"Hire facounde eke1 full womanly and plain, No contrefeted termes had she To semen wise." --CHAUCER.
It was in that way Dorothea came to be sobbing2 as soon as she was securely alone. But she was presently roused by a knock at the door, which made her hastily dry her eyes before saying, "Come in." Tantripp had brought a card, and said that there was a gentleman waiting in the lobby. The courier had told him that only Mrs. Casaubon was at home, but he said he was a relation of Mr. Casaubon's: would she see him?
"Yes," said Dorothea, without pause; "show him into the salon4." Her chief impressions about young Ladislaw were that when she had seen him at Lowick she had been made aware of Mr. Casaubon's generosity5 towards him, and also that she had been interested in his own hesitation6 about his career. She was alive to anything that gave her an opportunity for active sympathy, and at this moment it seemed as if the visit had come to shake her out of her self-absorbed discontent--to remind her of her husband's goodness, and make her feel that she had now the right to be his helpmate in all kind deeds. She waited a minute or two, but when she passed into the next room there were just signs enough that she had been crying to make her open face look more youthful and appealing than usual. She met Ladislaw with that exquisite7 smile of good-will which is unmixed with vanity, and held out her hand to him. He was the elder by several years, but at that moment he looked much the younger, for his transparent8 complexion9 flushed suddenly, and he spoke10 with a shyness extremely unlike the ready indifference11 of his manner with his male companion, while Dorothea became all the calmer with a wondering desire to put him at ease.
"I was not aware that you and Mr. Casaubon were in Rome, until this morning, when I saw you in the Vatican Museum," he said. "I knew you at once--but--I mean, that I concluded Mr. Casaubon's address would be found at the Poste Restante, and I was anxious to pay my respects to him and you as early as possible."
"Pray sit down. He is not here now, but he will be glad to hear of you, I am sure," said Dorothea, seating herself unthinkingly between the fire and the light of the tall window, and pointing to a chair opposite, with the quietude of a benignant matron. The signs of girlish sorrow in her face were only the more striking. "Mr. Casaubon is much engaged; but you will leave your address-- will you not?--and he will write to you."
"You are very good," said Ladislaw, beginning to lose his diffidence in the interest with which he was observing the signs of weeping which had altered her face. "My address is on my card. But if you will allow me I will call again to-morrow at an hour when Mr. Casaubon is likely to be at home."
"He goes to read in the Library of the Vatican every day, and you can hardly see him except by an appointment. Especially now. We are about to leave Rome, and he is very busy. He is usually away almost from breakfast till dinner. But I am sure he will wish you to dine with us."
Will Ladislaw was struck mute for a few moments. He had never been fond of Mr. Casaubon, and if it had not been for the sense of obligation, would have laughed at him as a Bat of erudition. But the idea of this dried-up pedant12, this elaborator of small explanations about as important as the surplus stock of false antiquities14 kept in a vendor's back chamber15, having first got this adorable young creature to marry him, and then passing his honeymoon16 away from her, groping after his mouldy futilities (Will was given to hyperbole)-- this sudden picture stirred him with a sort of comic disgust: he was divided between the impulse to laugh aloud and the equally unseasonable impulse to burst into scornful invective17.
For an instant he felt that the struggle, was causing a queer contortion18 of his mobile features, but with a good effort he resolved it into nothing more offensive than a merry smile.
Dorothea wondered; but the smile was irresistible20, and shone back from her face too. Will Ladislaw's smile was delightful21, unless you were angry with him beforehand: it was a gush22 of inward light illuminating23 the transparent skin as well as the eyes, and playing about every curve and line as if some Ariel were touching24 them with a new charm, and banishing25 forever the traces of moodiness26. The reflection of that smile could not but have a little merriment in it too, even under dark eyelashes still moist, as Dorothea said inquiringly, "Something amuses you?"
"Yes," said Will, quick in finding resources. "I am thinking of the sort of figure I cut the first time I saw you, when you annihilated27 my poor sketch29 with your criticism."
"My criticism?" said Dorothea, wondering still more. "Surely not. I always feel particularly ignorant about painting."
"I suspected you of knowing so much, that you knew how to say just what was most cutting. You said--I dare say you don't remember it as I do-- that the relation of my sketch to nature was quite hidden from you. At least, you implied that." Will could laugh now as well as smile.
"That was really my ignorance," said Dorothea, admiring
Will's good-humor. "I must have said so only because I never could see any beauty in the pictures which my uncle told me all judges thought very fine. And I have gone about with just the same ignorance in Rome. There are comparatively few paintings that I can really enjoy. At first when I enter a room where the walls are covered with frescos, or with rare pictures, I feel a kind of awe--like a child present at great ceremonies where there are grand robes and processions; I feel myself in the presence of some higher life than my own. But when I begin to examine the pictures one by on the life goes out of them, or else is something violent and strange to me. It must be my own dulness. I am seeing so much all at once, and not understanding half of it. That always makes one feel stupid. It is painful to be told that anything is very fine and not be able to feel that it is fine--something like being blind, while people talk of the sky."
