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属类: 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 托马斯-哈代] 阅读:[31847]
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一直到当天晚上家庭祈祷以后,安琪尔才找到机会把一两件心思对他的父亲说了。晚祷的时候,他跪在两个哥哥背后的地毯上,一面研究他们脚上穿的靴子后跟上的小钉子,一面在心里打定了主意。晚祷结束了,两个哥哥跟着母亲走了出去,屋子里只剩下他的父亲和他自己。

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那个青年先是同他的父亲广泛地讨论了如何获得农场主地位的种种计划——要么就留在英格兰,要么就到殖民地去。后来他的父亲告诉他说,由于他没有花钱把安琪尔送到剑桥去接受教育,所以他当时就觉得自己有责任每年储蓄一笔钱,以便将来有一天给他买地或是租地,这样他就不会感到他的父亲对他不公平和薄待他了。

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“就世俗的财富而论,”他的父亲接着说,“几年之内,你肯定就要比你的两个哥哥有钱多了。”

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老克莱尔先生这一方待他既是这样周到,安琪尔就趁机把另一个他更关心的问题提了出来。他对他的父亲说,他已经二十六岁了,将来在他开始农场的事业时,他的脑后需要有一双眼睛,才照顾得了所有的事情——在他照看农场的时候,家里总得有一个人,帮他管理家中的事情。因此,他应不应该结婚呢?

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他的父亲似乎认为他的想法不是没有道理,于是安琪尔才接着把问题提出米——

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“我既然将来要做一个勤劳俭朴的农场主,那你觉得我最好娶一个什么样的姑娘做妻子呢?”

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“一个真正的基督教徒,在你外出的时候,在你回家的时候,她既是你的帮手,又是你的安慰。除此而外,其它方面实在没有多大关系。这样的姑娘是不难找的;说实在的,现在就可以找到,我那个热心的朋友和邻居羌特博士——”

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“但是,这个姑娘首先是不是应该会挤牛奶,会搅黄油,会做美味的奶酪呢?首先是不是应该懂得照顾母鸡和火鸡孵蛋,懂得照顾小鸡,懂得在紧急时候指挥工人种地,懂得给牛羊估价呢?”

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“是的,做一个农场主的妻子应该是这样的;肯定是这样的。能这样最好不过了。”老克莱尔先生显然以前从来没有想到这些问题。“我还要补充一点,”他说,“你要找一个纯洁贤惠的姑娘,既要真正对你有利,又要确实让你的母亲和我感到满意,那么除了梅茜小姐,你就找不出另外一个人来。你从前也曾经对她表示过一点意思的。不错,我这位邻居羌特的女儿,近来也学到了我们这儿附近一些年轻牧师的毛病,像过节日似地拿一些鲜花之类的东西来装饰圣餐桌,也就是祭坛,有一天我听见她把祭坛叫做圣餐桌,还把我吓了一跳呢。不过她的父亲和我一样反对她这种俗套,说这种毛病是可以治好的。我相信这只不过是女孩子的心血来潮罢了,不会长久的。”

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“说得对,说得对;我知道,梅茜小姐是一个品行端庄的虔诚的人。可是,父亲,你有没有想到过,如果一个人和梅茜·羌特小姐一样纯洁贤淑,尽管那位小姐的优点不在宗教方面,但是她能够像一个农场主那样懂得种地,对我来说是不是更加合适呢?”

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他的父亲坚持自己的观点,认为一个农场主的妻子首先得有保罗对待人类的眼光,其次才是种庄稼的本事;安琪尔一时受到感情的驱使,他既要尊重他的父亲的感情,同时又要促成心中的婚姻大事,所以就说了一番貌似有理的话来。他说,命运或者上帝已经给他挑选了一个姑娘,无论从哪方面说,那个姑娘都配得上做一个农业家的伴侣和帮手,也肯定具有端庄稳重的性情。他不知道她信的教是否就是他父亲信的那个合理的低教派;但是她大概会接受低教派的信仰的;她是一个信仰单纯和按时上教堂的人;她心地忠厚,感觉敏悟,头脑聪明,举止也相当高雅,她像祭祀灶神的祭司一样纯洁,容貌也长得异常的美丽。

