Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖
- Author: Anthony Trollope
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Book online «He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖». Author Anthony Trollope
‘Not to others, but to us it can be so. There shall be no word spoken of
the past.’ Again he shook his head. ‘Will it not be best that there
should be no word spoken?’
‘“Forgiveness may be spoken with the tongue,”’ he said, beginning to
quote from a poem which had formerly been frequent in his hands.
‘Cannot there be real forgiveness between you and me, between husband
and wife who, in truth, love each other? Do you think that I would tell
you of it again?’ He felt that in all that she said there was an
assumption that she had been right, and that he had been wrong. She was
promising to forgive. She was undertaking to forget. She was willing to
take him back to the warmth of her love, and the comfort of her
kindness but was not asking to be taken back. This was what he could
not and would not endure. He had determined that if she behaved well to
him, he would not be harsh to her, and he was struggling to keep up to
his resolve. He would accuse her of nothing if he could help it. But he
could not say a word that would even imply that she need forget that
she should forgive. It was for him to forgive and he was willing to do
it, if she would accept forgiveness: ‘I will never speak a word,
Louis,’ she said, laying her head upon his shoulder.
‘Your heart is still hardened,’ he replied slowly.
‘Hard to you?’
‘And your mind is dark. You do not see what you have done. In our
religion, Emily, forgiveness is sure, not after penitence, but with
repentance.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means this, that though I would welcome you back to my arms with
joy, I cannot do so, till you have confessed your fault.’
‘What fault, Louis? If I have made you unhappy, I do, indeed, grieve
that it has been so.’
‘It is of no use,’ said he. ‘I cannot talk about it. Do you suppose
that it does not tear me to the very soul to think of it?’
‘What is it that you think, Louis?’ As she had been travelling thither,
she had determined that she would say anything that he wished her to
say, make any admission that might satisfy him. That she could be happy
again as other women are happy, she did not expect; but if it could be
conceded between them that bygones should be bygones, she might live
with him and do her duty, and, at least, have her child with her.
Her father had told her that her husband was mad; but she was willing
to put up with his madness on such terms as these. What could her
husband do to her in his madness that he could not do also to the
child? ‘Tell me what you want me to say, and I will say it,’ she said.
‘You have sinned against me,’ he said, raising her head gently from his
shoulder.
‘Never!’ she exclaimed. ‘As God is my judge, I never have!’ As she said
this, she retreated and took the sobbing boy again into her arms.
He was at once placed upon his guard, telling himself that he saw the
necessity of holding by his child. How could he tell? Might there not
be policemen down from Florence, ready round the house, to seize the
boy and carry him away. Though all his remaining life should be a
torment to him, though infinite plagues should be poured upon his head,
though he should die like a dog, alone, unfriended, and in despair,
while he was fighting this battle of his, he would not give way. ‘That
is sufficient,’ he said. ‘Louey must return now to his own chamber.’
‘I may go with him?’
‘No, Emily. You cannot go with him now. I will thank you to release
him, that I may take him.’ She still held the little fellow closely
pressed in her arms. ‘Do not reward me for my courtesy by further
disobedience,’ he said.
‘You will let me come again?’ To this he made no reply. ‘Tell me that I
may come again.’
‘I do not think that I shall remain here long.’
‘And I may not stay now?’
‘That would be impossible. There is no accommodation for you.’
‘I could sleep on the boards beside his cot,’ said Mrs Trevelyan.
‘That is my place,’ he replied. ‘You may know that he is not
disregarded. With my own hands I tend him every morning. I take him out
myself. I feed him myself. He says his prayers to me. He learns from
me, and can say his letters nicely. You need not fear for him. No
mother was ever more tender with her child than I am with him.’ Then he
gently withdrew the boy from her arms, and she let her child go, lest
he should learn to know that there was a quarrel between his father and
his mother. ‘If you will excuse me,’ he said, ‘I will not come down to
you again today. My servant will see you to your carriage.’
So he left her; and she, with an Italian girl at her heels, got into
her vehicle, and was taken back to Siena. There she passed the night
alone at the inn, and on the next morning returned to Florence by the
railway.
‘WILL THEY DESPISE HIM?’
Gradually the news of the intended marriage between Mr Glascock and
Miss Spalding spread itself over Florence, and people talked about it
with that energy which subjects of such moment certainly deserve. That
Caroline Spalding had achieved a very great triumph, was, of course,
the verdict of all men and of all women; and I fear that there was a
corresponding feeling that poor Mr Glascock had been triumphed over,
and, as it were, subjugated. In some respects he had been remiss in his
duties as a bachelor visitor to Florence, as a visitor to Florence who
had manifestly been much in want of a wife. He had not given other
girls a fair chance, but had thrown himself down at the feet of this
American female in the weakest possible manner. And then it got about
the town that he had been refused over and over again by Nora Rowley.
