Middlemarch

CHAPTER XXI.

”Hire facounde eke full womanly and plain, No contrefeted termes had she To semen wise.” --CHAUCER.

It was in that way Dorothea came to be sobbing as soon as she wassecurely alone. But she was presently roused by a knock at the door,which made her hastily dry her eyes before saying, ”Come in.” Tantripphad brought a card, and said that there was a gentleman waiting in thelobby. The courier had told him that only Mrs. Casaubon was at home,but he said he was a relation of Mr. Casaubon's: would she see him?

”Yes,” said Dorothea, without pause; ”show him into the salon.” Herchief impressions about young Ladislaw were that when she had seen himat Lowick she had been made aware of Mr. Casaubon's generosity towardshim, and also that she had been interested in his own hesitation abouthis career. She was alive to anything that gave her an opportunity foractive sympathy, and at this moment it seemed as if the visit had cometo shake her out of her self-absorbed discontent--to remind her of herhusband's goodness, and make her feel that she had now the right to behis helpmate in all kind deeds. She waited a minute or two, but whenshe passed into the next room there were just signs enough that she hadbeen crying to make her open face look more youthful and appealing thanusual. She met Ladislaw with that exquisite smile of good-will whichis unmixed with vanity, and held out her hand to him. He was the elderby several years, but at that moment he looked much the younger, forhis transparent complexion flushed suddenly, and he spoke with ashyness extremely unlike the ready indifference of his manner with hismale companion, while Dorothea became all the calmer with a wonderingdesire to put him at ease.

”I was not aware that you and Mr. Casaubon were in Rome, until thismorning, when I saw you in the Vatican Museum,” he said. ”I knew youat once--but--I mean, that I concluded Mr. Casaubon's address would befound at the Poste Restante, and I was anxious to pay my respects tohim and you as early as possible.”

”Pray sit down. He is not here now, but he will be glad to hear ofyou, I am sure,” said Dorothea, seating herself unthinkingly betweenthe fire and the light of the tall window, and pointing to a chairopposite, with the quietude of a benignant matron. The signs ofgirlish sorrow in her face were only the more striking. ”Mr. Casaubonis much engaged; but you will leave your address--will you not?--andhe will write to you.”

”You are very good,” said Ladislaw, beginning to lose his diffidence inthe interest with which he was observing the signs of weeping which hadaltered her face. ”My address is on my card. But if you will allow meI will call again to-morrow at an hour when Mr. Casaubon is likely tobe at home.”

”He goes to read in the Library of the Vatican every day, and you canhardly see him except by an appointment. Especially now. We are aboutto leave Rome, and he is very busy. He is usually away almost frombreakfast till dinner. But I am sure he will wish you to dine with us.”

Will Ladislaw was struck mute for a few moments. He had never beenfond of Mr. Casaubon, and if it had not been for the sense ofobligation, would have laughed at him as a Bat of erudition. But theidea of this dried-up pedant, this elaborator of small explanationsabout as important as the surplus stock of false antiquities kept in avendor's back chamber, having first got this adorable young creature tomarry him, and then passing his honeymoon away from her, groping afterhis mouldy futilities (Will was given to hyperbole)--this suddenpicture stirred him with a sort of comic disgust: he was dividedbetween the impulse to laugh aloud and the equally unseasonable impulseto burst into scornful invective.

For an instant he felt that the struggle, was causing a queercontortion of his mobile features, but with a good effort he resolvedit into nothing more offensive than a merry smile.

Dorothea wondered; but the smile was irresistible, and shone back fromher face too. Will Ladislaw's smile was delightful, unless you wereangry with him beforehand: it was a gush of inward light illuminatingthe transparent skin as well as the eyes, and playing about every curveand line as if some Ariel were touching them with a new charm, andbanishing forever the traces of moodiness. The reflection of thatsmile could not but have a little merriment in it too, even under darkeyelashes still moist, as Dorothea said inquiringly, ”Something amusesyou?”

”Yes,” said Will, quick in finding resources. ”I am thinking of thesort of figure I cut the first time I saw you, when you annihilated mypoor sketch with your criticism.”

”My criticism?” said Dorothea, wondering still more. ”Surely not. Ialways feel particularly ignorant about painting.”

”I suspected you of knowing so much, that you knew how to say just whatwas most cutting. You said--I dare say you don't remember it as Ido--that the relation of my sketch to nature was quite hidden from you.At least, you implied that.” Will could laugh now as well as smile.

”That was really my ignorance,” said Dorothea, admiringWill's good-humor. ”I must have said so only because I never could seeany beauty in the pictures which my uncle told me all judges thoughtvery fine. And I have gone about with just the same ignorance in Rome.There are comparatively few paintings that I can really enjoy. Atfirst when I enter a room where the walls are covered with frescos, orwith rare pictures, I feel a kind of awe--like a child present at greatceremonies where there are grand robes and processions; I feel myselfin the presence of some higher life than my own. But when I begin toexamine the pictures one by one the life goes out of them, or else issomething violent and strange to me. It must be my own dulness. I amseeing so much all at once, and not understanding half of it. Thatalways makes one feel stupid. It is painful to be told that anythingis very fine and not be able to feel that it is fine--something likebeing blind, while people talk of the sky.”

