Surely the golden hours are turning gray And dance no more, and vainly strive to run: I see their white locks streaming in the wind-- Each face is haggard as it looks at me, Slow turning in the constant clasping round Storm-driven.
Dorothea's distress1 when she was leaving the church came chiefly from the perception that Mr. Casaubon was determined2 not to speak to his cousin, and that Will's presence at church had served to mark more strongly the alienation3 between them. Will's coming seemed to her quite excusable, nay4, she thought it an amiable5 movement in him towards a reconciliation6 which she herself had been constantly wishing for. He had probably imagined, as she had, that if Mr. Casaubon and he could meet easily, they would shake hands and friendly intercourse7 might return. But now Dorothea felt quite robbed of that hope. Will was banished8 further than ever, for Mr. Casaubon must have been newly embittered9 by this thrusting upon him of a presence which he refused to recognize.
He had not been very well that morning, suffering from some difficulty in breathing, and had not preached in consequence; she was not surprised, therefore, that he was nearly silent at luncheon10, still less that he made no allusion11 to Will Ladislaw. For her own part she felt that she could never again introduce that subject. They usually spent apart the hours between luncheon and dinner on a Sunday; Mr. Casaubon in the library dozing12 chiefly, and Dorothea in her boudoir, where she was wont13 to occupy herself with some of her favorite books. There was a little heap of them on the table in the bow-window--of various sorts, from Herodotus, which she was learning to read with Mr. Casaubon, to her old companion Pascal, and Keble's "Christian14 Year." But to-day opened one after another, and could read none of them. Everything seemed dreary15: the portents16 before the birth of Cyrus-- Jewish antiquities17--oh dear!--devout epigrams--the sacred chime of favorite hymns--all alike were as flat as tunes18 beaten on wood: even the spring flowers and the grass had a dull shiver in them under the afternoon clouds that hid the sun fitfully; even the sustaining thoughts which had become habits seemed to have in them the weariness of long future days in which she would still live with them for her sole companions. It was another or rather a fuller sort of companionship that poor Dorothea was hungering for, and the hunger had grown from the perpetual effort demanded by her married life. She was always trying to be what her husband wished, and never able to repose19 on his delight in what she was. The thing that she liked, that she spontaneously cared to have, seemed to be always excluded from her life; for if it was only granted and not shared by her husband it might as well have been denied. About Will Ladislaw there had been a difference between them from the first, and it had ended, since Mr. Casaubon had so severely20 repulsed21 Dorothea's strong feeling about his claims on the family property, by her being convinced that she was in the right and her husband in the wrong, but that she was helpless. This afternoon the helplessness was more wretchedly benumbing than ever: she longed for objects who could be dear to her, and to whom she could be dear. She longed for work which would be directly beneficent like the sunshine and the rain, and now it appeared that she was to live more and more in a virtual tomb, where there was the apparatus22 of a ghastly labor23 producing what would never see the light. Today she had stood at the door of the tomb and seen Will Ladislaw receding24 into the distant world of warm activity and fellowship-- turning his face towards her as he went.
Books were of no use. Thinking was of no use. It was Sunday, and she could not have the carriage to go to Celia, who had lately had a baby. There was no refuge now from spiritual emptiness and discontent, and Dorothea had to bear her bad mood, as she would have borne a headache.
After dinner, at the hour when she usually began to read aloud, Mr. Casaubon proposed that they should go into the library, where, he said, he had ordered a fire and lights. He seemed to have revived, and to be thinking intently.
In the library Dorothea observed that he had newly arranged a row of his note-books on a table, and now he took up and put into her hand a well-known volume, which was a table of contents to all the others.
"You will oblige me, my dear," he said, seating himself, "if instead of other reading this evening, you will go through this aloud, pencil in hand, and at each point where I say `mark,' will make a cross with your pencil. This is the first step in a sifting25 process which I have long had in view, and as we go on I shall be able to indicate to you certain principles of selection whereby you will, I trust, have an intelligent participation26 in my purpose."
This proposal was only one more sign added to many since his memorable27 interview with Lydgate, that Mr. Casaubon's original reluctance28 to let Dorothea work with him had given place to the contrary disposition29, namely, to demand much interest and labor from her.
After she had read and marked for two hours, he said, "We will take the volume up-stairs--and the pencil, if you please-- and in case of reading in the night, we can pursue this task. It is not wearisome to you, I trust, Dorothea?"
