CHAPTER II

“‘Dime; no ves aquel caballero que hacia nosotros viene sobre unrncaballo rucio rodado que trae puesto en la cabeza un yelmo de oro?’ ‘Lornque veo y columbro,’ respondio Sancho, ‘no es sino un hombre sobre unrnas no pardo como el mio, que trae sobre la cabeza una cosa quernrelumbra.’ ‘Pues ese es el yelmo de Mambrino,’ dijo DonrnQuijote.”—CERVANTES.rnrnrn“‘Seest thou not yon cavalier who cometh toward us on a dapple-grayrnsteed, and weareth a golden helmet?’ ‘What I see,’ answered Sancho, ‘isrnnothing but a man on a gray ass like my own, who carries somethingrnshiny on his head.’ ‘Just so,’ answered Don Quixote: ‘and thatrnresplendent object is the helmet of Mambrino.’”rnrnrn“Sir Humphry Davy?” said Mr. Brooke, over the soup, in his easy smilingrnway, taking up Sir James Chettam’s remark that he was studying Davy’srnAgricultural Chemistry. “Well, now, Sir Humphry Davy; I dined with himrnyears ago at Cartwright’s, and Wordsworth was there too—the poetrnWordsworth, you know. Now there was something singular. I was atrnCambridge when Wordsworth was there, and I never met him—and I dinedrnwith him twenty years afterwards at Cartwright’s. There’s an oddity inrnthings, now. But Davy was there: he was a poet too. Or, as I may say,rnWordsworth was poet one, and Davy was poet two. That was true in everyrnsense, you know.”rnrnDorothea felt a little more uneasy than usual. In the beginning ofrndinner, the party being small and the room still, these motes from thernmass of a magistrate’s mind fell too noticeably. She wondered how a manrnlike Mr. Casaubon would support such triviality. His manners, shernthought, were very dignified; the set of his iron-gray hair and hisrndeep eye-sockets made him resemble the portrait of Locke. He had thernspare form and the pale complexion which became a student; as differentrnas possible from the blooming Englishman of the red-whiskered typernrepresented by Sir James Chettam.rnrn“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 seernif something cannot be done in setting a good pattern of farming amongrnmy tenants. Do you approve of that, Miss Brooke?”rnrn“A great mistake, Chettam,” interposed Mr. Brooke, “going intornelectrifying your land and that kind of thing, and making a parlor ofrnyour cow-house. It won’t do. I went into science a great deal myself atrnone time; but I saw it would not do. It leads to everything; you canrnlet nothing alone. No, no—see that your tenants don’t sell their straw,rnand that kind of thing; and give them draining-tiles, you know. Butrnyour fancy farming will not do—the most expensive sort of whistle yourncan buy: you may as well keep a pack of hounds.”rnrn“Surely,” said Dorothea, “it is better to spend money in finding outrnhow men can make the most of the land which supports them all, than inrnkeeping dogs and horses only to gallop over it. It is not a sin to makernyourself poor in performing experiments for the good of all.”rnrnShe spoke with more energy than is expected of so young a lady, but SirrnJames had appealed to her. He was accustomed to do so, and she hadrnoften thought that she could urge him to many good actions when he wasrnher brother-in-law.rnrnMr. Casaubon turned his eyes very markedly on Dorothea while she wasrnspeaking, and seemed to observe her newly.rnrn“Young ladies don’t understand political economy, you know,” said Mr.rnBrooke, smiling towards Mr. Casaubon. “I remember when we were allrnreading Adam Smith. _There_ is a book, now. I took in all the new ideasrnat one time—human perfectibility, now. But some say, history moves inrncircles; and that may be very well argued; I have argued it myself. Thernfact is, human reason may carry you a little too far—over the hedge, inrnfact. It carried me a good way at one time; but I saw it would not do.rnI pulled up; I pulled up in time. But not too hard. I have always beenrnin favor of a little theory: we must have Thought; else we shall bernlanded back in the dark ages. But talking of books, there is Southey’srn‘Peninsular War.’ I am reading that of a morning. You know Southey?”rnrn“No,” said Mr. Casaubon, not keeping pace with Mr. Brooke’s impetuousrnreason, and thinking of the book only. “I have little leisure for suchrnliterature just now. I have been using up my eyesight on old charactersrnlately; the fact is, I want a reader for my evenings; but I amrnfastidious in voices, and I cannot endure listening to an imperfectrnreader. It is a misfortune, in some senses: I feed too much on therninward sources; I live too much with the dead. My mind is somethingrnlike the ghost of an ancient, wandering about the world and tryingrnmentally to construct it as it used to be, in spite of ruin andrnconfusing changes. But I find it necessary to use the utmost cautionrnabout my eyesight.”rnrnThis was the first time that Mr. Casaubon had spoken at any length. Herndelivered himself with precision, as if he had been called upon to makerna public statement; and the balanced sing-song neatness of his speech,rnoccasionally corresponded to by a movement of his head, was the morernconspicuous from its contrast with good Mr. Brooke’s scrappyrnslovenliness. Dorothea said to herself that Mr. Casaubon was the mostrninteresting man she had ever seen, not excepting even Monsieur Liret,rnthe Vaudois clergyman who had given conferences on the history of thernWaldenses. To reconstruct a past world, doubtless with a view to thernhighest purposes of truth—what a work to be in any way present at, tornassist in, though only as a lamp-holder! This elevating thought liftedrnher above her annoyance at being twitted with her ignorance ofrnpolitical economy, that never-explained science which was thrust as anrnextinguisher over all her lights.rnrn“But you are fond of riding, Miss Brooke,” Sir James presently took anrnopportunity of saying. “I should have thought you would enter a littlerninto the pleasures of hunting. I wish you would let me send over arnchestnut horse for you to try. It has been trained for a lady. I sawrnyou on Saturday cantering over the hill on a nag not worthy of you. Myrngroom shall bring Corydon for you every day, if you will only mentionrnthe time.”rnrn“Thank you, you are very good. I mean to give up riding. I shall notrnride any more,” said Dorothea, urged to this brusque resolution by arnlittle annoyance that Sir James would be soliciting her attention whenrnshe wanted to give it all to Mr. Casaubon.rnrn“No, that is too hard,” said Sir James, in a tone of reproach thatrnshowed strong interest. “Your sister is given to self-mortification, isrnshe not?” he continued, turning to Celia, who sat at his right hand.rnrn“I think she is,” said Celia, feeling afraid lest she should sayrnsomething that would not please her sister, and blushing as prettily asrnpossible above her necklace. “She likes giving up.”rnrn“If that were true, Celia, my giving-up would be self-indulgence, notrnself-mortification. But there may be good reasons for choosing not torndo what is very agreeable,” said Dorothea.rnrnMr. Brooke was speaking at the same time, but it was evident that Mr.rnCasaubon was observing Dorothea, and she was aware of it.rnrn“Exactly,” said Sir James. “You give up from some high, generousrnmotive.”rnrn“No, indeed, not exactly. I did not say that of myself,” answeredrnDorothea, reddening. Unlike Celia, she rarely blushed, and only fromrnhigh delight or anger. At this moment she felt angry with the perversernSir James. Why did he not pay attention to Celia, and leave her tornlisten to Mr. Casaubon?—if that learned man would only talk, instead ofrnallowing himself to be talked to by Mr. Brooke, who was just thenrninforming him that the Reformation either meant something or it didrnnot, that he himself was a Protestant to the core, but that Catholicismrnwas a fact; and as to refusing an acre of your ground for a Romanistrnchapel, all men needed the bridle of religion, which, properlyrnspeaking, was the dread of a Hereafter.rnrn“I made a great study of theology at one time,” said Mr. Brooke, as ifrnto explain the insight just manifested. “I know something of allrnschools. I knew Wilberforce in his best days. Do you know Wilberforce?”rnrnMr. Casaubon said, “No.”rnrn“Well, Wilberforce was perhaps not enough of a thinker; but if I wentrninto Parliament, as