”Oh, there is a great deal in the feeling for art which must beacquired,” said Will. (It was impossible now to doubt the directnessof Dorothea's confession.) ”Art is an old language with a great manyartificial affected styles, and sometimes the chief pleasure one getsout of knowing them is the mere sense of knowing. I enjoy the art ofall sorts here immensely; but I suppose if I could pick my enjoyment topieces I should find it made up of many different threads. There issomething in daubing a little one's self, and having an idea of theprocess.”

”You mean perhaps to be a painter?” said Dorothea, with a new directionof interest. ”You mean to make painting your profession? Mr. Casaubonwill like to hear that you have chosen a profession.”

”No, oh no,” said Will, with some coldness. ”I have quite made up mymind against it. It is too one-sided a life. I have been seeing agreat deal of the German artists here: I travelled from Frankfort withone of them. Some are fine, even brilliant fellows--but I should notlike to get into their way of looking at the world entirely from thestudio point of view.”

”That I can understand,” said Dorothea, cordially. ”And in Rome itseems as if there were so many things which are more wanted in theworld than pictures. But if you have a genius for painting, would itnot be right to take that as a guide? Perhaps you might do betterthings than these--or different, so that there might not be so manypictures almost all alike in the same place.”

There was no mistaking this simplicity, and Will was won by it intofrankness. ”A man must have a very rare genius to make changes of thatsort. I am afraid mine would not carry me even to the pitch of doingwell what has been done already, at least not so well as to make itworth while. And I should never succeed in anything by dint ofdrudgery. If things don't come easily to me I never get them.”

”I have heard Mr. Casaubon say that he regrets your want of patience,”said Dorothea, gently. She was rather shocked at this mode of takingall life as a holiday.

”Yes, I know Mr. Casaubon's opinion. He and I differ.”

The slight streak of contempt in this hasty reply offended Dorothea.She was all the more susceptible about Mr. Casaubon because of hermorning's trouble.

”Certainly you differ,” she said, rather proudly. ”I did not think ofcomparing you: such power of persevering devoted labor as Mr.Casaubon's is not common.”

Will saw that she was offended, but this only gave an additionalimpulse to the new irritation of his latent dislike towards Mr.Casaubon. It was too intolerable that Dorothea should be worshippingthis husband: such weakness in a woman is pleasant to no man but thehusband in question. Mortals are easily tempted to pinch the life outof their neighbor's buzzing glory, and think that such killing is nomurder.

”No, indeed,” he answered, promptly. ”And therefore it is a pity thatit should be thrown away, as so much English scholarship is, for wantof knowing what is being done by the rest of the world. If Mr.Casaubon read German he would save himself a great deal of trouble.”

”I do not understand you,” said Dorothea, startled and anxious.

”I merely mean,” said Will, in an offhand way, ”that the Germans havetaken the lead in historical inquiries, and they laugh at results whichare got by groping about in woods with a pocket-compass while they havemade good roads. When I was with Mr. Casaubon I saw that he deafenedhimself in that direction: it was almost against his will that he reada Latin treatise written by a German. I was very sorry.”

Will only thought of giving a good pinch that would annihilate thatvaunted laboriousness, and was unable to imagine the mode in whichDorothea would be wounded. Young Mr. Ladislaw was not at all deephimself in German writers; but very little achievement is required inorder to pity another man's shortcomings.

Poor Dorothea felt a pang at the thought that the labor of herhusband's life might be void, which left her no energy to spare for thequestion whether this young relative who was so much obliged to himought not to have repressed his observation. She did not even speak,but sat looking at her hands, absorbed in the piteousness of thatthought.

Will, however, having given that annihilating pinch, was ratherashamed, imagining from Dorothea's silence that he had offended herstill more; and having also a conscience about plucking thetail-feathers from a benefactor.

”I regretted it especially,” he resumed, taking the usual course fromdetraction to insincere eulogy, ”because of my gratitude and respecttowards my cousin. It would not signify so much in a man whose talentsand character were less distinguished.”

Dorothea raised her eyes, brighter than usual with excited feeling, andsaid in her saddest recitative, ”How I wish I had learned German when Iwas at Lausanne! There were plenty of German teachers. But now I canbe of no use.”

There was a new light, but still a mysterious light, for Will inDorothea's last words. The question how she had come to accept Mr.Casaubon--which he had dismissed when he first saw her by saying thatshe must be disagreeable in spite of appearances--was not now to beanswered on any such short and easy method. Whatever else she mightbe, she was not disagreeable. She was not coldly clever and indirectlysatirical, but adorably simple and full of feeling. She was an angelbeguiled. It would be a unique delight to wait and watch for themelodious fragments in which her heart and soul came forth so directlyand ingenuously. The Aeolian harp again came into his mind.

