He was in love. Love had caught him, and had affected6 his vision so that he no longer saw any phenomenon as it actually was; neither himself, nor Hilda, nor the circumstances which were uniting them. He could not follow a train of thought. He could not remain of one opinion nor in one mind. Within himself he was perpetually discussing Hilda, and her attitude. She was marvellous! But was she? She admired him! But did she? She had shown cunning! But was it not simplicity7? He did not even feel sure whether he liked her. He tried to remember what she looked like, and he positively8 could not. The one matter upon which he could be sure was that his curiosity was hotly engaged. If he had had to state the case in words to another he would not have gone further than the word ‘curiosity.’ He had no notion that he was in love. He did not know what love was; he had not had sufficient opportunity of learning. Nevertheless the processes of love were at work within him. Silently and magically, by the force of desire and of pride, the refracting glass was being specially9 ground which would enable him, which would compel him, to see an ideal Hilda when he gazed at the real Hilda. He would not see the real Hilda any more unless some cataclysm10 should shatter the glass. And he might be likened to a prisoner on whom the gate of freedom is shut for ever, or to a stricken sufferer of whom it is known that he can never rise again and go forth11 into the fields. He was as somebody to whom the irrevocable had happened. And he knew it not. None knew. None guessed. All day he went his ways, striving to conceal12 the whirring preoccupation of his curiosity (a curiosity which he thought showed a fine masculine dash), and succeeded fairly well. The excellent, simple Maggie alone remarked in secret that he was slightly nervous and unnatural13. But even she, with all her excellent simplicity, did not divine his victimhood.
At six o’clock he was back at the shop from his tea. It was a wet, chill night. On the previous evening he had caught cold, and he was beginning to sneeze. He said to himself that Hilda could not be expected to come on such a night. But he expected her. When the shop clock showed half-past six, he glanced at his watch, which also showed half-past six. Now at any instant she might arrive. The shop door opened, and simultaneously14 his heart ceased to beat. But the person who came in, puffing15 and snorting, was his father, who stood within the shop while shaking his soaked umbrella over the exterior16 porch. The draught17 from the shiny dark street and square struck cold, and Edwin responsively sneezed; and Darius Clayhanger upbraided18 him for not having worn his overcoat, and he replied with foolish unconvincingness that he had got a cold, that it was nothing. Darius grunted19 his way into the cubicle20. Edwin remained in busy idleness at the right-hand counter; Stifford was tidying the contents of drawers behind the fancy-counter. And the fizzing gas-burners, inevitable21 accompaniment of night at the period, kept watch above. Under the heat of the stove, the damp marks of Darius Clayhanger’s entrance disappeared more quickly than the minutes ran. It grew almost impossible for Edwin to pass the time. At moments when his father was not stirring in the cubicle, and Stifford happened to be in repose22, he could hear the ticking of the clock, which he could not remember ever having heard before, except when he mounted the steps to wind it.
At a quarter to seven he said to himself that he gave up hope, while pretending that he never had hoped, and that Hilda’s presence was indifferent to him. If she came not that day she would probably come some other day. What could it matter? He was very unhappy. He said to himself that he should have a long night’s reading, but the prospect23 of reading had no savour. He said: “No, I shan’t go in to see them to-night, I shall stay in and nurse my cold, and read.” This was mere24 futile25 bravado26, for the impartial27 spectator in him, though far less clear-sighted and judicial28 now than formerly29, foresaw with certainty that if Hilda did not come he would call at the Orgreaves’. At five minutes to seven he was miserable30: he had decided31 to hope until five minutes to seven. He made it seven in despair. Then there were signs of a figure behind the misty32 glass of the door. The door opened. It could not be she! Impossible that it should be she! But it was she; she had the air of being a miracle.
Two.
His feelings were complex and contradictory33, flitting about and crossing each other in his mind with astounding34 rapidity. He wished she had not come, because his father was there, and the thought of his father would intensify35 his self-consciousness. He wondered why he should care whether she came or not; after all she was only a young woman who wanted to see a printing works; at best she was not so agreeable as Janet, at worst she was appalling36, and moreover he knew nothing about her. He had a glimpse of her face as, with a little tightening37 of the lips, she shut her umbrella. What was there in that face judged impartially38? Why should he be to so absurd a degree curious about her? He thought how exquisitely40 delicious it would be to be walking with her by the shore of a lovely lake on a summer evening, pale hills in the distance. He had this momentary41 vision by reason of a coloured print of the “Silver Strand” of a Scottish loch which was leaning in a gilt42 frame against the artists’ materials cabinet and was marked twelve-and-six. During the day he had imagined himself with her in all kinds of beautiful spots and situations. But the chief of his sensations was one of exquisite39 relief... She had come. He could wreak43 his hungry curiosity upon her.