I have been asked to do, I should sit on thernindependent bench, as Wilberforce did, and work at philanthropy.”rnrnMr. Casaubon bowed, and observed that it was a wide field.rnrn“Yes,” said Mr. Brooke, with an easy smile, “but I have documents. Irnbegan a long while ago to collect documents. They want arranging, butrnwhen a question has struck me, I have written to somebody and got anrnanswer. I have documents at my back. But now, how do you arrange yourrndocuments?”rnrn“In pigeon-holes partly,” said Mr. Casaubon, with rather a startled airrnof effort.rnrn“Ah, pigeon-holes will not do. I have tried pigeon-holes, butrneverything gets mixed in pigeon-holes: I never know whether a paper isrnin A or Z.”rnrn“I wish you would let me sort your papers for you, uncle,” saidrnDorothea. “I would letter them all, and then make a list of subjectsrnunder each letter.”rnrnMr. Casaubon gravely smiled approval, and said to Mr. Brooke, “You havernan excellent secretary at hand, you perceive.”rnrn“No, no,” said Mr. Brooke, shaking his head; “I cannot let young ladiesrnmeddle with my documents. Young ladies are too flighty.”rnrnDorothea felt hurt. Mr. Casaubon would think that her uncle had somernspecial reason for delivering this opinion, whereas the remark lay inrnhis mind as lightly as the broken wing of an insect among all the otherrnfragments there, and a chance current had sent it alighting on _her_.rnrnWhen the two girls were in the drawing-room alone, Celia said—rnrn“How very ugly Mr. Casaubon is!”rnrn“Celia! He is one of the most distinguished-looking men I ever saw. Hernis remarkably like the portrait of Locke. He has the same deeprneye-sockets.”rnrn“Had Locke those two white moles with hairs on them?”rnrn“Oh, I dare say! when people of a certain sort looked at him,” saidrnDorothea, walking away a little.rnrn“Mr. Casaubon is so sallow.”rnrn“All the better. I suppose you admire a man with the complexion of arn_cochon de lait_.”rnrn“Dodo!” exclaimed Celia, looking after her in surprise. “I never heardrnyou make such a comparison before.”rnrn“Why should I make it before the occasion came? It is a goodrncomparison: the match is perfect.”rnrnMiss Brooke was clearly forgetting herself, and Celia thought so.rnrn“I wonder you show temper, Dorothea.”rnrn“It is so painful in you, Celia, that you will look at human beings asrnif they were merely animals with a toilet, and never see the great soulrnin a man’s face.”rnrn“Has Mr. Casaubon a great soul?” Celia was not without a touch of naivernmalice.rnrn“Yes, I believe he has,” said Dorothea, with the full voice ofrndecision. “Everything I see in him corresponds to his pamphlet onrnBiblical Cosmology.”rnrn“He talks very little,” said Celiarnrn“There is no one for him to talk to.”rnrnCelia thought privately, “Dorothea quite despises Sir James Chettam; Irnbelieve she would not accept him.” Celia felt that this was a pity. Shernhad never been deceived as to the object of the baronet’s interest.rnSometimes, indeed, she had reflected that Dodo would perhaps not make arnhusband happy who had not her way of looking at things; and stifled inrnthe depths of her heart was the feeling that her sister was toornreligious for family comfort. Notions and scruples were like spiltrnneedles, making one afraid of treading, or sitting down, or evenrneating.rnrnWhen Miss Brooke was at the tea-table, Sir James came to sit down byrnher, not having felt her mode of answering him at all offensive. Whyrnshould he? He thought it probable that Miss Brooke liked him, andrnmanners must be very marked indeed before they cease to be interpretedrnby preconceptions either confident or distrustful. She was thoroughlyrncharming to him, but of course he theorized a little about hisrnattachment. He was made of excellent human dough, and had the rarernmerit of knowing that his talents, even if let loose, would not set thernsmallest stream in the county on fire: hence he liked the prospect of arnwife to whom he could say, “What shall we do?” about this or that; whorncould help her husband out with reasons, and would also have thernproperty qualification for doing so. As to the excessive