Middlemarch

CHAPTER IX.

1st Gent. An ancient land in ancient oracles Is called ”law-thirsty”: all the struggle there Was after order and a perfect rule. Pray, where lie such lands now? . . . 2d Gent. Why, where they lay of old--in human souls.

Mr. Casaubon's behavior about settlements was highly satisfactory toMr. Brooke, and the preliminaries of marriage rolled smoothly along,shortening the weeks of courtship. The betrothed bride must see herfuture home, and dictate any changes that she would like to have madethere. A woman dictates before marriage in order that she may have anappetite for submission afterwards. And certainly, the mistakes thatwe male and female mortals make when we have our own way might fairlyraise some wonder that we are so fond of it.

On a gray but dry November morning Dorothea drove to Lowick in companywith her uncle and Celia. Mr. Casaubon's home was the manor-house.Close by, visible from some parts of the garden, was the little church,with the old parsonage opposite. In the beginning of his career, Mr.Casaubon had only held the living, but the death of his brother had puthim in possession of the manor also. It had a small park, with a fineold oak here and there, and an avenue of limes towards the southwestfront, with a sunk fence between park and pleasure-ground, so that fromthe drawing-room windows the glance swept uninterruptedly along a slopeof greensward till the limes ended in a level of corn and pastures,which often seemed to melt into a lake under the setting sun. This wasthe happy side of the house, for the south and east looked rathermelancholy even under the brightest morning. The grounds here weremore confined, the flower-beds showed no very careful tendance, andlarge clumps of trees, chiefly of sombre yews, had risen high, not tenyards from the windows. The building, of greenish stone, was in theold English style, not ugly, but small-windowed and melancholy-looking:the sort of house that must have children, many flowers, open windows,and little vistas of bright things, to make it seem a joyous home. Inthis latter end of autumn, with a sparse remnant of yellow leavesfalling slowly athwart the dark evergreens in a stillness withoutsunshine, the house too had an air of autumnal decline, and Mr.Casaubon, when he presented himself, had no bloom that could be throwninto relief by that background.

”Oh dear!” Celia said to herself, ”I am sure Freshitt Hall would havebeen pleasanter than this.” She thought of the white freestone, thepillared portico, and the terrace full of flowers, Sir James smilingabove them like a prince issuing from his enchantment in a rose-bush,with a handkerchief swiftly metamorphosed from the most delicatelyodorous petals--Sir James, who talked so agreeably, always about thingswhich had common-sense in them, and not about learning! Celia hadthose light young feminine tastes which grave and weatherworn gentlemensometimes prefer in a wife; but happily Mr. Casaubon's bias had beendifferent, for he would have had no chance with Celia.

Dorothea, on the contrary, found the house and grounds all that shecould wish: the dark book-shelves in the long library, the carpets andcurtains with colors subdued by time, the curious old maps andbird's-eye views on the walls of the corridor, with here and there anold vase below, had no oppression for her, and seemed more cheerfulthan the easts and pictures at the Grange, which her uncle had long agobrought home from his travels--they being probably among the ideas hehad taken in at one time. To poor Dorothea these severe classicalnudities and smirking Renaissance-Correggiosities were painfullyinexplicable, staring into the midst of her Puritanic conceptions: shehad never been taught how she could bring them into any sort ofrelevance with her life. But the owners of Lowick apparently had notbeen travellers, and Mr. Casaubon's studies of the past were notcarried on by means of such aids.

Dorothea walked about the house with delightful emotion. Everythingseemed hallowed to her: this was to be the home of her wifehood, andshe looked up with eyes full of confidence to Mr. Casaubon when he drewher attention specially to some actual arrangement and asked her if shewould like an alteration. All appeals to her taste she met gratefully,but saw nothing to alter. His efforts at exact courtesy and formaltenderness had no defect for her. She filled up all blanks withunmanifested perfections, interpreting him as she interpreted the worksof Providence, and accounting for seeming discords by her own deafnessto the higher harmonies. And there are many blanks left in the weeksof courtship which a loving faith fills with happy assurance.

