酷兔英语
    当前位置:
  1. 首页
  2. 文章
  3. 娱乐英语
  4. 原版小说
  5. 正文

Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes-Part6_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON(1850-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

0 收藏 0 分享 0 赞

章节正文
文章总共2页
earth and broken up with the farmer's harrow.

I was troubled besides in my mind as to etiquette. Durst I address



a person who was under a vow of silence? Clearly not. But drawing

near, I doffed my cap to him with a far-away superstitious



reverence. He nodded back, and cheerfully addressed me. Was I

going to the monastery? Who was I? An Englishman? Ah, an



Irishman, then?

'No,' I said, 'a Scotsman.'



A Scotsman? Ah, he had never seen a Scotsman before. And he

looked me all over, his good, honest, brawny countenance shining



with interest, as a boy might look upon a lion or an alligator.

From him I learned with disgust that I could not be received at Our



Lady of the Snows; I might get a meal, perhaps, but that was all.

And then, as our talk ran on, and it turned out that I was not a



pedlar, but a literary man, who drew landscapes and was going to

write a book, he changed his manner of thinking as to my reception



(for I fear they respect persons even in a Trappist monastery), and

told me I must be sure to ask for the Father Prior, and state my



case to him in full. On second thoughts he determined to go down

with me himself; he thought he could manage for me better. Might



he say that I was a geographer?

No; I thought, in the interests of truth, he positively might not.



'Very well, then' (with disappointment), 'an author.'

It appeared he had been in a seminary with six young Irishmen, all



priests long since, who had received newspapers and kept him

informed of the state of ecclesiastical affairs in England. And he



asked me eagerly after Dr. Pusey, for whose conversion the good man

had continued ever since to pray night and morning.



'I thought he was very near the truth,' he said; 'and he will reach

it yet; there is so much virtue in prayer.'



He must be a stiff, ungodly Protestant who can take anything but

pleasure in this kind and hopeful story. While he was thus near



the subject, the good father asked me if I were a Christian; and

when he found I was not, or not after his way, he glossed it over



with great good-will.

The road which we were following, and which this stalwart father



had made with his own two hands within the space of a year, came to

a corner, and showed us some white buildings a little farther on



beyond the wood. At the same time, the bell once more sounded

abroad. We were hard upon the monastery. Father Apollinaris (for



that was my companion's name) stopped me.

'I must not speak to you down there,' he said. 'Ask for the



Brother Porter, and all will be well. But try to see me as you go

out again through the wood, where I may speak to you. I am charmed



to have made your acquaintance.'

And then suddenly raising his arms, flapping his fingers, and



crying out twice, 'I must not speak, I must not speak!' he ran away

in front of me, and disappeared into the monastery door.



I own this somewhat ghastly eccentricity went a good way to revive

my terrors. But where one was so good and simple, why should not



all be alike? I took heart of grace, and went forward to the gate

as fast as Modestine, who seemed to have a disaffection for



monasteries, would permit. It was the first door, in my

acquaintance of her, which she had not shown an indecent haste to



enter. I summoned the place in form, though with a quaking heart.

Father Michael, the Father Hospitaller, and a pair of brown-robed



brothers came to the gate and spoke with me a while. I think my

sack was the great attraction; it had already beguiled the heart of



poor Apollinaris, who had charged me on my life to show it to the

Father Prior, But whether it was my address, or the sack, or the



idea speedily published among that part of the brotherhood who

attend on strangers that I was not a pedlar after all, I found no



difficulty as to my reception. Modestine was led away by a layman

to the stables, and I and my pack were received into Our Lady of



the Snows.

THE MONKS



FATHER MICHAEL, a pleasant, fresh-faced, smiling man, perhaps of

thirty-five, took me to the pantry, and gave me a glass of liqueur



to stay me until dinner. We had some talk, or rather I should say

he listened to my prattle indulgently enough, but with an



abstracted air, like a spirit with a thing of clay. And truly,




文章总共2页
文章标签:名著  

章节正文
Copyright © 2023 Qeto All rights reserved.
商务合作 | 联系我们 | 关于我们 | 版权声明 | 隐私条款 | 如果智培

京ICP备05059198号-1 京公网安备 11011202003401号