Anthony Trollope · 890 pages
Rating: (4.5K votes)
“A man who desires to soften another man's heart, should always abuse himself. In softening a woman's heart, he should abuse her.”
“There are some people, if you can only get to learn the length of their feet, you can always fit them with shoes afterwards.”
“Mrs Draper took this as an order for her departure, and crept silently out of the room, closing the door behind her with the long protracted elaborate click which is always produced by an attempt at silence on such occasions.”
“Shall a man have nothing of his own; -- no sorrow in his heart, no care in his family, no thought in his breast so private and special to him, but that, if he happen to be a clergyman, the bishop may touch it with his thumb?'
I am not the bishop's thumb,' said Mr. Thumble”
“No one ever on seeing Mr Crawley took him to be a happy man, or a weak man, or an ignorant man, or a wise man.”
“She was an old woman who thought all evil of those she did not know, and all good of those whom she did know....”
“He, as he told his tale, did not look her in the face, but sat with his eyes fixed upon her muff.”
“But yet his thoughts were very tender to her. Nothing reopens the springs of love so fully as absence, and no absence so thoroughly as that which must needs be endless. We want what we have not; and especially that which we can never have.”
“As for your sister, don't talk to me about her. I don't care two straws about your sister. You must excuse me, Major Grantly, but Lady Hartletop is really too big for my powers of vision.”
“It would be wrong to say that love produces quarrels; but love does produce those intimate relations of which quarrelling is too often one of the consequences,—one of the consequences which frequently seem to be so natural, and sometimes seem to be unavoidable. One brother rebukes the other,—and what brothers ever lived together between whom there was no such rebuking?—then some warm word is misunderstood and hotter words follow and there is a quarrel. The husband tyrannizes, knowing that it is his duty to direct, and the wife disobeys, or “only partially obeys, thinking that a little independence will become her,—and so there is a quarrel. The father, anxious only for his son's good, looks into that son's future with other eyes than those of his son himself,—and so there is a quarrel. They come very easily, these quarrels, but the quittance from them is sometimes terribly difficult. Much of thought is necessary before the angry man can remember that he too in part may have been wrong; and any attempt at such thinking is almost beyond the power of him who is carefully nursing his wrath, lest it cool! But the nursing of such quarrelling kills all happiness. The very man who is nursing his wrath lest it “cool,—his wrath against one whom he loves perhaps the best of all whom it has been given him to love,—is himself wretched as long as it lasts. His anger poisons every pleasure of his life. He is sullen at his meals, and cannot understand his book as he turns its pages. His work, let it be what it may, is ill done. He is full of his quarrel,—nursing it. He is telling himself how much he has loved that wicked one, how many have been his sacrifices for that wicked one, and that now that wicked one is repaying him simply with wickedness! And yet the wicked one is at that very moment dearer to him than ever. If that wicked one could only be forgiven how sweet would the world be again! And yet he nurses his wrath.”
“Being or nothing, that is the question. Ascending, descending, coming, going, a man does so much that in the end he disappears.”
“Funny sky,' he said, squinting up at the thick-bellied white clouds and the sun shining so hot on them but not breaking through.
'It feels as if there should be a storm,' I said 'but it was like this at haymaking and the weather never properly broke then.'
'If I was at sea I should run for a port,' Ralph said. He was looking towards the horizon where there was a yellow tinge to the sky over the top of the downs.”
“Are you sure you won’t be too bored here, waiting for us to come back? We don’t know how long our time with the Pythia will last; I hope you’ll find something to do.”
“Of course I will,” I told him. “I’ll be exploring Delphi.”
“No you won’t,” my brothers responded in perfect unison. Then they took turns telling me exactly why I couldn’t do what I wanted.
“You wouldn’t be safe,” Castor said.
“You’d get lost if you went wandering around the city on your own,” Polydeuces added.
“It’s too big.”
“Too noisy.”
“Too confusing.”
“Too busy.”
“You could run into the wrong sort of people.”
“Dangerous types.”
“But sneaky enough so you couldn’t tell they’re dangerous until it’s too late.”
“We’re responsible for your safety.”
“We have to know where you are at all times.”
“It’s not that we don’t trust you, Helen.”
“It’s them.”
“It’s for your own good.”
I flopped down on my bed. “Fine. Go. I’ll stay here,” I told the ceiling.
Castor and Polydeuces each grabbed one of my wrists and pulled me back to my feet. “I don’t think so,” Castor said, chuckling. “You’d stay here, all right. You’d stay here just until you saw us go into Apollo’s temple, and then you’d be a little cloud of dust sailing out through the gates.”
“You don’t have to come with us,” Polydeuces said. “But if you want to tour this city, you’ll have to do it on our terms.”
With that, he left me in Castor’s company.
“Where’s he going?” I asked.
“Probably to see if the priests of Apollo have an oil jar big enough to stuff you inside for safekeeping.” He winked at me.
No matter how much I loved my brothers, I wasn’t in the mood for more teasing. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll insult the Pythia if you don’t go to see her right now? You were summoned. She could foretell terrible fates for the two of you if you keep her waiting.”
Castor didn’t seem worried. “If she’s truly blessed with the gift of prophecy, she already knows we’re going to be delayed. And if she can’t foretell that, she’s as much of an oracle as I am, so why should I care what she predicts?” He laughed out loud, then added, “But don’t tell Polydeuces I said that. He’s the devout one.”
“I am his Highness’ dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?”
“I’m twenty-eight years old and I hate my life. I never have the time or the energy to work out how to change it. On Sundays I trail round a museum to keep warm, or lose myself in a library book, or fiddle with the wireless. But Monday’s already looming. And always I’ve got this panicky feeling inside, because I know I’m getting nowhere, just keeping myself alive. Tacked”
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