Middlemarch - Page 508/561

1st Gent. Where lies the power, there let the blame lie too.

2d Gent. Nay, power is relative; you cannot fright

The coming pest with border fortresses,

Or catch your carp with subtle argument.

All force is twain in one: cause is not cause

Unless effect be there; and action's self

Must needs contain a passive. So command

Exists but with obedience."

Even if Lydgate had been inclined to be quite open about his affairs,

he knew that it would have hardly been in Mr. Farebrother's power to

give him the help he immediately wanted. With the year's bills coming

in from his tradesmen, with Dover's threatening hold on his furniture,

and with nothing to depend on but slow dribbling payments from patients

who must not be offended--for the handsome fees he had had from

Freshitt Hall and Lowick Manor had been easily absorbed--nothing less

than a thousand pounds would have freed him from actual embarrassment,

and left a residue which, according to the favorite phrase of

hopefulness in such circumstances, would have given him "time to look

about him."

Naturally, the merry Christmas bringing the happy New Year, when

fellow-citizens expect to be paid for the trouble and goods they have

smilingly bestowed on their neighbors, had so tightened the pressure of

sordid cares on Lydgate's mind that it was hardly possible for him to

think unbrokenly of any other subject, even the most habitual and

soliciting. He was not an ill-tempered man; his intellectual activity,

the ardent kindness of his heart, as well as his strong frame, would

always, under tolerably easy conditions, have kept him above the petty

uncontrolled susceptibilities which make bad temper. But he was now a

prey to that worst irritation which arises not simply from annoyances,

but from the second consciousness underlying those annoyances, of

wasted energy and a degrading preoccupation, which was the reverse of

all his former purposes. "_This_ is what I am thinking of; and _that_

is what I might have been thinking of," was the bitter incessant murmur

within him, making every difficulty a double goad to impatience.

Some gentlemen have made an amazing figure in literature by general

discontent with the universe as a trap of dulness into which their

great souls have fallen by mistake; but the sense of a stupendous self

and an insignificant world may have its consolations. Lydgate's

discontent was much harder to bear: it was the sense that there was a

grand existence in thought and effective action lying around him, while

his self was being narrowed into the miserable isolation of egoistic

fears, and vulgar anxieties for events that might allay such fears.

His troubles will perhaps appear miserably sordid, and beneath the

attention of lofty persons who can know nothing of debt except on a

magnificent scale. Doubtless they were sordid; and for the majority,

who are not lofty, there is no escape from sordidness but by being free

from money-craving, with all its base hopes and temptations, its

watching for death, its hinted requests, its horse-dealer's desire to

make bad work pass for good, its seeking for function which ought to be

another's, its compulsion often to long for Luck in the shape of a wide

calamity.