CHAPTER III

Say, goddess, what ensued, when Raphael,rnThe affable archangel . . . EvernThe story heard attentive, and was filledrnWith admiration, and deep muse, to hearrnOf things so high and strange.”—_Paradise Lost_, B. vii.rnrnrnIf it had really occurred to Mr. Casaubon to think of Miss Brooke as arnsuitable wife for him, the reasons that might induce her to accept himrnwere already planted in her mind, and by the evening of the next dayrnthe reasons had budded and bloomed. For they had had a longrnconversation in the morning, while Celia, who did not like the companyrnof Mr. Casaubon’s moles and sallowness, had escaped to the vicarage tornplay with the curate’s ill-shod but merry children.rnrnDorothea by this time had looked deep into the ungauged reservoir ofrnMr. Casaubon’s mind, seeing reflected there in vague labyrinthinernextension every quality she herself brought; had opened much of her ownrnexperience to him, and had understood from him the scope of his greatrnwork, also of attractively labyrinthine extent. For he had been asrninstructive as Milton’s “affable archangel;” and with something of thernarchangelic manner he told her how he had undertaken to show (whatrnindeed had been attempted before, but not with that thoroughness,rnjustice of comparison, and effectiveness of arrangement at which Mr.rnCasaubon aimed) that all the mythical systems or erratic mythicalrnfragments in the world were corruptions of a tradition originallyrnrevealed. Having once mastered the true position and taken a firmrnfooting there, the vast field of mythical constructions becamernintelligible, nay, luminous with the reflected light ofrncorrespondences. But to gather in this great harvest of truth was nornlight or speedy work. His notes already made a formidable range ofrnvolumes, but the crowning task would be to condense these voluminousrnstill-accumulating results and bring them, like the earlier vintage ofrnHippocratic books, to fit a little shelf. In explaining this tornDorothea, Mr. Casaubon expressed himself nearly as he would have donernto a fellow-student, for he had not two styles of talking at command:rnit is true that when he used a Greek or Latin phrase he always gave thernEnglish with scrupulous care, but he would probably have done this inrnany case. A learned provincial clergyman is accustomed to think of hisrnacquaintances as of “lords, knyghtes, and other noble and worthi men,rnthat conne Latyn but lytille.”rnrnDorothea was altogether captivated by the wide embrace of thisrnconception. Here was something beyond the shallows of ladies’ schoolrnliterature: here was a living Bossuet, whose work would reconcilerncomplete knowledge with devoted piety; here was a modern Augustine whornunited the glories of doctor and saint.rnrnThe sanctity seemed no less clearly marked than the learning, for whenrnDorothea was impelled to open her mind on certain themes which sherncould speak of to no one whom she had before seen at Tipton, especiallyrnon the secondary importance of ecclesiastical forms and articles ofrnbelief compared with that spiritual religion, that submergence of selfrnin communion with Divine perfection which seemed to her to be expressedrnin the best Christian books of widely distant ages, she found in Mr.rnCasaubon a listener who understood her at once, who could assure her ofrnhis own agreement with that view when duly tempered with wisernconformity, and could mention historical examples before unknown tornher.rnrn“He thinks with me,” said Dorothea to herself, “or rather, he thinks arnwhole world of which my thought is but a poor twopenny mirror. And hisrnfeelings too, his whole experience—what a lake compared with my littlernpool!”rnrnMiss Brooke argued from words and dispositions not less unhesitatinglyrnthan other young ladies of her age. Signs are small measurable things,rnbut interpretations are illimitable, and in girls of sweet, ardentrnnature, every sign is apt to conjure up wonder, hope, belief, vast as arnsky, and colored by a diffused thimbleful of matter in the shape ofrnknowledge. They are not always too grossly deceived; for Sinbad himselfrnmay have fallen by good-luck on a true description, and wrong reasoningrnsometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions: starting a long wayrnoff the true point, and proceeding by loops and zigzags, we now andrnthen arrive just where we ought to be. Because Miss Brooke was hasty inrnher trust, it is not therefore clear that Mr. Casaubon was unworthy ofrnit.rnrnHe