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“她的出身是不是你愿意娶她的那种家庭,简而言之,她是不是一个小姐?”在他们谈话的时候,他的母亲悄悄地走进了书房,听了他的话大吃一惊,问他。

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“按照普通的说法,她是不能被称为小姐的,”安琪尔急忙说,一点儿也不畏惧。“因为我可以骄傲地说,她是一个乡下小户人家的女儿。但是她在感情和天性方面,你不能不说她是一位小姐。”

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“梅茜·羌特可是出身于一个高贵的家庭啊。”

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“呸——那有什么好处,母亲?”安琪尔急忙说。“我现在不得不过劳苦的生活,将来也不得不过劳苦的生活,做我这种人的妻子家庭再好又有什么用处呢?”

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“梅茜可是一个多才多艺的姑娘。多才多艺是自有魅力的,”他的母亲透过银边眼镜看着他,反驳他说。

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“至于说到外在的才艺,它们对于我将要过的生活又有什么意义呢?——而说到读书,我可以亲自教她呀。你们因为不认识她,不然你们会说,她是一个多么聪明的学生啊。我可以这样比方说,她浑身上下充满了诗意——其实她本身就是诗。在理论上懂得诗的诗人只能把诗写出来,而她却是一首具有生命的诗……而且我敢肯定,她还是一个无可指摘的基督徒;也许她就是你们想宣扬的那一类典型中的一个。”

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“啊,安琪尔,你是在说笑吧!”

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“母亲,你听我说。每个礼拜天的早晨,她可真的都去了教堂,她是一个优秀的基督教徒,我敢肯定,她有了这种品质,你们就会容忍她在社会出身方面的缺陷了,就会认为我要是不娶她,那就是大错而特错了。”他心爱的苔丝身上的正统信仰,那完全是自发产生的,他当时看见苔丝和别的挤奶女工按时去作礼拜时,心里也是瞧不起的,因为在她们本质上是对自然崇拜的信仰里,作礼拜显然就不是诚心诚意的。可是他做梦也没有想到这一点竟会对他大有帮助,成了支持自己的理由,于是对这一点就越说越认真了。

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克莱尔先生和克莱尔太太很有些怀疑他们的儿子声明那个他们不认识的年轻姑娘拥有的资格,他们的儿子自己是不是就有权利要求得到他说的那种资格,他们开始觉得有一个不能忽视的优点,那就是他的见解至少是正确的;他们尤其感到,他们的儿子和那个姑娘的缘分,必定是出于上帝的一种安排;因为克莱尔从来也不会把正统信仰看作他选择配偶的条件的。他们终于说,他最好不要匆忙行事,但是他们也不反对见见她。

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因此,安琪尔现在也就对其它的细节避而不谈了。他总觉得,虽然他的父母心地单纯,有自我牺牲的精神,但是他们作为中产阶级的人,心中不免潜藏着某些偏见,这需要用点儿机智才能克服。虽然在法律上他有自由作主的权利,而且他们将来也可能要远远地离开他们生活,因此媳妇的身分就不会对父母的生活产生什么实际影响,但是为了父母的对自己的呵护,他希望在对自己一生作出最重要的决定时,不要伤害了父母的感情。

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他在详述苔丝生活中的一些偶然事件时,把它们当成了最重要的特点,因此自己也觉得言不由衷。他爱苔丝,完全是为了苔丝自己;为了她的灵魂,为了她的心性,为了她的本质——而不是因为她有奶牛场里的技艺,有读书的才能,更不是因为她有纯洁的正统的宗教信仰。她那种天真纯朴的自然本色,无需习俗的粉饰,就能让他喜欢。他认为家庭幸福所依靠的感情和激情的搏动,教育对它们的影响是微乎其微的。经过许多个世纪以后,道德和知识训练的体系大概也有了改进,就会在一定程度上,也许在相当大的程度上提高人类天性中不自觉的、甚至是无意识的本能。但是就他看来,直到今天,也许可以说文化对于那些被置于它的影响之下的人,才在他们的表皮上产生了一点儿影响。他的这种信念,由于他同妇女接触的经验而得到证实,他同妇女的接触,近来已经从受过教育的中产阶级发展到了农村社会,并从中得出一个真理,一个社会阶层中贤惠聪明的女子和另一个社会阶层中贤惠聪明的女子,跟同一个阶层或阶级中的贤惠与凶恶、聪明与愚笨的女子比起来,她们本质上的差别是多么地小。

