Chapter V
Hard students are commonly troubled with gowts,
catarrhs, rheums, cachexia, bradypepsia, bad eyes, stone,
and collick, erudities, oppilations, vertigo, winds,
consumptions, and all such diseases as come by over-much
sitting: they are most part lean, dry, ill-colored . . . and
all through immoderate pains and extraordinary studies. If
you will not believe the truth of this, look upon great
Tostatus and Thomas Aquainas' works; and tell me whether
those men took pains. — BURTON'S Anatomy of Melancholy, P.
I. s. 2.
This was Mr. Casaubon's letter.
MY DEAR MISS BROOKE, — I have your guardian's permission
to address you on a subject than which I have none more at
heart. I am not, I trust, mistaken in the recognition of
some deeper correspondence than that of date in the fact
that a consciousness of need in my own life had arisen
contemporaneously with the possibility of my becoming
acquainted with you. For in the first hour of meeting you,
I had an impression of your eminent and perhaps exclusive
fitness to supply that need (connected, I may say, with such
activity of the affections as even the preoccupations of a
work too special to be abdicated could not uninterruptedly
dissimulate); and each succeeding opportunity for
observation has given the impression an added depth by
convincing me more emphatically of that fitness which I had
preconceived, and thus evoking more decisively those
affections to which I have but now referred. Our
conversations have, I think, made sufficiently clear to you
the tenor of my life and purposes: a tenor unsuited, I am
aware, to the commoner order of minds. But I have discerned
in you an elevation of thought and a capability of
devotedness, which I had hitherto not conceived to be
compatible either with the early bloom of youth or with
those graces of sex that may be said at once to win and to
confer distinction when combined, as they notably are in
you, with
the mental qualities above indicated. It was,
I confess, beyond my hope to meet with this rare combination
of elements both solid and attractive, adapted to supply aid
in graver labors and to cast a charm over vacant hours; and
but for the event of my introduction to you (which, let me
again say, I trust not to be superficially coincident with
foreshadowing needs, but providentially related thereto as
stages towards the completion of a life's plan), I should
presumably have gone on to the last without any attempt to
lighten my solitariness by a matrimonial union.
Such, my dear Miss Brooke, is the accurate statement of
my feelings; and I rely on your kind indulgence in venturing
now to ask you how far your own are of a nature to confirm
my happy presentiment. To be accepted by you as your
husband and the earthly guardian of your welfare, I should
regard as the highest of providential gifts. In return I
can at least offer you an affection hitherto unwasted, and
the faithful consecration of a life which, however short in
the sequel, has no backward pages whereon, if you choose to
turn them, you will find records such as might justly cause
you either bitterness or shame. I await the expression of
your sentiments with an anxiety which it would be the part
of wisdom (were it possible) to divert by a more arduous
labor than usual. But in this order of experience I am
still young, and in looking forward to an unfavorable
possibility I cannot but feel that resignation to solitude
will be more difficult after the temporary illumination of
hope.
In any case, I shall remain,
Yours with sincere devotion,
EDWARD CASAUBON.
Dorothea trembled while she read this letter; then she
fell on her knees, buried her face, and sobbed. She could
not pray: under the rush of solemn emotion in which thoughts
became vague and images floated uncertainly, she could but
cast herself, with a childlike sense of reclining, in the
lap of a divine consciousness which sustained her own. She
remained in that attitude till it was time to dress for
dinner.
How could it occur to her to examine the letter, to look
at it critically as a profession of love? Her whole soul
was possessed by the fact that a fuller life was opening
before her: she was a neophyte about to enter on a higher
grade of initiation. She was going to have room for the
energies which
stirred uneasily under the dimness and
pressure of her own ignorance and the petty peremptoriness
of the world's habits.
Now she would be able to devote herself to large yet
definite duties; now she would be allowed to live
continually in the light of a mind that she could reverence.
This hope was not unmixed with the glow of proud delight —
the joyous maiden surprise that she was chosen by the man
whom her admiration had chosen. All Dorothea's passion was
transfused through a mind struggling towards an ideal life;
the radiance of her transfigured girlhood fell on the first
object that came within its level. The impetus with which
inclination became resolution was heightened by those little
events of the day which had roused her discontent with the
actual conditions of her life.