stayed a little longer than he had intended, on a slight pressure ofrninvitation from Mr. Brooke, who offered no bait except his ownrndocuments on machine-breaking and rick-burning. Mr. Casaubon was calledrninto the library to look at these in a heap, while his host picked uprnfirst one and then the other to read aloud from in a skipping andrnuncertain way, passing from one unfinished passage to another with arn“Yes, now, but here!” and finally pushing them all aside to open thernjournal of his youthful Continental travels.rnrn“Look here—here is all about Greece. Rhamnus, the ruins of Rhamnus—yournare a great Grecian, now. I don’t know whether you have given muchrnstudy to the topography. I spent no end of time in making out thesernthings—Helicon, now. Here, now!—‘We started the next morning forrnParnassus, the double-peaked Parnassus.’ All this volume is aboutrnGreece, you know,” Mr. Brooke wound up, rubbing his thumb transverselyrnalong the edges of the leaves as he held the book forward.rnrnMr. Casaubon made a dignified though somewhat sad audience; bowed inrnthe right place, and avoided looking at anything documentary as far asrnpossible, without showing disregard or impatience; mindful that thisrndesultoriness was associated with the institutions of the country, andrnthat the man who took him on this severe mental scamper was not only anrnamiable host, but a landholder and custos rotulorum. Was his endurancernaided also by the reflection that Mr. Brooke was the uncle of Dorothea?rnrnCertainly he seemed more and more bent on making her talk to him, onrndrawing her out, as Celia remarked to herself; and in looking at herrnhis face was often lit up by a smile like pale wintry sunshine. Beforernhe left the next morning, while taking a pleasant walk with Miss Brookernalong the gravelled terrace, he had mentioned to her that he felt therndisadvantage of loneliness, the need of that cheerful companionshiprnwith which the presence of youth can lighten or vary the serious toilsrnof maturity. And he delivered this statement with as much carefulrnprecision as if he had been a diplomatic envoy whose words would bernattended with results. Indeed, Mr. Casaubon was not used to expect thatrnhe should have to repeat or revise his communications of a practical orrnpersonal kind. The inclinations which he had deliberately stated on thern2d of October he would think it enough to refer to by the mention ofrnthat date; judging by the standard of his own memory, which was arnvolume where a vide supra could serve instead of repetitions, and notrnthe ordinary long-used blotting-book which only tells of forgottenrnwriting. But in this case Mr. Casaubon’s confidence was not likely tornbe falsified, for Dorothea heard and retained what he said with therneager interest of a fresh young nature to which every variety inrnexperience is an epoch.rnrnIt was three o’clock in the beautiful breezy autumn day when Mr.rnCasaubon drove off to his Rectory at Lowick, only five miles fromrnTipton; and Dorothea, who had on her bonnet and shawl, hurried alongrnthe shrubbery and across the park that she might wander through thernbordering wood with no other visible companionship than that of Monk,rnthe Great St. Bernard dog, who always took care of the young ladies inrntheir walks. There had risen before her the girl’s vision of a possiblernfuture for herself to which she looked forward with trembling hope, andrnshe wanted to wander on in that visionary future without interruption.rnShe walked briskly in the brisk air, the color rose in her cheeks, andrnher straw bonnet (which our contemporaries might look at withrnconjectural curiosity as at an obsolete form of basket) fell a littlernbackward. She would perhaps be hardly characterized enough if it werernomitted that she wore her brown hair flatly braided and coiled behindrnso as to expose the outline of her head in a daring manner at a timernwhen public feeling required the meagreness of nature to berndissimulated by tall barricades of frizzed curls and bows, neverrnsurpassed by any great race except the Feejeean. This was a trait ofrnMiss Brooke’s asceticism. But there was nothing of an ascetic’srnexpression in her bright full eyes, as she looked before her, notrnconsciously seeing, but absorbing into the intensity of her mood, thernsolemn glory of the afternoon with its long swathes of light betweenrnthe far-off rows of limes, whose shadows touched each other.rnrnAll people, young or old (that is, all people in those ante-reformrntimes), would