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那天早晨是他离家的时候。他的两个哥哥早已经离开牧师住宅,往北徒步旅行去了,旅行完了,就一个回他的学院,另一个回到他的副牧师职位上去。安琪尔本来可以和他们一块儿去旅行,但是他更愿意回泰波塞斯去,好同他心爱的人会面。要是他们三个人一块儿去旅行,他一定会觉得很别扭,因为在三个人中间,虽然他是最有欣赏力的人文主义者,最有理想的宗教家,甚至是三个人中对基督最有研究的学者,但是他总觉得同他们的标准思想已经有了疏远,同他们为他准备的方圆格格不入。因此无论是对费利克斯还是卡斯伯特,他都没有提起过苔丝。

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他的母亲亲自给他做了一些三明治,他的父亲骑上自己的一匹母马,陪着他走了一段路。既然自己的事情已经有了相当不错的进展,他也就心甘情愿地听父亲谈话,而自己一声不吭。他们骑着马一起在林阴路上一颠一颠地走着,他的父亲也就一边向他诉说教区上的困难,说他受到他所爱的同行牧师的冷淡,原因就是他按照加尔文的学说严格解释了《新约》,而他的同行们则认为加尔文学说是有害的。

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“有害的!”老克莱尔先生用温和的鄙夷口气说;他接着又述说了过去的种种经历,用以说明那种思想是荒谬的。他列举了许多他亲自把浪子劝化过来的惊人例子,这些人中不仅有穷人,也有富人和中产阶级的人;同时他也坦率地承认,还有许多浪子没有被他劝化过来。

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在没有被劝化过来的人里面,他提到一个例子。那个人的名字叫德贝维尔,是一个年轻的暴发户,住在特兰里奇,离这儿有四十里远近。

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“在金斯伯尔那些地方,有一户古老的德贝维尔人家,他是不是这户人家里的人?”儿子问。“关于这户衰败了的人家,在它的离奇的历史里,还有一段四马大车的鬼怪传说呢。”

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“啊,不是的。那户真的德贝维尔人家早在六十年前或者八十年前就衰败了,湮灭了——我相信至少是这样的。这一户人家似乎是新的,是冒名顶替的一户人家;为了前面说到的那个骑士家族的荣誉,但愿他们是假的才好。我原来以为你比我还不重视他们呢。”

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“那你是误解我了,父亲;你经常误解我,”安琪尔有点儿不耐烦地说。“在政治上,我是怀疑古老家族的价值的。在他们自己中间,也有一些贤达人士,他们像哈姆雷特说的那样,‘大声反对他们自己的继承权’①;但是古老家族具有抒情性、戏剧性、历史性,倒容易引起我的幽情呢。”

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①大声反对他们自己的继承权(exclaim against their own succession),见莎士比亚的悲剧《哈姆雷特》第二幕第二场。

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这段插话尽管决不是不可理解的插话,但是对老克莱尔先生来说就不好理解了,于是他就继续说开了他刚才叙述的故事;故事里说,那个所谓的老德贝维尔死后,年轻的德贝维尔就放荡起来,做下了许多该受到最严厉惩罚的风流勾当,他还有一个瞎眼的母亲,他本应该从她的情形中知道警戒的。有一次克莱尔先生到那个地方去布道,听说了德贝维尔的行径,他就借机把这个人灵魂状况方面的罪行大胆地讲了一番。虽然他是一个外来牧师,占据的是别人的讲坛,但是他还是觉得他有责任劝导劝导他,于是他就引用圣徒路加的话作了自己布道的题目:“无知的人呐,今夜必要你的灵魂!”②这个青年痛恨他单刀直入的批评,后来他们相遇了,就激烈地争辩起来,并不顾忌他是一个头发灰白的老人,当众把克莱尔先生侮辱了一番。

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②见《新约全书》“路加福音”第十二章第十二节。

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安琪尔听了,难过得脸都红了。

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“亲爱的父亲,”他伤心地说,“希望你以后不要去招惹这种流氓,不要去自寻不必要的痛苦。”

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“痛苦?”他的父亲问,在他满是皱纹的脸上,闪耀着自我克制的热情。“我就是因为他的痛苦才感到痛苦的,可怜的愚蠢的青年!你以为他骂了我,甚至于打了我,就会使我感到痛苦吗?‘被人咒骂,我们就祝福;被人逼迫,我们就忍受。被人诽谤,我们就劝善;直到如今,人还把我们看作世界上的污秽,万物中的渣滓。’①这些对哥林多人说的古老而高贵的格言,现在也还是极其正确呢。”

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①见《新约全书》“哥林多前书”第四章第十二节。

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“他没有打你吧,父亲?他没有动手吧?”

