-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джордж Элиот
-
- Мидлмарч
-
- Стр. 114/572
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
How
could
there
be
any
commonness
in
a
man
so
well
-
bred
,
so
ambitious
of
social
distinction
,
so
generous
and
unusual
in
his
views
of
social
duty
?
As
easily
as
there
may
be
stupidity
in
a
man
of
genius
if
you
take
him
unawares
on
the
wrong
subject
,
or
as
many
a
man
who
has
the
best
will
to
advance
the
social
millennium
might
be
ill
-
inspired
in
imagining
its
lighter
pleasures
;
unable
to
go
beyond
Offenbach
’
s
music
,
or
the
brilliant
punning
in
the
last
burlesque
.
Lydgate
’
s
spots
of
commonness
lay
in
the
complexion
of
his
prejudices
,
which
,
in
spite
of
noble
intention
and
sympathy
,
were
half
of
them
such
as
are
found
in
ordinary
men
of
the
world
:
that
distinction
of
mind
which
belonged
to
his
intellectual
ardor
,
did
not
penetrate
his
feeling
and
judgment
about
furniture
,
or
women
,
or
the
desirability
of
its
being
known
(
without
his
telling
)
that
he
was
better
born
than
other
country
surgeons
.
He
did
not
mean
to
think
of
furniture
at
present
;
but
whenever
he
did
so
it
was
to
be
feared
that
neither
biology
nor
schemes
of
reform
would
lift
him
above
the
vulgarity
of
feeling
that
there
would
be
an
incompatibility
in
his
furniture
not
being
of
the
best
.
As
to
women
,
he
had
once
already
been
drawn
headlong
by
impetuous
folly
,
which
he
meant
to
be
final
,
since
marriage
at
some
distant
period
would
of
course
not
be
impetuous
.
For
those
who
want
to
be
acquainted
with
Lydgate
it
will
be
good
to
know
what
was
that
case
of
impetuous
folly
,
for
it
may
stand
as
an
example
of
the
fitful
swerving
of
passion
to
which
he
was
prone
,
together
with
the
chivalrous
kindness
which
helped
to
make
him
morally
lovable
.
The
story
can
be
told
without
many
words
.
It
happened
when
he
was
studying
in
Paris
,
and
just
at
the
time
when
,
over
and
above
his
other
work
,
he
was
occupied
with
some
galvanic
experiments
.
One
evening
,
tired
with
his
experimenting
,
and
not
being
able
to
elicit
the
facts
he
needed
,
he
left
his
frogs
and
rabbits
to
some
repose
under
their
trying
and
mysterious
dispensation
of
unexplained
shocks
,
and
went
to
finish
his
evening
at
the
theatre
of
the
Porte
Saint
Martin
,
where
there
was
a
melodrama
which
he
had
already
seen
several
times
;
attracted
,
not
by
the
ingenious
work
of
the
collaborating
authors
,
but
by
an
actress
whose
part
it
was
to
stab
her
lover
,
mistaking
him
for
the
evil
-
designing
duke
of
the
piece
.
Lydgate
was
in
love
with
this
actress
,
as
a
man
is
in
love
with
a
woman
whom
he
never
expects
to
speak
to
.
She
was
a
Provencale
,
with
dark
eyes
,
a
Greek
profile
,
and
rounded
majestic
form
,
having
that
sort
of
beauty
which
carries
a
sweet
matronliness
even
in
youth
,
and
her
voice
was
a
soft
cooing
.
She
had
but
lately
come
to
Paris
,
and
bore
a
virtuous
reputation
,
her
husband
acting
with
her
as
the
unfortunate
lover
.
It
was
her
acting
which
was
"
no
better
than
it
should
be
,
"
but
the
public
was
satisfied
.
Lydgate
’
s
only
relaxation
now
was
to
go
and
look
at
this
woman
,
just
as
he
might
have
thrown
himself
under
the
breath
of
the
sweet
south
on
a
bank
of
violets
for
a
while
,
without
prejudice
to
his
galvanism
,
to
which
he
would
presently
return
.
But
this
evening
the
old
drama
had
a
new
catastrophe
.
At
the
moment
when
the
heroine
was
to
act
the
stabbing
of
her
lover
,
and
he
was
to
fall
gracefully
,
the
wife
veritably
stabbed
her
husband
,
who
fell
as
death
willed
.
A
wild
shriek
pierced
the
house
,
and
the
Provencale
fell
swooning
:
a
shriek
and
a
swoon
were
demanded
by
the
play
,
but
the
swooning
too
was
real
this
time
.