have thought her an interesting object if they hadrnreferred the glow in her eyes and cheeks to the newly awakened ordinaryrnimages of young love: the illusions of Chloe about Strephon have beenrnsufficiently consecrated in poetry, as the pathetic loveliness of allrnspontaneous trust ought to be. Miss Pippin adoring young Pumpkin, andrndreaming along endless vistas of unwearying companionship, was a littlerndrama which never tired our fathers and mothers, and had been put intornall costumes. Let but Pumpkin have a figure which would sustain therndisadvantages of the shortwaisted swallow-tail, and everybody felt itrnnot only natural but necessary to the perfection of womanhood, that arnsweet girl should be at once convinced of his virtue, his exceptionalrnability, and above all, his perfect sincerity. But perhaps no personsrnthen living—certainly none in the neighborhood of Tipton—would have hadrna sympathetic understanding for the dreams of a girl whose notionsrnabout marriage took their color entirely from an exalted enthusiasmrnabout the ends of life, an enthusiasm which was lit chiefly by its ownrnfire, and included neither the niceties of the trousseau, the patternrnof plate, nor even the honors and sweet joys of the blooming matron.rnrnIt had now entered Dorothea’s mind that Mr. Casaubon might wish to makernher his wife, and the idea that he would do so touched her with a sortrnof reverential gratitude. How good of him—nay, it would be almost as ifrna winged messenger had suddenly stood beside her path and held out hisrnhand towards her! For a long while she had been oppressed by thernindefiniteness which hung in her mind, like a thick summer haze, overrnall her desire to make her life greatly effective. What could she do,rnwhat ought she to do?—she, hardly more than a budding woman, but yetrnwith an active conscience and a great mental need, not to be satisfiedrnby a girlish instruction comparable to the nibblings and judgments of arndiscursive mouse. With some endowment of stupidity and conceit, shernmight have thought that a Christian young lady of fortune should findrnher ideal of life in village charities, patronage of the humblerrnclergy, the perusal of “Female Scripture Characters,” unfolding thernprivate experience of Sara under the Old Dispensation, and Dorcas underrnthe New, and the care of her soul over her embroidery in her ownrnboudoir—with a background of prospective marriage to a man who, if lessrnstrict than herself, as being involved in affairs religiouslyrninexplicable, might be prayed for and seasonably exhorted. From suchrncontentment poor Dorothea was shut out. The intensity of her religiousrndisposition, the coercion it exercised over her life, was but onernaspect of a nature altogether ardent, theoretic, and intellectuallyrnconsequent: and with such a nature struggling in the bands of a narrowrnteaching, hemmed in by a social life which seemed nothing but arnlabyrinth of petty courses, a walled-in maze of small paths that led nornwhither, the outcome was sure to strike others as at once exaggerationrnand inconsistency. The thing which seemed to her best, she wanted tornjustify by the completest knowledge; and not to live in a pretendedrnadmission of rules which were never acted on. Into this soul-hunger asrnyet all her youthful passion was poured; the union which attracted herrnwas one that would deliver her from her girlish subjection to her ownrnignorance, and give her the freedom of voluntary submission to a guidernwho would take her along the grandest path.rnrn“I should learn everything then,” she said to herself, still walkingrnquickly along the bridle road through the wood. “It would be my duty tornstudy that I might help him the better in his great works. There wouldrnbe nothing trivial about our lives. Every-day things with us would meanrnthe greatest things. It would be like marrying Pascal. I should learnrnto see the truth by the same light as great men have seen it by. Andrnthen I should know what to do, when I got older: I should see how itrnwas possible to lead a grand life here—now—in England. I don’t feelrnsure about doing good in any way now: everything seems like going on arnmission to a people whose language I don’t know;—unless it werernbuilding good cottages—there can be no doubt about that. Oh, I hope Irnshould be able to get the people well housed in Lowick! I will drawrnplenty of plans while I have time.”rnrnDorothea checked herself suddenly with self-rebuke for the presumptuousrnway