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“没有,他没有动手。不过我倒叫疯狂的醉汉打过。”

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“有十几次呢,我的孩子。后来怎样了?我挨了打,可到底把他们从杀害他们自己骨肉的犯罪中拯救出来了;从此以后,他们一直感谢我,赞美上帝。”

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“但愿这个年轻人也能那样!”安琪尔热烈地说。“不过我从你说的话看来,恐怕不能把他劝化过来。”

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“不管怎样,我们还是希望能把他感化过来,”克莱尔先生说。“我不断地为他祈祷,虽然在这一辈子里,我们也许再也见不着面了。不过,说不定有一天,我对他说的这许多话,也许会有一句像一粒种子一样,在他的心里发芽生长。”

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直到现在,克莱尔的父亲还是如同往常,像小孩子一样对什么事情都充满希望;虽然年轻的儿子不能接受那套狭隘的教条,但是他却尊敬父亲身体力行的精神,不能不承认他的父亲是一个虔诚的英雄。也许他现在比过去更加尊敬他父亲身体力行的精神了,因为他父亲在了解他同苔丝的婚事的时候,从来也没有想到要问她是富有呢还是贫穷。安琪尔正是同样拥有了这种超凡脱俗的精神,才走上了要当一个农场主的人生道路,而他的两个哥哥,大概也是因为这一点,才拥有了一个穷牧师的职位。但是安琪尔对他父亲的钦佩一点儿也没有减少。说实在的,尽管安琪尔信仰异端邪说,但是他常常觉得在做人方面,他比两个哥哥更接近父亲。

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Clare, restless, went out into the dusk when evening drew on, she who had won him having retired to her chamber.

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The night was as sultry as the day. There was no coolness after dark unless on the grass. Roads, garden-paths, the house-fronts, the barton-walls were warm as hearths, and reflected the noontide temperature into the noctambulist’s face.

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He sat on the east gate of the dairy-yard, and knew not what to think of himself. Feeling had indeed smothered judgment that day.

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Since the sudden embrace, three hours before, the twain had kept apart. She seemed stilled, almost alarmed, at what had occurred, while the novelty, unpremeditation, mastery of circumstance disquieted him - palpitating, contemplative being that he was. He could hardly realize their true relations to each other as yet, and what their mutual bearing should be before third parties thenceforward.

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Angel had come as pupil to this dairy in the idea that his temporary existence here was to be the merest episode in his life, soon passed through and early forgotten; he had come as to a place from which as from a screened alcove he could calmly view the absorbing world without, and, apostrophizing it with Walt Whitman--

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Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, How curious you are to me!--

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resolve upon a plan for plunging into that world anew. But, behold, the absorbing scene had been imported hither. What had been the engrossing world had dissolved into an uninteresting outer dumb-show; while here, in this apparently dim and un-impassioned place, novelty had volcanically started up, as it had never, for him, started up elsewhere.

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Every window of the house being open Clare could hear across the yard each trivial sound of the retiring household. That dairy-house, so humble, so insignificant, so purely to him a place of constrained sojourn that he had never hitherto deemed it of sufficient importance to be reconnoitred as an object of any quality whatever in the landscape; what was it now? The aged and lichened brick gables breathed forth `Stay!’ The windows smiled, the door coaxed and beckoned, the creeper blushed confederacy. A personality within it was so far-reaching in her influence as to spread into and make the bricks, mortar, and whole overhanging sky throb with a burning sensibility. Whose was this mighty personality? A milkmaid’s.

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It was amazing, indeed, to find how great a matter the life of the obscure dairy had become to him. And though new love was to be held partly responsible for this it was not solely so. Many besides Angel have learnt that the magnitude of lives is not as to their external displacements, but as to their subjective experiences. The impressionable peasant leads a larger, fuller, more dramatic life than the pachydermatous king. Looking at it thus he found that life was to be seen of the same magnitude here as elsewhere.

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Despite his heterodoxy, faults, and weaknesses, Clare was a man with a conscience. Tess was no insignificant creature to toy with and dismiss; but a woman living her precious life - a life which, to herself who endured or enjoyed it, possessed as great a dimension as the life of the mightiest to himself. Upon her sensations the whole world depended to Tess; through her existence all her fellow-creatures existed, to her. The universe itself only came into being for Tess on the particular day in the particular year in which she was born.

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This consciousness upon which he had intruded was the single opportunity of existence ever vouchsafed to Tess by an unsympathetic First Cause - her all; her every and only chance. How then should he look upon her as of less consequence than himself; as a pretty trifle to caress and grow weary of; and not deal in the greatest seriousness with the affection which he knew that he had awakened in her - so fervid and so impressionable as she was under her reserve; in order that it might not agonize and wreck her?

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To encounter her daily in the accustomed manner would be to develop what had begun. Living in such close relations, to meet meant to fall into endearment; flesh and blood could not resist it; and, having arrived at no conclusion as to the issue of such a tendency, he decided to hold aloof for the present from occupations in which they would be mutually engaged. As yet the harm done was small.

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But it was not easy to carry out the resolution never to approach her. He was driven towards her by every heave of his pulse.

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He thought he would go and see his friends. It might be possible to sound them upon this. In less than five months his term here would have ended, and after a few additional months spent upon other farms he would be fully equipped in agricultural knowledge, and in a position to start on his own account. Would not a farmer want a wife, and should a farmer’s wife be a drawing-room wax-figure, or a woman who understood farming? Notwithstanding the pleasing answer returned to him by the silence he resolved to go his journey.

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One morning when they sat down to breakfast at Talbothays Dairy some maid observed that she had not seen anything of Mr Clare that day.

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`O no,’ said Dairyman Crick. `Mr Clare has gone hwome to Emminster to spend a few days wi’ his kinsfolk.’

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For four impassioned ones around that table the sunshine of the morning went out at a stroke, and the birds muffled their song. But neither girl by word or gesture revealed her blankness.

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`He’s getting on towards the end of his time wi’ me,’ added the dairyman, with a phlegm which unconsciously was brutal; `and so I suppose he is beginning to see about his plans elsewhere.’

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`How much longer is he to bide here?’ asked Izz Huett, the only one of the gloom-stricken bevy who could trust her voice with the question.

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The others waited for the dairyman’s answer as if their lives hung upon it; Retty, with parted lips, gazing on the table-cloth, Marian with heat added to her redness, Tess throbbing and looking out at the meads.

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`Well, I can’t mind the exact day without looking at my memorandum-book,’ replied Crick, with the same intolerable unconcern. `And even that may be altered a bit. He’ll bide to get a little practice in the calving out at the straw-yard, for certain. He’ll hang on till the end of the year I should say.’

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Four months or so of torturing ecstasy in his society - of `pleasure girdled about with pain’. After that the blackness of unutterable night.

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At this moment of the morning Angel Clare was riding along a narrow lane ten miles distant from the breakfasters, in the direction of his father’s vicarage at Emminster, carrying, as well as he could, a little basket which contained some black-puddings and a bottle of mead, sent by Mrs Crick, with her kind respects, to his parents. The white lane stretched before him, and his eyes were upon it; but they were staring into next year, and not at the lane. He loved her; ought he to marry her? Dared he to marry her? What would his mother and his brothers say? What would he himself say a couple of years after the event? That would depend upon whether the germs of staunch comradeship underlay the temporary emotion, or whether it were a sensuous joy in her form only, with no substratum of everlastingness.

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His father’s hill-surrounded little town, the Tudor church-tower of red stone, the clump of trees near the vicarage, came at last into view beneath him, and he rode down towards the well-known gate. Casting a glance in the direction of the church before entering his home, he beheld standing by the vestry-door a group of girls, of ages between twelve and sixteen, apparently awaiting the arrival of some other one, who in a moment became visible; a figure somewhat older than the school-girls, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and highly-starched cambric morning-gown, with a couple of books in her hand.

