Chapter 88

第八十八章

随着一阵叩门声，一群孩子蜂拥而入。此刻，他们一个个浑身上下收拾得干干净净、整整齐齐。一张张小脸蛋因刚用肥皂擦洗过而闪闪发亮。湿润的头发梳理得服服帖帖。他们将在莎莉的带领下到主日学校去。阿特尔涅喜气洋洋，像演戏似地同孩子们打趣逗乐。不难看出，他还怪疼爱他们的哩。他为自己的孩子们一个个长得身强体壮、英气勃勃而感到骄傲，他那股骄傲的神气倒蛮感人肺腑的呢。菲利普隐约觉得孩子们在他跟前显得有点儿拘束，而当他们的父亲把他们打发走时，他们很明显怀着一种释然的心情一溜烟地跑开了。没过几分钟，阿特尔涅太太走了进来。这时，卷发的夹子拿掉了，额前的刘海梳理得一丝不乱。她穿了件朴素的黑上衣，戴了顶饰有几朵廉价鲜花的帽子。眼下她正在使劲往那双因劳作而变得通红、粗糙的手上套着手套。

"我这就上教堂去，阿特尔涅，"她说，"你们不需要什么了吧？"

"只要你的祷告，贝蒂。"

"我的祷告对你不会有什么好处，你这个人根本连听也没心思所。"她说罢微微笑了笑，接着转过脸去，面对着菲利普，慢声慢气地说："我没办法叫他跟我一块上教堂。他比无神论者好不了多少。"

"你看她像不像鲁宾斯的第二个妻子？"阿特尔涅顿时嚷了起来。"她穿上十七世纪的服装，看上去不也是仪态雍容吗？要娶老婆，就要娶她这样的老婆，我的老弟。你瞧她那副模样儿！"

"我晓得你又要要贫嘴了，阿特尔涅，"她沉着地顶了他一句。

阿特尔涅太太好不容易揿下了手套的揿钮。临行前，她朝菲利普转过身去，脸上露出和蔼但略为尴尬的笑容。

"你留下来用茶点，好不？阿特尔涅喜欢找个人说个话儿，可不是经常能找到有头脑的人的。"

"那还用你讲，他当然要在这儿用茶点咯，"阿特尔涅说。妻子走后，他又接下去说道："我规定让孩子们上主日学校，我也喜欢贝蒂到教堂去。我认为女人应该信教。我自己不相信宗教，可我喜欢女人和孩子信教。"

菲利普自己对涉及真理方面问题的态度极端严谨，因此当看到阿特尔涅采取这种轻浮的态度，不觉微微一怔。

"孩子们所接受的恰恰是你认为是不真实的东西，你怎么能无动于衷、听之任之呢？"

"只要那些东西美丽动听，就是不真实，那又有什么关系呢。要求每一件事情既符合你的理智又符合你的审美观，那你的要求也太高了。我原先希望贝蒂成为天主教徒，还巴不得能看到她头戴纸花王冠皈依天主教呢。可是，她却是个耶稣教徒，真是不可救药。再说，信不信教是一个人的气质问题。要是你生来就有颗信教的脑袋，那你对什么事情都会笃信不疑；要是你生来就没有信教的脑袋，不管你头脑里灌进什么样的信仰，你慢慢总会摆脱这些信仰的。宗教或许还是最好的道德学校呐。这好比你们这些绅士常用的药剂中的一味药，不用这味药而改用别的，也同样解决问题。这就说明那味药本身并无功效，不过起分解别的药使其容易被吸收罢了。你选择你的道德观念，这是因为它与宗教结合在一起的。你失去宗教信仰，但道德观念依然还在。一个人假如不是通过研读赫伯特·斯宾塞的哲学著作而是通过热爱上帝来修身养性的话，那他将更容易成为一个好人。"