After dinner, when Celia was playing an "air, with
variations," a small kind of tinkling which symbolized the
aesthetic part of the young ladies' education, Dorothea went
up to her room to answer Mr. Casaubon's letter. Why should
she defer the answer? She wrote it over three times, not
because she wished to change the wording, but because her
hand was unusually uncertain, and she could not bear that
Mr. Casaubon should think her handwriting bad and illegible.
She piqued herself on writing a hand in which each letter
was distinguishable without any large range of conjecture,
and she meant to make much use of this accomplishment, to
save Mr. Casaubon's eyes. Three times she wrote.
MY DEAR MR. CASAUBON, — I am very grateful to you for
loving me, and thinking me worthy to be your wife. I can
look forward to no better happiness than that which would be
one with yours. If I said more, it would only be the same
thing written out at greater length, for I cannot now dwell
on any other thought than that I may be through life
Yours devotedly,
DOROTHEA BROOKE.
Later in the evening she followed her uncle into the
library to give him the letter, that he might send it in the
morning. He was surprised, but his surprise only issued in
a few moments' silence, during which he pushed about various
objects
on his writing-table, and finally stood with his
back to the fire, his glasses on his nose, looking at the
address of Dorothea's letter.
"Have you thought enough about this, my dear?" he said
at last.
"There was no need to think long, uncle. I know of
nothing to make me vacillate. If I changed my mind, it must
be because of something important and entirely new to me."
"Ah! — then you have accepted him? Then Chettam has no
chance? Has Chettam offended you — offended you, you know?
What is it you don't like in Chettam?"
"There is nothing that I like in him," said Dorothea,
rather impetuously.
Mr. Brooke threw his head and shoulders backward as if
some one had thrown a light missile at him. Dorothea
immediately felt some self-rebuke, and said —
"I mean in the light of a husband. He is very kind, I
think — really very good about the cottages. A well-meaning
man."
"But you must have a scholar, and that sort of thing?
Well, it lies a little in our family. I had it myself — that
love of knowledge, and going into everything — a little too
much — it took me too far; though that sort of thing doesn't
often run in the female-line; or it runs underground like
the rivers in Greece, you know — it comes out in the sons.
Clever sons, clever mothers. I went a good deal into that,
at one time. However, my dear, I have always said that
people should do as they like in these things, up to a
certain point. I couldn't, as your guardian, have consented
to a bad match. But Casaubon stands well: his position is
good. I am afraid Chettam will be hurt, though, and Mrs.
Cadwallader will blame me."
That evening, of course, Celia knew nothing of what had
happened. She attributed Dorothea's abstracted manner, and
the evidence of further crying since they had got home, to
the temper she had been in about Sir James Chettam and the
buildings, and was careful not to give further offence:
having once said what she wanted to say, Celia had no
disposition to
recur to disagreeable subjects. It had
been her nature when a child never to quarrel with any one —
only to observe with wonder that they quarrelled with her,
and looked like turkey-cocks; whereupon she was ready to
play at cat's cradle with them whenever they recovered
themselves. And as to Dorothea, it had always been her way
to find something wrong in her sister's words, though Celia
inwardly protested that she always said just how things
were, and nothing else: she never did and never could put
words together out of her own head. But the best of Dodo
was, that she did not keep angry for long together. Now,
though they had hardly spoken to each other all the evening,
yet when Celia put by her work, intending to go to bed, a
proceeding in which she was always much the earlier,
Dorothea, who was seated on a low stool, unable to occupy
herself except in meditation, said, with the musical
intonation which in moments of deep but quiet feeling made
her speech like a fine bit of recitative —
"Celia, dear, come and kiss me," holding her arms open
as she spoke.
Celia knelt down to get the right level and gave her
little butterfly kiss, while Dorothea encircled her with
gentle arms and pressed her lips gravely on each cheek in
turn.
"Don't sit up, Dodo, you are so pale to-night: go to bed
soon," said Celia, in a comfortable way, without any touch
of pathos.
"No, dear, I am very, very happy," said Dorothea,
fervently.
"So much the better," thought Celia. " But how
strangely Dodo goes from one extreme to the other."
The next day, at luncheon, the butler, handing something
to Mr. Brooke, said, "Jonas is come back, sir, and has
brought this letter."
