Agnes Grey

Author: Anne Bront?
Translator: Qiuin / Country: United Kingdom
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2000-12-01
Features: Usually, I prefer to visit alone rather than go out with a young lady. The main reason is that they lack refinement and their attitude toward the servants makes me very uncomfortable. They never put themselves in others' shoes, care about others' feelings, or treat the servants as if they were completely different from themselves. They would make very impolite remarks about the food and eating habits of the poor people who were having their meals right in front of them. They would laugh at their simplicity and rustic language. As a result, some of them became too afraid to speak. They would call some dignified old people in front of them "foolish old fools" and "muddled old fools." However, they did not say this with the intention of harming them. I could see that this behavior often made people feel annoyed and angry, but they were afraid of these "beautiful ladies," so they did not express any dissatisfaction. Yet the ladies never noticed this. They thought these villagers were poor and uneducated, and therefore must be foolish and rough. As long as these ladies of high status were willing to lower themselves to talk to them, give them a few shillings, half a crown, or some clothes, they had the right to have fun with them, even to laugh at them. The villagers, on the other hand, should consider them as angels who had descended to earth, who had humbled themselves to give them necessities and make their humble dwellings shine. I was very angry at their foolish amusement and annoying criticism, but this unpleasant feeling quickly disappeared. After laughing enough, they would turn back to talk about their colonel and lieutenant. When they were criticizing these two officers, my anger quickly subsided, and I soon forgot why I was angry, and my mood returned to a more pleasant track.
Thus, we entered the garden and came to the hall. When I went upstairs to my bedroom, I had only one thought in my mind and one sincere wish. I entered my bedroom, closed the door, and knelt down and prayed devoutly in silence: "May your will be done." I tried to say as much as possible, but what followed was undoubtedly, "Lord, you are all-powerful, but may this be your will." Any man or woman would despise me for such a wish—for such a prayer. "But, Lord, you will not despise me!" I said with my mouth, and I thought it with my heart. I believed that I was praying for the happiness of another person as sincerely as I was for myself, no, that it was even my main desire. I may have been deceiving myself, but this thought gave me confidence to pray and confidence that my prayers would not be in vain. As for those primroses, I put two of them in a glass bottle in the room until they completely withered, and the maid threw them away. I pressed the petals of the other primrose into my Bible and have kept them ever since, and I will keep them forever.
The next Sunday was a gloomy day in April, with dark clouds and heavy rain. In the afternoon, except for Rosalind, no one in the Murray family was willing to go to church for worship. She, however, went to the church as usual. She had the carriage prepared and asked me to go with her. I was very happy to do so, because in the church I could avoid being mocked or criticized, and I could see the figures and faces I liked. I thought they were even more lovely than God's beautiful creation. I could listen to the voices I considered more charming than any music without interruption. On the surface, it seemed as if I were communicating with the Holy Spirit, absorbing its pure thoughts and noble aspirations, and in this happiness, there were no distractions. But I was secretly tormented by a sense of guilt, often doubting whether I was deceiving myself and mocking God, because my heart was more devoted to the creation than to the Creator. Sometimes this thought made me very uneasy, but at other times I could comfort myself, feeling that I loved him not for himself but for his virtues. "Whatever is true, honest, lovely, and of good reputation—these things you must think on." We worship God because of his goodness. I have never seen anyone as devoted to God as this faithful servant of his, who radiated so many of God's qualities and spirit. Nothing else could occupy my heart, to make me understand him without admiring him—it would be too dull and numb.
After the service on Monday, Miss Murray left the church. Because it was raining and the carriage had not yet arrived, we had to stand in the porch. I wondered why she had come out so quickly, as neither young Meltham nor Master Green were there. But I soon realized that she was waiting for Mr. Weston to come out. Soon after, Mr. Weston came out. He greeted both of us and was about to leave when Miss Murray detained him. First, she complained about the bad weather, then she asked if she could visit the granddaughter of the old woman in the gatehouse, as the little girl had a fever and wanted to see him. Mr. Weston agreed to go.
When we were sad or troubled, and had long been oppressed by strong emotions that could only be kept hidden in our hearts, we did not seek sympathy from anyone in the world for these feelings, yet we could not and did not wish to extinguish them completely. At such times, it was natural for us to turn to poetry for comfort, and we often found it there. Sometimes in the feelings of others who were in harmony with our own mood, and sometimes in our own attempts to express those thoughts and feelings with verses that might not be pleasing to the ear but were more precise, deeper, and more resonant. At that time, these verses helped to alleviate our suffering or to uplift our spirits, to lighten the burden on our hearts.
In the recent past, while I was homesick and melancholy at Wuthering and Horton, I had twice or thrice sought relief from this source of comfort. Now I turned to this source again, and more eagerly than ever. It seemed that I needed this comfort even more. I still keep these mementos of past sorrows and experiences, like monuments marking special events in the journey of life. Now the footprints are erased, time has passed, things have changed, but this monument still stands, reminding us of the circumstances under which it was erected. To satisfy the reader's curiosity about this mood, I would like to offer a short poem, though these verses may lack charm and strength, they were almost born of extreme sorrow:
Ah, they have taken away—
The sweet hope in my heart;
They have not let me hear—
The sounds I love to hear.