Lydgate
leaped
and
climbed
,
he
hardly
knew
how
,
on
to
the
stage
,
and
was
active
in
help
,
making
the
acquaintance
of
his
heroine
by
finding
a
contusion
on
her
head
and
lifting
her
gently
in
his
arms
.
Paris
rang
with
the
story
of
this
death
:
—
was
it
a
murder
?
Some
of
the
actress
’
s
warmest
admirers
were
inclined
to
believe
in
her
guilt
,
and
liked
her
the
better
for
it
(
such
was
the
taste
of
those
times
)
;
but
Lydgate
was
not
one
of
these
.
He
vehemently
contended
for
her
innocence
,
and
the
remote
impersonal
passion
for
her
beauty
which
he
had
felt
before
,
had
passed
now
into
personal
devotion
,
and
tender
thought
of
her
lot
.
The
notion
of
murder
was
absurd
:
no
motive
was
discoverable
,
the
young
couple
being
understood
to
dote
on
each
other
;
and
it
was
not
unprecedented
that
an
accidental
slip
of
the
foot
should
have
brought
these
grave
consequences
.
The
legal
investigation
ended
in
Madame
Laure
’
s
release
.
Lydgate
by
this
time
had
had
many
interviews
with
her
,
and
found
her
more
and
more
adorable
.
She
talked
little
;
but
that
was
an
additional
charm
.
She
was
melancholy
,
and
seemed
grateful
;
her
presence
was
enough
,
like
that
of
the
evening
light
.
Lydgate
was
madly
anxious
about
her
affection
,
and
jealous
lest
any
other
man
than
himself
should
win
it
and
ask
her
to
marry
him
.
But
instead
of
reopening
her
engagement
at
the
Porte
Saint
Martin
,
where
she
would
have
been
all
the
more
popular
for
the
fatal
episode
,
she
left
Paris
without
warning
,
forsaking
her
little
court
of
admirers
.
Perhaps
no
one
carried
inquiry
far
except
Lydgate
,
who
felt
that
all
science
had
come
to
a
stand
-
still
while
he
imagined
the
unhappy
Laure
,
stricken
by
ever
-
wandering
sorrow
,
herself
wandering
,
and
finding
no
faithful
comforter
.
Hidden
actresses
,
however
,
are
not
so
difficult
to
find
as
some
other
hidden
facts
,
and
it
was
not
long
before
Lydgate
gathered
indications
that
Laure
had
taken
the
route
to
Lyons
.
He
found
her
at
last
acting
with
great
success
at
Avignon
under
the
same
name
,
looking
more
majestic
than
ever
as
a
forsaken
wife
carrying
her
child
in
her
arms
.
He
spoke
to
her
after
the
play
,
was
received
with
the
usual
quietude
which
seemed
to
him
beautiful
as
clear
depths
of
water
,
and
obtained
leave
to
visit
her
the
next
day
;
when
he
was
bent
on
telling
her
that
he
adored
her
,
and
on
asking
her
to
marry
him
.
He
knew
that
this
was
like
the
sudden
impulse
of
a
madman
—
incongruous
even
with
his
habitual
foibles
.
No
matter
!
It
was
the
one
thing
which
he
was
resolved
to
do
.
He
had
two
selves
within
him
apparently
,
and
they
must
learn
to
accommodate
each
other
and
bear
reciprocal
impediments
.
Strange
,
that
some
of
us
,
with
quick
alternate
vision
,
see
beyond
our
infatuations
,
and
even
while
we
rave
on
the
heights
,
behold
the
wide
plain
where
our
persistent
self
pauses
and
awaits
us
.
To
have
approached
Laure
with
any
suit
that
was
not
reverentially
tender
would
have
been
simply
a
contradiction
of
his
whole
feeling
towards
her
.
"
You
have
come
all
the
way
from
Paris
to
find
me
?
"
she
said
to
him
the
next
day
,
sitting
before
him
with
folded
arms
,
and
looking
at
him
with
eyes
that
seemed
to
wonder
as
an
untamed
ruminating
animal
wonders
.
"
Are
all
Englishmen
like
that
?
"
"
I
came
because
I
could
not
live
without
trying
to
see
you
.
You
are
lonely
;
I
love
you
;
I
want
you
to
consent
to
be
my
wife
;
I
will
wait
,
but
I
want
you
to
promise
that
you
will
marry
me
—
no
one
else
.
"
Laure
looked
at
him
in
silence
with
a
melancholy
radiance
from
under
her
grand
eyelids
,
until
he
was
full
of
rapturous
certainty
,
and
knelt
close
to
her
knees
.