"I prefer always reading what you like best to hear," said Dorothea, who told the simple truth; for what she dreaded30 was to exert herself in reading or anything else which left him as joyless as ever.
It was a proof of the force with which certain characteristics in Dorothea impressed those around her, that her husband, with all his jealousy32 and suspicion, had gathered implicit33 trust in the integrity of her promises, and her power of devoting herself to her idea of the right and best. Of late he had begun to feel that these qualities were a peculiar34 possession for himself, and he wanted to engross35 them.
The reading in the night did come. Dorothea in her young weariness had slept soon and fast: she was awakened36 by a sense of light, which seemed to her at first like a sudden vision of sunset after she had climbed a steep hill: she opened her eyes and saw her husband wrapped in his warm gown seating himself in the arm-chair near the fire-place where the embers were still glowing. He had lit two candles, expecting that Dorothea would awake, but not liking37 to rouse her by more direct means.
"Are you ill, Edward?" she said, rising immediately.
"I felt some uneasiness in a reclining posture38. I will sit here for a time." She threw wood on the fire, wrapped herself up, and said, "You would like me to read to you?"
"You would oblige me greatly by doing so, Dorothea," said Mr. Casaubon, with a shade more meekness39 than usual in his polite manner. "I am wakeful: my mind is remarkably40 lucid41."
"I fear that the excitement may be too great for you," said Dorothea, remembering Lydgate's cautions.
"No, I am not conscious of undue42 excitement. Thought is easy." Dorothea dared not insist, and she read for an hour or more on the same plan as she had done in the evening, but getting over the pages with more quickness. Mr. Casaubon's mind was more alert, and he seemed to anticipate what was coming after a very slight verbal indication, saying, "That will do--mark that"--or "Pass on to the next head--I omit the second excursus on Crete." Dorothea was amazed to think of the bird-like speed with which his mind was surveying the ground where it had been creeping for years. At last he said--
"Close the book now, my dear. We will resume our work to-morrow. I have deferred43 it too long, and would gladly see it completed. But you observe that the principle on which my selection is made, is to give adequate, and not disproportionate illustration to each of the theses enumerated44 in my introduction, as at present sketched45. You have perceived that distinctly, Dorothea?"
"Yes," said Dorothea, rather tremulously. She felt sick at heart.
"And now I think that I can take some repose," said Mr. Casaubon. He laid down again and begged her to put out the lights. When she had lain down too, and there was a darkness only broken by a dull glow on the hearth46, he said--
"Before I sleep, I have a request to make, Dorothea."
"What is it?" said Dorothea, with dread31 in her mind.
"It is that you will let me know, deliberately47, whether, in case of my death, you will carry out my wishes: whether you will avoid doing what I should deprecate, and apply yourself to do what I should desire."
Dorothea was not taken by surprise: many incidents had been leading her to the conjecture48 of some intention on her husband's part which might make a new yoke49 for her. She did not answer immediately.
"You refuse?" said Mr. Casaubon, with more edge in his tone.
"No, I do not yet refuse," said Dorothea, in a clear voice, the need of freedom asserting itself within her; "but it is too solemn-- I think it is not right--to make a promise when I am ignorant what it will bind50 me to. Whatever affection prompted I would do without promising51."
"But you would use your own judgment52: I ask you to obey mine; you refuse."
"No, dear, no!" said Dorothea, beseechingly53, crushed by opposing fears. "But may I wait and reflect a little while? I desire with my whole soul to do what will comfort you; but I cannot give any pledge suddenly-- still less a pledge to do I know not what."
"You cannot then confide54 in the nature of my wishes?"
"Grant me till to-morrow," said Dorothea, beseechingly.
"Till to-morrow then," said Mr. Casaubon.
