A hundred little circumstances have revealed this to me, and the longer I dwell upon it the more agitating2 does the consideration become. Heaven only can help me out of the terrible difficulty in which this places me. I have done nothing to encourage him to be faithless to her. I have studiously kept out of his way; have persistently3 refused to be a third in their interviews. Yet all to no purpose. Some fatality4 has seemed to rule, ever since he came to the house, that this disastrous5 inversion6 of things should arise. If I had only foreseen the possibility of it before he arrived, how gladly would I have departed on some visit or other to the meanest friend to hinder such an apparent treachery. But I blindly welcomed him—indeed, made myself particularly agreeable to him for her sake.
There is no possibility of my suspicions being wrong; not until they have reached absolute certainty have I dared even to admit the truth to myself. His conduct to-day would have proved them true had I entertained no previous apprehensions7. Some photographs of myself came for me by post, and they were handed round at the breakfast table and criticised. I put them temporarily on a side table, and did not remember them until an hour afterwards when I was in my own room. On going to fetch them I discovered him standing8 at the table with his back towards the door bending over the photographs, one of which he raised to his lips.
The witnessing this act so frightened me that I crept away to escape observation. It was the climax9 to a series of slight and significant actions all tending to the same conclusion. The question for me now is, what am I to do? To go away is what first occurs to me, but what reason can I give Caroline and my father for such a step; besides, it might precipitate10 some sort of catastrophe11 by driving Charles to desperation. For the present, therefore, I have decided12 that I can only wait, though his contiguity13 is strangely disturbing to me now, and I hardly retain strength of mind to encounter him. How will the distressing complication end?
May 19.—And so it has come! My mere14 avoidance of him has precipitated15 the worst issue—a declaration. I had occasion to go into the kitchen garden to gather some of the double ragged-robins which grew in a corner there. Almost as soon as I had entered I heard footsteps without. The door opened and shut, and I turned to behold16 him just inside it. As the garden is closed by four walls and the gardener was absent, the spot ensured absolute privacy. He came along the path by the asparagus-bed, and overtook me.
‘You know why I come, Alicia?’ said he, in a tremulous voice.
I said nothing, and hung my head, for by his tone I did know.
‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘it is you I love; my sentiment towards your sister is one of affection too, but protective, tutelary17 affection—no more. Say what you will I cannot help it. I mistook my feeling for her, and I know how much I am to blame for my want of self-knowledge. I have fought against this discovery night and day; but it cannot be concealed18. Why did I ever see you, since I could not see you till I had committed myself? At the moment my eyes beheld19 you on that day of my arrival, I said, “This is the woman for whom my manhood has waited.” Ever since an unaccountable fascination20 has riveted21 my heart to you. Answer one word!’
‘O, M. de la Feste!’ I burst out. What I said more I cannot remember, but I suppose that the misery22 I was in showed pretty plainly, for he said, ‘Something must be done to let her know; perhaps I have mistaken her affection, too; but all depends upon what you feel.’
‘I cannot tell what I feel,’ said I, ‘except that this seems terrible treachery; and every moment that I stay with you here makes it worse! . . . Try to keep faith with her—her young heart is tender; believe me there is no mistake in the quality of her love for you. Would there were! This would kill her if she knew it!’
He sighed heavily. ‘She ought never to be my wife,’ he said. ‘Leaving my own happiness out of the question, it would be a cruelty to her to unite her to me.’
I said I could not hear such words from him, and begged him in tears to go away; he obeyed, and I heard the garden door shut behind him. What is to be the end of the announcement, and the fate of Caroline?
May 20.—I put a good deal on paper yesterday, and yet not all. I was, in truth, hoping against hope, against conviction, against too conscious self-judgment. I scarcely dare own the truth now, yet it relieves my aching heart to set it down. Yes, I love him—that is the dreadful fact, and I can no longer parry, evade23, or deny it to myself though to the rest of the world it can never be owned. I love Caroline’s betrothed24, and he loves me. It is no yesterday’s passion, cultivated by our converse25; it came at first sight, independently of my will; and my talk with him yesterday made rather against it than for it, but, alas26, did not quench27 it. God forgive us both for this terrible treachery.
May 25.—All is vague; our courses shapeless. He comes and goes, being occupied, ostensibly at least, with sketching28 in his tent in the wood. Whether he and she see each other privately29 I cannot tell, but I rather think they do not; that she sadly awaits him, and he does not appear. Not a sign from him that my repulse30 has done him any good, or that he will endeavour to keep faith with her. O, if I only had the compulsion of a god, and the self-sacrifice of a martyr31!
May 31.—It has all ended—or rather this act of the sad drama has ended—in nothing. He has left us. No day for the fulfilment of the engagement with Caroline is named, my father not being the man to press any one on such a matter, or, indeed, to interfere32 in any way. We two girls are, in fact, quite defenceless in a case of this kind; lovers may come when they choose, and desert when they choose; poor father is too urbane33 to utter a word of remonstrance34 or inquiry35. Moreover, as the approved of my dead mother, M. de la Feste has a sort of autocratic power with my father, who holds it unkind to her memory to have an opinion about him. I, feeling it my duty, asked M. de la Feste at the last moment about the engagement, in a voice I could not keep firm.
‘Since the death of your mother all has been indefinite—all!’ he said gloomily. That was the whole. Possibly, Wherryborne Rectory may see him no more.
June 7 .—M. de la Feste has written—one letter to her, one to me. Hers could not have been very warm, for she did not brighten on reading it. Mine was an ordinary note of friendship, filling an ordinary sheet of paper, which I handed over to Caroline when I had finished looking it through. But there was a scrap36 of paper in the bottom of the envelope, which I dared not show any one. This scrap is his real letter: I scanned it alone in my room, trembling, hot and cold by turns. He tells me he is very wretched; that he deplores37 what has happened, but was helpless. Why did I let him see me, if only to make him faithless. Alas, alas!
June 21 .—My dear Caroline has lost appetite, spirits, health. Hope deferred38 maketh the heart sick. His letters to her grow colder—if indeed he has written more than one. He has refrained from writing again to me—he knows it is no use. Altogether the situation that he and she and I are in is melancholy39 in the extreme. Why are human hearts so perverse40?
该作者的其它作品
《Tess of the D‘Urbervilles德伯家的苔丝》
《韦塞克斯的故事 Wessex Tales》
《远离尘嚣 Far from the madding crowd》
《绿茵树下 Under the Greenwood Tree》
该作者的其它作品
《Tess of the D‘Urbervilles德伯家的苔丝》
《韦塞克斯的故事 Wessex Tales》
《远离尘嚣 Far from the madding crowd》
《绿茵树下 Under the Greenwood Tree》
点击收听单词发音
1 distressing | |
a.使人痛苦的 | |
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2 agitating | |
搅动( agitate的现在分词 ); 激怒; 使焦虑不安; (尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而)激烈争论 | |
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3 persistently | |
ad.坚持地;固执地 | |
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4 fatality | |
n.不幸,灾祸,天命 | |
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5 disastrous | |
adj.灾难性的,造成灾害的;极坏的,很糟的 | |
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6 inversion | |
n.反向,倒转,倒置 | |
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7 apprehensions | |
疑惧 | |
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8 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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9 climax | |
n.顶点;高潮;v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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10 precipitate | |
adj.突如其来的;vt.使突然发生;n.沉淀物 | |
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11 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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12 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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13 contiguity | |
n.邻近,接壤 | |
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14 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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15 precipitated | |
v.(突如其来地)使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 );促成;猛然摔下;使沉淀 | |
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16 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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17 tutelary | |
adj.保护的;守护的 | |
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18 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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19 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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20 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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21 riveted | |
铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 ); 把…固定住; 吸引; 引起某人的注意 | |
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22 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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23 evade | |
vt.逃避,回避;避开,躲避 | |
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24 betrothed | |
n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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25 converse | |
vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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26 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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27 quench | |
vt.熄灭,扑灭;压制 | |
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28 sketching | |
n.草图 | |
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29 privately | |
adv.以私人的身份,悄悄地,私下地 | |
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30 repulse | |
n.击退,拒绝;vt.逐退,击退,拒绝 | |
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31 martyr | |
n.烈士,殉难者;vt.杀害,折磨,牺牲 | |
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32 interfere | |
v.(in)干涉,干预;(with)妨碍,打扰 | |
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33 urbane | |
adj.温文尔雅的,懂礼的 | |
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34 remonstrance | |
n抗议,抱怨 | |
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35 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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36 scrap | |
n.碎片;废料;v.废弃,报废 | |
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37 deplores | |
v.悲叹,痛惜,强烈反对( deplore的第三人称单数 ) | |
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38 deferred | |
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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39 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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40 perverse | |
adj.刚愎的;坚持错误的,行为反常的 | |
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