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Clare knew her well. He could not be sure that she observed him; he hoped she did not, so as to render it unnecessary that he should go and speak to her, blameless creature that she was. An overpowering reluctance to greet her made him decide that she had not seen him. The young lady was Miss Mercy Chant, the only daughter of his father’s neighbour and friend, whom it was his parents quiet hope that he might wed some day. She was great at Antinomianism and Bible-classes, and was plainly going to hold a class now. Clare’s mind flew to the impassioned, summer steeped heathens in the Var Vale, their rosy faces court-patched with cow-droppings; and to one the most impassioned of them all.

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It was on the impulse of the moment that he had resolved to trot over to Emminster, and hence had not written to apprise his mother and father, aiming, however, to arrive about the breakfast hour, before they should have gone out to their parish duties. He was a little late, and they had already sat down to the morning meal. The group at table jumped up to welcome him as soon as be entered. They were his father and mother, his brother the Reverend Felix - curate at a town in the adjoining county, home for the inside of a fortnight - and his other brother, the Reverend Cuthbert, the classical scholar, and Fellow and Dean of his College, down from Cambridge for the long vacation. His mother appeared in a cap and silver spectacles, and his father looked what in fact he was - an earnest, God-fearing man, somewhat gaunt, in years about sixty-five, his pale face lined with thought and purpose. Over their heads hung the picture of Angel’s sister, the eldest of the family, sixteen years his senior, who had married a missionary and gone out to Africa.

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Old Mr Clare was a clergyman of a type which, within the last twenty years, has wellnigh dropped out of contemporary life. A spiritual descendant in the direct line from Wycliff, Huss, Luther, Calvin; an evangelical of the Evangelicals, a Conversionist, a man of Apostolic simplicity in life and thought, he had in his raw youth made up his mind once for all on the deeper questions of existence, and admitted no further reasoning on them thenceforward. He was regarded even by those of his own date and school of thinking as extreme; while, on the other hand, those totally opposed to him were unwillingly won to admiration for his thoroughness, and for the remarkable power he showed in dismissing all question as to principles in his energy for applying them. He loved Paul of Tarsus, liked St John, hated St James as much as he dared, and regarded with mixed feelings Timothy, Titus, and Philemon. The New Testament was less a Christiad than a Pauliad to his intelligence - less an argument than an intoxication. His creed of determinism was such that it almost amounted to a vice, and quite amounted, on its negative side, to a renunciative philosophy which had cousinship with that of Schopenhauer and Leopardi. He despised the Canons and Rubric, swore by the Articles, and deemed himself consistent through the whole category which in a way he might have been. One thing he certainly was - sincere.

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To the aesthetic, sensuous, pagan pleasure in natural life and lush womanhood which his son Angel had lately been experiencing in Var Vale, his temper would have been antipathetic in a high degree, had he either by inquiry or imagination been able to apprehend it. Once upon a time Angel had been so unlucky as to say to his father, in a moment of irritation, that it might have resulted far better for mankind if Greece had been the source of the religion of modern civilization, and not Palestine; and his father’s grief was of that blank description which could not realize that there might lurk a thousandth part of a truth, much less a half truth or a whole truth, in such a proposition. He had simply preached austerely at Angel for some time after. But the kindness of his heart was such that he never resented anything for long, and welcomed his son to-day with a smile which was as candidly sweet as a child’s.

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Angel sat down, and the place felt like home; yet he did not so much as formerly feel himself one of the family gathered there. Every time that he returned hither he was conscious of this divergence, and since he had last shared in the Vicarage life it had grown even more distinctly foreign to his own than usual. Its transcendental aspirations - still unconsciously based on the geocentric view of things, a zenithal paradise, a nadiral hell - were as foreign to his own as if they had been the dreams of people on another planet. Latterly he had seen only Life, felt only the great passionate pulse of existence, unwarped, uncontorted, untrammelled by those creeds which futilely attempt to check what wisdom would be content to regulate.

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On their part they saw a great difference in him, a growing divergence from the Angel Clare of former times. It was chiefly a difference in his manner that they noticed just now, particularly bis brothers. He was getting to behave like a farmer; he flung his legs about; the muscles of his face had grown more expressive; his eyes looked as much information as his tongue spoke, and more. The manner of the scholar had nearly disappeared; still more the manner of the drawing-room young man. A prig would have said that he had lost culture, and a prude that he had become coarse. Such was the contagion of domiciliary fellowship with the Talbothays nymphs and swains.

