No life was ever yet a play: I mean, an unbroken sequence of dramatic incidents. Calms will come; unfortunately for the readers, happily for the read. And I remember seeing it objected to novelists, by a young gentleman just putting his foot for the first time into “Criticism,” that the writers aforesaid suppress the small intermediate matters which in real life come by the score between each brilliant event: and so present the ordinary and the extraordinary parts of life in false proportions. Now, if this remark had been offered by way of contrast between events themselves and all mortal attempts to reproduce them upon paper or the stage, it would have been philosophical1; but it was a strange error to denounce the practice as distinctive2 of fiction: for it happens to be the one trait the novelist and dramatist have in common with the evangelist. The Gospels skip fifteen years of the most interesting life Creation has witnessed; they relate Christ’s birth in full, but hurry from His boyhood to the more stirring events of His thirtieth and subsequent years. And all the inspired histories do much the same thing. The truth is, that epics3, dramas, novels, histories, chronicles, reports of trials at law, in a word, all narratives4 true or fictitious5, except those which, true or fictitious, nobody reads, abridge6 the uninteresting facts as Nature never did, and dwell as Nature never did on the interesting ones.
Can nothing, however, be done to restore, in the reader’s judgment7, that just balance of “the sensational” and the “soporific,” which all writers, that have readers, disturb? Nothing, I think, without his own assistance. But surely something with it. And, therefore, I throw myself on the intelligence of my readers; and ask them to realise, that henceforth pages are no strict measure of time, and that to a year big with strange events, on which I have therefore dilated8 in this story, succeeded a year in which few brilliant things happened to the personages of this tale: in short, a year to be skimmed by chronicler or novelist, and yet (mind you) a year of three hundred and sixty-five days six hours, or thereabouts, and one in which the quiet, unobtrusive troubles of our friends’ hearts, especially the female hearts, their doubts, divisions, distresses9, did not remit11 — far from it. Now this year I propose to divide into topics, and go by logical, rather than natural, sequence of events.
THE LOVERS.
Alfred came every day to see Julia, and Mrs. Dodd invariably left the room at his knock.
At last Julia proposed to Alfred not to come to the house for the present; but to accompany her on her rounds as district visitor. To see and soothe12 the bitter calamities13 of the poor had done her own heart good in its worst distress10, and she desired to apply the same medicine to her beloved, who needed it: that was one thing: and then another was, that she found her own anger rising when her mother left the room at that beloved knock: and to be angry with her poor widowed, mother was a sin. “She is as unfortunate as I am happy,” thought Julia; “I have got mine back.”
Alfred assented14 to this arrangement with rather an ill grace. He misunderstood Julia, and thought she was sacrificing him to what he called her mother’s injustice15. This indeed was the interpretation16 any male would have been pretty sure to put on it. His soreness, however, did not go very far; because she was so kind and good to him when they were together. He used to escort her back to the door of 66: and look imploringly18; but she never asked him in. He thought her hard for this. He did not see the tears that flowed for that mute look of his the moment the door was closed; tears she innocently restrained for fear the sight of them should make him as unhappy as his imploring17 look made her. Mauvais calcul! She should have cried right out. When we men are unhappy, we like our sweethearts to be unhappier — that consoles us.
But when this had gone on nearly a month, and no change, Alfred lost patience: so he lingered one day at the door to make a request. He asked Julia to marry him: and so put an end to this state of things.
“Marry you, child?” cried Julia, blushing like a rose with surprise and pleasure. “Oh, for shame!”
After the first thrill, she appealed to his candour whether that would not be miserably19 selfish of her to leave her poor mother in her present distressed20 condition. “Ah, Alfred, so pale, so spiritless, and inconsolable! My poor, poor mother!”
“You will have to decide between us two one day.”
“Heaven forbid!” said Julia, turning pale at the very idea. But he repeated doggedly21 that it must come to that, sooner or later. Then he reminded her of their solemn engagement, and put it to her whether it was a moral proceeding22 in her to go back from her plighted23 troth? What had he done to justify24 her in drawing back from her word? “I admit,” said he, “that I have suffered plenty of wrong for your sake: but what have I done wrong?”
