The Soul of a Bishop. Герберт Уэллс

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      “Ye – es,” said the bishop and reflected.

      He had gone rather far in the direction of the Woman Suffrage people; he had advocated equality of standard in all sorts of matters, and the memory of these utterances hampered him.

      “You could read here,” he tried.

      “If I were a son, you wouldn’t say that.”

      His reply was vague. “But in this home,” he said, “we have a certain atmosphere.”

      He left her to imply her differences in sensibility and response from the hardier male.

      Her hesitation marked the full gravity of her reply. “It’s just that,” she said. “One feels – ” She considered it further. “As if we were living in a kind of magic world – not really real. Out there – ” she glanced over her shoulder at the drawn blind that hid the night. “One meets with different sorts of minds and different – atmospheres. All this is very beautiful. I’ve had the most wonderful home. But there’s a sort of feeling as though it couldn’t really go on, as though all these strikes and doubts and questionings – ”

      She stopped short at questionings, for the thing was said.

      The bishop took her meaning gallantly and honestly.

      “The church of Christ, little Norah, is built upon a rock.”

      She made no answer. She moved her head very slightly so that he could not see her face, and remained sitting rather stiffly and awkwardly with her eyes upon the fire.

      Her silence was the third and greatest blow the bishop received that day…

      It seemed very long indeed before either of them spoke. At last he said: “We must talk about these things again, Norah, when we are less tired and have more time… You have been reading books… When Caxton set up his printing-press he thrust a new power between church and disciple and father and child… And I am tired. We must talk it over a little later.”

      The girl stood up. She took her father’s hands. “Dear, dear Daddy,” she said, “I am so sorry to be a bother. I am so sorry I went to that meeting… You look tired out.”

      “We must talk – properly,” said the bishop, patting one hand, then discovering from her wincing face that it was the sprained one. “Your poor wrist,” he said.

      “It’s so hard to talk, but I want to talk to you, Daddy. It isn’t that I have hidden things…”

      She kissed him, and the bishop had the odd fancy that she kissed him as though she was sorry for him…

      It occurred to him that really there could be no time like the present for discussing these “questionings” of hers, and then his fatigue and shyness had the better of him again.

      The papers got hold of Eleanor’s share in the suffragette disturbance. The White Blackbird said things about her.

      It did not attack her. It did worse. It admired her …impudently.

      It spoke of her once as “Norah,” and once as “the Scrope Flapper.”

      Its headline proclaimed: “Plucky Flappers Hold Up L. G.”

      CHAPTER THE THIRD – INSOMNIA

      THE night after his conversation with Eleanor was the first night of the bishop’s insomnia. It was the definite beginning of a new phase in his life.

      Doctors explain to us that the immediate cause of insomnia is always some poisoned or depleted state of the body, and no doubt the fatigues and hasty meals of the day had left the bishop in a state of unprecedented chemical disorder, with his nerves irritated by strange compounds and unsoothed by familiar lubricants. But chemical disorders follow mental disturbances, and the core and essence of his trouble was an intellectual distress. For the first time in his life he was really in doubt, about himself, about his way of living, about all his persuasions. It was a general doubt. It was not a specific suspicion upon this point or that. It was a feeling of detachment and unreality at once extraordinarily vague and extraordinarily oppressive. It was as if he discovered himself flimsy and transparent in a world of minatory solidity and opacity. It was as if he found himself made not of flesh and blood but of tissue paper.

      But this intellectual insecurity extended into his physical sensations. It affected his feeling in his skin, as if it were not absolutely his own skin.

      And as he lay there, a weak phantom mentally and bodily, an endless succession and recurrence of anxieties for which he could find no reassurance besieged him.

      Chief of this was his distress for Eleanor.

      She was the central figure in this new sense of illusion in familiar and trusted things. It was not only that the world of his existence which had seemed to be the whole universe had become diaphanous and betrayed vast and uncontrollable realities beyond it, but his daughter had as it were suddenly opened a door in this glassy sphere of insecurity that had been his abiding refuge, a door upon the stormy rebel outer world, and she stood there, young, ignorant, confident, adventurous, ready to step out.

      “Could it be possible that she did not believe?”

      He saw her very vividly as he had seen her in the dining-room, slender and upright, half child, half woman, so fragile and so fearless. And the door she opened thus carelessly gave upon a stormy background like one of the stormy backgrounds that were popular behind portrait Dianas in eighteenth century paintings. Did she believe that all he had taught her, all the life he led was – what was her phrase? – a kind of magic world, not really real?

      He groaned and turned over and repeated the words: “A kind of magic world – not really real!”

      The wind blew through the door she opened, and scattered everything in the room. And still she held the door open.

      He was astonished at himself. He started up in swift indignation. Had he not taught the child? Had he not brought her up in an atmosphere of faith? What right had she to turn upon him in this matter? It was – indeed it was – a sort of insolence, a lack of reverence…

      It was strange he had not perceived this at the time.

      But indeed at the first mention of “questionings” he ought to have thundered. He saw that quite clearly now. He ought to have cried out and said, “On your knees, my Norah, and ask pardon of God!”

      Because after all faith is an emotional thing…

      He began to think very rapidly and copiously of things he ought to have said to Eleanor. And now the eloquence of reverie was upon him. In a little time he was also addressing the tea-party at Morrice Deans’. Upon them too he ought to have thundered. And he knew now also all that he should have said to the recalcitrant employer. Thunder also. Thunder is surely the privilege of the higher clergy – under Jove.

      But why hadn’t he thundered?

      He gesticulated in the darkness, thrust out a clutching hand.

      There are situations that must be gripped – gripped firmly. And without delay. In the middle ages there had been grip enough in a purple glove.

      From these belated seizures of the day’s lost opportunities СКАЧАТЬ