”Now, my dear Dorothea, I wish you to favor me by pointing out whichroom you would like to have as your boudoir,” said Mr. Casaubon,showing that his views of the womanly nature were sufficiently large toinclude that requirement.

”It is very kind of you to think of that,” said Dorothea, ”but I assureyou I would rather have all those matters decided for me. I shall bemuch happier to take everything as it is--just as you have been used tohave it, or as you will yourself choose it to be. I have no motive forwishing anything else.”

”Oh, Dodo,” said Celia, ”will you not have the bow-windowed roomup-stairs?”

Mr. Casaubon led the way thither. The bow-window looked down theavenue of limes; the furniture was all of a faded blue, and there wereminiatures of ladies and gentlemen with powdered hair hanging in agroup. A piece of tapestry over a door also showed a blue-green worldwith a pale stag in it. The chairs and tables were thin-legged andeasy to upset. It was a room where one might fancy the ghost of atight-laced lady revisiting the scene of her embroidery. A lightbookcase contained duodecimo volumes of polite literature in calf,completing the furniture.

”Yes,” said Mr. Brooke, ”this would be a pretty room with some newhangings, sofas, and that sort of thing. A little bare now.”

”No, uncle,” said Dorothea, eagerly. ”Pray do not speak of alteringanything. There are so many other things in the world that wantaltering--I like to take these things as they are. And you like themas they are, don't you?” she added, looking at Mr. Casaubon. ”Perhapsthis was your mother's room when she was young.”

”It was,” he said, with his slow bend of the head.

”This is your mother,” said Dorothea, who had turned to examine thegroup of miniatures. ”It is like the tiny one you brought me; only, Ishould think, a better portrait. And this one opposite, who is this?”

”Her elder sister. They were, like you and your sister, the only twochildren of their parents, who hang above them, you see.”

”The sister is pretty,” said Celia, implying that she thought lessfavorably of Mr. Casaubon's mother. It was a new opening to Celia'simagination, that he came of a family who had all been young in theirtime--the ladies wearing necklaces.

”It is a peculiar face,” said Dorothea, looking closely. ”Those deepgray eyes rather near together--and the delicate irregular nose with asort of ripple in it--and all the powdered curls hanging backward.Altogether it seems to me peculiar rather than pretty. There is noteven a family likeness between her and your mother.”

”No. And they were not alike in their lot.”

”You did not mention her to me,” said Dorothea.

”My aunt made an unfortunate marriage. I never saw her.”

Dorothea wondered a little, but felt that it would be indelicate justthen to ask for any information which Mr. Casaubon did not proffer, andshe turned to the window to admire the view. The sun had latelypierced the gray, and the avenue of limes cast shadows.

”Shall we not walk in the garden now?” said Dorothea.

”And you would like to see the church, you know,” said Mr. Brooke. ”Itis a droll little church. And the village. It all lies in anut-shell. By the way, it will suit you, Dorothea; for the cottages arelike a row of alms-houses--little gardens, gilly-flowers, that sort ofthing.”

”Yes, please,” said Dorothea, looking at Mr. Casaubon, ”I should liketo see all that.” She had got nothing from him more graphic about theLowick cottages than that they were ”not bad.”

They were soon on a gravel walk which led chiefly between grassyborders and clumps of trees, this being the nearest way to the church,Mr. Casaubon said. At the little gate leading into the churchyardthere was a pause while Mr. Casaubon went to the parsonage close by tofetch a key. Celia, who had been hanging a little in the rear, came uppresently, when she saw that Mr. Casaubon was gone away, and said inher easy staccato, which always seemed to contradict the suspicion ofany malicious intent--

”Do you know, Dorothea, I saw some one quite young coming up one of thewalks.”

”Is that astonishing, Celia?”

”There may be a young gardener, you know--why not?” said Mr. Brooke.”I told Casaubon he should change his gardener.”