in which she was reckoning on uncertain events, but she was sparedrnany inward effort to change the direction of her thoughts by thernappearance of a cantering horseman round a turning of the road. Thernwell-groomed chestnut horse and two beautiful setters could leave norndoubt that the rider was Sir James Chettam. He discerned Dorothea,rnjumped off his horse at once, and, having delivered it to his groom,rnadvanced towards her with something white on his arm, at which the twornsetters were barking in an excited manner.rnrn“How delightful to meet you, Miss Brooke,” he said, raising his hat andrnshowing his sleekly waving blond hair. “It has hastened the pleasure Irnwas looking forward to.”rnrnMiss Brooke was annoyed at the interruption. This amiable baronet,rnreally a suitable husband for Celia, exaggerated the necessity ofrnmaking himself agreeable to the elder sister. Even a prospectivernbrother-in-law may be an oppression if he will always be presupposingrntoo good an understanding with you, and agreeing with you even when yourncontradict him. The thought that he had made the mistake of paying hisrnaddresses to herself could not take shape: all her mental activity wasrnused up in persuasions of another kind. But he was positively obtrusivernat this moment, and his dimpled hands were quite disagreeable. Herrnroused temper made her color deeply, as she returned his greeting withrnsome haughtiness.rnrnSir James interpreted the heightened color in the way most gratifyingrnto himself, and thought he never saw Miss Brooke looking so handsome.rnrn“I have brought a little petitioner,” he said, “or rather, I havernbrought him to see if he will be approved before his petition isrnoffered.” He showed the white object under his arm, which was a tinyrnMaltese puppy, one of nature’s most naive toys.rnrn“It is painful to me to see these creatures that are bred merely asrnpets,” said Dorothea, whose opinion was forming itself that very momentrn(as opinions will) under the heat of irritation.rnrn“Oh, why?” said Sir James, as they walked forward.rnrn“I believe all the petting that is given them does not make them happy.rnThey are too helpless: their lives are too frail. A weasel or a mousernthat gets its own living is more interesting. I like to think that thernanimals about us have souls something like our own, and either carry onrntheir own little affairs or can be companions to us, like Monk here.rnThose creatures are parasitic.”rnrn“I am so glad I know that you do not like them,” said good Sir James.“I should never keep them for myself, but ladies usually are fond ofrnthese Maltese dogs. Here, John, take this dog, will you?”rnrnThe objectionable puppy, whose nose and eyes were equally black andrnexpressive, was thus got rid of, since Miss Brooke decided that it hadrnbetter not have been born. But she felt it necessary to explain.rnrn“You must not judge of Celia’s feeling from mine. I think she likesrnthese small pets. She had a tiny terrier once, which she was very fondrnof. It made me unhappy, because I was afraid of treading on it. I amrnrather short-sighted.”rnrn“You have your own opinion about everything, Miss Brooke, and it isrnalways a good opinion.”rnrnWhat answer was possible to such stupid complimenting?rnrn“Do you know, I envy you that,” Sir James said, as they continuedrnwalking at the rather brisk pace set by Dorothea.rnrn“I don’t quite understand what you mean.”rnrn“Your power of forming an opinion. I can form an opinion of persons. Irnknow when I like people. But about other matters, do you know, I havernoften a difficulty in deciding. One hears very sensible things said onrnopposite sides.”rnrn“Or that seem sensible. Perhaps we don’t always discriminate betweenrnsense and nonsense.”rnrnDorothea felt that she was rather rude.rnrn“Exactly,” said Sir James. “But you seem to have the power ofrndiscrimination.”rnrn“On the contrary, I am often unable to decide. But that is fromrnignorance. The right conclusion is there all the same, though I amrnunable to see it.”rnrn“I think there are few who would see it more readily. Do you know,rnLovegood was telling me yesterday that you had the best notion in thernworld of a plan for cottages—quite wonderful for a young lady, hernthought. You had a real _genus_, to use his expression. He said yournwanted Mr. Brooke to build a new set of cottages, but he seemed tornthink it hardly probable that your uncle would consent. Do you know,rnthat is one of the things I wish to do—I mean, on my own estate. Irnshould