菲利普的观点正好同阿特尔涅的背道而驰。他依然认为基督教是使人堕落的枷锁，必须不惜一切代价摧毁之。在他头脑里，他的这种看法总是自觉或不自觉地与坎特伯雷大教堂的令人生厌的礼拜仪式和布莱克斯泰勃的冷冰冰的教堂里的冗长乏味的布道活动联系在一起的。在他看来，阿特尔涅刚才谈论的道德观念，不过是一种一旦抛弃使之成立的种种信仰时就只有一个战战兢兢的神明庇佑的宗教的一部分。就在菲利普思索如何回答的当儿，阿特尔涅突然就罗马天主教发表了长篇宏论，他这个人对听自己讲话比听别人发言要更有兴趣得多。在他的眼里，罗马天主教是西班牙的精髓。西班牙对他来说可非同一般，因为他终于摆脱了传统习俗的束缚而在西班牙找到了精神庇护所，他的婚后生活告诉他传统习俗实在令人厌倦。阿特尔涅对菲利普娓娓描述起西班牙大教堂那幽暗空旷的圣堂、祭坛背面屏风上的大块金子、烫过金粉但已黯然失色的颇有气派的铁制饰物，还描述了教堂内如何香烟缭绕、如何阒然无声。说话间，阿特尔涅还配以丰富的表情，时而加重语气，使他所讲的显得更加动人心魄。菲利普仿佛看到了写在主教穿的宽大白法衣上的圣徒名单，身披红法衣的修道士们纷纷从圣器收藏室走向教士席位，他耳边仿佛响起了那单调的晚祷歌声。阿特尔汉在谈话中提到的诸如阿维拉、塔拉戈约、萨拉戈萨、塞哥维亚、科尔多瓦之类的地名，好比是他心中的一只只喇叭。他还仿佛看到，在那满目黄土、一片荒凉、寒风呼啸的原野上，在一座座西班牙古城里矗立着一堆堆巨大的灰色花岗岩石。

"我一向认为我应该到塞维利亚去看看，"菲利普信口说了这么一句，可阿特尔涅却戏剧性地举起一只手，呆呆地愣了一会儿。

"塞维利亚！"阿特尔涅叫嚷道。"不，不行，千万别到那儿去。塞维利亚，一提起这个地方，就会想起少女们踏着响板的节奏翩翩起舞，在瓜达尔基维尔河畔的花园里引吭高歌的场面，就会想起斗牛、香橙花以及女人的薄头罩和mantones de Manila。那是喜歌剧和蒙马特尔的西班牙。这种轻而易举的噱头只能给那些智力平平、浅尝辄止的人带来无穷的乐趣。尽管塞维利亚有那么多好玩好看的东西，可塔渥菲尔·高蒂亚还是从那儿跑了出来。我们去步他后尘，也只能体验一下他所体验过的感觉而已。他那双既大又肥的手触到的只是显而易见的东西。然而，那儿除了显而易见的东西之外，再也没有别的什么了。那儿的一切都打上了指纹，都被磨损了。那儿的画家叫缪雷里奥。"

阿特尔涅从椅子里站起身来，走到那个西班牙式橱子跟前，打开闪闪发光的锁，顺着烫金铰链打开阔门，露出里面一格格小抽屉。他从里面拿出一叠照片来。

"你可晓得埃尔·格列柯这个人？"他问菲利普。

"喔，我还记得在巴黎的时候，就有个人对埃尔·格列柯着了迷似的。"

"埃尔·格列柯是托菜多画家。我要给你看的那张画，贝蒂就是找不出来。埃尔·格列柯在那张画里就是画他喜爱的那个城市，画得比任何一张画都要真实。坐到桌子边上来。"