"Oh, there is a great deal in the feeling for art which must be acquired," said Will. (It was impossible now to doubt the directness of Dorothea's confession30.) "Art is an old language with a great many artificial affected31 styles, and sometimes the chief pleasure one gets out of knowing them is the mere32 sense of knowing. I enjoy the art of all sorts here immensely; but I suppose if I could pick my enjoyment33 to pieces I should find it made up of many different threads. There is something in daubing a little one's self, and having an idea of the process."
"You mean perhaps to be a painter?" said Dorothea, with a new direction of interest. "You mean to make painting your profession? Mr. Casaubon will like to hear that you have chosen a profession."
"No, oh no," said Will, with some coldness. "I have quite made up my mind against it. It is too one-sided a life. I have been seeing a great deal of the German artists here: I travelled from Frankfort with one of them. Some are fine, even brilliant fellows-- but I should not like to get into their way of looking at the world entirely34 from the studio point of view."
"That I can understand," said Dorothea, cordially. "And in Rome it seems as if there were so many things which are more wanted in the world than pictures. But if you have a genius for painting, would it not be right to take that as a guide? Perhaps you might do better things than these--or different, so that there might not be so many pictures almost all alike in the same place."
There was no mistaking this simplicity35, and Will was won by it into frankness. "A man must have a very rare genius to make changes of that sort. I am afraid mine would not carry me even to the pitch of doing well what has been done already, at least not so well as to make it worth while. And I should never succeed in anything by dint36 of drudgery37. If things don't come easily to me I never get them."
"I have heard Mr. Casaubon say that he regrets your want of patience," said Dorothea, gently. She was rather shocked at this mode of taking all life as a holiday.
"Yes, I know Mr. Casaubon's opinion. He and I differ."
The slight streak38 of contempt in this hasty reply offended Dorothea. She was all the more susceptible39 about Mr. Casaubon because of her morning's trouble.
"Certainly you differ," she said, rather proudly. "I did not think of comparing you: such power of persevering40 devoted41 labor13 as Mr. Casaubon's is not common."
Will saw that she was offended, but this only gave an additional impulse to the new irritation42 of his latent dislike towards Mr. Casaubon. It was too intolerable that Dorothea should be worshipping this husband: such weakness in a woman is pleasant to no man but the husband in question. Mortals are easily tempted43 to pinch the life out of their neighbor's buzzing glory, and think that such killing44 is no murder.
"No, indeed," he answered, promptly45. "And therefore it is a pity that it should be thrown away, as so much English scholarship is, for want of knowing what is being done by the rest of the world. If Mr. Casaubon read German he would save himself a great deal of trouble."
"I do not understand you," said Dorothea, startled and anxious.
"I merely mean," said Will, in an offhand46 way, "that the Germans have taken the lead in historical inquiries47, and they laugh at results which are got by groping about in woods with a pocket-compass while they have made good roads. When I was with Mr. Casaubon I saw that he deafened48 himself in that direction: it was almost against his will that he read a Latin treatise49 written by a German. I was very sorry."
Will only thought of giving a good pinch that would annihilate28 that vaunted laboriousness50, and was unable to imagine the mode in which Dorothea would be wounded. Young Mr. Ladislaw was not at all deep himself in German writers; but very little achievement is required in order to pity another man's shortcomings.
Poor Dorothea felt a pang51 at the thought that the labor of her husband's life might be void, which left her no energy to spare for the question whether this young relative who was so much obliged to him ought not to have repressed his observation. She did not even speak, but sat looking at her hands, absorbed in the piteousness of that thought.
Will, however, having given that annihilating52 pinch, was rather ashamed, imagining from Dorothea's silence that he had offended her still more; and having also a conscience about plucking the tail-feathers from a benefactor53.
"I regretted it especially," he resumed, taking the usual course from detraction54 to insincere eulogy55, "because of my gratitude56 and respect towards my cousin. It would not signify so much in a man whose talents and character were less distinguished57."
Dorothea raised her eyes, brighter than usual with excited feeling, and said in her saddest recitative, "How I wish I had learned German when I was at Lausanne! There were plenty of German teachers. But now I can be of no use."
There was a new light, but still a mysterious light, for Will in Dorothea's last words. The question how she had come to accept Mr. Casaubon--which he had dismissed when he first saw her by saying that she must be disagreeable in spite of appearances--was not now to be answered on any such short and easy method. Whatever else she might be, she was not disagreeable. She was not coldly clever and indirectly58 satirical, but adorably simple and full of feeling. She was an angel beguiled59. It would be a unique delight to wait and watch for the melodious60 fragments in which her heart and soul came forth61 so directly and ingenuously62. The AEolian harp63 again came into his mind.
