George Orwell Folwark zwierzęcy (12)
George Orwell Folwark zwierzęcy (16)
George Orwell Folwark zwierzęcy (18)
George Orwell Folwark zwierzęcy (13)
George Orwell Folwark zwierzęcy (17)
Nieuchwytny jastrząb
chip 5
www nie com pl 2
abc.com.pl 5
rozdzial 03 (279)
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.Like the redlightning the bloody sword fell, and a man beneath it.Cling! clang! went theechoes in the rocks-and another man was down; for, in his excitement, he was adestroying angel to the breathless pursuers.His stature rose, his chestdilated; and as the third foe fell dead, the girl was safe; for her body lay abroken, empty, but undesecrated temple, at the foot of the rock.That moment hissword flew in shivers from his grasp.The next instant he fell, pierced to theheart; and his spirit rose triumphant, free, strong, and calm, above the stormyworld, which at length lay vanquished beneath him.""A capital story!" cried our host, the moment the curate had ceased reading."But you should not have killed him.You should have made a general of him.Byheaven! he deserved it."Mr.Armstrong was evidently much pleased that the colonel so heartilysympathized with his tale.And every one else added some words of commendation.I could not help thinking with myself that he had only embodied the story of hisown life in other more striking forms.But I knew that, if I said so, he wouldlaugh at me, and answer that all he had done was quite easy to do-he had foundno difficulty in it; whereas this man was a hero and did the thing that he foundvery difficult indeed.Still I was sure that the story was at least theoutgrowth of his own mind."May we ask," I said, "how much of the tale is fact?""I am sorry it is not all fact," he answered."Tell us how much, then," I said."Well, I will tell you what made me write it.I heard an old lady at adinner-table mention that she had once known a young officer who had his swordbroken over his head, and was dismissed from the army, for cowardice.I begantrying first to understand his feelings; then to see how the thing could havehappened; and then to discover what could be done for him.And hence the story.That was all, I am sorry to say.""I thought as much," I rejoined."Will you excuse me if I venture to make a remark?" said Mrs.Bloomfield."With all my heart," answered the curate."It seemed to me that there was nothing Christian in the story.And I cannothelp feeling that a clergyman might, therefore, have done better.""I allow that in words there is nothing Christian," answered Mr.Armstrong; "andI am quite ready to allow also that it might have been better if something ofthe kind you mean had been expressed in it.The whole thing, however, is only asketch.But I cannot allow that, in spirit and scope, it is anything other thanChristian, or indeed anything but Christian.It seems to me that the whole mightbe used as a Christian parable."While the curate spoke, I had seen Adela's face flush; but the cause was notvisible to me.As he uttered the last words, a hand was laid on his shoulder,and Harry's voice said:"At your parables again, Ralph?"He had come in so gently that the only sign of his entrance had been therose-light on Adela's cheeks.-Was he the sun? And was she a cloud of the east?"Glad to see you safe amongst us again," said the colonel, backed by almostevery one of the company."What's your quarrel with my parables, Harry?" said the curate."Quarrel? None at all.They are the delight of my heart.I only wish you wouldgive our friends one of your best-The Castle, for instance.""Not yet a while, Harry.It is not my turn for some time, I hope.Perhaps MissCathcart will be tired of the whole affair, before it comes round to me again.""Then I shall deserve to be starved of stories all the rest of my life,"answered Adela, laughing."If you will allow me, then," said Harry, "I will give you a parable, called TheLost Church, from the German poet, Uhland.""Softly, Harry," said his brother; "you are ready enough with what is not yoursto give; but where is your own story that you promised, and which indeed weshould have a right to demand, whether you had promised it or not?""I am working at it, Ralph, in my spare moments, which are not very many; and Iwant to choose the right sort of night to tell it in, too.This one wouldn't doat all.There's no moon.""If it is a horrid story, it is a pity you did not read it last time, before youset out to cross the moor.""Oh, that night would not have done at all.A night like that drives all fearout of one's head.But indeed it is not finished yet.-May I repeat the parablenow, Miss Cathcart?""What do you mean by a parable, Mr.Henry?" interrupted Mrs.Cathcart."Itsounds rather profane to me.""I mean a picture in words, where more is meant than meets the ear.""But why call it a parable?""Because it is one.""Why not speak in plain words then?""Because a good parable is plainer than the plainest words.You remember whatTennyson says-that'truth embodied in a taleShall enter in at lowly doors'?""Goethe," said the curate, "has a little parable about poems, which is equallytrue about parables-'Poems are painted window-panes.If one looks from the square into the church,Dusk and dimness are his gains-Sir Philistine is left in the lurch.The sight, so seen, may well enrage him,Nor any words henceforth assuage him.But come just inside what conceals;Cross the holy threshold quite-All at once,'tis rainbow-bright;Device and story flash to light;A gracious splendour truth reveals.This, to God's children, is full measure;It edifies and gives them pleasure.'""I can't follow that," said Adela."I will write it out for you," said Harry; "and then you will be able to followit perfectly.""Thank you very much.Now for your parable.""It is called The Lost Church; and I assure you it is full of meaning.""I hope I shall be able to find it out.""You will find the more the longer you think about it.'Oft in the far wood, overhead,Tones of a bell are heard obscurely;How old the sounds no sage has said,Or yet explained the story surely.From the lost church, the legend saith,Out on the winds, the ringing goeth;Once full of pilgrims was the path-Now where to find it, no one knoweth.Deep in the wood I lately went,Where no foot-trodden path is lying;From the time's woe and discontent,My heart went forth to God in sighing.When in the forest's wild repose,I heard the ringing somewhat clearer;The higher that my longing rose,Downward it rang the fuller, nearer.So on its thoughts my heart did brood,My sense was with the sound so busy,That I have never understoodHow I clomb up the height so dizzy.To me it seemed a hundred yearsHad passed away in dreaming, sighing-When lo! high o'er the clouds, appearsAn open space in sunlight lying.The heaven, dark-blue, above it bowed;The sun shone o'er it, large and glowing;Beneath, a ministers structure proudStood in the gold light, golden showing [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