菲利普把坐椅向前挪了挪，接着阿特尔涅把那些照片摆在他面前的桌上。他惊奇地注视着，有好一会儿，他屏息凝气，一声不吭。他伸长手去拿其他几张照片，阿特尔涅随手把它们递了过来。那位谜一般的画师的作品，他从来未看到过。界眼一看，他倒被那任意的画法弄糊涂了：人物的身子奇长，脑袋特别小，神态狂放不羁。这不是现实主义的笔法，然；而，这些画面还是给留下一个令人惴惴不安的真实印象。阿特尔涅迫不及待地忙着作解说，且使用的全是些鲜明生动的词藻，但是菲利普只是模模糊糊地听进了几句。他感到迷惑不解。他莫名其妙地深受感动。在他看来，这些图画似乎有些意思，但又说不清究竟是什么意思。画面上的一些男人，睁大着充满忧伤的眼睛，他们似乎在向你诉说着什么，你却又不知所云；带有方济各会或多明我会特征的长脚修道士，一个个脸红脖子粗，打着令人莫名其妙的手势。有一张画的是圣母升天的场面。另一幅是画耶稣在十字架上钉死的情景，在这幅画里，画家以一种神奇的感情成功地表明，耶稣的身躯决不是凡人那样的肉体，而是神圣之躯。还有一幅耶稣升天图，上面画着耶稣基督徐徐升向太空，仿佛脚下踩的不是空气而是坚实的大地：基督的使徒们欣喜若狂，举起双臂，挥舞着衣巾，这一切给人以一种圣洁的欢愉和狂喜的印象牙所有这些图画的背景凡乎都是夜空：心灵之夜幕，地狱阴风飕飕，吹得乱云飞渡，在闪闪烁烁的月光照射下，显得一片灰黄。

这当儿，菲利普想起当年克拉顿深受这位令人不可思议的画师的影响的事情来。这是他平生第一次目睹这位画师的遗墨。他认为克拉顿是他在巴黎所熟识的人中间最最有趣的。他好挖苦人，高傲矜夸，对一切都怀有敌意，这一切使得别人很难了解他。回首往事，菲利普似乎觉得克拉顿身上有股悲剧性的力量，千方百计想在绘画中得到表现，但终究未能得逞。他那个人性格怪异特别，好像一个毫无神秘主义倾向的时代那样不可理解；他对生活不能忍受，因为他感到自己无法表达他微弱的心跳所暗示的意义。他的智力不适应精神的功能。这样看来，他对采取新办法来表现内心的渴望的那位希腊人深表同情也就不奇怪了。菲利普再次浏览那些西班牙绅士们的众生相，只见他们脸上皱纹纵横，翘着尖尖的胡子，在浅黑色的衣服和漆黑的背景映衬下，他们的脸显得十分苍白。埃尔·格列柯是位揭示心灵的画家。而那些绅士，脸色惨白，形容憔悴，但不是由劳累过度而是由精神备受压抑才这样的。他们的头脑惨遭摧残。他们走路时，仿佛对世界之美毫无意识似的。因为他们的眼睛只是注视着自己的心，所以他们被灵魂世界的壮观搞得眼花缘乱。没有一个画家能像埃尔·格列柯那样无情地揭示出世界不过是临时厕身之地罢了。他笔下的那些人物是通过眼睛来表达内心的渴望的：他们的感官对声音、气味和颜色的反应迟钝，可对心灵的微妙的情感却十分灵敏。这位卓越的画家怀着一颗菩萨心肠到处转悠，看到了升入天国的死者也能看到的形形色色的幻物，然而他却丝毫不感到吃惊。他的嘴从来就不是一张轻易张开微笑的嘴。

