My manuscript lay before me, set in order by Clara’s careful hand. I slowly turned over the leaves one by one; but my eye only fell mechanically on the writing. Yet one day since, and how much ambition, how much hope, how many of my heart’s dearest sensations and my mind’s highest thoughts dwelt in those poor paper leaves, in those little crabbed1 marks of pen and ink! Now I could look on them indifferently — almost as a stranger would have looked. The days of calm study, of steady toil2 of thought, seemed departed for ever. Stirring ideas; store of knowledge patiently heaped up; visions of better sights than this world can show, falling freshly and sunnily over the pages of my first book; all these were past and gone — withered3 up by the hot breath of the senses — doomed4 by a paltry5 fate, whose germ was the accident of an idle day!
I hastily put the manuscript aside. My unexpected interview with Clara had calmed the turbulent sensations of the evening: but the fatal influence of the dark beauty remained with me still. How could I write?
I sat down at the open window. It was at the back of the house, and looked out on a strip of garden — London garden — a close-shut dungeon6 for nature, where stunted7 trees and drooping9 flowers seemed visibly pining for the free air and sunlight of the country, in their sooty atmosphere, amid their prison of high brick walls. But the place gave room for the air to blow in it, and distanced the tumult10 of the busy streets. The moon was up, shined round tenderly by a little border-work of pale yellow light. Elsewhere, the awful void of night was starless; the dark lustre11 of space shone without a cloud.
A presentiment12 arose within me, that in this still and solitary13 hour would occur my decisive, my final struggle with myself. I felt that my heart’s life or death was set on the hazard of the night.
This new love that was in me; this giant sensation of a day’s growth, was first love. Hitherto, I had been heart-whole. I had known nothing of the passion, which is the absorbing passion of humanity. No woman had ever before stood between me and my ambitions, my occupations, my amusements. No woman had ever before inspired me with the sensations which I now felt.
In trying to realise my position, there was this one question to consider; was I still strong enough to resist the temptation which accident had thrown in my way? I had this one incentive15 to resistance: the conviction that, if I succumbed16, as far as my family prospects17 were concerned, I should be a ruined man.
I knew my father’s character well: I knew how far his affections and his sympathies might prevail over his prejudices — even over his principles — in some peculiar18 cases; and this very knowledge convinced me that the consequences of a degrading marriage contracted by his son (degrading in regard to rank), would be terrible: fatal to one, perhaps to both. Every other irregularity — every other offence even — he might sooner or later forgive. This irregularity, this offence, never — never, though his heart broke in the struggle. I was as sure of it, as I was of my own existence at that moment.
I loved her! All that I felt, all that I knew, was summed up in those few words! Deteriorating19 as my passion was in its effect on the exercise of my mental powers, and on my candour and sense of duty in my intercourse20 with home, it was a pure feeling towards her. This is truth. If I lay on my death-bed, at the present moment, and knew that, at the Judgment21 Day, I should be tried by the truth or falsehood of the lines just written, I could say with my last breath: So be it; let them remain.
But what mattered my love for her? However worthy22 of it she might be, I had misplaced it, because chance — the same chance which might have given her station and family — had placed her in a rank of life far — too far — below mine. As the daughter of a “gentleman,” my father’s welcome, my father’s affection, would have been bestowed24 on her, when I took her home as my wife. As the daughter of a tradesman, my father’s anger, my father’s misery25, my own ruin perhaps besides, would be the fatal dower that a marriage would confer on her. What made all this difference? A social prejudice. Yes: but a prejudice which had been a principle — nay26, more, a religion — in our house, since my birth; and for centuries before it.
(How strange that foresight27 of love which precipitates28 the future into the present! Here was I thinking of her as my wife, before, perhaps, she had a suspicion of the passion with which she had inspired me — vexing29 my heart, wearying my thoughts, before I had even spoken to her, as if the perilous30 discovery of our marriage were already at hand! I have thought since how unnatural31 I should have considered this, if I had read it in a book.)
How could I best crush the desire to see her, to speak to her, on the morrow? Should I leave London, leave England, fly from the temptation, no matter where, or at what sacrifice? Or should I take refuge in my books — the calm, changeless old friends of my earliest fireside hours? Had I resolution enough to wear my heart out by hard, serious, slaving study? If I left London on the morrow, could I feel secure, in my own conscience, that I should not return the day after!