Yes, she was alone. No Janet! No Alicia! How had she managed it? What had she said to the Orgreaves? That she should have come alone, and through the November rain, in the night, affected him deeply. It gave her the quality of a heroine of high adventure. It was as though she had set sail unaided, in a frail44 skiff, on a formidable ocean, to meet him. It was inexpressibly romantic and touching45. She came towards him, her face sedately46 composed. She wore a small hat, a veil, and a mackintosh, and black gloves that were splashed with wet. Certainly she was a practical woman. She had said she would come, and she had come, sensibly, but how charmingly, protected against the shocking conditions of the journey. There is naught47 charming in a mackintosh. And yet there was, in this mackintosh! ... Something in the contrast between its harshness and her fragility... The veil was supremely48 charming. She had half lifted it, exposing her mouth; the upper part of her flushed face was caged behind the bars of the veil; behind those bars her eyes mysteriously gleamed... Spanish! ... No exaggeration in all this! He felt every bit of it honestly, as he stood at the counter in thrilled expectancy49. By virtue50 of his impassioned curiosity, the terraces of Granada and the mantillas of señoritas were not more romantic than he had made his father’s shop and her dripping mackintosh. He tried to see her afresh; he tried to see her as though he had never seen her before; he tried desperately51 once again to comprehend what it was in her that piqued52 him. And he could not. He fell back from the attempt. Was she the most wondrous53? Or was she commonplace? Was she deceiving him? Or did he alone possess the true insight? ... Useless! He was baffled. Far from piercing her soul, he could scarcely even see her at all; that is, with intelligence. And it was always so when he was with her: he was in a dream, a vapour; he had no helm, his faculties54 were not under control. She robbed him of judgement.
And then the clear tones of her voice fell on the listening shop: “Good evening, Mr Clayhanger. What a night, isn’t it? I hope I’m not too late.”
Firm, business-like syllables55... And she straightened her shoulders. He suffered. He was not happy. Whatever his feelings, he was not happy in that instant. He was not happy because he was wrung56 between hope and fear, alike divine. But he would not have exchanged his sensations for the extremest felicity of any other person.
They shook hands. He suggested that she should remove her mackintosh. She consented. He had no idea that the effect of the removal of the mackintosh would be so startling as it was. She stood intimately revealed in her frock. The mackintosh was formal and defensive57; the frock was intimate and acquiescent58.
Darius blundered out of the cubicle and Edwin had a dreadful moment introducing her to Darius and explaining their purpose. Why had he not prepared the ground in advance? His pusillanimous59 cowardice60 again! However, the directing finger of God sent a customer into the shop, and Edwin escaped with his Hilda through the aperture61 in the counter.
Three.
The rickety building at the back of the premises62, which was still the main theatre of printing activities, was empty save for Big James, the hour of seven being past. Big James was just beginning to roll his apron63 round his waist, in preparation for departure. This happened to be one of the habits of his advancing age. Up till a year or two previously64 he would have taken off his apron and left it in the workshop; but now he could not confide4 it to the workshop; he must carry it about him until he reached home and a place of safety for it. When he saw Edwin and a young lady appear in the doorway65, he let the apron fall over his knees again. As the day was only the second of the industrial week, the apron was almost clean; and even the office towel, which hung on a roller somewhat conspicuously66 near the door, was not offensive. A single gas jet burned. The workshop was in the languor67 of repose after toil68 which had officially commenced at 8 a.m.
The perfection of Big James’s attitude, an attitude symbolised by the letting down of his apron, helped to put Edwin at ease in the original and difficult circumstances. “Good evening, Mr Edwin. Good evening, miss,” was all that the man actually said with his tongue, but the formality of his majestic69 gestures indicated in the most dignified70 way his recognition of a sharp difference of class and his exact comprehension of his own rôle in the affair. He stood waiting: he had been about to depart, but he was entirely71 at the disposal of the company.
“This is Mr Yarlett, our foreman,” said Edwin, and to Big James: “Miss Lessways has just come to look round.”
“Here are some of the types,” said Edwin, because a big case was the object nearest him, and he glanced at Big James.
In a moment the foreman was explaining to Hilda, in his superb voice, the use of the composing-stick, and he accompanied the theory by a beautiful exposition of the practice; Edwin could stand aside and watch. Hilda listened and looked with an extraordinary air of sympathetic interest. And she was so serious, so adult. But it was the quality of sympathy, he thought, that was her finest, her most attractive. It was either that or her proud independence, as of a person not accustomed to bend to the will of others or to go to others for advice. He could not be sure... No! Her finest quality was her mystery. Even now, as he gazed at her comfortably, she baffled him; all her exquisite little movements and intonations73 baffled him. Of one thing, however, he was convinced: that she was fundamentally different from other women. There was she, and there was the rest of the sex.
For appearance’s sake he threw in short phrases now and then, to which Big James, by his mere deportment, gave the importance of the words of a master.
“I suppose you printers did something special among yourselves to celebrate the four-hundredth anniversary of the invention of printing?” said Hilda suddenly, glancing from Edwin to Big James. And Big James and Edwin glanced at one another. Neither had ever heard of the four-hundredth anniversary of the invention of printing. In a couple of seconds Big James’s downcast eye had made it clear that he regarded this portion of the episode as master’s business.