”No, not a gardener,” said Celia; ”a gentleman with a sketch-book. Hehad light-brown curls. I only saw his back. But he was quite young.”

”The curate's son, perhaps,” said Mr. Brooke. ”Ah, there is Casaubonagain, and Tucker with him. He is going to introduce Tucker. Youdon't know Tucker yet.”

Mr. Tucker was the middle-aged curate, one of the ”inferior clergy,”who are usually not wanting in sons. But after the introduction, theconversation did not lead to any question about his family, and thestartling apparition of youthfulness was forgotten by every one butCelia. She inwardly declined to believe that the light-brown curls andslim figure could have any relationship to Mr. Tucker, who was just asold and musty-looking as she would have expected Mr. Casaubon's curateto be; doubtless an excellent man who would go to heaven (for Celiawished not to be unprincipled), but the corners of his mouth were sounpleasant. Celia thought with some dismalness of the time she shouldhave to spend as bridesmaid at Lowick, while the curate had probably nopretty little children whom she could like, irrespective of principle.

Mr. Tucker was invaluable in their walk; and perhaps Mr. Casaubon hadnot been without foresight on this head, the curate being able toanswer all Dorothea's questions about the villagers and the otherparishioners. Everybody, he assured her, was well off in Lowick: not acottager in those double cottages at a low rent but kept a pig, and thestrips of garden at the back were well tended. The small boys woreexcellent corduroy, the girls went out as tidy servants, or did alittle straw-plaiting at home: no looms here, no Dissent; and thoughthe public disposition was rather towards laying by money than towardsspirituality, there was not much vice. The speckled fowls were sonumerous that Mr. Brooke observed, ”Your farmers leave some barley forthe women to glean, I see. The poor folks here might have a fowl intheir pot, as the good French king used to wish for all his people.The French eat a good many fowls--skinny fowls, you know.”

”I think it was a very cheap wish of his,” said Dorothea, indignantly.”Are kings such monsters that a wish like that must be reckoned a royalvirtue?”

”And if he wished them a skinny fowl,” said Celia, ”that would not benice. But perhaps he wished them to have fat fowls.”

”Yes, but the word has dropped out of the text, or perhaps wassubauditum; that is, present in the king's mind, but not uttered,” saidMr. Casaubon, smiling and bending his head towards Celia, whoimmediately dropped backward a little, because she could not bear Mr.Casaubon to blink at her.

Dorothea sank into silence on the way back to the house. She felt somedisappointment, of which she was yet ashamed, that there was nothingfor her to do in Lowick; and in the next few minutes her mind hadglanced over the possibility, which she would have preferred, offinding that her home would be in a parish which had a larger share ofthe world's misery, so that she might have had more active duties init. Then, recurring to the future actually before her, she made apicture of more complete devotion to Mr. Casaubon's aims in which shewould await new duties. Many such might reveal themselves to thehigher knowledge gained by her in that companionship.

Mr. Tucker soon left them, having some clerical work which would notallow him to lunch at the Hall; and as they were re-entering the gardenthrough the little gate, Mr. Casaubon said--

”You seem a little sad, Dorothea. I trust you are pleased with whatyou have seen.”

”I am feeling something which is perhaps foolish and wrong,” answeredDorothea, with her usual openness--”almost wishing that the peoplewanted more to be done for them here. I have known so few ways ofmaking my life good for anything. Of course, my notions of usefulnessmust be narrow. I must learn new ways of helping people.”

”Doubtless,” said Mr. Casaubon. ”Each position has its correspondingduties. Yours, I trust, as the mistress of Lowick, will not leave anyyearning unfulfilled.”

”Indeed, I believe that,” said Dorothea, earnestly. ”Do not supposethat I am sad.”

”That is well. But, if you are not tired, we will take another way tothe house than that by which we came.”