While, throughout the hours of the night, I was thus vainly striving to hold calm counsel with myself; the base thought never occurred to me, which might have occurred to some other men, in my position: Why marry the girl, because I love her? Why, with my money, my station, my opportunities, obstinately32 connect love and marriage as one idea; and make a dilemma33 and a danger where neither need exist? Had such a thought as this, in the faintest, the most shadowy form, crossed my mind, I should have shrunk from it, have shrunk from my self; with horror. Whatever fresh degradations34 may be yet in store for me, this one consoling and sanctifying remembrance must still be mine. My love for Margaret Sherwin was worthy to be offered to the purest and perfectest woman that ever God created.
The night advanced — the noises faintly reaching me from the streets, sank and ceased — my lamp flickered35 and went out — I heard the carriage return with Clara from the ball — the first cold clouds of day rose and hid the waning36 orb14 of the moon — the air was cooled with its morning freshness: the earth was purified with its morning dew — and still I sat by my open window, striving with my burning love-thoughts of Margaret; striving to think collectedly and usefully — abandoned to a struggle ever renewing, yet never changing; and always hour after hour, a struggle in vain.
At last I began to think less and less distinctly — a few moments more, and I sank into a restless, feverish37 slumber38. Then began another, and a more perilous ordeal39 for me — the ordeal of dreams. Thoughts and sensations which had been more and more weakly restrained with each succeeding hour of wakefulness, now rioted within me in perfect liberation from all control.
This is what I dreamed:
I stood on a wide plain. On one side, it was bounded by thick woods, whose dark secret depths looked unfathomable to the eye: on the other, by hills, ever rising higher and higher yet, until they were lost in bright, beautifully white clouds, gleaming in refulgent40 sunlight. On the side above the woods, the sky was dark and vaporous. It seemed as if some thick exhalation had arisen from beneath the trees, and overspread the clear firmament41 throughout this portion of the scene.
As I still stood on the plain and looked around, I saw a woman coming towards me from the wood. Her stature42 was tall; her black hair flowed about her unconfined; her robe was of the dun hue43 of the vapour and mist which hung above the trees, and fell to her feet in dark thick folds. She came on towards me swiftly and softly, passing over the ground like cloud-shadows over the ripe corn-field or the calm water.
I looked to the other side, towards the hills; and there was another woman descending44 from their bright summits; and her robe was white, and pure, and glistening45. Her face was illumined with a light, like the light of the harvest-moon; and her footsteps, as she descended46 the hills, left a long track of brightness, that sparkled far behind her, like the track of the stars when the winter night is clear and cold. She came to the place where the hills and the plain were joined together. Then she stopped, and I knew that she was watching me from afar off.
Meanwhile, the woman from the dark wood still approached; never pausing on her path, like the woman from the fair hills. And now I could see her face plainly. Her eyes were lustrous47 and fascinating, as the eyes of a serpent — large, dark and soft, as the eyes of the wild doe. Her lips were parted with a languid smile; and she drew back the long hair, which lay over her cheeks, her neck, her bosom48, while I was gazing on her.
Then, I felt as if a light were shining on me from the other side. I turned to look, and there was the woman from the hills beckoning49 me away to ascend50 with her towards the bright clouds above. Her arm, as she held it forth51, shone fair, even against the fair hills; and from her outstretched hand came long thin rays of trembling light, which penetrated52 to where I stood, cooling and calming wherever they touched me.
But the woman from the woods still came nearer and nearer, until I could feel her hot breath on my face. Her eyes looked into mine, and fascinated them, as she held out her arms to embrace me. I touched her hand, and in an instant the touch ran through me like fire, from head to foot. Then, still looking intently on me with her wild bright eyes, she clasped her supple53 arms round my neck, and drew me a few paces away with her towards the wood.
I felt the rays of light that had touched me from the beckoning hand, depart; and yet once more I looked towards the woman from the hills. She was ascending54 again towards the bright clouds, and ever and anon she stopped and turned round, wringing55 her hands and letting her head droop8, as if in bitter grief. The last time I saw her look towards me, she was near the clouds. She covered her face with her robe, and knelt down where she stood. After this I discerned no more of her. For now the woman from the woods clasped me more closely than before, pressing her warm lips on mine; and it was as if her long hair fell round us both, spreading over my eyes like a veil, to hide from them the fair hill-tops, and the woman who was walking onward56 to the bright clouds above.
I was drawn57 along in the arms of the dark woman, with my blood burning and my breath failing me, until we entered the secret recesses58 that lay amid the unfathomable depths of trees. There, she encircled me in the folds of her dusky robe, and laid her cheek close to mine, and murmured a mysterious music in my ear, amid the midnight silence and darkness of all around us. And I had no thought of returning to the plain again; for I had forgotten the woman from the fair hills, and had given myself up, heart, and soul, and body, to the woman from the dark woods.
