Мидлмарч

Chapter 21

           Thereflectionofthatsmilecouldnotbuthavealittlemerrimentinittoo,evenunderdarkeyelashesstillmoist,asDorotheasaidinquiringly,"Somethingamusesyou?"

           "Yes,"saidWill,quickinfindingresources."IamthinkingofthesortoffigureIcutthefirsttimeIsawyou,whenyouannihilatedmypoorsketchwithyourcriticism."

           "Mycriticism?"saidDorothea,wonderingstillmore."Surelynot.Ialwaysfeelparticularlyignorantaboutpainting."

           "Isuspectedyouofknowingsomuch,thatyouknewhowtosayjustwhatwasmostcutting.Yousaid—Idaresayyoudon’trememberitasIdo—thattherelationofmysketchtonaturewasquitehiddenfromyou.Atleast,youimpliedthat."Willcouldlaughnowaswellassmile.

           "Thatwasreallymyignorance,"saidDorothea,admiring

           Will’sgood-humor."ImusthavesaidsoonlybecauseInevercouldseeanybeautyinthepictureswhichmyuncletoldmealljudgesthoughtveryfine.AndIhavegoneaboutwithjustthesameignoranceinRome.TherearecomparativelyfewpaintingsthatIcanreallyenjoy.AtfirstwhenIenteraroomwherethewallsarecoveredwithfrescos,orwithrarepictures,Ifeelakindofawe—likeachildpresentatgreatceremonieswheretherearegrandrobesandprocessions;Ifeelmyselfinthepresenceofsomehigherlifethanmyown.ButwhenIbegintoexaminethepicturesonebyonthelifegoesoutofthem,orelseissomethingviolentandstrangetome.

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