Soon she could hear that he was sleeping, but there was no more sleep for her. While she constrained55 herself to lie still lest she should disturb him, her mind was carrying on a conflict in which imagination ranged its forces first on one side and then on the other. She had no presentiment56 that the power which her husband wished to establish over her future action had relation to anything else than his work. But it was clear enough to her that he would expect her to devote herself to sifting those mixed heaps of material, which were to be the doubtful illustration of principles still more doubtful. The poor child had become altogether unbelieving as to the trustworthiness of that Key which had made the ambition and the labor of her husband's life. It was not wonderful that, in spite of her small instruction, her judgment in this matter was truer than his: for she looked with unbiassed comparison and healthy sense at probabilities on which he had risked all his egoism. And now she pictured to herself the days, and months, and years which she must spend in sorting what might be called shattered mummies, and fragments of a tradition which was itself a mosaic57 wrought58 from crushed ruins--sorting them as food for a theory which was already withered59 in the birth like an elfin child. Doubtless a vigorous error vigorously pursued has kept the embryos60 of truth a-breathing: the quest of gold being at the same time a questioning of substances, the body of chemistry is prepared for its soul, and Lavoisier is born. But Mr. Casaubon's theory of the elements which made the seed of all tradition was not likely to bruise61 itself unawares against discoveries: it floated among flexible conjectures62 no more solid than those etymologies63 which seemed strong because of likeness64 in sound until it was shown that likeness in sound made them impossible: it was a method of interpretation65 which was not tested by the necessity of forming anything which had sharper collisions than an elaborate notion of Gog and Magog: it was as free from interruption as a plan for threading the stars together. And Dorothea had so often had to check her weariness and impatience66 over this questionable67 riddle-guessing, as it revealed itself to her instead of the fellowship in high knowledge which was to make life worthier68! She could understand well enough now why her husband had come to cling to her, as possibly the only hope left that his labors69 would ever take a shape in which they could be given to the world. At first it had seemed that he wished to keep even her aloof70 from any close knowledge of what he was doing; but gradually the terrible stringency71 of human need--the prospect72 of a too speedy death--
And here Dorothea's pity turned from her own future to her husband's past--nay, to his present hard struggle with a lot which had grown out of that past: the lonely labor, the ambition breathing hardly under the pressure of self-distrust; the goal receding, and the heavier limbs; and now at last the sword visibly trembling above him! And had she not wished to marry him that she might help him in his life's labor?--But she had thought the work was to be something greater, which she could serve in devoutly73 for its own sake. Was it right, even to soothe74 his grief--would it be possible, even if she promised--to work as in a treadmill75 fruitlessly?
And yet, could she deny him? Could she say, "I refuse to content this pining hunger?" It would be refusing to do for him dead, what she was almost sure to do for him living. If he lived as Lydgate had said he might, for fifteen years or more, her life would certainly be spent in helping76 him and obeying him.
Still, there was a deep difference between that devotion to the living and that indefinite promise of devotion to the dead. While he lived, he could claim nothing that she would not still be free to remonstrate77 against, and even to refuse. But-- the thought passed through her mind more than once, though she could not believe in it--might he not mean to demand something more from her than she had been able to imagine, since he wanted her pledge to carry out his wishes without telling her exactly what they were? No; his heart was bound up in his work only: that was the end for which his failing life was to be eked78 out by hers.
And now, if she were to say, "No! if you die, I will put no finger to your work"--it seemed as if she would be crushing that bruised79 heart.
For four hours Dorothea lay in this conflict, till she felt ill and bewildered, unable to resolve, praying mutely. Helpless as a child which has sobbed80 and sought too long, she fell into a late morning sleep, and when she waked Mr. Casaubon was already up. Tantripp told her that he had read prayers, breakfasted, and was in the library.
"I never saw you look so pale, madam," said Tantripp, a solid-figured woman who had been with the sisters at Lausanne.
"Was I ever high-colored, Tantripp?" said Dorothea, smiling faintly.
"Well, not to say high-colored, but with a bloom like a Chiny rose. But always smelling those leather books, what can be expected? Do rest a little this morning, madam. Let me say you are ill and not able to go into that close library."
"Oh no, no! let me make haste," said Dorothea. "Mr. Casaubon wants me particularly."
When she went down she felt sure that she should promise to fulfil his wishes; but that would be later in the day--not yet.
As Dorothea entered the library, Mr. Casaubon turned round from the table where he had been placing some books, and said--
"I was waiting for your appearance, my dear. I had hoped to set to work at once this morning, but I find myself under some indisposition, probably from too much excitement yesterday. I am going now to take a turn in the shrubbery, since the air is milder."
"I am glad to hear that," said Dorothea. "Your mind, I feared, was too active last night."
"I would fain have it set at rest on the point I last spoke81 of, Dorothea. You can now, I hope, give me an answer."
"May I come out to you in the garden presently?" said Dorothea, winning a little breathing space in that way.