“Oh! Some years ago. Two or three—perhaps four.”
“I’m afraid we didn’t,” said Edwin, smiling.
“Oh!” said Hilda slowly. “I think they made a great fuss of it in London.” She relented somewhat. “I don’t really know much about it. But the other day I happened to be reading the new history of printing, you know—Cranswick’s, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes!” Edwin concurred75, though he had never heard of Cranswick’s new history of printing either.
He knew that he was not emerging creditably from this portion of the episode. But he did not care. The whole of his body went hot and then cold as his mind presented the simple question: “Why had she been reading the history of printing?” Could the reason be any other than her interest in himself? Or was she a prodigy76 among young women, who read histories of everything in addition to being passionate77 about verse? He said that it was ridiculous to suppose that she would read a history of printing solely78 from interest in himself. Nevertheless he was madly happy for a few moments, and as it were staggered with joy. He decided to read a history of printing at once.
Big James came to the end of his expositions of the craft. The stove was dying out, and the steam-boiler cold. Big James regretted that the larger machines could not be seen in action, and that the place was getting chilly79. Edwin began to name various objects that were lying about, with their functions, but it was evident that the interest of the workshop was now nearly exhausted80. Big James suggested that if Miss could make it convenient to call, say, on the next afternoon, she could see the large new Columbia in motion. Edwin seized the idea and beautified it. And on this he wavered towards the door, and she followed, and Big James in dignity bowed them forth to the elevated porch, and began to rewind his flowing apron once more. They pattered down the dark steps (now protected with felt roofing) and ran across six feet of exposed yard into what had once been Mrs Nixon’s holy kitchen.
Four.
After glancing at sundry81 minor82 workshops in delicious propinquity and solitude83, they mounted to the first floor, where there was an account-book ruling and binding84 shop: the site of the old sitting-room85 and the girls’ bedroom. In each chamber86 Edwin had to light a gas, and the corridors and stairways were traversed by the ray of matches. It was excitingly intricate. Then they went to the attics87, because Edwin was determined89 that she should see all. There he found a forgotten candle.
“I used to work here,” he said, holding high the candle. “There was no other place for me to work in.”
“Work? What sort of work?”
“Well—reading, drawing, you know... At that very table.” To be sure, there the very table was, thick with dust! It had been too rickety to deserve removal to the heights of Bleakridge. He was touched by the sight of the table now, though he saw it at least once every week. His existence at the corner of Duck Square seemed now to have been beautiful and sad, seemed to be far off and historic. And the attic seemed unhappy in its present humiliation90.
“But there’s no fireplace,” murmured Hilda.
“I know,” said Edwin.
“But how did you do in winter?”
“I did without.”
He had in fact been less of a martyr91 than those three telling words would indicate. Nevertheless it appeared to him that he really had been a martyr; and he was glad. He could feel her sympathy and her quiet admiration92 vibrating through the air towards him. Had she not said that she had never met anybody like him? He turned and looked at her. Her eyes glittered in the candle-light with tears too proud to fall. Solemn and exquisite bliss93! Profound anxiety and apprehension94! He was an arena95 where all the sensations of which a human being is capable struggled in blind confusion.
Afterwards, he could recall her visit only in fragments. The next fragment that he recollected96 was the last. She stood outside the door in her mackintosh. The rain had ceased. She was going. Behind them he could feel his father in the cubicle, and Stifford arranging the toilette of the shop for the night.
“Please don’t come out here,” she enjoined97, half in entreaty98, half in command. Her solicitude99 thrilled him. He was on the step, she was on the pavement: so that he looked down at her, with the sodden100, light-reflecting slope of Duck Square for a background to her.
“Oh! I’m all right. Well, you’ll come to-morrow afternoon?”
“No, you aren’t all right. You’ve got a cold and you’ll make it worse, and this isn’t the end of winter, it’s the beginning; I think you’re very liable to colds.”
“N–no!” he said, enchanted101, beside himself in an ecstasy102 of pleasure. “I shall expect you to-morrow about three.”
“Thank you,” she said simply. “I’ll come.”
They shook hands.
“Now do go in!”
She vanished round the corner.
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1
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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10
cataclysm
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| n.洪水，剧变，大灾难 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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15
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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cubicle
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| n.大房间中隔出的小室 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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intensify
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| vt.加强；变强；加剧 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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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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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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42
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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56
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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pusillanimous
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| adj.懦弱的，胆怯的 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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70
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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71
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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72
suavely
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73
intonations
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| n.语调，说话的抑扬顿挫( intonation的名词复数 )；（演奏或唱歌中的）音准 | |
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74
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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76
prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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77
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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78
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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79
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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80
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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81
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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82
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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83
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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84
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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85
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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86
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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87
attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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88
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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89
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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90
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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91
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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92
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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93
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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94
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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96
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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99
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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100
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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101
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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102
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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103
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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