They have not let me see—
The faces I long for;
They have wiped away
All your smiles, and taken
All your tender love from me.
Ah, let them take all that they can take—
But one treasure will always be mine—
A heart that thinks of you,
A heart that is worthy of your love.
Yes, they cannot take my heart.
I can think of him day and night,
And I feel that he is worthy of my thoughts.
No one knows him as I do,
No one cherishes him as I do,
No one loves him as I do—
If such were possible.
But this is my tragedy.
Why do I think of one who does not care for me?
Is it not foolish? Is it not absurd?
Yet, if I feel that my thoughts of him bring me great joy,
If I keep these thoughts in my heart without disturbing others,
What harm is there in that?
I asked myself.
This line of reasoning did not make enough effort to break free from my bonds.
But to say that these thoughts bring joy was only a kind of painful, confusing joy, almost akin to misery.
The harm this feeling caused me, I was not aware of at the time.
A wiser or more experienced person would not have indulged in such thoughts.
But to make my eyes turn away from that pleasant image and force them to gaze only at the dull, gray, and desolate surroundings around me—it was terrible:
Before me lay a path of depression, despair, and loneliness.
So gloomy and despondent—
It was of no use.
I should have taken God as my friend,
And made his will my joy and my work in life.
But my faith was weak, and my passions too strong.
During these gloomy days, I also encountered two other unpleasant things. One seemed trivial, but it made me cry a lot. Snapp, my silent, rough-looking but bright-eyed and kind little companion, the only one who loved me, was taken away. They handed him over to the village rat-catchers, leaving him to their mercy. This man was infamous and treated his dogs with great cruelty. The other was more serious. A letter from home suggested that my father's health was declining. Although there were no ominous signs mentioned in the letter, I was uneasy, depressed, and very worried about some terrible disaster waiting for us. It seemed as if I saw dark clouds gathering and rolling on the mountain tops of my homeland, and I heard the roar of the storm, about to break and take away our dear ones. Halfway up the mountain, we were both silent. As usual, he broke the silence first.
"My home is still empty, Miss Grey," he said with a smile. "I have now met all the ladies in this parish, and several in the town, and many more, I have seen or heard of. But none of them are suitable as my companion. In fact, there is only one person who is suitable, and that is you. I want to know what you think."
"Are you serious, Mr. Weston?" "Serious! How could you think I would joke about this?" He placed his hand on my arm, which was around his, and he must have felt my trembling. But now it no longer mattered. "I don't think I was too hasty," he said gravely. "You must know that I do not like flattery or trivial expressions of affection. I do not even wish to reveal my love. One word or look from me means more than many sweet words and passionate declarations from others." I simply replied that I did not want to leave my mother and could not make a decision without her consent, and so on.
"When you put on your hat, I had already settled everything with Mrs. Grey," he replied. "She said that if I could get your consent, she would also give her consent. I said that if I could really be so happy, I would ask her to live with us, and I think that is what you want. But she refused. She said that now she could afford to hire an assistant. She wanted to continue the school until she had saved enough for a pension to maintain her in a comfortable home. In the meantime, during the holidays, she would alternate between our house and your sister's. As long as you are happy, she would be very satisfied. Now I have removed the objection you raised for the sake of your mother, do you have any other considerations?"
"No, none at all." "So, you love me?" he said, grasping my hand eagerly. "Yes!"—and my story ends here. I wrote this story based on my diary. My diary did not record much more. I could have written for years. But I only want to add a few words. I will never forget those extremely pleasant summer evenings: I always happily recall the steep mountains and cliffs, where we stood on the edge of the cliff, watching the magnificent sunset reflected in the restless ocean below us, so moved that we could hardly speak, our hearts full of gratitude to God, and happiness and love.
A few weeks later, my mother found an assistant, and I became the wife of Edward Weston. I had never found any reason to regret it before, and I am sure I never will. We have gone through many trials, and there will be more in the future. We can bear them well together and do our best to strengthen our own wills and each other's to endure the greatest sorrow of a widow. But if we remember that after death we will meet again in the glorious heaven—the place without sin or sorrow—we can even bear this separation. Now, let us strive to live for the glory of the Lord, who has sprinkled so much happiness on our path. Edward worked hard and made remarkable reforms in the parish, and was respected and beloved by the people of the parish—he deserved this honor. As a human being, he may have flaws (no one is perfect), but as a pastor, husband, and father, I believe he is impeccable. Our children, Edward, Agnes, and little Mary, are doing well. Now their education is mainly my responsibility, and they will not lack any happiness that a mother's care can give. Our modest income is enough to cover our expenses. Because we had developed the habit of saving during harder times and never tried to imitate the lifestyle of our wealthier neighbors, we not only lived comfortably and contentedly but also saved some money each year for our children and used part of it to help those in need.
I think I have said all that I wanted to say.