Dorothea was not at all tired, and a little circuit was made towards afine yew-tree, the chief hereditary glory of the grounds on this sideof the house. As they approached it, a figure, conspicuous on a darkbackground of evergreens, was seated on a bench, sketching the oldtree. Mr. Brooke, who was walking in front with Celia, turned hishead, and said--

”Who is that youngster, Casaubon?”

They had come very near when Mr. Casaubon answered--

”That is a young relative of mine, a second cousin: the grandson, infact,” he added, looking at Dorothea, ”of the lady whose portrait youhave been noticing, my aunt Julia.”

The young man had laid down his sketch-book and risen. His bushylight-brown curls, as well as his youthfulness, identified him at oncewith Celia's apparition.

”Dorothea, let me introduce to you my cousin, Mr. Ladislaw. Will, thisis Miss Brooke.”

The cousin was so close now, that, when he lifted his hat, Dorotheacould see a pair of gray eyes rather near together, a delicateirregular nose with a little ripple in it, and hair falling backward;but there was a mouth and chin of a more prominent, threatening aspectthan belonged to the type of the grandmother's miniature. YoungLadislaw did not feel it necessary to smile, as if he were charmed withthis introduction to his future second cousin and her relatives; butwore rather a pouting air of discontent.

”You are an artist, I see,” said Mr. Brooke, taking up the sketch-bookand turning it over in his unceremonious fashion.

”No, I only sketch a little. There is nothing fit to be seen there,”said young Ladislaw, coloring, perhaps with temper rather than modesty.

”Oh, come, this is a nice bit, now. I did a little in this way myselfat one time, you know. Look here, now; this is what I call a nicething, done with what we used to call _brio_.” Mr. Brooke held outtowards the two girls a large colored sketch of stony ground and trees,with a pool.

”I am no judge of these things,” said Dorothea, not coldly, but with aneager deprecation of the appeal to her. ”You know, uncle, I never seethe beauty of those pictures which you say are so much praised. Theyare a language I do not understand. I suppose there is some relationbetween pictures and nature which I am too ignorant to feel--just asyou see what a Greek sentence stands for which means nothing to me.”Dorothea looked up at Mr. Casaubon, who bowed his head towards her,while Mr. Brooke said, smiling nonchalantly--

”Bless me, now, how different people are! But you had a bad style ofteaching, you know--else this is just the thing for girls--sketching,fine art and so on. But you took to drawing plans; you don'tunderstand morbidezza, and that kind of thing. You will come to myhouse, I hope, and I will show you what I did in this way,” hecontinued, turning to young Ladislaw, who had to be recalled from hispreoccupation in observing Dorothea. Ladislaw had made up his mindthat she must be an unpleasant girl, since she was going to marryCasaubon, and what she said of her stupidity about pictures would haveconfirmed that opinion even if he had believed her. As it was, he tookher words for a covert judgment, and was certain that she thought hissketch detestable. There was too much cleverness in her apology: shewas laughing both at her uncle and himself. But what a voice! It waslike the voice of a soul that had once lived in an Aeolian harp. Thismust be one of Nature's inconsistencies. There could be no sort ofpassion in a girl who would marry Casaubon. But he turned from her,and bowed his thanks for Mr. Brooke's invitation.

”We will turn over my Italian engravings together,” continued thatgood-natured man. ”I have no end of those things, that I have laid byfor years. One gets rusty in this part of the country, you know. Notyou, Casaubon; you stick to your studies; but my best ideas getundermost--out of use, you know. You clever young men must guardagainst indolence. I was too indolent, you know: else I might havebeen anywhere at one time.”

”That is a seasonable admonition,” said Mr. Casaubon; ”but now we willpass on to the house, lest the young ladies should be tired ofstanding.”

When their backs were turned, young Ladislaw sat down to go on with hissketching, and as he did so his face broke into an expression ofamusement which increased as he went on drawing, till at last he threwback his head and laughed aloud. Partly it was the reception of hisown artistic production that tickled him; partly the notion of hisgrave cousin as the lover of that girl; and partly Mr. Brooke'sdefinition of the place he might have held but for the impediment ofindolence. Mr. Will Ladislaw's sense of the ludicrous lit up hisfeatures very agreeably: it was the pure enjoyment of comicality, andhad no mixture of sneering and self-exaltation.