She must have made some original romance for herself in this marriage. And if Mr. Casaubon had been a dragon who had carried her off to his lair64 with his talons65 simply and without legal forms, it would have been an unavoidable feat19 of heroism66 to release her and fall at her feet. But he was something more unmanageable than a dragon: he was a benefactor with collective society at his back, and he was at that moment entering the room in all the unimpeachable67 correctness of his demeanor68, while Dorothea was looking animated69 with a newly roused alarm and regret, and Will was looking animated with his admiring speculation70 about her feelings.
Mr. Casaubon felt a surprise which was quite unmixed with pleasure, but he did not swerve71 from his usual politeness of greeting, when Will rose and explained his presence. Mr. Casaubon was less happy than usual, and this perhaps made him look all the dimmer and more faded; else, the effect might easily have been produced by the contrast of his young cousin's appearance. The first impression on seeing Will was one of sunny brightness, which added to the uncertainty72 of his changing expression. Surely, his very features changed their form, his jaw73 looked sometimes large and sometimes small; and the little ripple74 in his nose was a preparation for metamorphosis. When he turned his head quickly his hair seemed to shake out light, and some persons thought they saw decided75 genius in this coruscation76. Mr. Casaubon, on the contrary, stood rayless.
As Dorothea's eyes were turned anxiously on her husband she was perhaps not insensible to the contrast, but it was only mingled77 with other causes in making her more conscious of that new alarm on his behalf which was the first stirring of a pitying tenderness fed by the realities of his lot and not by her own dreams. Yet it was a source of greater freedom to her that Will was there; his young equality was agreeable, and also perhaps his openness to conviction. She felt an immense need of some one to speak to, and she had never before seen any one who seemed so quick and pliable78, so likely to understand everything.
Mr. Casaubon gravely hoped that Will was passing his time profitably as well as pleasantly in Rome--had thought his intention was to remain in South Germany--but begged him to come and dine to-morrow, when he could converse79 more at large: at present he was somewhat weary. Ladislaw understood, and accepting the invitation immediately took his leave.
Dorothea's eyes followed her husband anxiously, while he sank down wearily at the end of a sofa, and resting his elbow supported his head and looked on the floor. A little flushed, and with bright eyes, she seated herself beside him, and said--
"Forgive me for speaking so hastily to you this morning. I was wrong. I fear I hurt you and made the day more burdensome."
"I am glad that you feel that, my dear," said Mr. Casaubon. He spoke quietly and bowed his head a little, but there was still an uneasy feeling in his eyes as he looked at her.
"But you do forgive me?" said Dorothea, with a quick sob3. In her need for some manifestation80 of feeling she was ready to exaggerate her own fault. Would not love see returning penitence81 afar off, and fall on its neck and kiss it?
"My dear Dorothea--`who with repentance82 is not satisfied, is not of heaven nor earth:'--you do not think me worthy83 to be banished84 by that severe sentence," said Mr. Casaubon, exerting himself to make a strong statement, and also to smile faintly.
Dorothea was silent, but a tear which had come up with the sob would insist on falling.
"You are excited, my dear.. And I also am feeling some unpleasant consequences of too much mental disturbance," said Mr. Casaubon. In fact, he had it in his thought to tell her that she ought not to have received young Ladislaw in his absence: but he abstained85, partly from the sense that it would be ungracious to bring a new complaint in the moment of her penitent86 acknowledgment, partly because he wanted to avoid further agitation87 of himself by speech, and partly because he was too proud to betray that jealousy88 of disposition89 which was not so exhausted90 on his scholarly compeers that there was none to spare in other directions. There is a sort of jealousy which needs very little fire: it is hardly a passion, but a blight91 bred in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egoism.
"I think it is time for us to dress," he added, looking at his watch. They both rose, and there was never any further allusion92 between them to what had passed on this day.
But Dorothea remembered it to the last with the vividness with which we all remember epochs in our experience when some dear expectation dies, or some new motive93 is born. Today she had begun to see that she had been under a wild illusion in expecting a response to her feeling from Mr. Casaubon, and she had felt the waking of a presentiment94 that there might be a sad consciousness in his life which made as great a need on his side as on her own.
We are all of us born in moral stupidity, taking the world as an udder to feed our supreme95 selves: Dorothea had early begun to emerge from that stupidity, but yet it had been easier to her to imagine how she would devote herself to Mr. Casaubon, and become wise and strong in his strength and wisdom, than to conceive with that distinctness which is no longer reflection but feeling-- an idea wrought96 back to the directness of sense, like the solidity of objects--that he had an equivalent centre of self, whence the lights and shadows must always fall with a certain difference.
