Was never true love loved in vain, For truest love is highest gain. No art can make it: it must spring Where elements are fostering. So in heaven's spot and hour Springs the little native flower, Downward root and upward eye, Shapen by the earth and sky.
It happened to be on a Saturday evening that Will Ladislaw had that little discussion with Lydgate. Its effect when he went to his own rooms was to make him sit up half the night, thinking over again, under a new irritation1, all that he had before thought of his having settled in Middlemarch and harnessed himself with Mr. Brooke. Hesitations2 before he had taken the step had since turned into susceptibility to every hint that he would have been wiser not to take it; and hence came his heat towards Lydgate--a heat which still kept him restless. Was he not making a fool of himself?-- and at a time when he was more than ever conscious of being something better than a fool? And for what end?
Well, for no definite end. True, he had dreamy visions of possibilities: there is no human being who having both passions and thoughts does not think in consequence of his passions--does not find images rising in his mind which soothe3 the passion with hope or sting it with dread4. But this, which happens to us all, happens to some with a wide difference; and Will was not one of those whose wit "keeps the roadway:" he had his bypaths where there were little joys of his own choosing, such as gentlemen cantering on the highroad might have thought rather idiotic5. The way in which he made a sort of happiness for himself out of his feeling for Dorothea was an example of this. It may seem strange, but it is the fact, that the ordinary vulgar vision of which Mr. Casaubon suspected him--namely, that Dorothea might become a widow, and that the interest he had established in her mind might turn into acceptance of him as a husband-- had no tempting6, arresting power over him; he did not live in the scenery of such an event, and follow it out, as we all do with that imagined "otherwise" which is our practical heaven. It was not only that he was unwilling7 to entertain thoughts which could be accused of baseness, and was already uneasy in the sense that he had to justify8 himself from the charge of ingratitude-- the latent consciousness of many other barriers between himself and Dorothea besides the existence of her husband, had helped to turn away his imagination from speculating on what might befall Mr. Casaubon. And there were yet other reasons. Will, we know, could not bear the thought of any flaw appearing in his crystal: he was at once exasperated9 and delighted by the calm freedom with which Dorothea looked at him and spoke10 to him, and there was something so exquisite11 in thinking of her just as she was, that he could not long for a change which must somehow change her. Do we not shun12 the street version of a fine melody?--or shrink from the news that the rarity--some bit of chiselling13 or engraving14 perhaps-- which we have dwelt on even with exultation15 in the trouble it has cost us to snatch glimpses of it, is really not an uncommon16 thing, and may be obtained as an every-day possession? Our good depends on the quality and breadth of our emotion; and to Will, a creature who cared little for what are called the solid things of life and greatly for its subtler influences, to have within him such a feeling as he had towards Dorothea, was like the inheritance of a fortune. What others might have called the futility18 of his passion, made an additional delight for his imagination: he was conscious of a generous movement, and of verifying in his own experience that higher love-poetry which had charmed his fancy. Dorothea, he said to himself, was forever enthroned in his soul: no other woman could sit higher than her footstool; and if he could have written out in immortal19 syllables20 the effect she wrought21 within him, he might have boasted after the example of old Drayton, that,--
"Queens hereafter might be glad to live Upon the alms of her superfluous22 praise."
But this result was questionable23. And what else could he do for Dorothea? What was his devotion worth to her? It was impossible to tell. He would not go out of her reach. He saw no creature among her friends to whom he could believe that she spoke with the same simple confidence as to him. She had once said that she would like him to stay; and stay he would, whatever fire-breathing dragons might hiss24 around her.
This had always been the conclusion of Will's hesitations. But he was not without contradictoriness25 and rebellion even towards his own resolve. He had often got irritated, as he was on this particular night, by some outside demonstration26 that his public exertions27 with Mr. Brooke as a chief could not seem as heroic as he would like them to be, and this was always associated with the other ground of irritation--that notwithstanding his sacrifice of dignity for Dorothea's sake, he could hardly ever see her. Whereupon, not being able to contradict these unpleasant facts, he contradicted his own strongest bias28 and said, "I am a fool."
Nevertheless, since the inward debate necessarily turned on Dorothea, he ended, as he had done before, only by getting a livelier sense of what her presence would be to him; and suddenly reflecting that the morrow would be Sunday, he determined29 to go to Lowick Church and see her. He slept upon that idea, but when he was dressing30 in the rational morning light, Objection said--
"That will be a virtual defiance31 of Mr. Casaubon's prohibition32 to visit Lowick, and Dorothea will be displeased33."
"Nonsense!" argued Inclination34, "it would be too monstrous35 for him to hinder me from going out to a pretty country church on a spring morning. And Dorothea will be glad."
"It will be clear to Mr. Casaubon that you have come either to annoy him or to see Dorothea."
"It is not true that I go to annoy him, and why should I not go to see Dorothea? Is he to have everything to himself and be always comfortable? Let him smart a little, as other people are obliged to do. I have always liked the quaintness36 of the church and congregation; besides, I know the Tuckers: I shall go into their pew."
