Middlemarch

CHAPTER II.

”'Dime; no ves aquel caballero que hacia nosotros viene sobre un caballo rucio rodado que trae puesto en la cabeza un yelmo de oro?' 'Lo que veo y columbro,' respondio Sancho, 'no es sino un hombre sobre un as no pardo como el mio, que trae sobre la cabeza una cosa que relumbra.' 'Pues ese es el yelmo de Mambrino,' dijo Don Quijote.”--CERVANTES.

”'Seest thou not yon cavalier who cometh toward us on a dapple-gray steed, and weareth a golden helmet?' 'What I see,' answered Sancho, 'is nothing but a man on a gray ass like my own, who carries something shiny on his head.' 'Just so,' answered Don Quixote: 'and that resplendent object is the helmet of Mambrino.'”

”Sir Humphry Davy?” said Mr. Brooke, over the soup, in his easy smilingway, taking up Sir James Chettam's remark that he was studying Davy'sAgricultural Chemistry. ”Well, now, Sir Humphry Davy; I dined with himyears ago at Cartwright's, and Wordsworth was there too--the poetWordsworth, you know. Now there was something singular. I was atCambridge when Wordsworth was there, and I never met him--and I dinedwith him twenty years afterwards at Cartwright's. There's an oddity inthings, now. But Davy was there: he was a poet too. Or, as I may say,Wordsworth was poet one, and Davy was poet two. That was true in everysense, you know.”

Dorothea felt a little more uneasy than usual. In the beginning ofdinner, the party being small and the room still, these motes from themass of a magistrate's mind fell too noticeably. She wondered how aman like Mr. Casaubon would support such triviality. His manners, shethought, were very dignified; the set of his iron-gray hair and hisdeep eye-sockets made him resemble the portrait of Locke. He had thespare form and the pale complexion which became a student; as differentas possible from the blooming Englishman of the red-whiskered typerepresented by Sir James Chettam.

”I am reading the Agricultural Chemistry,” said this excellent baronet,”because I am going to take one of the farms into my own hands, and seeif something cannot be done in setting a good pattern of farming amongmy tenants. Do you approve of that, Miss Brooke?”

”A great mistake, Chettam,” interposed Mr. Brooke, ”going intoelectrifying your land and that kind of thing, and making a parlor ofyour cow-house. It won't do. I went into science a great deal myselfat one time; but I saw it would not do. It leads to everything; youcan let nothing alone. No, no--see that your tenants don't sell theirstraw, and that kind of thing; and give them draining-tiles, you know.But your fancy farming will not do--the most expensive sort of whistleyou can buy: you may as well keep a pack of hounds.”

”Surely,” said Dorothea, ”it is better to spend money in finding outhow men can make the most of the land which supports them all, than inkeeping dogs and horses only to gallop over it. It is not a sin tomake yourself poor in performing experiments for the good of all.”

She spoke with more energy than is expected of so young a lady, but SirJames had appealed to her. He was accustomed to do so, and she hadoften thought that she could urge him to many good actions when he washer brother-in-law.

Mr. Casaubon turned his eyes very markedly on Dorothea while she wasspeaking, and seemed to observe her newly.

”Young ladies don't understand political economy, you know,” said Mr.Brooke, smiling towards Mr. Casaubon. ”I remember when we were allreading Adam Smith. _There_ is a book, now. I took in all the newideas at one time--human perfectibility, now. But some say, historymoves in circles; and that may be very well argued; I have argued itmyself. The fact is, human reason may carry you a little too far--overthe hedge, in fact. It carried me a good way at one time; but I saw itwould not do. I pulled up; I pulled up in time. But not too hard. Ihave always been in favor of a little theory: we must have Thought;else we shall be landed back in the dark ages. But talking of books,there is Southey's 'Peninsular War.' I am reading that of a morning.You know Southey?”

”No” said Mr. Casaubon, not keeping pace with Mr. Brooke's impetuousreason, and thinking of the book only. ”I have little leisure for suchliterature just now. I have been using up my eyesight on oldcharacters lately; the fact is, I want a reader for my evenings; but Iam fastidious in voices, and I cannot endure listening to an imperfectreader. It is a misfortune, in some senses: I feed too much on theinward sources; I live too much with the dead. My mind is somethinglike the ghost of an ancient, wandering about the world and tryingmentally to construct it as it used to be, in spite of ruin andconfusing changes. But I find it necessary to use the utmost cautionabout my eyesight.”

This was the first time that Mr. Casaubon had spoken at any length. Hedelivered himself with precision, as if he had been called upon to makea public statement; and the balanced sing-song neatness of his speech,occasionally corresponded to by a movement of his head, was the moreconspicuous from its contrast with good Mr. Brooke's scrappyslovenliness. Dorothea said to herself that Mr. Casaubon was the mostinteresting man she had ever seen, not excepting even Monsieur Liret,the Vaudois clergyman who had given conferences on the history of theWaldenses. To reconstruct a past world, doubtless with a view to thehighest purposes of truth--what a work to be in any way present at, toassist in, though only as a lamp-holder! This elevating thought liftedher above her annoyance at being twitted with her ignorance ofpolitical economy, that never-explained science which was thrust as anextinguisher over all her lights.