1 eke | |
v.勉强度日,节约使用 | |
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2 sobbing | |
<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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3 sob | |
n.空间轨道的轰炸机;呜咽,哭泣 | |
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4 salon | |
n.[法]沙龙;客厅;营业性的高级服务室 | |
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5 generosity | |
n.大度,慷慨,慷慨的行为 | |
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6 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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7 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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8 transparent | |
adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
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9 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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10 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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11 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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12 pedant | |
n.迂儒;卖弄学问的人 | |
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13 labor | |
n.劳动,努力,工作,劳工;分娩;vi.劳动,努力,苦干;vt.详细分析;麻烦 | |
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14 antiquities | |
n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 );古迹;古人们;古代的风俗习惯 | |
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15 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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16 honeymoon | |
n.蜜月(假期);vi.度蜜月 | |
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17 invective | |
n.痛骂,恶意抨击 | |
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18 contortion | |
n.扭弯,扭歪,曲解 | |
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19 feat | |
n.功绩;武艺,技艺;adj.灵巧的,漂亮的,合适的 | |
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20 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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21 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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22 gush | |
v.喷,涌;滔滔不绝(说话);n.喷,涌流;迸发 | |
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23 illuminating | |
a.富于启发性的,有助阐明的 | |
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24 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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25 banishing | |
v.放逐,驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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26 moodiness | |
n.喜怒无常;喜怒无常,闷闷不乐;情绪 | |
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27 annihilated | |
v.(彻底)消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 );使无效;废止;彻底击溃 | |
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28 annihilate | |
v.使无效;毁灭;取消 | |
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29 sketch | |
n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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30 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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31 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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32 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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33 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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34 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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35 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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36 dint | |
n.由于,靠;凹坑 | |
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37 drudgery | |
n.苦工,重活,单调乏味的工作 | |
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38 streak | |
n.条理,斑纹,倾向,少许,痕迹;v.加条纹,变成条纹,奔驰,快速移动 | |
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39 susceptible | |
adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
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40 persevering | |
a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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41 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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42 irritation | |
n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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43 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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44 killing | |
n.巨额利润;突然赚大钱,发大财 | |
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45 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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46 offhand | |
adj.临时,无准备的;随便,马虎的 | |
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47 inquiries | |
n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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48 deafened | |
使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 ); 使隔音 | |
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49 treatise | |
n.专著;(专题)论文 | |
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50 laboriousness | |
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51 pang | |
n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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52 annihilating | |
v.(彻底)消灭( annihilate的现在分词 );使无效;废止;彻底击溃 | |
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53 benefactor | |
n. 恩人,行善的人,捐助人 | |
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54 detraction | |
n.减损;诽谤 | |
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55 eulogy | |
n.颂词;颂扬 | |
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56 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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57 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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58 indirectly | |
adv.间接地,不直接了当地 | |
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59 beguiled | |
v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 );使陶醉;使高兴;消磨(时间等) | |
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60 melodious | |
adj.旋律美妙的,调子优美的,音乐性的 | |
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61 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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62 ingenuously | |
adv.率直地,正直地 | |
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63 harp | |
n.竖琴;天琴座 | |
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64 lair | |
n.野兽的巢穴;躲藏处 | |
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65 talons | |
n.(尤指猛禽的)爪( talon的名词复数 );(如爪般的)手指;爪状物;锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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66 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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67 unimpeachable | |
adj.无可指责的;adv.无可怀疑地 | |
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68 demeanor | |
n.行为;风度 | |
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69 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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70 speculation | |
n.思索,沉思;猜测;投机 | |
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71 swerve | |
v.突然转向,背离;n.转向,弯曲,背离 | |
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72 uncertainty | |
n.易变,靠不住,不确知,不确定的事物 | |
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73 jaw | |
n.颚,颌,说教,流言蜚语;v.喋喋不休,教训 | |
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74 ripple | |
n.涟波,涟漪,波纹,粗钢梳;vt.使...起涟漪,使起波纹; vi.呈波浪状,起伏前进 | |
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75 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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76 coruscation | |
n.闪光,焕发 | |
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77 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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78 pliable | |
adj.易受影响的;易弯的;柔顺的,易驾驭的 | |
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79 converse | |
vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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80 manifestation | |
n.表现形式;表明;现象 | |
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81 penitence | |
n.忏悔,赎罪;悔过 | |
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82 repentance | |
n.懊悔 | |
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83 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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84 banished | |
v.放逐,驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85 abstained | |
v.戒(尤指酒),戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 );弃权(不投票) | |
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86 penitent | |
adj.后悔的;n.后悔者;忏悔者 | |
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87 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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88 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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89 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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90 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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91 blight | |
n.枯萎病;造成破坏的因素;vt.破坏,摧残 | |
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92 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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93 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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94 presentiment | |
n.预感,预觉 | |
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95 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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96 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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