第288页
《简·爱(英文版)》章节:第288页,宠文网网友提供全文无弹窗免费在线阅读。!
clergyman's good birth, old name, and sacred profession as
sufficient compensation for the want of fortune.
It was the 5th of November, and a holiday. My little servant, after
helping me to clean my house, was gone, well satisfied with the fee of
a penny for her aid. All about me was spotless and bright- scoured
floor, polished grate, and well-rubbed chairs. I had also made
myself neat, and had now the afternoon before me to spend as I would.
The translation of a few pages of German occupied an hour; then I
got my palette and pencils, and fell to the more soothing, because
easier occupation, of completing Rosamond Oliver's miniature. The head
was finished already: there was but the background to tint and the
drapery to shade off; a touch of carmine, too, to add to the ripe
lips- a soft curl here and there to the tresses- a deeper tinge to the
shadow of the lash under the azured eyelid. I was absorbed in the
execution of these nice details, when, after one rapid tap, my door
unclosed, admitting St. John Rivers.
'I am come to see how you are spending your holiday,' he said.
'Not, I hope, in thought? No, that is well: while you draw you will
not feel lonely. You see, I mistrust you still, though you have
borne up wonderfully so far. I have brought you a book for evening
solace,' and he laid on the table a new publication- a poem: one of
those genuine productions so often vouchsafed to the fortunate
public of those days- the golden age of modern literature. Alas! the
readers of our era are less favoured. But courage! I will not pause
either to accuse or repine. I know poetry is not dead, nor genius
lost; nor has Mammon gained power over either, to bind or slay: they
will both assert their existence, their presence, their liberty and
strength again one day. Powerful angels, safe in heaven! they smile
when sordid souls triumph, and feeble ones weep over their
destruction. Poetry destroyed? Genius banished? No! Mediocrity, no: do
not let envy prompt you to the thought. No; they not only live, but
reign and redeem: and without their divine influence spread
everywhere, you would be in hell- the hell of your own meanness.
While I was eagerly glancing at the bright pages of Marmion (for
Marmion it was), St. John stooped to examine my drawing. His tall
figure sprang erect again with a start: he said nothing. I looked up
at him: he shunned my eye. I knew his thoughts well, and could read
his heart plainly; at the moment I felt calmer and cooler than he: I
had then temporarily the advantage of him, and I conceived an
inclination to do him some good, if I could.
'With all his firmness and self-control,' thought I, 'he tasks
himself too far: locks every feeling and pang within- expresses,
confesses, imparts nothing. I am sure it would benefit him to talk a
little about this sweet Rosamond, whom he thinks he ought not to
marry: I will make him talk.'
I said first, 'Take a chair, Mr. Rivers.' But he answered, as he