Mr. Brooke read the letter, and then, nodding toward
Dorothea, said, "Casaubon, my dear: he will be here to
dinner; he didn't wait to write more — didn't wait, you
know."
It could not seem remarkable to Celia that a dinner
guest should be announced to her sister beforehand, but, her
eyes following the same direction as her uncle's, she was
struck with the peculiar effect of the announcement on
Dorothea. It
seemed as if something like the reflection
of a white sunlit wing had passed across her features,
ending in one of her rare blushes. For the first time it
entered into Celia's mind that there might be something more
between Mr. Casaubon and her sister than his delight in
bookish talk and her delight in listening. Hitherto she had
classed the admiration for this "ugly" and learned
acquaintance with the admiration for Monsieur Liret at
Lausanne, also ugly and learned. Dorothea had never been
tired of listening to old Monsieur Liret when Celia's feet
were as cold as possible, and when it had really become
dreadful to see the skin of his bald head moving about. Why
then should her enthusiasm not extend to Mr. Casaubon simply
in the same way as to Monsieur Liret? And it seemed
probable that all learned men had a sort of schoolmaster's
view of young people.
But now Celia was really startled at the suspicion which
had darted into her mind. She was seldom taken by surprise
in this way, her marvellous quickness in observing a certain
order of signs generally preparing her to expect such
outward events as she had an interest in. Not that she now
imagined Mr. Casaubon to be already an accepted lover: she
had only begun to feel disgust at the possibility that
anything in Dorothea's mind could tend towards such an
issue. Here was something really to vex her about Dodo: it
was all very well not to accept Sir James Chettam, but the
idea of marrying Mr. Casaubon! Celia felt a sort of shame
mingled with a sense of the ludicrous. But perhaps Dodo, if
she were really bordering on such an extravagance, might be
turned away from it: experience had often shown that her
impressibility might be calculated on. The day was damp,
and they were not going to walk out, so they both went up to
their sitting-room; and there Celia observed that Dorothea,
instead of settling down with her usual diligent interest to
some occupation, simply leaned her elbow on an open book and
looked out of the window at the great cedar silvered with
the damp. She herself had taken up the making of a toy for
the curate's children, and was not going to enter on any
subject too precipitately.
Dorothea was in fact thinking that it was desirable for
Celia to know of the momentous change in Mr. Casaubon's
position since he had last been in the house: it did not
seem fair to leave her in ignorance of what would
necessarily affect her attitude towards him; but it was
impossible not to shrink from telling her. Dorothea accused
herself of some meanness in this timidity: it was always
odious to her to have any small fears or contrivances about
her actions, but at this moment she was seeking the highest
aid possible that she might not dread the corrosiveness of
Celia's pretty carnally minded prose. Her reverie was
broken, and the difficulty of decision banished, by Celia's
small and rather guttural voice speaking in its usual tone,
of a remark aside or a "by the bye."
"Is any one else coming to dine besides Mr. Casaubon?"
"Not that I know of."
"I hope there is some one else. Then I shall not hear
him eat his soup so."
"What is there remarkable about his soup-eating?"
"Really, Dodo, can't you hear how he scrapes his spoon?
And he always blinks before he speaks. I don't know whether
Locke blinked, but I'm sure I am sorry for those who sat
opposite to him if he did."
"Celia," said Dorothea, with emphatic gravity, "pray
don't make any more observations of that kind."
"Why not? They are quite true," returned Celia, who had
her reasons for persevering, though she was beginning to be
a little afraid.
"Many things are true which only the commonest minds
observe."
"Then I think the commonest minds must be rather useful.
I think it is a pity Mr. Casaubon's mother had not a
commoner mind: she might have taught him better." Celia was
inwardly frightened, and ready to run away, now she had
hurled this light javelin.
Dorothea's feelings had gathered to an avalanche, and
there could be no further preparation.
"It is right to tell you, Celia, that I am engaged to
marry Mr. Casaubon."
Perhaps Celia had never turned so pale before. The
paper man she was making would have had his leg injured, but
for her habitual care of whatever she held in her hands.
