Читать книгу Adrienne Toner - Anne Douglas Sedgwick - Страница 8

“You think she cares for him?”

“Yes; indeed I do. She cares for us all, already, as you can see. But I believe it’s because she’s adopting us all, as her family. And she said to me yesterday that she disapproved so much of our English way of turning out mothers and thought families ought to love each other and live together, young and old. That’s from being so much in France, perhaps. I told her I shouldn’t have liked it at all if old Mrs. Chadwick had wanted to come and live with Francis and me. She was such a masterful old lady, Roger, very Low Church, and quite dreadfully jealous of Francis. And eldest sons should inherit, of course, or what would become of estates? My dear father used always to say that the greatness of England was founded on landed estates. I told her that. But she looked at me quite gravely as if she hardly understood when I tried to explain—it all goes in with Waterloo being won on the fields of Eton, doesn’t it? It’s quite curious the feeling of restfulness she gives me, about Barney—a sort of Nunc Dimittis feeling, you know.”

“Only she doesn’t want you to depart. Well, that’s certainly all to the good and let’s hope England’s greatness won’t suffer from the irregularity. Has she told you much about her life? her people?” Oldmeadow asked. He could not find it in his heart to shadow such ingenuous contentment. And after all what was there to say against Miss Toner, except that she would change things?

“Oh, a great deal. Everything I asked; for I thought it best, quite casually you know, to find out what I could. Not people of any position, you know, Roger, though I think her mother was better in that way than her father; for his father made tooth-paste. It’s from the tooth-paste all the money comes. But it’s always puzzling about Americans, isn’t it? And it doesn’t really make any difference, once they’re over here, does it?”

“Not if they’ve got the money,” he could not suppress; it was for his own personal enjoyment and Mrs. Chadwick cloudlessly concurred: “No, not if they have the money. And she has, you see. And besides that she’s good and gifted and has had such a wonderful education. Her mother died five years ago. She showed me two pictures of her. A beautiful woman; very artistic-looking. Rather one’s idea of Corinne, though Corinne was really Madame de Staël, I believe; and she was very plain.”

“Was she dressed like Queen Louise of Prussia; coming down the steps, you know, in the Empire dress with white bound round her head?”

“Yes; she was. How did you know, Roger? Extremely picturesque; but quite a lady, too. At least”—Mrs. Chadwick hesitated, perplexed between kindliness and candour—“almost.”

“I heard about her from Mrs. Aldesey. You remember my American friend. She didn’t know her, but had seen her years ago in New York in that romantic costume.”

Mrs. Chadwick felt perhaps the slight irony in his voice, for she rejoined, though not at all provocatively: “Why shouldn’t people look romantic if they can? I should think Mrs. Toner had a much more romantic life than Mrs. Aldesey. She’s gone on just as we have, hasn’t she, seeing always the same people; and being conventional. Whereas Adrienne and her mother seem to have known everyone strange and interesting wherever they went; great scientists and thinkers, you know; and poets and pianists. Adrienne told me that her mother always seemed to her to have great wings and that’s just what I felt about her when I looked at her. She’d flown everywhere.” As she spoke Miss Toner appeared upon the doorstep.

Although it was Sunday she had not varied her dress, which was still the simple dress of dim, dark-blue; but over it she wore a silk jacket, and a straw hat trimmed with a lighter shade of blue was tied, in summer-like fashion, beneath her chin. She carried a sunshade and a small basket filled with letters.

Mrs. Chadwick, both hands outstretched, went to meet her. Oldmeadow had never before seen her kiss an acquaintance of two days’ standing. “I do hope you slept well, my dear,” she said.

“Very well,” said Miss Toner, including Oldmeadow in her smile. “Except for a little while when I woke up and lay awake and couldn’t get the cawing of your rooks out of my mind. I seemed to hear them going on and on.”

“Oh, dear! How unfortunate! But surely they weren’t cawing in the night!” cried Mrs. Chadwick, and Miss Toner, laughing and holding her still by the hands, turned to tell Barney, who closely followed her, that his mother was really afraid, because she had thought of rooks in the night, that their Coldbrooks birds had actually been inhospitable enough to keep her awake with their cawings. Meg and Barbara and Nancy had all now emerged and there was much laughter and explanation.

