At ten in the morning next day the feast began with a drama from Sophocles, which was performed in the open air. The theatre was in the gardens between the wall and the inner stockade1; the spectators sat on the slope, tier above tier; the actors appeared upon a green terrace below, issuing from an arbour and passing off behind a thick box-hedge on the other side of the terrace. There was no scenery whatever.
Aurora2 had selected the Antigone. There were not many dramatists from whom to choose, for so many English writers, once famous, had dropped out of knowledge and disappeared. Yet some of the far more ancient Greek and Roman classics remained because they contained depth and originality3 of ideas in small compass. They had been copied in manuscripts by thoughtful men from the old printed books before they mouldered4 away, and their manuscripts being copied again, these works were handed down. The books which came into existence with printing had never been copied by the pen, and had consequently nearly disappeared. Extremely long and diffuse5, it was found, too, that so many of them were but enlargements of ideas or sentiments which had been expressed in a few words by the classics. It is so much easier to copy an epigram of two lines than a printed book of hundreds of pages, and hence it was that Sophocles had survived while much more recent writers had been lost.
From a translation Aurora had arranged several of his dramas. Antigone was her favourite, and she wished Felix to see it. In some indefinable manner the spirit of the ancient Greeks seemed to her in accord with the times, for men had or appeared to have so little control over their own lives that they might well imagine themselves overruled by destiny. Communication between one place and another was difficult, the division of society into castes, and the iron tyranny of arms, prevented the individual from making any progress in lifting himself out of the groove6 in which he was born, except by the rarest opportunity, unless specially7 favoured by fortune. As men were born so they lived; they could not advance, and when this is the case the idea of Fate is always predominant. The workings of destiny, the Irresistible8 overpowering both the good and the evil-disposed, such as were traced in the Greek drama, were paralleled in the lives of many a miserable9 slave at that day. They were forced to endure, for there was no possibility of effort.
Aurora saw this and felt it deeply; ever anxious as she was for the good of all, she saw the sadness that reigned10 even in the midst of the fresh foliage11 of spring and among the flowers. It was Fate; it was Sophocles.
She took the part of the heroine herself, clad in Greek costume; Felix listened and watched, absorbed in his love. Never had that ancient drama appeared so beautiful as then, in the sunlight; the actors stepped upon the daisied sward, and the song of birds was all their music.
While the play was still proceeding12, those who were to form the usual procession had already been assembling in the court before the castle, and just after noon, to the sound of the trumpet13, the Baron14, with his youngest son beside him (the eldest15 was at Court), left the porch, wearing his fur-lined short mantle16, his collar, and golden spurs, and the decoration won so many years before; all the insignia of his rank. He walked; his war-horse, fully17 caparisoned, with axe18 at the saddle-bow, was led at his right side, and upon the other came a knight19 carrying the banneret of the house.
The gentlemen of the house followed closely, duly marshalled in ranks, and wearing the gayest dress; the leading retainers fully armed, brought up the rear. Immediately upon issuing from the gate of the wall, the procession was met and surrounded by the crowd, carrying large branches of may in bloom, flowers, and green willow20 boughs21. The flowers they flung before him on the ground; the branches they bore with them, chanting old verses in honour of the family. The route was through the town, where the Baron stopped at the door of the Court House, and proclaimed a free pardon to all serfs (who were released within a few minutes) not guilty of the heavier crimes.
Thence he went to the pasture just beyond, carefully mown close and swept for the purpose, where the May-pole stood, wreathed with flowers and green branches. Beneath it he deposited a bag of money for distribution upon a carved butt22 placed there, the signal that the games were open. Instantly the fiddles23 began to play, and the feast really commenced. At the inns ale was served out freely (at the Baron’s charge), carts, too, came down from the castle laden24 with ale and cooked provisions. Wishing them joy, the Baron returned by the same road to the castle, where dinner was already served in the hall and the sheds that had been erected25 to enlarge the accommodation.
In the afternoon there were foot-races, horse-races, and leaping competitions, and the dances about the May-pole were prolonged far into the night. The second day, early in the morning, the barriers were opened, and trials of skill with the blunt sword, jousting26 with the blunt lance at the quintain, and wrestling began, and continued almost till sunset. Tournament with sharpened lance or sword, when the combatants fight with risk of serious wounds, can take place only in the presence of the Prince or his deputy. But in these conflicts sufficiently27 severe blows were given to disable the competitors.
On the third day there was a set battle in the morning between fifteen men on each side, armed with the usual buckler or small shield, and stout28 single-sticks instead of swords. This combat excited more interest than all the duels29 that had preceded it; the crowd almost broke down the barriers, and the cheering and cries of encouragement could be heard upon the hills. Thrice the combatants rested from the engagement, and thrice at the trumpet call started again to meet each other, at least those who had sustained the first onslaught.