religiousnessrnalleged against Miss Brooke, he had a very indefinite notion of what itrnconsisted in, and thought that it would die out with marriage. Inrnshort, he felt himself to be in love in the right place, and was readyrnto endure a great deal of predominance, which, after all, a man couldrnalways put down when he liked. Sir James had no idea that he shouldrnever like to put down the predominance of this handsome girl, in whoserncleverness he delighted. Why not? A man’s mind—what there is of it—hasrnalways the advantage of being masculine,—as the smallest birch-tree isrnof a higher kind than the most soaring palm,—and even his ignorance isrnof a sounder quality. Sir James might not have originated thisrnestimate; but a kind Providence furnishes the limpest personality withrna little gum or starch in the form of tradition.rnrn“Let me hope that you will rescind that resolution about the horse,rnMiss Brooke,” said the persevering admirer. “I assure you, riding isrnthe most healthy of exercises.”rnrn“I am aware of it,” said Dorothea, coldly. “I think it would do Celiarngood—if she would take to it.”rnrn“But you are such a perfect horsewoman.”rnrn“Excuse me; I have had very little practice, and I should be easilyrnthrown.”rnrn“Then that is a reason for more practice. Every lady ought to be arnperfect horsewoman, that she may accompany her husband.”rnrn“You see how widely we differ, Sir James. I have made up my mind that Irnought not to be a perfect horsewoman, and so I should never correspondrnto your pattern of a lady.” Dorothea looked straight before her, andrnspoke with cold brusquerie, very much with the air of a handsome boy,rnin amusing contrast with the solicitous amiability of her admirer.rnrn“I should like to know your reasons for this cruel resolution. It isrnnot possible that you should think horsemanship wrong.”rnrn“It is quite possible that I should think it wrong for me.”rnrn“Oh, why?” said Sir James, in a tender tone of remonstrance.rnrnMr. Casaubon had come up to the table, teacup in hand, and wasrnlistening.rnrn“We must not inquire too curiously into motives,” he interposed, in hisrnmeasured way. “Miss Brooke knows that they are apt to become feeble inrnthe utterance: the aroma is mixed with the grosser air. We must keeprnthe germinating grain away from the light.”rnrnDorothea colored with pleasure, and looked up gratefully to thernspeaker. Here was a man who could understand the higher inward life,rnand with whom there could be some spiritual communion; nay, who couldrnilluminate principle with the widest knowledge: a man whose learningrnalmost amounted to a proof of whatever he believed!rnrnDorothea’s inferences may seem large; but really life could never haverngone on at any period but for this liberal allowance of conclusions,rnwhich has facilitated marriage under the difficulties of civilization.rnHas any one ever pinched into its pilulous smallness the cobweb ofrnpre-matrimonial acquaintanceship?rnrn“Certainly,” said good Sir James. “Miss Brooke shall not be urged torntell reasons she would rather be silent upon. I am sure her reasonsrnwould do her honor.”rnrnHe was not in the least jealous of the interest with which Dorothea hadrnlooked up at Mr. Casaubon: it never occurred to him that a girl to whomrnhe was meditating an offer of marriage could care for a dried bookwormrntowards fifty, except, indeed, in a religious sort of way, as for arnclergyman of some distinction.rnrnHowever, since Miss Brooke had become engaged in a conversation withrnMr. Casaubon about the Vaudois clergy, Sir James betook himself tornCelia, and talked to her about her sister; spoke of a house in town,rnand asked whether Miss Brooke disliked London. Away from her sister,rnCelia talked quite easily, and Sir James said to himself that thernsecond Miss Brooke was certainly very agreeable as well as pretty,rnthough not, as some people pretended, more clever and sensible than thernelder sister. He felt that he had chosen the one who was in allrnrespects the superior; and a man naturally likes to look forward tornhaving the best. He would be the very Mawworm of bachelors whornpretended not to expect it.