菲利普依然缄默不语，目光又落到了那张托莱多的风景画上。在他眼里，这是所有的画中最引人注目的一幅。他说什么也不能把自己的目光从这幅画上移开去。此时，他心里不由得生起一种莫可名状的情感，他感到自己开始对人生的真谛有了新的发现。他内心激荡着一种探险的激清。瞬息间，他想起了曾使他心力交瘁的爱情：爱情除了眼下激起他内心一阵激动之外，简直微不足道。他注视着的那幅画很长，上面画着一座小山。山上房舍鳞次栉比，拥挤不堪；照片的一角，有个男孩，手里拿着一张该城的大地图；另一角站着位象征塔古斯河的古典人物；天空中，一群天使簇拥着圣母。这种景致同菲利普的想法正好相悻，因为多年来他一直生活在这样一个圈子里，这个圈子里的人们唯不折不扣的现实主义为尊。然而，他这时又再次感觉到，比起他先前竭力亦步亦趋地加以模仿的那些画师们所取得的成就来，埃尔·格列柯的这幅画更具有强烈的真实感。他为什么会有这种感受，这连他自己也莫名其妙。他听阿特尔涅说画面是如此的逼真，以致让托莱多的市民来看这张画时，他们还能认出各自的房屋来。埃尔·格列柯笔下所画的正是他眼睛所看到的，但他是用心灵的眼睛观察人生的。在那座灰蒙蒙的城市里，似乎飘逸着一种超凡越圣的气氛。在惨淡的光线照耀下，这座心灵之城看上去既不是在白天，也不是在黑夜。该城屹立在一座绿色的山丘之上，但这绿色却又不是今世所见的那种色彩。城市四周围着厚实的城墙和棱堡，将为祷告、斋戒、懊悔不已的叹息声和禁锢的七情六欲所摧毁，而不是为现代人所发明创造的现代机器和引擎所推倒。这是上帝的要塞。那些灰白色的房屋并非是用一种为石匠所熟知的石头砌成的，那样子令人森然可怖，不知道人们是怎样在这里面生活的。你穿街走巷，看到那儿恰似无人却不空，大概不会感到惊奇，那是因为你感觉到一种存在虽说看不见摸不着，但内心深处却感到它无处不在、无时不有的缘故。在这座神秘的城市里，人的想象力颤摇着，就好比人刚从亮处走进黑暗里一般。赤裸裸的灵魂来回逡巡，领悟到不可知的东西，奇怪地意识到经验之亲切却又不可言喻，并且还奇怪地意识到了绝对。在那蔚蓝的天空，人们看到一群两胛插翅的天使簇拥着身穿红袍和蓝外套的圣母，但毫不觉得奇怪。那蔚蓝色的天空因具有一种由心灵而不是肉眼所证明的现实而显得真实可信，那朵朵浮云随着缕缕奇异的犹如永堕地狱的幽灵的哭喊声和叹息声的微风飘动着。菲利普感到该城的居民面对这一神奇的景象，无论是出于崇敬还是感激，都不感到惊奇，而是自由自在，一意孤行。

阿特尔涅谈起了西班牙神秘主义作家，议论起特雷莎·德阿维拉、圣胡安·德拉克普斯、弗赖·迭戈·德莱昂等人。他们都对灵魂世界怀着强烈的情感，而这灵魂世界菲利普只有在埃尔·格列柯的画作中才能体会得到：他们似乎都有触摸无形体和看到灵界的能力。他们是他们那个时代的西班牙人，在他们的心里，一个伟大民族的光辉业绩都在颤抖。他们的想象中充满了美利坚的光荣和加勒比海的四季常绿的岛屿；他们的血管里充满了由长期同摩尔人作战磨练出来的活力；他们因为自己是世界的一代宗师而感到骄傲；他们感到自己胸怀天涯海角、黄褐色的荒原、终年积雪的卡斯蒂尔山脉、阳光和蓝天，还有安达卢西亚鲜花怒放的平原。生活充满了激情，色彩斑斓。正因为生活提供的东西太多，所以他们的欲望永无止境，总是渴望得到更多更多。正因为他们也是人，所以他们的欲壑总是填不平，于是，他们将他们的勃勃生气化为追求不可言喻的东西的激情。阿特尔涅有段时间借译诗以自遣，对找到个能读懂自己的译稿的人，他不无高兴。他用其优美动听且带着颤抖的嗓音，背诵起对灵魂及其情人基督的赞美诗，以及弗赖·卢易斯·德莱昂开头写着en una noche oscura和noche serena的优美诗??Ｋ?囊敫逦奶?简朴，但不无匠心。他觉得，无论怎么说，他所用的词藻正体现了原作那虽粗糙然而雄浑的风韵。埃尔·格列柯的图画解释了诗歌的含义，而诗歌也道出了图画中的真义。