“You see, Mummy thinks you might work miracles—even among the rooks,” said Barney, while Oldmeadow testily meditated on his own discomfort. It might have been mere coincidence, or it might—he must admit it—have been Miss Toner’s thoughts travelling into his dream or his dream troubling her thoughts; of the two last alternatives he didn’t know which he disliked the more.

“It’s time to get ready for church, children,” said Mrs. Chadwick, when, after much merriment at her expense, the rooks and their occult misdemeanours were disposed of. “Where is Palgrave? I do hope he won’t miss again. It does so hurt dear Mr. Bodman’s feelings. Are you coming with us, my dear?” she asked Miss Toner.

Miss Toner, smiling upon them all, her sunshade open on her shoulder, said that if they did not mind she did not think she would come. “I only go to church when friends get married or their babies christened,” she said, “or something of that sort. I was never brought up to it, you see. Mother never went.”

Mrs. Chadwick’s March Hare eyes dwelt on her. “You aren’t a Churchwoman?”

“Oh, dear, no!” said Miss Toner, and the very suggestion seemed to amuse her.

Mrs. Chadwick hesitated: “A Dissenter?” she ventured. “There are so many sects in America I’ve heard. Though I met a very charming American bishop once.”

“No—not a Dissenter; if you mean by that a Presbyterian or a Methodist or a Swedenborgian,” said Miss Toner, shaking her head.

Palgrave had now joined them and stood on the step above her. She smiled round and up at him.

Mrs. Chadwick, her distress alleviated yet her perplexity deepened, ventured further: “You are a Christian, I hope, dear?”

“Oh, not at all,” said Miss Toner gravely now and very kindly. “Not in any orthodox way, I mean. Not in any way that an American bishop or your Mr. Bodman would acknowledge. I recognize Christ as a great teacher, as a great human soul; one of the very greatest; gone on before. But I don’t divide the human from the divine in the way the churches do; creeds mean nothing to me, and I’d rather say my prayers out of doors on a day like this, in the sunlight, than in any church. I feel nearer God alone in His great world, than in any church built with human hands. But we must all follow our own light.” She spoke in her flat, soft voice, gravely but very simply; and she looked affectionately at her hostess as she added: “You wouldn’t want me to come with you from mere conformity.”

Poor Mrs. Chadwick, standing, her brood about her, in the sweet Sabbath sunlight, had to Oldmeadow’s eye an almost comically arrested air. How was a creedless, churchless mistress of Coldbrooks to be fitted in to her happy vision of Barney’s future? What would the village say to a squiress who never went to church and who said her prayers in the sunlight alone? “But, of course, better alone,” he seemed to hear her cogitate, “than that anyone should see her doing such a very curious thing.” And aloud she did murmur: “Of course not; of course not, dear. And if you go into the little arbour down by the lake no one will disturb you, I’m sure. Must it be quite in the open? Mere conformity is such a shallow thing. But all the same I should like the rector to come and talk things over with you. He’s such a good man and very, very broad-minded. He brings science so often into his sermons—sometimes I think the people don’t quite follow it all; and only the other day he said to me, about modern unrest and scepticism:

‘There is more faith in honest doubt,

Believe me, than in half the creeds.’

Mamma met Lord Tennyson once and felt him to be a deeply religious man—though rather ill-tempered; he was really very rude to her, I always thought, and I do so dislike rudeness.—And travelling about so much, dear, you probably had so little teaching.”

Miss Toner’s eyes were incapable of irony and they only deepened now in benevolence as they rested on her hostess. “But I haven’t any doubts,” she said, shaking her head and smiling: “No doubts at all. You reach the truth through your church and I reach it through nature and love and life. And the beautiful thing is that it’s the same truth, really; the same beautiful truth that God loves us all, and that we are all the children of God. I should be very pleased to meet your rector, of course, because I like meeting anyone who is good and true. But I was taught. My mother taught me always. And she was the freest, wisest soul I have ever known.”

