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Soul of a Bishop-Part1_H. G. WELLS (1866-1946)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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It was like animals breaking down a fence about some sacred

spot. Within a couple of minutes the affair had become highly



improper. They had raised their voices, they had spoken with the

utmost familiarity of almost unspeakable things. There had been



even attempts at epigram. Athanasian epigrams. Bent the novelist

had doubted if originally there had been a Third Person in the



Trinity at all. He suggested a reaction from a too-Manichaean

dualism at some date after the time of St. John's Gospel. He



maintained obstinately that that Gospel was dualistic.

The unpleasant quality of the talk was far more manifest in the



retrospect than it had been at the time. It had seemed then bold

and strange, but not impossible; now in the cold darkness it



seemed sacrilegious. And the bishop's share, which was indeed

only the weak yielding of a tired man to an atmosphere he had



misjudged, became a disgraceful display of levity and bad faith.

They had baited him. Some one had said that nowadays every one



was an Arian, knowingly or unknowingly. They had not concealed

their conviction that the bishop did not really believe in the



Creeds he uttered.

And that unfortunate first admission stuck terribly in his



throat.

Oh! Why had he made it?



(3)

Sleep had gone.



The awakened sleeper groaned, sat up in the darkness, and felt

gropingly in this unaccustomed bed and bedroom first for the edge



of the bed and then for the electric light that was possibly on

the little bedside table.



The searching hand touched something. A water-bottle. The hand

resumed its exploration. Here was something metallic and smooth,



a stem. Either above or below there must be a switch....

The switch was found, grasped, and turned.



The darkness fled.

In a mirror the sleeper saw the reflection of his face and a



corner of the bed in which he lay. The lamp had a tilted shade

that threw a slanting bar of shadow across the field of



reflection, lighting a right-angled triangle very brightly and

leaving the rest obscure. The bed was a very great one, a bed for



the Anakim. It had a canopy with yellow silk curtains, surmounted

by a gilded crown of carved wood. Between the curtains was a



man's face, clean-shaven, pale, with disordered brown hair and

weary, pale-blue eyes. He was clad in purple pyjamas, and the



hand that now ran its fingers through the brown hair was long and

lean and shapely.



Beside the bed was a convenient little table bearing the light,

a water-bottle and glass, a bunch of keys, a congested pocket-



book, a gold-banded fountain pen, and a gold watch that indicated

a quarter past three. On the lower edge of the picture in the



mirror appeared the back of a gilt chair, over which a garment of

peculiar construction had been carelessly thrown. It was in the



form of that sleeveless cassock of purple, opening at the side,

whose lower flap is called a bishop's apron; the corner of the



frogged coat showed behind the chair-back, and the sash lay

crumpled on the floor. Black doeskin breeches, still warmly lined



with their pants, lay where they had been thrust off at the

corner of the bed, partly covering black hose and silver-buckled



shoes.

For a moment the tired gaze of the man in the bed rested upon



these evidences of his episcopaldignity. Then he turned from

them to the watch at the bedside.



He groaned helplessly.

(4)



These country doctors were no good. There wasn't a physician in

the diocese. He must go to London.



He looked into the weary eyes of his reflection and said, as

one makes a reassuring promise, "London."






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