菲利普对理想主义怀有某种厌恶感。他一向强烈地热爱生活，而就他平生所见，理想主义在生活面前大多胆怯地退却。理想主义之所以退却，是因为他不能忍受人们相互你争我夺；他自己没有勇气奋起而战，于是把争斗说成是庸俗的。他自己庸庸碌碌，可当同伴们并不像他看待自己那样对待他时，他就蔑视伙伴们，并借此聊以自慰。在菲利普看来，海沃德就是这样的人。海沃德五官端正，精神萎顿，眼下变得体态臃肿，秃了脑顶心。但他还精心爱护着几处残留的俊俏的容颜，仍旧趣味隽永地谈论着要在那含糊不定的未来作出一番成就。然而，在所有这一切的后面，却是威士忌，在街上追逐女人，恣情纵欲。与海沃德所代表的人生观恰恰相反，菲利普回口声声要求生活就像它现在这个样子，什么卑鄙、恶习和残疾，这些他都无动于衷。他声称他希望人都应该是赤身裸体、一丝不挂。当下贱、残忍、自私或色欲出现在他面前时，他都愉快地搓着双手：那才是事情的本来面目。在巴黎的时候，他就知道世间既无美也无丑，而只有事实；追求美完全是感情用事。为了摆脱美的专横，他不是就在一张风景画上画了个推销chocolat Menier的广告吗？

然而这样一来，他似乎又把一件事情加以神圣化了。好久以来，他对此一直有些感觉，但总是犹犹豫豫地吃不准，直到此时方才觉悟到了这一点。他感到自己开始有所发现，隐隐约约地觉得，世间还有比他推崇备至的现实主义更为完美的东西，不过这一更为完美的东西当然不是面对人生软弱无力的理想主义。它大强烈，非常有魄力；生活中的欢乐、丑和美、卑劣行径和英雄行为，它都一概接受。它仍旧是现实主义，不过是一种更为高级的现实主义。在这种现实主义里面，事实为一种更为鲜明的荣光所改造。通过已故的卡斯蒂尔贵族们的悲哀目光，菲利普似乎看问题更为深刻。而那些圣徒的脸部表情，乍一看似乎有点癫狂和异样，可现在看来里面似乎蕴含着某种令人难以捉摸的意义。但是菲利普却无法解出其中之味。这好比是个信息，一个他要接受的非常重要的信息，但是这个信息却是用一种他陌生的语言传递的，他怎么也听不懂。他一直在孜孜探索着人生的意义。他似乎觉得这里已为他提供了答案，却又嫌太隐晦，太空泛。他困惑不解。他仿佛看到了某种像是真理的东西，就好比在暴风雨的黑夜里，借着闪电望见大山的轮廓一般。他似乎认识到自己的意志是强大的；认识到自我克制完全可能同屈服于欲望一样强烈、活跃；还认识到精神生活会与一个征服多种领域并进而对未知的世界进行探索的人的生活一样色彩斑斓，一样五光十色，一样充满了经验。

 

There was a knock at the door and a troop of children came in. They were clean and tidy, now. their faces shone with soap, and their hair was plastered down; they were going to Sunday school under Sally’s charge. Athelny joked with them in his dramatic, exuberant fashion, and you could see that he was devoted to them all. His pride in their good health and their good looks was touching. Philip felt that they were a little shy in his presence, and when their father sent them off they fled from the room in evident relief. In a few minutes Mrs. Athelny appeared. She had taken her hair out of the curling pins and now wore an elaborate fringe. She had on a plain black dress, a hat with cheap flowers, and was forcing her hands, red and coarse from much work, into black kid gloves.

‘I’m going to church, Athelny,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing you’ll be wanting, is there?’

‘Only your prayers, my Betty.’

‘They won’t do you much good, you’re too far gone for that,’ she smiled. Then, turning to Philip, she drawled: ‘I can’t get him to go to church. He’s no better than an atheist.’

‘Doesn’t she look like Rubens’ second wife?’ cried Athelny. ‘Wouldn’t she look splendid in a seventeenth-century costume? That’s the sort of wife to marry, my boy. Look at her.’

‘I believe you’d talk the hind leg off a donkey, Athelny,’ she answered calmly.

She succeeded in buttoning her gloves, but before she went she turned to Philip with a kindly, slightly embarrassed smile.

‘You’ll stay to tea, won’t you? Athelny likes someone to talk to, and it’s not often he gets anybody who’s clever enough.’

