranging in color from cream to brown. They seem unsuited to modern life; and yet they frequently offered small shop-windows full of all the things that make it: picture-postcards, American shoes, much-advertised candy, and the latest books and magazines. I sought a tea-room near by and had tea, looking joyously77 out against the wall where some clematis clambered, and then wandered back to the depot78 to get my mackintosh and umbrella—for it was beginning to rain. For two hours more I walked up and down in the rain and dark, looking into occasional windows where the blinds had not been drawn79 and stopping in taprooms or public houses where rosy80 barmaids waited on one with courteous81 smiles.
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1
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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3
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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6
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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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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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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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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grandee
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| n.贵族；大公 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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stertorously
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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16
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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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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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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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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moldy
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| adj.发霉的 | |
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sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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descry
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| v.远远看到；发现；责备 | |
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30
laud
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| n.颂歌；v.赞美 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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instinctively
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erects
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的第三人称单数 )；建立 | |
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iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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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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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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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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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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46
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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primate
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| n.灵长类（目）动物，首席主教；adj.首要的 | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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70
lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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71
facets
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| n.（宝石或首饰的）小平面( facet的名词复数 )；（事物的）面；方面 | |
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72
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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73
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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74
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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75
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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76
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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78
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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79
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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80
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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81
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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