“I’ll stay with you,” said Palgrave suddenly from his place on the step above her. His eyes, over her shoulder, had met Oldmeadow’s and perhaps what he saw in the old friend’s face determined his testimony. “Church means nothing to me, either; and less than nothing. I’m not so charitable as you are, and don’t think all roads lead to truth. Some lead away, I think. You know perfectly well, Mummy, that the dear old rector is a regular duffer and you slept all through the sermon the last time I went; you did, really! I was too amused to sleep. He was trying to explain original sin without mentioning Adam or Eve or the Garden of Eden. It was most endearing! Like some one trying to avoid the eye of an old acquaintance whom they’d come to the conclusion they really must cut! I do so like the idea of Adam and Eve becoming unsuitable acquaintances for the enlightened clergy!”

“There is no sin,” said Miss Toner. Barney was not quite comfortable; Oldmeadow saw that. He kicked about in the gravel, a little flushed, and when, once or twice, the old family friend met his eye, it was quickly averted. “God is Good; and everything else is mortal mind—mistake—illusion.”

“You are a sound Platonist, Miss Toner,” Oldmeadow observed, and his kindness hardly cloaked his irony.

“Am I?” she said. When she looked at one she never averted her eyes. She looked until she had seen all that she wished to see. “I am not fond of metaphysics.”

“Socrates defined sin as ignorance, you know, and in a sense it may be. All the same,” said Oldmeadow, and he felt that they were all listening and that in the eyes of his old friends it was more than unlikely that he would get the better of Miss Toner—“there’s mortal mind to be accounted for, isn’t there, and why it gets us continually into such a mess. Whatever name you call it by, there is something that does get us into a mess and mightn’t it be a wholesome discipline to hear it denounced once a week?”

“Not by some one more ignorant than I am!” said Miss Toner, laughing gently. “I’ll go to church for love of Mrs. Chadwick, but not for the sake of the discipline!”

“Mr. Bodman never denounces. Roger is giving you quite a wrong idea,” said Mrs. Chadwick. She had stood looking from one to the other, distressed and bewildered, and she now prepared to leave them. “And Palgrave is very, very unjust. Of course you must not come, dear. It would make me quite unhappy. But Mr. Bodman is not a duffer. If Palgrave feels like that he must certainly stay away. Perhaps you can teach him to be more charitable. It’s easy to see the mote in our neighbour’s eye.” Mrs. Chadwick’s voice slightly trembled. She had been much moved by her son’s defection.

“Come, Mummy, you’re not going to say I’m a duffer!” Palgrave passed an affectionately bantering arm round her shoulders. “Dufferism isn’t my beam!”

But very sadly Mrs. Chadwick drew away, saying as she turned into the house: “No; that isn’t your beam. But pride may be, Palgrave. Spiritual pride.”

Oldmeadow remained standing in the sunlight with Miss Toner and the two young men. The girls had followed Mrs. Chadwick, Meg casting a laughing glance of appreciation at him as she went. Religious scruples would never keep Meg from church if she had a pretty spring dress to wear.

“After all,” he carried on, mildly, the altercation—if that was what it was between him and Miss Toner—“good Platonists as we may be, we haven’t reached the stage of Divine Contemplation yet and things do happen that are difficult to account for, if sin is nothing more positive than illusion and mistake. All the forms of ôte-toi que je m’y mette. All the forms of jealousy and malice. Deliberate cruelties. History is full of horrors, isn’t it? There’s a jealousy of goodness in the human heart, as well as a love. The betrayal of Christ by Judas is symbolic.”

He had screwed his eyeglass into his eye the better to see Miss Toner and looked very much like a solicitor trying to coax dry facts out of a romantic client. And in the transparent shadow of her hat Miss Toner, with her incomparable composure, gave him all her attention.

“I don’t account. I don’t account for anything. Do you?” she said. “I only feel and know. But even the dreadful things, the things that seem to us so dreadful—isn’t it always ignorance? Ignorance of what is really good and happy—and the illusion of a separate self? When we are all, really, one. All, really, together.” She held out her arms, her little basket hanging from her wrist. “And if we feel that at last, and know it, those dreadful things can’t happen any more.”