‘Of course he’ll stay to tea,’ said Athelny. Then when his wife had gone: ‘I make a point of the children going to Sunday school, and I like Betty to go to church. I think women ought to be religious. I don’t believe myself, but I like women and children to.’

Philip, strait-laced in matters of truth, was a little shocked by this airy attitude.

‘But how can you look on while your children are being taught things which you don’t think are true?’

‘If they’re beautiful I don’t much mind if they’re not true. It’s asking a great deal that things should appeal to your reason as well as to your sense of the aesthetic. I wanted Betty to become a Roman Catholic, I should have liked to see her converted in a crown of paper flowers, but she’s hopelessly Protestant. Besides, religion is a matter of temperament; you will believe anything if you have the religious turn of mind, and if you haven’t it doesn’t matter what beliefs were instilled into you, you will grow out of them. Perhaps religion is the best school of morality. It is like one of those drugs you gentlemen use in medicine which carries another in solution: it is of no efficacy in itself, but enables the other to be absorbed. You take your morality because it is combined with religion; you lose the religion and the morality stays behind. A man is more likely to be a good man if he has learned goodness through the love of God than through a perusal of Herbert Spencer.’

This was contrary to all Philip’s ideas. He still looked upon Christianity as a degrading bondage that must be cast away at any cost; it was connected subconsciously in his mind with the dreary services in the cathedral at Tercanbury, and the long hours of boredom in the cold church at Blackstable; and the morality of which Athelny spoke was to him no more than a part of the religion which a halting intelligence preserved, when it had laid aside the beliefs which alone made it reasonable. But while he was meditating a reply Athelny, more interested in hearing himself speak than in discussion, broke into a tirade upon Roman Catholicism. For him it was an essential part of Spain; and Spain meant much to him, because he had escaped to it from the conventionality which during his married life he had found so irksome. With large gestures and in the emphatic tone which made what he said so striking, Athelny described to Philip the Spanish cathedrals with their vast dark spaces, the massive gold of the altar-pieces, and the sumptuous iron-work, gilt and faded, the air laden with incense, the silence: Philip almost saw the Canons in their short surplices of lawn, the acolytes in red, passing from the sacristy to the choir; he almost heard the monotonous chanting of vespers. The names which Athelny mentioned, Avila, Tarragona, Saragossa, Segovia, Cordova, were like trumpets in his heart. He seemed to see the great gray piles of granite set in old Spanish towns amid a landscape tawny, wild, and windswept.

‘I’ve always thought I should love to go to Seville,’ he said casually, when Athelny, with one hand dramatically uplifted, paused for a moment.

‘Seville!’ cried Athelny. ‘No, no, don’t go there. Seville: it brings to the mind girls dancing with castanets, singing in gardens by the Guadalquivir, bull-fights, orange-blossom, mantillas, mantones de Manila. It is the Spain of comic opera and Montmartre. Its facile charm can offer permanent entertainment only to an intelligence which is superficial. Theophile Gautier got out of Seville all that it has to offer. We who come after him can only repeat his sensations. He put large fat hands on the obvious and there is nothing but the obvious there; and it is all finger-marked and frayed. Murillo is its painter.’

Athelny got up from his chair, walked over to the Spanish cabinet, let down the front with its great gilt hinges and gorgeous lock, and displayed a series of little drawers. He took out a bundle of photographs.

‘Do you know El Greco?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I remember one of the men in Paris was awfully impressed by him.’

‘El Greco was the painter of Toledo. Betty couldn’t find the photograph I wanted to show you. It’s a picture that El Greco painted of the city he loved, and it’s truer than any photograph. Come and sit at the table.’