Here the dream ended, and I awoke.
It was broad daylight. The sun shone brilliantly, the sky was cloudless. I looked at my watch; it had stopped. Shortly afterwards I heard the hall clock strike six.
My dream was vividly59 impressed on my memory, especially the latter part of it. Was it a warning of coming events, foreshadowed in the wild visions of sleep? But to what purpose could this dream, or indeed any dream, tend? Why had it remained incomplete, failing to show me the visionary consequences of my visionary actions? What superstition60 to ask! What a waste of attention to bestow23 it on such a trifle as a dream!
Still, this trifle had produced one abiding61 result. I knew it not then; but I know it now. As I looked out on the reviving, re-assuring sunlight, it was easy enough for me to dismiss as ridiculous from my mind, or rather from my conscience, the tendency to see in the two shadowy forms of my dream, the types of two real living beings, whose names almost trembled into utterance62 on my lips; but I could not also dismiss from my heart the love-images which that dream had set up there for the worship of the senses. Those results of the night still remained within me, growing and strengthening with every minute.
If I had been told beforehand how the mere63 sight of the morning would reanimate and embolden64 me, I should have scouted65 the prediction as too outrageous66 for consideration; yet so it was. The moody67 and boding68 reflections, the fear and struggle of the hours of darkness were gone with the daylight. The love-thoughts of Margaret alone remained, and now remained unquestioned and unopposed. Were my convictions of a few hours since, like the night-mists that fade before returning sunshine? I knew not. But I was young; and each new morning is as much the new life of youth, as the new life of Nature.
So I left my study and went out. Consequences might come how they would, and when they would; I thought of them no more. It seemed as if I had cast off every melancholy69 thought, in leaving my room; as if my heart had sprung up more elastic70 than ever, after the burden that had been laid on it during the night. Enjoyment71 for the present, hope for the future, and chance and fortune to trust in to the very last! This was my creed72, as I walked into the street, determined73 to see Margaret again, and to tell her of my love before the day was out. In the exhilaration of the fresh air and the gay sunshine, I turned my steps towards Hollyoake Square, almost as light-hearted as a boy let loose from school, joyously74 repeating Shakespeare’s lines as I went:
“Hope is a lover’s staff; walk hence with that,
And manage it against despairing thoughts.”
收听单词发音 |
1
crabbed
|
|
| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
toil
|
|
| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
withered
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
doomed
|
|
| 命定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
paltry
|
|
| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
dungeon
|
|
| n.地牢，土牢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
stunted
|
|
| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
droop
|
|
| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
drooping
|
|
| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
tumult
|
|
| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
lustre
|
|
| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
presentiment
|
|
| n.预感，预觉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
orb
|
|
| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
incentive
|
|
| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
succumbed
|
|
| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
prospects
|
|
| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
deteriorating
|
|
| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
intercourse
|
|
| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
bestow
|
|
| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
bestowed
|
|
| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
nay
|
|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
foresight
|
|
| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
precipitates
|
|
| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的第三人称单数 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
vexing
|
|
| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
perilous
|
|
| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
unnatural
|
|
| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
obstinately
|
|
| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
dilemma
|
|
| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
degradations
|
|
| 堕落( degradation的名词复数 )； 下降； 陵削； 毁坏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
flickered
|
|
| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
waning
|
|
| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
feverish
|
|
| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
slumber
|
|
| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
ordeal
|
|
| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
refulgent
|
|
| adj.辉煌的，灿烂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
firmament
|
|
| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
stature
|
|
| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
hue
|
|
| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
descending
|
|
| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
glistening
|
|
| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
descended
|
|
| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
lustrous
|
|
| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
beckoning
|
|
| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
ascend
|
|
| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
penetrated
|
|
| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
supple
|
|
| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
ascending
|
|
| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
wringing
|
|
| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
onward
|
|
| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
recesses
|
|
| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
vividly
|
|
| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
superstition
|
|
| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
abiding
|
|
| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
utterance
|
|
| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
embolden
|
|
| v.给…壮胆，鼓励 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
scouted
|
|
| 寻找，侦察( scout的过去式和过去分词 )； 物色（优秀运动员、演员、音乐家等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
outrageous
|
|
| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
moody
|
|
| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
boding
|
|
| adj.凶兆的，先兆的n.凶兆，前兆，预感v.预示，预告，预言( bode的现在分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
elastic
|
|
| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
enjoyment
|
|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
creed
|
|
| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
joyously
|
|
| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |