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The Burial of the Guns-Part2_Thomas Nelson Page(1853-1922)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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satisfied something in her soul. It happened to be in the evening

that she was talking about this. She sat down at the piano,



and played some of the Gregorian chants she had heard, and it had

a soothing influence on everyone. Even Joe, the fidgetiest of all,



sat quite still through it. She said that some one had said it was

the music that the angels sing in heaven around the great white throne,



and there was no other sacred music like it. But she played another thing

that evening which she said was worthy to be played with it.



It had some chords in it that I remembered long afterward. Years afterward

I heard it played the same way in the twilight by one who is a blessed saint



in heaven, and may be playing it there now. It was from Chopin.

She even said that evening, under the impulse of her enthusiasm,



that she did not see, except that it might be abused, why the crucifix

should not be retained by all Christian churches, as it enabled some persons



not gifted with strong imaginations to have a more vivid realization

of the crucified Saviour. This, of course, was going too far,



and it created considerableexcitement in the family, and led to

some very serious talk being given her, in which the second commandment



figured largely. It was considered as carrying old-maidism to

an extreme length. For some time afterward she was rather discountenanced.



In reality, I think what some said was true: it was simply

that she was emotional, as old maids are apt to be. She once said



that many women have the nun's instinct largely developed,

and sigh for the peace of the cloister.



She seemed to be very fond of artists. She had the queerest tastes,

and had, or had had when she was young, one or two friends who, I believe,



claimed to be something of that kind; she used to talk about them

to old Blinky. But it seemed to us from what she said that artists



never did any work; just spent their time lounging around, doing nothing,

and daubing paint on their canvas with brushes like a painter,



or chiselling and chopping rocks like a mason. One of these friends of hers

was a young man from Norfolk who had made a good many things.



He was killed or died in the war; so he had not been quite ruined;

was worth something anyhow as a soldier. One of his things was a Psyche,



and Cousin Fanny used to talk a good deal about it; she said it was fine,

was a work of genius. She had even written some verses about it.



She repeated them to me once, and I wrote them down. Here they are:

To Galt's Psyche.



Well art thou called the soul;

For as I gaze on thee,



My spirit, past control,

Springs up in ecstasy.



Thou canst not be dead stone;

For o'er thy lovely face,



Softer than music's tone,

I see the spirit's grace.



The wild aeolian lyre

Is but a silken string,



Till summer winds inspire,

And softest music bring.



Psyche, thou wast but stone

Till his inspiring came:



The sculptor's hand alone

Made not that soul-touched frame.



They have lain by me for years, and are pretty good for one who didn't write.

I think, however, she was young when she addressed them to the



"soul-touched" work of the young sculptor, who laid his genius and everything

at Virginia's feet. They were friends, I believe, when she was a girl,



before she caught that cold, and her eyes got bad.

Among her eccentricities was her absurdcowardice" target="_blank" title="n.懦弱，胆怯">cowardice. She was afraid of cows,



afraid of horses, afraid even of sheep. And bugs, and anything that crawled,

used to give her a fit. If we drove her anywhere, and the horses cut up



the least bit, she would jump out and walk, even in the mud;

and I remember once seeing her cross the yard, where a young cow



that had a calf asleep in the weeds, over in a corner beyond her,

started toward it at a little trot with a whimper of motherly solicitude.



Cousin Fanny took it into her head that the cow was coming at her,

and just screamed, and sat down flat on the ground, carrying on



as if she were a baby. Of course, we boys used to tease her,

and tell her the cows were coming after her. You could not help teasing



anybody like that.

I do not see how she managed to do what she did when the enemy got to Woodside



in the war. That was quite remarkable, considering what a coward she was.

During 1864 the Yankees on a raid got to her house one evening in the summer.



As it happened, a young soldier, one of her cousins (she had no end




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