‘Oh, my life is very simple,’ said
Dorothea, her lips curling with an exquisite smile, which irradiated her
melancholy. ‘I am always at Lowick.’
‘That is a dreadful imprisonment,’
said Will, impetuously.
‘No, don’t think that,’ said Dorothea.
‘I have no longings.’ He did not speak, but she replied to some change in his
expression. ‘I mean, for myself. Except that I should like not to have so much
more than my share without doing anything for others. But I have a belief of my
own, and it comforts me.’
‘What is that?’ said Will, rather
jealous of the belief.
‘That by desiring what is perfectly
good, even when we don’t quite know what it is and cannot do what we would, we
are part of the divine power against evil— widening the skirts of light and
making the struggle with darkness narrower.’
‘That is a beautiful mysticism—it is
a—‘
‘Please not to call it by any name,’
said Dorothea, putting out her hands entreatingly. ‘You will say it is Persian,
or something else geographical. It is my life. I have found it out, and cannot
part with it. I have always been finding out my religion since I was a little
girl. I used to pray so much—now I hardly ever pray. I try not to have desires
merely for myself, because they may not be good for others, and I have too much
already. I only told you, that you might know quite well how my days go at
Lowick.’
‘God bless you for telling me!’ said
Will, ardently, and rather wondering at himself. They were looking at each
other like two fond children who were talking confidentially of birds.
‘What is your religion?’ said
Dorothea. ‘I mean— not what you know about religion, but the belief that helps
you most?’
‘To love what is good and beautiful
when I see it,’ said Will. ‘But I am a rebel: I don’t feel bound, as you do, to
submit to what I don’t like.’
‘But if you like what is good, that
comes to the same thing,’ said Dorothea, smiling.
(Middlemarch)
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