Undeterred by the fear of immorality25, the monotonous26 girl had but one reply to his multiform reasons: “This is no time for me to abandon my mother.”
“Ah, it is her you love: you don’t care for me,” snapped Alfred.
“Don’t I, dear Alfred?” murmured Julia.
“Forgive me! I’m a ruffian, a wretch27.”
“You are my Alfred. But oh, have a little patience, dear.”
“A little patience? I have the patience of Job. But even his went at last.”
[I ought to have said they were in the passage now. The encroaching youth had gained an entrance by agitating28 her so at the door that she had to ask him in to hide her own blushes from the public.] She now gently reminded him how much happier they were than they had been for months. “Dear me,” said she, “I am almost happy: happier than I ought to be; could be quite so, but that I see you discontented.”
“Ah, you have so many about you that you love: I have only you.”
“And that is true, my poor Alfred.”
This softened29 him a little; and then she interwove her fingers together, and so put both palms softly on his shoulder (you never saw a male do that, and never will), and implored31 him to be patient, to be generous. “Oh,” said she, “ if you knew the distress it gives me to refuse to you anything on earth, you would be generous, and not press me when my heart says ‘Yes,’ but my lips must say ‘No.’”
This melted him altogether, and he said he would not torment32 her any more.
But he went away discontented with himself for having yielded: my lord did not call it “yielding,” but “being defeated.” And as he was not only very deep in love, but by nature combative33, he took a lodging34 nearly opposite No. 66, and made hot love to her, as hot as if the attachment35 was just forming. Her mother could not go out but he was at the door directly: she could not go out but he was at her heels. This pleased her at first and thrilled her with the sense of sweet and hot pursuit: but by-and-by, situated36 as she was between him and her mother, it worried her a little at times, and made her nervous. She spoke37 a little sharply to him now and then. And that was new. It came from the nerves, not the heart. At last she advised him to go back to Oxford38. “I shall be the ruin of your mind if we go on like this,” said she sadly.
“What, leave the field to my rivals? No, thank you.”
“What rivals, sir?” asked Julia, drawing up.
“Your mother, your brother, your curates that would come buzzing the moment I left; your sick people, who bask39 on your smiles and your sweet voice till I envy them: Sarah, whom you permit to brush your lovely hair, the piano you play on, the air you deign40 to breathe and brighten, everybody and everything that is near you; they are all my rivals; and shall I resign you to them, and leave myself desolate41? I’m not such a fool.”
She smiled, and could not help feeling it was sweet to be pestered42. So she said with matronly dignity, and the old Julian consistency43, “You are a foolish impetuous boy. You are the plague of my life: and — the sun of my existence.” That passed off charmingly. But presently his evil genius prompted Alfred to endeavour to soften30 Mrs. Dodd by letter, and induce her to consent to his marriage with her daughter. He received her answer at breakfast-time. It was wonderfully polite and cold; Mrs. Dodd feigned44 unmixed surprise at the proposal, and said that insanity45 being unfortunately in her own family, and the suspicion of insanity resting on himself, such a union was not to be thought of; and therefore, notwithstanding her respect for his many good qualities, she must decline with thanks the honour he offered her. She inserted a poisoned sting by way of postscript47. “When you succeed in publicly removing the impression your own relations share with me, and when my husband owes his restoration to you, instead of his destruction, of course you will receive a very different answer to your proposal — should you then think it consistent with your dignity to renew it.”
As hostile testators used to leave the disinherited one shilling, not out of a shilling’s worth of kindly48 feeling, but that he might not be able to say his name was omitted through inadvertency, so Mrs. Dodd inserted this postscript merely to clench49 the nail and tantalise her enemy. It was a masterpiece of feminine spite.
She would have been wonderstruck could she have seen how Alfred received her missive.
To be sure he sat in a cold stupor50 of dejection for a good half hour; but at the end of that time he lifted up his head, and said quietly, “So be it. I’ll get the trial over, and my sanity46 established, as soon as possible: and then I’ll hire a yacht and hunt her husband till I find him.”