She must have made some original romance for herself in this marriage.And if Mr. Casaubon had been a dragon who had carried her off to hislair with his talons simply and without legal forms, it would have beenan unavoidable feat of heroism to release her and fall at her feet.But he was something more unmanageable than a dragon: he was abenefactor with collective society at his back, and he was at thatmoment entering the room in all the unimpeachable correctness of hisdemeanor, while Dorothea was looking animated with a newly roused alarmand regret, and Will was looking animated with his admiring speculationabout her feelings.

Mr. Casaubon felt a surprise which was quite unmixed with pleasure, buthe did not swerve from his usual politeness of greeting, when Will roseand explained his presence. Mr. Casaubon was less happy than usual,and this perhaps made him look all the dimmer and more faded; else, theeffect might easily have been produced by the contrast of his youngcousin's appearance. The first impression on seeing Will was one ofsunny brightness, which added to the uncertainty of his changingexpression. Surely, his very features changed their form, his jawlooked sometimes large and sometimes small; and the little ripple inhis nose was a preparation for metamorphosis. When he turned his headquickly his hair seemed to shake out light, and some persons thoughtthey saw decided genius in this coruscation. Mr. Casaubon, on thecontrary, stood rayless.

As Dorothea's eyes were turned anxiously on her husband she was perhapsnot insensible to the contrast, but it was only mingled with othercauses in making her more conscious of that new alarm on his behalfwhich was the first stirring of a pitying tenderness fed by therealities of his lot and not by her own dreams. Yet it was a source ofgreater freedom to her that Will was there; his young equality wasagreeable, and also perhaps his openness to conviction. She felt animmense need of some one to speak to, and she had never before seen anyone who seemed so quick and pliable, so likely to understand everything.

Mr. Casaubon gravely hoped that Will was passing his time profitably aswell as pleasantly in Rome--had thought his intention was to remain inSouth Germany--but begged him to come and dine to-morrow, when he couldconverse more at large: at present he was somewhat weary. Ladislawunderstood, and accepting the invitation immediately took his leave.

Dorothea's eyes followed her husband anxiously, while he sank downwearily at the end of a sofa, and resting his elbow supported his headand looked on the floor. A little flushed, and with bright eyes, sheseated herself beside him, and said--

”Forgive me for speaking so hastily to you this morning. I was wrong.I fear I hurt you and made the day more burdensome.”

”I am glad that you feel that, my dear,” said Mr. Casaubon. He spokequietly and bowed his head a little, but there was still an uneasyfeeling in his eyes as he looked at her.

”But you do forgive me?” said Dorothea, with a quick sob. In her needfor some manifestation of feeling she was ready to exaggerate her ownfault. Would not love see returning penitence afar off, and fall onits neck and kiss it?

”My dear Dorothea--'who with repentance is not satisfied, is not ofheaven nor earth:'--you do not think me worthy to be banished by thatsevere sentence,” said Mr. Casaubon, exerting himself to make a strongstatement, and also to smile faintly.

Dorothea was silent, but a tear which had come up with the sob wouldinsist on falling.

”You are excited, my dear. And I also am feeling some unpleasantconsequences of too much mental disturbance,” said Mr. Casaubon. Infact, he had it in his thought to tell her that she ought not to havereceived young Ladislaw in his absence: but he abstained, partly fromthe sense that it would be ungracious to bring a new complaint in themoment of her penitent acknowledgment, partly because he wanted toavoid further agitation of himself by speech, and partly because he wastoo proud to betray that jealousy of disposition which was not soexhausted on his scholarly compeers that there was none to spare inother directions. There is a sort of jealousy which needs very littlefire: it is hardly a passion, but a blight bred in the cloudy, dampdespondency of uneasy egoism.

”I think it is time for us to dress,” he added, looking at his watch.They both rose, and there was never any further allusion between themto what had passed on this day.

But Dorothea remembered it to the last with the vividness with which weall remember epochs in our experience when some dear expectation dies,or some new motive is born. Today she had begun to see that she hadbeen under a wild illusion in expecting a response to her feeling fromMr. Casaubon, and she had felt the waking of a presentiment that theremight be a sad consciousness in his life which made as great a need onhis side as on her own.

We are all of us born in moral stupidity, taking the world as an udderto feed our supreme selves: Dorothea had early begun to emerge fromthat stupidity, but yet it had been easier to her to imagine how shewould devote herself to Mr. Casaubon, and become wise and strong in hisstrength and wisdom, than to conceive with that distinctness which isno longer reflection but feeling--an idea wrought back to thedirectness of sense, like the solidity of objects--that he had anequivalent centre of self, whence the lights and shadows must alwaysfall with a certain difference.