Domestic fiction; Education -- Fiction; England -- Fiction; Political fiction; Social problems -- Fiction; Utilitarianism -- Fiction
He might have added more than all, when he saw the face now looking at
him. He did add it in effect, perhaps, as he softly moved her scattered
hair from her forehead with his hand. Such little actions, slight in
another man, were very noticeable in him; and his daughter received them
as if they had been words of contrition.
‘But,’ said Mr. Gradgrind, slowly, and with hesitation, as well as with a
wretched sense of happiness, ‘if I see reason to mistrust myself for the
past, Louisa, I should also mistrust myself for the present and the
future. To speak unreservedly to you, I do. I am far from feeling
convinced now, however differently I might have felt only this time
yesterday, that I am fit for the trust you repose in me; that I know how
to respond to the appeal you have come home to make to me; that I have
the right instinct—supposing it for the moment to be some quality of that
nature—how to help you, and to set you right, my child.’
She had turned upon her pillow, and lay with her face upon her arm, so
that he could not see it. All her wildness and passion had subsided;
but, though softened, she was not in tears. Her father was changed in
nothing so much as in the respect that he would have been glad to see her
in tears.
‘Some persons hold,’ he pursued, still hesitating, ‘that there is a
wisdom of the Head, and that there is a wisdom of the Heart. I have not
supposed so; but, as I have said, I mistrust myself now. I have supposed
the head to be all-sufficient. It may not be all-sufficient; how can I
venture this morning to say it is! If that other kind of wisdom should
be what I have neglected, and should be the instinct that is wanted,
Louisa—’
He suggested it very doubtfully, as if he were half unwilling to admit it
even now. She made him no answer, lying before him on her bed, still
half-dressed, much as he had seen her lying on the floor of his room last
night.
‘Louisa,’ and his hand rested on her hair again, ‘I have been absent from
here, my dear, a good deal of late; and though your sister’s training has
been pursued according to—the system,’ he appeared to come to that word
with great reluctance always, ‘it has necessarily been modified by daily
associations begun, in her case, at an early age. I ask you—ignorantly
and humbly, my daughter—for the better, do you think?’
‘Father,’ she replied, without stirring, ‘if any harmony has been
awakened in her young breast that was mute in mine until it turned to
discord, let her thank Heaven for it, and go upon her happier way, taking
it as her greatest blessing that she has avoided my way.’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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