Having settled this little plan, he looked out for Julia, whose sympathy he felt in need of after such a stern blow.
She came out much later than usual that day, for to tell the truth, her mother had detained her to show her Alfred’s letter, and her answer.
“Ah, mamma,” said poor Julia, “you don’t love me as you did once. Poor Alfred!”
Mrs. Dodd sighed at this reproach, but said she did not deserve it. No mother in her senses would consent to such a match.
Julia bowed her head submissively and went to her duties. But when Alfred came to her open-mouthed to complain of her mother’s cruelty, she stopped him at once, and asked him how he could go and write that foolish, unreasonable51 letter. Why had he not consulted her first? “You have subjected yourself to a rebuff,” said she angrily, “and one from which I should have saved you. Is it nothing that mamma out of pity to me connives52 at our meeting and spending hours together? Do you think she does no violence to her own wishes here? and is she to meet with no return?”
“What, are you against me too?” said poor Alfred.
“No, it is you who are our enemy with your unreasonable impatience53.”
“I am not so cold-blooded as you are, certainly.”
“Humility and penitence54 would become you better than to retort on me. I love you both, and pray God on my knees to show me how to do my duty to both.”
“That is it; you are not single-hearted like me. You want to please all the world, and reconcile the irreconcilable55. It won’t do: you will have to choose between your mother and me at last.”
“Then of course I shall choose my mother.”
“Why?”
“Because she claims my duty as well as my love; because she is bowed down with sorrow, and needs her daughter just now more than you do; besides, you are my other self, and we must deny ourselves.”
“We have no more right to be unjust to ourselves than to anybody else; injustice is injustice.”
“Alfred, you are a high-minded Heathen, and talk Morality. Morality is a snare56. What I pray to be is a Christian57, as your dear sister was, and to deny myself; and you make it, oh so difficult.”
“So I suppose it will end in turning out your heathen and then taking your curate. Your mother would consent to that directly.”
“Alfred,” said Julia with dignity, “these words are harsh, and — forgive me for saying so — they are coarse. Such words would separate us two, without my mother, if I were to hear many of them; for they take the bloom off affection, and that mutual58 reverence59, without which no gentleman and lady could be blessed in holy wedlock60.”
Alfred was staggered and mortified61 too: they walked on in silence now.
“Alfred,” said Julia at last, “do not think me behind you in affection, but wiser, for once, and our best friend. I do think we had better see less of one another for a time, my poor Alfred.”
“And why for a time? Why not for ever?”
“If your heart draws no distinction, why not indeed?”
“So be it then: for I will be no woman’s slave. There’s my hand, Julia: let us part friends.”
“Thank you for that, dear Alfred: may you find some one who can love you more — than — I do.”
The words choked her. But he was stronger, because he was in a passion. He reproached her bitterly. “If I had been as weak and inconstant as you are, I might have been out of Drayton House long before I did escape. But I was faithful to my one love. I have some right to sing ‘Aileen Aroon,’ you have none. You are an angel of beauty and goodness; you will go to Heaven, and I shall go to the devil now for want of you; but then you have no constancy nor true fidelity62: so that has parted us, and now nothing is left me but to try and hate you.”
He turned furiously on his heel.
“God bless you, go where you will,” faltered63 Julia.
He replied with a fierce ejaculation of despair, and dashed away.
Thus temper and misunderstanding triumphed, after so many strange and bitter trials had failed.
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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epics
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| n.叙事诗( epic的名词复数 )；壮举；惊人之举；史诗般的电影（或书籍） | |
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narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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abridge
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| v.删减，删节，节略，缩短 | |
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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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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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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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remit
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| v.汇款，汇寄；豁免（债务），免除（处罚等） | |
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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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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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agitating
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| 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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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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combative
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| adj.好战的；好斗的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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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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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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clench
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| vt.捏紧（拳头等），咬紧（牙齿等），紧紧握住 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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connives
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| v.密谋 ( connive的第三人称单数 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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