”What is your nephew going to do with himself, Casaubon?” said Mr.Brooke, as they went on.

”My cousin, you mean--not my nephew.”

”Yes, yes, cousin. But in the way of a career, you know.”

”The answer to that question is painfully doubtful. On leaving Rugbyhe declined to go to an English university, where I would gladly haveplaced him, and chose what I must consider the anomalous course ofstudying at Heidelberg. And now he wants to go abroad again, withoutany special object, save the vague purpose of what he calls culture,preparation for he knows not what. He declines to choose a profession.”

”He has no means but what you furnish, I suppose.”

”I have always given him and his friends reason to understand that Iwould furnish in moderation what was necessary for providing him with ascholarly education, and launching him respectably. I am-thereforebound to fulfil the expectation so raised,” said Mr. Casaubon, puttinghis conduct in the light of mere rectitude: a trait of delicacy whichDorothea noticed with admiration.

”He has a thirst for travelling; perhaps he may turn out a Bruce or aMungo Park,” said Mr. Brooke. ”I had a notion of that myself at onetime.”

”No, he has no bent towards exploration, or the enlargement of ourgeognosis: that would be a special purpose which I could recognize withsome approbation, though without felicitating him on a career which sooften ends in premature and violent death. But so far is he fromhaving any desire for a more accurate knowledge of the earth's surface,that he said he should prefer not to know the sources of the Nile, andthat there should be some unknown regions preserved as hunting groundsfor the poetic imagination.”

”Well, there is something in that, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, who hadcertainly an impartial mind.

”It is, I fear, nothing more than a part of his general inaccuracy andindisposition to thoroughness of all kinds, which would be a bad auguryfor him in any profession, civil or sacred, even were he so farsubmissive to ordinary rule as to choose one.”

”Perhaps he has conscientious scruples founded on his own unfitness,”said Dorothea, who was interesting herself in finding a favorableexplanation. ”Because the law and medicine should be very seriousprofessions to undertake, should they not? People's lives and fortunesdepend on them.”

”Doubtless; but I fear that my young relative Will Ladislaw is chieflydetermined in his aversion to these callings by a dislike to steadyapplication, and to that kind of acquirement which is needfulinstrumentally, but is not charming or immediately inviting toself-indulgent taste. I have insisted to him on what Aristotle hasstated with admirable brevity, that for the achievement of any workregarded as an end there must be a prior exercise of many energies oracquired facilities of a secondary order, demanding patience. I havepointed to my own manuscript volumes, which represent the toil of yearspreparatory to a work not yet accomplished. But in vain. To carefulreasoning of this kind he replies by calling himself Pegasus, and everyform of prescribed work 'harness.'”

Celia laughed. She was surprised to find that Mr. Casaubon could saysomething quite amusing.

”Well, you know, he may turn out a Byron, a Chatterton, aChurchill--that sort of thing--there's no telling,” said Mr. Brooke.”Shall you let him go to Italy, or wherever else he wants to go?”

”Yes; I have agreed to furnish him with moderate supplies for a year orso; he asks no more. I shall let him be tried by the test of freedom.”

”That is very kind of you,” said Dorothea, looking up at Mr. Casaubonwith delight. ”It is noble. After all, people may really have in themsome vocation which is not quite plain to themselves, may they not?They may seem idle and weak because they are growing. We should bevery patient with each other, I think.”

”I suppose it is being engaged to be married that has made you thinkpatience good,” said Celia, as soon as she and Dorothea were alonetogether, taking off their wrappings.

”You mean that I am very impatient, Celia.”

”Yes; when people don't do and say just what you like.” Celia hadbecome less afraid of ”saying things” to Dorothea since thisengagement: cleverness seemed to her more pitiable than ever.