Having silenced Objection by force of unreason, Will walked to Lowick as if he had been on the way to Paradise, crossing Halsell Common and skirting the wood, where the sunlight fell broadly under the budding boughs38, bringing out the beauties of moss39 and lichen40, and fresh green growths piercing the brown. Everything seemed to know that it was Sunday, and to approve of his going to Lowick Church. Will easily felt happy when nothing crossed his humor, and by this time the thought of vexing41 Mr. Casaubon had become rather amusing to him, making his face break into its merry smile, pleasant to see as the breaking of sunshine on the water--though the occasion was not exemplary. But most of us are apt to settle within ourselves that the man who blocks our way is odious43, and not to mind causing him a little of the disgust which his personality excites in ourselves. Will went along with a small book under his arm and a hand in each side-pocket, never reading, but chanting a little, as he made scenes of what would happen in church and coming out. He was experimenting in tunes44 to suit some words of his own, sometimes trying a ready-made melody, sometimes improvising45. The words were not exactly a hymn46, but they certainly fitted his Sunday experience:--
"O me, O me, what frugal47 cheer My love doth feed upon! A touch, a ray, that is not here, A shadow that is gone:
"A dream of breath that might be near, An inly-echoed tone, The thought that one may think me dear, The place where one was known,
"The tremor48 of a banished49 fear, An ill that was not done-- O me, O me, what frugal cheer My love doth feed upon!"
Sometimes, when he took off his hat, shaking his head backward, and showing his delicate throat as he sang, he looked like an incarnation of the spring whose spirit filled the air--a bright creature, abundant in uncertain promises.
The bells were still ringing when he got to Lowick, and he went into the curate's pew before any one else arrived there. But he was still left alone in it when the congregation had assembled. The curate's pew was opposite the rector's at the entrance of the small chancel, and Will had time to fear that Dorothea might not come while he looked round at the group of rural faces which made the congregation from year to year within the white-washed walls and dark old pews, hardly with more change than we see in the boughs of a tree which breaks here and there with age, but yet has young shoots. Mr. Rigg's frog-face was something alien and unaccountable, but notwithstanding this shock to the order of things, there were still the Waules and the rural stock of the Powderells in their pews side by side; brother Samuel's cheek had the same purple round as ever, and the three generations of decent cottagers came as of old with a sense of duty to their betters generally-- the smaller children regarding Mr. Casaubon, who wore the black gown and mounted to the highest box, as probably the chief of all betters, and the one most awful if offended. Even in 1831 Lowick was at peace, not more agitated50 by Reform than by the solemn tenor51 of the Sunday sermon. The congregation had been used to seeing Will at church in former days, and no one took much note of him except the choir52, who expected him to make a figure in the singing.
Dorothea did at last appear on this quaint37 background, walking up the short aisle53 in her white beaver54 bonnet55 and gray cloak--the same she had worn in the Vatican. Her face being, from her entrance, towards the chancel, even her shortsighted eyes soon discerned Will, but there was no outward show of her feeling except a slight paleness and a grave bow as she passed him. To his own surprise Will felt suddenly uncomfortable, and dared not look at her after they had bowed to each other. Two minutes later, when Mr. Casaubon came out of the vestry, and, entering the pew, seated himself in face of Dorothea, Will felt his paralysis56 more complete. He could look nowhere except at the choir in the little gallery over the vestry-door: Dorothea was perhaps pained, and he had made a wretched blunder. It was no longer amusing to vex42 Mr. Casaubon, who had the advantage probably of watching him and seeing that he dared not turn his head. Why had he not imagined this beforehand?-- but he could not expect that he should sit in that square pew alone, unrelieved by any Tuckers, who had apparently57 departed from Lowick altogether, for a new clergyman was in the desk. Still he called himself stupid now for not foreseeing that it would be impossible for him to look towards Dorothea--nay, that she might feel his coming an impertinence. There was no delivering himself from his cage, however; and Will found his places and looked at his book as if he had been a school-mistress, feeling that the morning service had never been so immeasurably long before, that he was utterly58 ridiculous, out of temper, and miserable59. This was what a man got by worshipping the sight of a woman! The clerk observed with surprise that Mr. Ladislaw did not join in the tune17 of Hanover, and reflected that he might have a cold.
Mr. Casaubon did not preach that morning, and there was no change in Will's situation until the blessing60 had been pronounced and every one rose. It was the fashion at Lowick for "the betters" to go out first. With a sudden determination to break the spell that was upon him, Will looked straight at Mr. Casaubon. But that gentleman's eyes were on the button of the pew-door, which he opened, allowing Dorothea to pass, and following her immediately without raising his eyelids61. Will's glance had caught Dorothea's as she turned out of the pew, and again she bowed, but this time with a look of agitation62, as if she were repressing tears. Will walked out after them, but they went on towards the little gate leading out of the churchyard into the shrubbery, never looking round.
It was impossible for him to follow them, and he could only walk back sadly at mid-day along the same road which he had trodden hopefully in the morning. The lights were all changed for him both without and within.
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1
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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spoke
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| 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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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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chiselling
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| n.錾v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的现在分词 ) | |
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engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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21
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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25
contradictoriness
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| 矛盾性 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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33
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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34
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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35
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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41
vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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42
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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43
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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44
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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45
improvising
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| 即兴创作（improvise的现在分词形式） | |
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46
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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47
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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48
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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49
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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51
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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52
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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53
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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54
beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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55
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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56
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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57
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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58
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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59
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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60
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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61
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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