She laid the fragile figure down at once, and sat perfectly
still for a few moments. When she spoke there was a tear
gathering
"Oh, Dodo, I hope you will be happy." Her sisterly
tenderness could not but surmount other feelings at this
moment, and her fears were the fears of affection.
Dorothea was still hurt and agitated.
"It is quite decided, then?" said Celia, in an awed
under tone. "And uncle knows?"
"I have accepted Mr. Casaubon's offer. My uncle brought
me the letter that contained it; he knew about it
beforehand."
"I beg your pardon, if I have said anything to hurt you,
Dodo," said Celia, with a slight sob. She never could have
thought that she should feel as she did. There was
something funereal in the whole affair, and Mr. Casaubon
seemed to be the officiating clergyman, about whom it would
be indecent to make remarks.
"Never mind, Kitty, do not grieve. We should never
admire the same people. I often offend in something of the
same way; I am apt to speak too strongly of those who don't
please me."
In spite of this magnanimity Dorothea was still
smarting: perhaps as much from Celia's subdued astonishment
as from her small criticisms. Of course all the world round
Tipton would be out of sympathy with this marriage.
Dorothea knew of no one who thought as she did about life
and its best objects.
Nevertheless before the evening was at an end she was
very happy. In an hour's tête-à-tête
with Mr. Casaubon
she talked o him with more freedom than she had ever felt
before, even pouring out her joy at the thought of devoting
herself to him, and of learning how she might best share and
further all his great ends. Mr. Casaubon was touched with
an unknown delight (what man would not have been?) at this
childlike unrestrained ardor: he was not surprised (what
lover would have been?) that he should be the object of it.
"My dear young lady — Miss Brooke — Dorothea!" he said,
pressing her hand between his hands, " this is a happiness
greater than I had ever imagined to be in reserve for me.
That I should ever meet with a mind and person so rich in
the mingled graces which could render marriage desirable,
was far indeed from my conception. You have all — nay, more
than all — those qualities which I have ever regarded as the
characteristic excellences of womanhood. The great charm of
your sex is its capability of an ardent self-sacrificing
affection, and herein we see its fitness to round and
complete the existence of our own. Hitherto I have known
few pleasures save of the severer kind: my satisfactions
have been those of the solitary student. I have been little
disposed to gather flowers that would wither in my hand, but
now I shall pluck them with eagerness, to place them in your
bosom."
No speech could have been more thoroughly honest in its
intention: the frigid rhetoric at the end was as sincere as
the bark of a dog, or the cawing of an amorous rook. Would
it not be rash to conclude that there was no passion behind
those sonnets to Delia which strike us as the thin music of
a mandolin?
Dorothea's faith supplied all that Mr. Casaubon's words
seemed to leave unsaid: what believer sees a disturbing
omission or infelicity? The text, whether of prophet or of
poet, expands for whatever we can put into it, and even his
bad grammar is sublime.
"I am very ignorant — you will quite wonder at my
ignorance," said Dorothea. I have so many thoughts that may
be quite mistaken; and now I shall be able to tell them all
to you, and ask you about them. But," she added, with rapid
imagination of Mr. Casaubon's probable feeling, "I will not
trouble you too much; only when you are inclined to listen
to me. You must often be weary with the pursuit of subjects
in your own track. I shall gain enough if you will take me
with you there."
"How should I be able now to persevere in any path
without your companionship?" said Mr. Casaubon, kissing her
candid brow, and feeling that heaven had vouchsafed him a
blessing
in every way suited to his peculiar wants. He
was being unconsciously wrought upon by the charms of a
nature which was entirely without hidden calculations either
for immediate effects or for remoter ends. It was this
which made Dorothea so childlike, and, according to some
judges, so stupid, with all her reputed cleverness; as, for
example, in the present case of throwing herself,
metaphorically speaking, at Mr. Casaubon's feet, and kissing
his unfashionable shoe-ties as if he were a Protestant Pope.
She was not in the least teaching Mr. Casaubon to ask if he
were good enough for her, but merely asking herself
anxiously how she could be good enough for Mr. Casaubon.
Before he left the next day it had been decided that the
marriage should take place within six weeks. Why slot? Mr.
Casaubon's house was ready. It was not a parsonage, but a
considerable mansion, with much land attached to it. The
parsonage was inhabited by the curate, who did all the duty
except preaching the morning sermon.