It is too probable that Lady Rowley in her despair and dismay had been
indiscreet, and had told secrets which should never have been mentioned
by her. And the wife of the English minister, who had some grudges of
her own, lifted her eyebrows and shook her head and declared that all
the Glascocks at home would be outraged to the last degree. ‘My dear
Lady Rowley,’ she said, ‘I don’t know whether it won’t become a
question with them whether they should issue a commission de lunatico.’
Lady Rowley did not know what a commission de lunatico meant, but was
quite willing to regard poor Mr Glascock as a lunatic. ‘And there is
poor Lord Peterborough at Naples just at death’s door,’ continued the
British Ministers wife. In this she was perhaps nearly correct; but as
Lord Peterborough had now been in the same condition for many months,
as his mind had altogether gone, and as the doctor declared that he
might live in his present condition for a year, or for years, it could
not fairly be said that Mr Glascock was acting without due filial
feeling in engaging himself to marry a young lady. ‘And she such a
creature!’ said Lady Rowley, with emphasis. This the British Minister’s
wife noticed simply by shaking her head. Caroline Spalding was
undoubtedly a pretty girl; but, as the British Minister’s wife said
afterwards, it was not surprising that poor Lady Rowley should be
nearly out of her mind.
This had occurred a full week after the evening spent at Mr Spalding’s
house; and even yet Lady Rowley had never been put right as to that
mistake of hers about Wallachia Petrie. That other trouble of hers, and
her eldest daughter’s journey to Siena, had prevented them from going
out; and though the matter had often been discussed between Lady Rowley
and Nora, there had not as yet come between them any proper
explanation. Nora would declare that the future bride was very pretty
and very delightful; and Lady Rowley would throw up her hands in
despair and protest that her daughter was insane. ‘Why should he not
marry whom he likes, mamma?’ Nora once said, almost with indignation.
‘Because he will disgrace his family.’
‘I cannot understand what you mean, mamma. They are, at any rate, as
good as we are. Mr Spalding stands quite as high as papa does.’
‘She is an American,’ said Lady Rowley.
‘And her family might say that he is an Englishman,’ said Nora.
‘My dear, if you do not understand the incongruity between an English
peer and a Yankee female, I cannot help you. I suppose it is because
you have been brought up within the limited society of a small colony.
If so, it is not your fault. But I had hoped you had been in Europe
long enough to have learned what was what. Do you think, my dear, that
she will look well when she is presented to her Majesty as Lord
Peterborough’s wife?’
‘Splendid,’ said Nora.‘she has just the brow for a coronet.’
‘Heavens and earth!’ said Lady Rowley, throwing up her hands. ‘And you
believe that he will be proud of her in England?’
‘I am sure he will.’
‘My belief is that he will leave her behind him, or that they will
settle somewhere in the wilds of America out in Mexico, or
Massachusetts, or the Rocky Mountains. I do not think that he will have
the courage to shew her in London.’
The marriage was to take place in the Protestant church at Florence
early in June, and then the bride and bridegroom were to go over the
Alps, and to remain there subject to tidings as to the health of the
old man at Naples. Mr Glascock had thrown up his seat in Parliament,
some month or two ago, knowing that he could not get back to his duties
during the present session, and feeling that he would shortly be called
upon to sit in the other House. He was thus free to use his time and to
fix his days as he pleased; and it was certainly clear to those who
knew him, that he was not ashamed of his American bride. He spent much
of his time at the Spaldings’ house, and was always to be seen with
them in the Casino and at the Opera. Mrs Spalding, the aunt, was, of
course, in great glory. A triumphant, happy, or even simply a splendid
marriage, for the rising girl of a family is a great glory to the
maternal mind. Mrs Spalding could not but be aware that the very air
around her seemed to breathe congratulations into her ears. Her friends
spoke to her, even on indifferent subjects, as though everything was
going well with her, better with her than with anybody else; and there
came upon her in these days a dangerous feeling, that in spite of all
the preachings of the preachers, the next world might perhaps be not
so very much better than this. She was, in fact, the reverse of the
medal of which poor Lady Rowley filled the obverse. And the American
Minister was certainly an inch taller than before, and made longer
speeches, being much more regardless of interruption. Olivia was
delighted
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