”But you are fond of riding, Miss Brooke,” Sir James presently took anopportunity of saying. ”I should have thought you would enter a littleinto the pleasures of hunting. I wish you would let me send over achestnut horse for you to try. It has been trained for a lady. I sawyou on Saturday cantering over the hill on a nag not worthy of you. Mygroom shall bring Corydon for you every day, if you will only mentionthe time.”

”Thank you, you are very good. I mean to give up riding. I shall notride any more,” said Dorothea, urged to this brusque resolution by alittle annoyance that Sir James would be soliciting her attention whenshe wanted to give it all to Mr. Casaubon.

”No, that is too hard,” said Sir James, in a tone of reproach thatshowed strong interest. ”Your sister is given to self-mortification,is she not?” he continued, turning to Celia, who sat at his right hand.

”I think she is,” said Celia, feeling afraid lest she should saysomething that would not please her sister, and blushing as prettily aspossible above her necklace. ”She likes giving up.”

”If that were true, Celia, my giving-up would be self-indulgence, notself-mortification. But there may be good reasons for choosing not todo what is very agreeable,” said Dorothea.

Mr. Brooke was speaking at the same time, but it was evident that Mr.Casaubon was observing Dorothea, and she was aware of it.

”Exactly,” said Sir James. ”You give up from some high, generousmotive.”

”No, indeed, not exactly. I did not say that of myself,” answeredDorothea, reddening. Unlike Celia, she rarely blushed, and only fromhigh delight or anger. At this moment she felt angry with the perverseSir James. Why did he not pay attention to Celia, and leave her tolisten to Mr. Casaubon?--if that learned man would only talk, insteadof allowing himself to be talked to by Mr. Brooke, who was just theninforming him that the Reformation either meant something or it didnot, that he himself was a Protestant to the core, but that Catholicismwas a fact; and as to refusing an acre of your ground for a Romanistchapel, all men needed the bridle of religion, which, properlyspeaking, was the dread of a Hereafter.

”I made a great study of theology at one time,” said Mr. Brooke, as ifto explain the insight just manifested. ”I know something of allschools. I knew Wilberforce in his best days. Do you knowWilberforce?”

Mr. Casaubon said, ”No.”

”Well, Wilberforce was perhaps not enough of a thinker; but if I wentinto Parliament, as I have been asked to do, I should sit on theindependent bench, as Wilberforce did, and work at philanthropy.”

Mr. Casaubon bowed, and observed that it was a wide field.

”Yes,” said Mr. Brooke, with an easy smile, ”but I have documents. Ibegan a long while ago to collect documents. They want arranging, butwhen a question has struck me, I have written to somebody and got ananswer. I have documents at my back. But now, how do you arrange yourdocuments?”

”In pigeon-holes partly,” said Mr. Casaubon, with rather a startled airof effort.

”Ah, pigeon-holes will not do. I have tried pigeon-holes, buteverything gets mixed in pigeon-holes: I never know whether a paper isin A or Z.”

”I wish you would let me sort your papers for you, uncle,” saidDorothea. ”I would letter them all, and then make a list of subjectsunder each letter.”

Mr. Casaubon gravely smiled approval, and said to Mr. Brooke, ”You havean excellent secretary at hand, you perceive.”

”No, no,” said Mr. Brooke, shaking his head; ”I cannot let young ladiesmeddle with my documents. Young ladies are too flighty.”

Dorothea felt hurt. Mr. Casaubon would think that her uncle had somespecial reason for delivering this opinion, whereas the remark lay inhis mind as lightly as the broken wing of an insect among all the otherfragments there, and a chance current had sent it alighting on _her_.

When the two girls were in the drawing-room alone, Celia said--

”How very ugly Mr. Casaubon is!”

”Celia! He is one of the most distinguished-looking men I ever saw.He is remarkably like the portrait of Locke. He has the same deepeye-sockets.”

”Had Locke those two white moles with hairs on them?”

”Oh, I dare say! when people of a certain sort looked at him,” saidDorothea, walking away a little.

”Mr. Casaubon is so sallow.”

”All the better. I suppose you admire a man with the complexion of acochon de lait.”

”Dodo!” exclaimed Celia, looking after her in surprise. ”I never heardyou make such a comparison before.”

”Why should I make it before the occasion came? It is a goodcomparison: the match is perfect.”

Miss Brooke was clearly forgetting herself, and Celia thought so.

”I wonder you show temper, Dorothea.”

”It is so painful in you, Celia, that you will look at human beings asif they were merely animals with a toilet, and never see the great soulin a man's face.”

”Has Mr. Casaubon a great soul?” Celia was not without a touch of naivemalice.