“Your ‘if’ is the standing problem of metaphysics and ethics. Why don’t we feel and know it? That’s the question? And since we most of us, for most of the time, don’t feel and know it, don’t we keep closer to the truth if we accept the traditional phraseology and admit that there’s something in the texture of life, something in ourselves, that tempts us, or impedes us, or crushes us, and call it sin—evil?”

He was looking at her, still with his latent irony though kindly enough indeed, and he had, as he looked, an intuition about her. She had never been tempted, she had never been impeded, she had never been crushed. That was her power. She was, in a fashion, sinless. It was as if she had been hypnotized in infancy to be good. And while the fact made her in one sense so savourless, it made her in another so significant. She would go much further than most people in any direction she wanted to go simply because she was not aware of obstacles and had no inhibitions.

“Call it what you like,” said Miss Toner. She still smiled—but more gravely. Barney had ceased to stroll and kick. He had come to a standstill beside them, and, his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on his beloved, showed himself as completely reassured. Palgrave still stood on the step above her and seemed to watch the snowy, piled-up clouds that adorned the tranquil sky. “I feel it a mistake to make unreal things seem real by giving them big names. We become afraid of them and fear is what impedes us most of all in life. For so many generations humanity has seen ghosts in the evening mists and taken its indigestion for the promptings of a demon. We’ve got away from all that now, Mr. Oldmeadow. We see that mists are mists and indigestion indigestion, and that there aren’t such things as ghosts and demons. We’ve come out, all together, hand in hand, on the Open Road and we don’t want, ever any more, to be reminded, even, of the Dark Ages.”

Before her fluency, Oldmeadow felt himself grow less kindly. “You grant there have been dark ages, then? I count that a concession. Things may not be evil now, but they were once.”

“Not a concession at all,” said Miss Toner. “Only an explanation of what has happened—an explanation of what you call the mess, Mr. Oldmeadow.”

“So that when we find ourselves misbehaving to one another as we march along the Open Road, we may know it’s only indigestion and take a pill.”

She didn’t like badinage. That, at all events, was evident to him, even in her imperturbability. She took it calmly—not lightly; and if she was not already beginning to dislike him, it was because disliking people was a reality she didn’t recognize. “We don’t misbehave if we are on the Open Road,” she said.

“Oh, but you’re falling back now on good old-fashioned theology,” Oldmeadow retorted. “The sheep, saved and well-behaved, keeping to the road, and the goats—all those who misbehave and stray—classed with the evening mists.”

“No,” said Miss Toner eyeing him, “I don’t class them with the evening mists; I class them with the sick, whom we must be kind to and take care of.”

Mrs. Chadwick was now emerging in her new spring hat, which was not very successful and gave emphasis to her general air of strain. Meg’s hat was very successful, as Meg’s hats always were; and if Nancy’s did not shine beside it, it was, at all events, exceedingly becoming to her. Nancy’s eyes went to Barney. Barney, in the past, had been very appreciative of becoming hats. But he had no eyes for Nancy now. He had drawn Miss Toner aside and Oldmeadow heard their colloquy:

“Would you rather I didn’t go?”

“I’d rather, always, you followed your light, dear friend.”

“I do like going here, you know. It seems to belong with it all—and Mummy can’t bear our not going.”

“It makes your dear mother happy. It all means love to you.”

“Not only that”—Oldmeadow imagined that Barney blushed, and he heard his stammer: “I don’t know what I believe about everything; but the service goes much deeper than anything I could think for myself.” Their voices dropped. All that came further to Oldmeadow was from Miss Toner: “It makes you nearer than if you stayed.”

“Confound her ineffability!” he thought. “It rests with her, then, whether he should go or stay.”

It certainly did. Barney moved away with them all, leaving Palgrave to the more evident form of proximity.

“You know,” Mrs. Chadwick murmured to Oldmeadow as they went, between the primroses, down the little path and through a wicket-gate that led to the village—“you know, Roger, it’s quite possible that they may say their prayers together. It’s like Quakers, isn’t it—or Moravians; or whoever those curious people are who are buried standing up—so dismal and uncomfortable, I always think. But it’s better that Palgrave should say his prayers with some one, and somewhere, isn’t it, than that he shouldn’t say them at all?”