Philip dragged his chair forward, and Athelny set the photograph before him. He looked at it curiously, for a long time, in silence. He stretched out his hand for other photographs, and Athelny passed them to him. He had never before seen the work of that enigmatic master; and at the first glance he was bothered by the arbitrary drawing: the figures were extraordinarily elongated; the heads were very small; the attitudes were extravagant. This was not realism, and yet, and yet even in the photographs you had the impression of a troubling reality. Athelny was describing eagerly, with vivid phrases, but Philip only heard vaguely what he said. He was puzzled. He was curiously moved. These pictures seemed to offer some meaning to him, but he did not know what the meaning was. There were portraits of men with large, melancholy eyes which seemed to say you knew not what; there were long monks in the Franciscan habit or in the Dominican, with distraught faces, making gestures whose sense escaped you; there was an Assumption of the Virgin; there was a Crucifixion in which the painter by some magic of feeling had been able to suggest that the flesh of Christ’s dead body was not human flesh only but divine; and there was an Ascension in which the Saviour seemed to surge up towards the empyrean and yet to stand upon the air as steadily as though it were solid ground: the uplifted arms of the Apostles, the sweep of their draperies, their ecstatic gestures, gave an impression of exultation and of holy joy. The background of nearly all was the sky by night, the dark night of the soul, with wild clouds swept by strange winds of hell and lit luridly by an uneasy moon.

‘I’ve seen that sky in Toledo over and over again,’ said Athelny. ‘I have an idea that when first El Greco came to the city it was by such a night, and it made so vehement an impression upon him that he could never get away from it.’

Philip remembered how Clutton had been affected by this strange master, whose work he now saw for the first time. He thought that Clutton was the most interesting of all the people he had known in Paris. His sardonic manner, his hostile aloofness, had made it difficult to know him; but it seemed to Philip, looking back, that there had been in him a tragic force, which sought vainly to express itself in painting. He was a man of unusual character, mystical after the fashion of a time that had no leaning to mysticism, who was impatient with life because he found himself unable to say the things which the obscure impulses of his heart suggested. His intellect was not fashioned to the uses of the spirit. It was not surprising that he felt a deep sympathy with the Greek who had devised a new technique to express the yearnings of his soul. Philip looked again at the series of portraits of Spanish gentlemen, with ruffles and pointed beards, their faces pale against the sober black of their clothes and the darkness of the background. El Greco was the painter of the soul; and these gentlemen, wan and wasted, not by exhaustion but by restraint, with their tortured minds, seem to walk unaware of the beauty of the world; for their eyes look only in their hearts, and they are dazzled by the glory of the unseen. No painter has shown more pitilessly that the world is but a place of passage. The souls of the men he painted speak their strange longings through their eyes: their senses are miraculously acute, not for sounds and odours and colour, but for the very subtle sensations of the soul. The noble walks with the monkish heart within him, and his eyes see things which saints in their cells see too, and he is unastounded. His lips are not lips that smile.

Philip, silent still, returned to the photograph of Toledo, which seemed to him the most arresting picture of them all. He could not take his eyes off it. He felt strangely that he was on the threshold of some new discovery in life. He was tremulous with a sense of adventure. He thought for an instant of the love that had consumed him: love seemed very trivial beside the excitement which now leaped in his heart. The picture he looked at was a long one, with houses crowded upon a hill; in one corner a boy was holding a large map of the town; in another was a classical figure representing the river Tagus; and in the sky was the Virgin surrounded by angels. It was a landscape alien to all Philip’s notion, for he had lived in circles that worshipped exact realism; and yet here again, strangely to himself, he felt a reality greater than any achieved by the masters in whose steps humbly he had sought to walk. He heard Athelny say that the representation was so precise that when the citizens of Toledo came to look at the picture they recognised their houses. The painter had painted exactly what he saw but he had seen with the eyes of the spirit. There was something unearthly in that city of pale gray. It was a city of the soul seen by a wan light that was neither that of night nor day. It stood on a green hill, but of a green not of this world, and it was surrounded by massive walls and bastions to be stormed by no machines or engines of man’s invention, but by prayer and fasting, by contrite sighs and by mortifications of the flesh. It was a stronghold of God. Those gray houses were made of no stone known to masons, there was something terrifying in their aspect, and you did not know what men might live in them. You might walk through the streets and be unamazed to find them all deserted, and yet not empty; for you felt a presence invisible and yet manifest to every inner sense. It was a mystical city in which the imagination faltered like one who steps out of the light into darkness; the soul walked naked to and fro, knowing the unknowable, and conscious strangely of experience, intimate but inexpressible, of the absolute. And without surprise, in that blue sky, real with a reality that not the eye but the soul confesses, with its rack of light clouds driven by strange breezes, like the cries and the sighs of lost souls, you saw the Blessed Virgin with a gown of red and a cloak of blue, surrounded by winged angels. Philip felt that the inhabitants of that city would have seen the apparition without astonishment, reverent and thankful, and have gone their ways.