"I shall be in the Yew-tree Walk for the next half-hour," said Mr. Casaubon, and then he left her.
Dorothea, feeling very weary, rang and asked Tantripp to bring her some wraps. She had been sitting still for a few minutes, but not in any renewal82 of the former conflict: she simply felt that she was going to say "Yes" to her own doom83: she was too weak, too full of dread at the thought of inflicting84 a keen-edged blow on her husband, to do anything but submit completely. She sat still and let Tantripp put on her bonnet85 and shawl, a passivity which was unusual with her, for she liked to wait on herself.
"God bless you, madam!" said Tantripp, with an irrepressible movement of love towards the beautiful, gentle creature for whom she felt unable to do anything more, now that she had finished tying the bonnet.
This was too much for Dorothea's highly-strung feeling, and she burst into tears, sobbing86 against Tantripp's arm. But soon she checked herself, dried her eyes, and went out at the glass door into the shrubbery.
"I wish every book in that library was built into a caticom for your master," said Tantripp to Pratt, the butler, finding him in the breakfast-room. She had been at Rome, and visited the antiquities, as we know; and she always declined to call Mr. Casaubon anything but "your master," when speaking to the other servants.
Pratt laughed. He liked his master very well, but he liked Tantripp better.
When Dorothea was out on the gravel87 walks, she lingered among the nearer clumps88 of trees, hesitating, as she had done once before, though from a different cause. Then she had feared lest her effort at fellowship should be unwelcome; now she dreaded going to the spot where she foresaw that she must bind herself to a fellowship from which she shrank. Neither law nor the world's opinion compelled her to this--only her husband's nature and her own compassion89, only the ideal and not the real yoke of marriage. She saw clearly enough the whole situation, yet she was fettered90: she could not smite91 the stricken soul that entreated92 hers. If that were weakness, Dorothea was weak. But the half-hour was passing, and she must not delay longer. When she entered the Yew-tree Walk she could not see her husband; but the walk had bends, and she went, expecting to catch sight of his figure wrapped in a blue cloak, which, with a warm velvet93 cap, was his outer garment on chill days for the garden. It occurred to her that he might be resting in the summer-house, towards which the path diverged94 a little. Turning the angle, she could see him seated on the bench, close to a stone table. His arms were resting on the table, and his brow was bowed down on them, the blue cloak being dragged forward and screening his face on each side.
"He exhausted95 himself last night," Dorothea said to herself, thinking at first that he was asleep, and that the summer-house was too damp a place to rest in. But then she remembered that of late she had seen him take that attitude when she was reading to him, as if he found it easier than any other; and that he would sometimes speak, as well as listen, with his face down in that way. She went into the summerhouse and said, "I am come, Edward; I am ready."
He took no notice, and she thought that he must be fast asleep. She laid her hand on his shoulder, and repeated, "I am ready!" Still he was motionless; and with a sudden confused fear, she leaned down to him, took off his velvet cap, and leaned her cheek close to his head, crying in a distressed96 tone--
"Wake, dear, wake! Listen to me. I am come to answer." But Dorothea never gave her answer.
Later in the day, Lydgate was seated by her bedside, and she was talking deliriously97, thinking aloud, and recalling what had gone through her mind the night before. She knew him, and called him by his name, but appeared to think it right that she should explain everything to him; and again, and again, begged him to explain everything to her husband.
"Tell him I shall go to him soon: I am ready to promise. Only, thinking about it was so dreadful--it has made me ill. Not very ill. I shall soon be better. Go and tell him."
But the silence in her husband's ear was never more to be broken.
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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alienation
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| n.疏远；离间；异化 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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portents
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| n.预兆( portent的名词复数 )；征兆；怪事；奇物 | |
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antiquities
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| 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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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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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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labor
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| 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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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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sifting
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| n.筛，过滤v.筛( sift的现在分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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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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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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60
embryos
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| n.晶胚；胚，胚胎( embryo的名词复数 ) | |
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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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etymologies
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| n.词源学，词源说明( etymology的名词复数 ) | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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stringency
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| n.严格，紧迫，说服力；严格性；强度 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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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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treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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eked
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| v.（靠节省用量）使…的供应持久( eke的过去式和过去分词 )；节约使用；竭力维持生计；勉强度日 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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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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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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86
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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87
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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95
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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96
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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deliriously
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| adv.谵妄（性）；发狂；极度兴奋/亢奋；说胡话 | |
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