Blood, indeed, was not shed (for the iron morions saved their skulls), but nearly half of the number required assistance to reach the tents pitched for their use. Then came more feasting, the final dinner prolonged till six in the evening, when the company, constantly rising from their seats, cheered the Baron, and drank to the prosperity of the house. After the horn blew at six, the guests who had come from a distance rapidly dispersed30 (their horses were already waiting), for they were anxious to pass the fifteen miles of forest before nightfall. Those on foot, and those ladies who had come in covered waggons31, stayed till next morning, as they could not travel so speedily. By seven or eight the castle courtyard was comparatively empty, and the Baron, weary from the mere32 bodily efforts of saying farewell to so many, had flung himself at full length on a couch in the drawing-room.
During the whole of this time Felix had not obtained a single moment with Aurora; her time, when not occupied in attending to the guests, was always claimed by Lord Durand. Felix, after the short-lived but pure pleasure he had enjoyed in watching her upon the grass-grown stage, had endured three days of misery33. He was among the crowd, he was in the castle itself, he sat at table with the most honoured visitors, yet he was distinct from all. There was no sympathy between them and him. The games, the dancing, the feasting and laughter, the ceaseless singing and shouting, and jovial34 jostling, jarred upon him.
The boundless35 interest the people took in the combats, and especially that of the thirty, seemed to him a strange and inexplicable36 phenomenon. It did not excite him in the least; he could turn his back upon it without hesitation37. He would, indeed, have left the crowd, and spent the day in the forest, or on the hills, but he could not leave Aurora. He must be near her; he must see her, though he was miserable. Now he feared that the last moment would come, and that he should not exchange a word with her.
He could not, with any show of pretext38, prolong his stay beyond the sunset; all were already gone, with the exceptions mentioned. It would be against etiquette39 to remain longer, unless specially invited, and he was not specially invited. Yet he lingered, and lingered. His horse was ready below; the groom40, weary of holding the bridle41, had thrown it over an iron hook in the yard, and gone about other business. The sun perceptibly declined, and the shadow of the beeches42 of the forest began to descend43 the grassy44 slope. Still he stayed, restlessly moving, now in the dining chamber45, now in the hall, now at the foot of the staircase, with an unpleasant feeling that the servants looked at him curiously46, and were watching him.
Oliver had gone long since, riding with his new friend Lord Durand; they must by now be half-way through the forest. Forced by the inexorable flight of time, he put his foot upon the staircase to go up to the drawing-room and bid farewell to the Baroness47. He ascended48 it, step by step, as a condemned49 person goes to his doom50. He stayed to look out of the open windows as he went by; anything to excuse delay to himself. He reached the landing at last, and had taken two steps towards the door, when Aurora’s maid, who had been waiting there an hour or more for the opportunity, brushed past him, and whispered, “The Rose arbour.”
Without a word he turned, hastened down the stairs, ran through the castle yard, out at the gate, and, entering the gardens between the wall and the inner stockade, made for the arbour on the terrace where the drama had been enacted51. Aurora was not there; but as he looked round, disappointed, she came from the Filbert walk, and, taking his arm, led him to the arbour. They sat down without a word. In a moment she placed her head upon his shoulder; he did not respond. She put her arm (how warm it felt!) about his neck; he yielded stiffly and ungraciously to the pressure; she drew down his head, and kissed him. His lips touched but did not press hers; they met, but did not join. In his sullen52 and angry silence he would not look. She drew still nearer, and whispered his name.
Then he broke out: he pushed her away; his petty jealousy53 and injured self-esteem poured out upon her.
“I am not the heir to an earldom,” he said; “I do not ride with a score of gentlemen at my back. They have some wonderful diamonds, have they not — Countess?”
“Felix!”
“It is no use. Yes, your voice is sweet, I know. But you, all of you, despise me. I am nothing, no one!”
“You are all, everything, to me.”
“You were with — with Durand the whole time.”
“I could not help myself.”
“Not help yourself! Do you think I believe that?”
“Felix, dear. I tell you I could not help myself; I could not, indeed. You do not know all —”
“No, probably not. I do not know the terms of the marriage contract.”
“Felix, there is no such thing. Why, what has come to you? How pale you look! Sit down!” for he had risen.
“I cannot, Aurora, dear; I cannot! Oh, what shall I do? I love you so!”
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1
stockade
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| n.栅栏，围栏；v.用栅栏防护 | |
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aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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mouldered
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| v.腐朽( moulder的过去式和过去分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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7
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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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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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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11
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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12
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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fiddles
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| n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 )；欺诈；（需要运用手指功夫的）细巧活动；当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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25
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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jousting
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| （骑士）骑马用长矛比武( joust的现在分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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31
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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48
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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50
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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51
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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53
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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