Athelny spoke of the mystical writers of Spain, of Teresa de Avila, San Juan de la Cruz, Fray Luis de Leon; in all of them was that passion for the unseen which Philip felt in the pictures of El Greco: they seemed to have the power to touch the incorporeal and see the invisible. They were Spaniards of their age, in whom were tremulous all the mighty exploits of a great nation: their fancies were rich with the glories of America and the green islands of the Caribbean Sea; in their veins was the power that had come from age-long battling with the Moor; they were proud, for they were masters of the world; and they felt in themselves the wide distances, the tawny wastes, the snow-capped mountains of Castile, the sunshine and the blue sky, and the flowering plains of Andalusia. Life was passionate and manifold, and because it offered so much they felt a restless yearning for something more; because they were human they were unsatisfied; and they threw this eager vitality of theirs into a vehement striving after the ineffable. Athelny was not displeased to find someone to whom he could read the translations with which for some time he had amused his leisure; and in his fine, vibrating voice he recited the canticle of the Soul and Christ her lover, the lovely poem which begins with the words en una noche oscura, and the noche serena of Fray Luis de Leon. He had translated them quite simply, not without skill, and he had found words which at all events suggested the rough-hewn grandeur of the original. The pictures of El Greco explained them, and they explained the pictures.

Philip had cultivated a certain disdain for idealism. He had always had a passion for life, and the idealism he had come across seemed to him for the most part a cowardly shrinking from it. The idealist withdrew himself, because he could not suffer the jostling of the human crowd; he had not the strength to fight and so called the battle vulgar; he was vain, and since his fellows would not take him at his own estimate, consoled himself with despising his fellows. For Philip his type was Hayward, fair, languid, too fat now and rather bald, still cherishing the remains of his good looks and still delicately proposing to do exquisite things in the uncertain future; and at the back of this were whiskey and vulgar amours of the street. It was in reaction from what Hayward represented that Philip clamoured for life as it stood; sordidness, vice, deformity, did not offend him; he declared that he wanted man in his nakedness; and he rubbed his hands when an instance came before him of meanness, cruelty, selfishness, or lust: that was the real thing. In Paris he had learned that there was neither ugliness nor beauty, but only truth: the search after beauty was sentimental. Had he not painted an advertisement of chocolat Menier in a landscape in order to escape from the tyranny of prettiness?

But here he seemed to divine something new. He had been coming to it, all hesitating, for some time, but only now was conscious of the fact; he felt himself on the brink of a discovery. He felt vaguely that here was something better than the realism which he had adored; but certainly it was not the bloodless idealism which stepped aside from life in weakness; it was too strong; it was virile; it accepted life in all its vivacity, ugliness and beauty, squalor and heroism; it was realism still; but it was realism carried to some higher pitch, in which facts were transformed by the more vivid light in which they were seen. He seemed to see things more profoundly through the grave eyes of those dead noblemen of Castile; and the gestures of the saints, which at first had seemed wild and distorted, appeared to have some mysterious significance. But he could not tell what that significance was. It was like a message which it was very important for him to receive, but it was given him in an unknown tongue, and he could not understand. He was always seeking for a meaning in life, and here it seemed to him that a meaning was offered; but it was obscure and vague. He was profoundly troubled. He saw what looked like the truth as by flashes of lightning on a dark, stormy night you might see a mountain range. He seemed to see that a man need not leave his life to chance, but that his will was powerful; he seemed to see that self-control might be as passionate and as active as the surrender to passion; he seemed to see that the inward life might be as manifold, as varied, as rich with experience, as the life of one who conquered realms and explored unknown lands.