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After breakfast he walked with his two brothers, non-evangelical, well-educated, hall-marked young men, correct to their remotest fibre; such unimpeachable models as are turned out yearly by the lathe of a systematic tuition. They were both somewhat shortsighted, and when it was the custom to wear a single eyeglass and string they wore a single eyeglass and string; when it was the custom to wear a double glass they wore a double glass; when it was the custom to wear spectacles they wore spectacles straightway, all without reference to the particular variety of defect in their own vision. When Wordsworth was enthroned they carried pocket copies; and when Shelley was belittled they allowed him to grow dusty on their shelves. When Correggio’s Holy Families were admired, they admired Correggio’s Holy Families; when he was decried in favour of Velasquez, they sedulously followed suit without any personal objection.

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If these two noticed Angel’s growing social ineptness, he noticed their growing mental limitations. Felix seemed to him all Church; Cuthbert all College. His Diocesan Synod and Visitations were the main-springs of the world to the one; Cambridge to the other. Each brother candidly recognized that there were a few unimportant scores of millions of outsiders in civilized society, persons who were neither University men nor churchmen; but they were to be tolerated rather than reckoned with and respected.

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They were both dutiful and attentive sons, and were regular in their visits to their parents. Felix, though an offshoot from a far more recent point in the devolution of theology than his father, was less self-sacrificing and disinterested. More tolerant than his father of a contradictory opinion, in its aspect as a danger to its holder, he was less ready than his father to pardon it as a slight to his own teaching. Cuthbert was, upon the whole, the more liberal-minded, though, with greater subtlety, he had not so much heart.

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As they walked along the hillside Angel’s former feeling revived in him - that whatever their advantages by comparison with himself, neither saw or set forth life as it really was lived. Perhaps, as with many men, their opportunities of observation were not so good as their opportunities of expression. Neither had an adequate conception of the complicated forces at work outside the smooth and gentle current in which they and their associates floated. Neither saw the difference between local truth and universal truth; that what the inner world said in their clerical and academic hearing was quite a different thing from what the outer world was thinking.

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`I suppose it is farming or nothing for you now, my dear fellow,’ Felix was saying, among other things, to his youngest brother, as he looked through his spectacles at the distant fields with sad austerity. `And, therefore, we must make the best of it. But I do entreat you to endeavour to keep as much as possible in touch with moral ideals. Farming, of course, means roughing it externally; but high thinking may go with plain living, nevertheless.’

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`Of course it may,’ said Angel. `Was it not proved nineteen hundred years ago - if I may trespass upon your domain a little? Why should you think, Felix, that I am likely to drop my high thinking and my moral ideals?’

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`Well, I fancied, from the tone of your letters and our conversation - It may be fancy only - that you were somehow losing intellectual grasp. Hasn’t it struck you, Cuthbert?’

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`Now, Felix,’ said Angel drily, `we are very good friends, you know; each of us treading our allotted circles; but if it comes to intellectual grasp, I think you, as a contented dogmatist, had better leave mine alone, and inquire what has become of yours.’

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They returned down the hill to dinner, which was fixed at any time at which their father’s and mother’s morning work in the parish usually concluded. Convenience as regarded afternoon callers was the last thing to enter into the consideration of unselfish Mr and Mrs Clare; though the three sons were sufficiently in unison on this matter to wish that their parents would conform a little to modern notions.

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The walk had made them hungry, Angel in particular, who was now an outdoor man, accustomed to the profuse dapes inemptae of the dairyman’s somewhat coarsely-laden table. But neither of the old people had arrived, and it was not till the sons were almost tired of waiting that their parents entered. The self-denying pair had been occupied in coaxing the appetites of some of their sick parishioners, whom they, somewhat inconsistently, tried to keep imprisoned in the flesh, their own appetites being quite forgotten.

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`I found the mead so extremely alcoholic,’ continued his mother, `that it was quite unfit for use as a beverage, but as valuable as rum or brandy in an emergency; so I have put it in my medicine-closet.’

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`We never drink spirits at this table, on principle,’ added his father.

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