”Yes, I believe he has,” said Dorothea, with the full voice ofdecision. ”Everything I see in him corresponds to his pamphlet onBiblical Cosmology.”

”He talks very little,” said Celia

”There is no one for him to talk to.”

Celia thought privately, ”Dorothea quite despises Sir James Chettam; Ibelieve she would not accept him.” Celia felt that this was a pity.She had never been deceived as to the object of the baronet's interest.Sometimes, indeed, she had reflected that Dodo would perhaps not make ahusband happy who had not her way of looking at things; and stifled inthe depths of her heart was the feeling that her sister was tooreligious for family comfort. Notions and scruples were like spiltneedles, making one afraid of treading, or sitting down, or even eating.

When Miss Brooke was at the tea-table, Sir James came to sit down byher, not having felt her mode of answering him at all offensive. Whyshould he? He thought it probable that Miss Brooke liked him, andmanners must be very marked indeed before they cease to be interpretedby preconceptions either confident or distrustful. She was thoroughlycharming to him, but of course he theorized a little about hisattachment. He was made of excellent human dough, and had the raremerit of knowing that his talents, even if let loose, would not set thesmallest stream in the county on fire: hence he liked the prospect of awife to whom he could say, ”What shall we do?” about this or that; whocould help her husband out with reasons, and would also have theproperty qualification for doing so. As to the excessive religiousnessalleged against Miss Brooke, he had a very indefinite notion of what itconsisted in, and thought that it would die out with marriage. Inshort, he felt himself to be in love in the right place, and was readyto endure a great deal of predominance, which, after all, a man couldalways put down when he liked. Sir James had no idea that he shouldever like to put down the predominance of this handsome girl, in whosecleverness he delighted. Why not? A man's mind--what there is ofit--has always the advantage of being masculine,--as the smallestbirch-tree is of a higher kind than the most soaring palm,--and evenhis ignorance is of a sounder quality. Sir James might not haveoriginated this estimate; but a kind Providence furnishes the limpestpersonality with a little gum or starch in the form of tradition.

”Let me hope that you will rescind that resolution about the horse,Miss Brooke,” said the persevering admirer. ”I assure you, riding isthe most healthy of exercises.”

”I am aware of it,” said Dorothea, coldly. ”I think it would do Celiagood--if she would take to it.”

”But you are such a perfect horsewoman.”

”Excuse me; I have had very little practice, and I should be easilythrown.”

”Then that is a reason for more practice. Every lady ought to be aperfect horsewoman, that she may accompany her husband.”

”You see how widely we differ, Sir James. I have made up my mind thatI ought not to be a perfect horsewoman, and so I should nevercorrespond to your pattern of a lady.” Dorothea looked straight beforeher, and spoke with cold brusquerie, very much with the air of ahandsome boy, in amusing contrast with the solicitous amiability of heradmirer.

”I should like to know your reasons for this cruel resolution. It isnot possible that you should think horsemanship wrong.”

”It is quite possible that I should think it wrong for me.”

”Oh, why?” said Sir James, in a tender tone of remonstrance.

Mr. Casaubon had come up to the table, teacup in hand, and waslistening.

”We must not inquire too curiously into motives,” he interposed, in hismeasured way. ”Miss Brooke knows that they are apt to become feeble inthe utterance: the aroma is mixed with the grosser air. We must keepthe germinating grain away from the light.”

Dorothea colored with pleasure, and looked up gratefully to thespeaker. Here was a man who could understand the higher inward life,and with whom there could be some spiritual communion; nay, who couldilluminate principle with the widest knowledge a man whose learningalmost amounted to a proof of whatever he believed!

Dorothea's inferences may seem large; but really life could never havegone on at any period but for this liberal allowance of conclusions,which has facilitated marriage under the difficulties of civilization.Has any one ever pinched into its pilulous smallness the cobweb ofpre-matrimonial acquaintanceship?

”Certainly,” said good Sir James. ”Miss Brooke shall not be urged totell reasons she would rather be silent upon. I am sure her reasonswould do her honor.”

He was not in the least jealous of the interest with which Dorothea hadlooked up at Mr. Casaubon: it never occurred to him that a girl to whomhe was meditating an offer of marriage could care for a dried bookwormtowards fifty, except, indeed, in a religious sort of way, as for aclergyman of some distinction.

However, since Miss Brooke had become engaged in a conversation withMr. Casaubon about the Vaudois clergy, Sir James betook himself toCelia, and talked to her about her sister; spoke of a house in town,and asked whether Miss Brooke disliked London. Away from her sister,Celia talked quite easily, and Sir James said to himself that thesecond Miss Brooke was certainly very agreeable as well as pretty,though not, as some people pretended, more clever and sensible than theelder sister. He felt that he had chosen the one who was in allrespects the superior; and a man naturally likes to look forward tohaving the best. He would be the very Mawworm of bachelors whopretended not to expect it.