the professor(教授)-第81章
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and imaginative writers。 Byron excited her； Scott she loved；
Wordsworth only she puzzled at； wondered over； and hesitated to
pronounce an opinion upon。
But whether she read to me； or talked with me； whether she
teased me in French； or entreated me in English； whether she
jested with wit； or inquired with deference； narrated with interest；
or listened with attention； whether she smiled at me or on me；
always at nine o’clock I was left abandoned。 She would extricate
herself from my arms； quit my side； take her lamp； and be gone。
Her mission was upstairs； I have followed her sometimes and
watched her。 First she opened the door of the dortoir （the pupils’
chamber）； noiselessly she glided up the long room between the
two rows of white beds； surveyed all the sleepers； if any were
wakeful； especially if any were sad； spoke to them and soothed
them； stood some minutes to ascertain that all was safe and
tranquil； trimmed the watch…light which burned in the apartment
all night； then withdrew； closing the door behind her without
sound。 Thence she glided to our own chamber； it had a little
cabinet within； this she sought； there； too； appeared a bed； but
one； and that a very small one； her face （the night I followed and
observed her） changed as she approached this tiny couch； from
grave it warmed to earnest； she shaded with one hand the lamp
she held in the other； she bent above the pillow and hung over a
child asleep； its slumber （that evening at least； and usually； I
believe） was sound and calm； no tear wet its dark eyelashes； no
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fever heated its round cheek； no ill dream discomposed its
budding features。 Frances gazed； she did not smile； and yet the
deepest delight filled； flushed her face； feeling pleasurable；
powerful； worked in her whole frame； which still was motionless。 I
saw； indeed； her heart heave； her lips were a little apart； her
breathing grew somewhat hurried； the child smiled； then at last
the mother smiled too； and said in low soliloquy； “God bless my
little son！” She stooped closer over him； breathed the softest of
kisses on his brow； covered his minute hand with hers； and at last
started up and came away。 I regained the parlour before her。
Entering it two minutes later she said quietly as she put down her
extinguished lamp—
“Victor rests well： he smiled in his sleep； he has your smile；
monsieur。”
The said Victor was of course her own boy； born in the third
year of our marriage： his Christian name had been given him in
honour of M。 Vandenhuten； who continued always our trusty and
well…beloved friend。
Frances was then a good and dear wife to me； because I was to
her a good； just； and faithful husband。 What she would have been
had she married a harsh； envious； careless man—a profligate； a
prodigal； a drunkard； or a tyrant—is another question； and one
which I once propounded to her。 Her answer； given after some
reflection； was—
“I should have tried to endure the evil or cure it for awhile； and
when I found it intolerable and incurable； I should have left my
torturer suddenly and silently。”
“And if law or might had forced you back again？”
“What； to a drunkard； a profligate； a selfish spendthrift； an
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unjust fool？”
“Yes。”
“I would have gone back； again assured myself whether or not
his vice and my misery were capable of remedy； and if not； have
left him again。”
“And if again forced to return； and compelled to abide？”
“I don’t know；” she said； hastily。 “Why do you ask me；
monsieur？”
I would have an answer； because I saw a strange kind of spirit
in her eye； whose voice I determined to waken。
“Monsieur； if a wife’s nature loathes that of the man she is
wedded to； marriage must be slavery。 Against slavery all right
thinkers revolt； and though torture be the price of resistance；
torture must be dared： though the only road to freedom lie
through the gates of death； those gates must be passed； for
freedom is indispensable。 Then； monsieur； I would resist as far as
my strength permitted； when that strength failed I should be sure
of a refuge。 Death would certainly screen me both from bad laws
and their consequences。”
“Voluntary death； Frances？”
“No； monsieur。 I’d have courage to live out every throe of
anguish fate assigned me； and principle to contend for justice and
liberty to the last。”
“I see you would have made no patient Grizzle。 And now；
supposing fate had merely assigned you the lot of an old maid；
what then？ How would you have liked celibacy？”
“Not much； certainly。 An old maid’s life must doubtless be void
and vapid—her heart strained and empty。 Had I been an old maid
I should have spent existence in efforts to fill the void and ease the
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aching。 I should have probably failed； and died weary and
disappointed； despised and of no account； like other single women。
But I’m not an old maid；” she added quickly。 “I should have been；
though； but for my master。 I should never have suited any man but
Professor Crimsworth—no other gentleman； French； English； or
Belgian； would have thought me amiable or handsome； and I
doubt whether I should have cared for the approbation of many
others； if I could have obtained it。 Now； I have been Professor
Crimsworth’s wife eight years； and what is he in my eyes？ Is he
honourable； beloved—…？” She stopped； her voice was cut off； her
eyes suddenly suffused。 She and I were standing side by side； she
threw her arms round me； and strained me to her heart with
passionate earnestness： the energy of her whole being glowed in
her dark and then dilated eye； and crimsoned her animated cheek；
her look and movement were like inspiration； in one there was
such a flash； in the other such a power。 Half an hour afterwards；
when she had become calm； I asked where all that wild vigour was
gone which had transformed her ere…while and made her glance
so thrilling and ardent—her action so rapid and strong。 She
looked down； smiling softly and passively：—
“I cannot tell where it is gone； monsieur；” said she； “but I know
that；