be so glad to carry out that plan of yours, if you would let mernsee it. Of course, it is sinking money; that is why people object tornit. Laborers can never pay rent to make it answer. But, after all, itrnis worth doing.”rnrn“Worth doing! yes, indeed,” said Dorothea, energetically, forgettingrnher previous small vexations. “I think we deserve to be beaten out ofrnour beautiful houses with a scourge of small cords—all of us who letrntenants live in such sties as we see round us. Life in cottages mightrnbe happier than ours, if they were real houses fit for human beingsrnfrom whom we expect duties and affections.”rnrn“Will you show me your plan?”rnrn“Yes, certainly. I dare say it is very faulty. But I have beenrnexamining all the plans for cottages in Loudon’s book, and picked outrnwhat seem the best things. Oh what a happiness it would be to set thernpattern about here! I think instead of Lazarus at the gate, we shouldrnput the pigsty cottages outside the park-gate.”rnrnDorothea was in the best temper now. Sir James, as brother in-law,rnbuilding model cottages on his estate, and then, perhaps, others beingrnbuilt at Lowick, and more and more elsewhere in imitation—it would bernas if the spirit of Oberlin had passed over the parishes to make thernlife of poverty beautiful!rnrnSir James saw all the plans, and took one away to consult upon withrnLovegood. He also took away a complacent sense that he was making greatrnprogress in Miss Brooke’s good opinion. The Maltese puppy was notrnoffered to Celia; an omission which Dorothea afterwards thought of withrnsurprise; but she blamed herself for it. She had been engrossing SirrnJames. After all, it was a relief that there was no puppy to treadrnupon.rnrnCelia was present while the plans were being examined, and observed SirrnJames’s illusion. “He thinks that Dodo cares about him, and she onlyrncares about her plans. Yet I am not certain that she would refuse himrnif she thought he would let her manage everything and carry out all herrnnotions. And how very uncomfortable Sir James would be! I cannot bearrnnotions.”rnrnIt was Celia’s private luxury to indulge in this dislike. She dared notrnconfess it to her sister in any direct statement, for that would bernlaying herself open to a demonstration that she was somehow or other atrnwar with all goodness. But on safe opportunities, she had an indirectrnmode of making her negative wisdom tell upon Dorothea, and calling herrndown from her rhapsodic mood by reminding her that people were staring,rnnot listening. Celia was not impulsive: what she had to say could wait,rnand came from her always with the same quiet staccato evenness. Whenrnpeople talked with energy and emphasis she watched their faces andrnfeatures merely. She never could understand how well-bred personsrnconsented to sing and open their mouths in the ridiculous mannerrnrequisite for that vocal exercise.rnrnIt was not many days before Mr. Casaubon paid a morning visit, on whichrnhe was invited again for the following week to dine and stay the night.rnThus Dorothea had three more conversations with him, and was convincedrnthat her first impressions had been just. He was all she had at firstrnimagined him to be: almost everything he had said seemed like arnspecimen from a mine, or the inscription on the door of a museum whichrnmight open on the treasures of past ages; and this trust in his mentalrnwealth was all the deeper and more effective on her inclination becausernit was now obvious that his visits were made for her sake. Thisrnaccomplished man condescended to think of a young girl, and take thernpains to talk to her, not with absurd compliment, but with an appeal tornher understanding, and sometimes with instructive correction. Whatrndelightful companionship! Mr. Casaubon seemed even unconscious thatrntrivialities existed, and never handed round that small-talk of heavyrnmen which is as acceptable as stale bride-cake brought forth with anrnodor of cupboard. He talked of what he was interested in, or else hernwas silent and bowed with sad civility. To Dorothea this was adorablerngenuineness, and religious abstinence from that artificiality whichrnuses up the soul in the efforts of pretence. For she looked asrnreverently at Mr. Casaubon’s religious elevation above herself as sherndid at his intellect and learning. He assented to her expressions ofrndevout feeling, and usually with an appropriate quotation; he allowedrnhimself to say that he had gone through some spiritual conflicts in hisrnyouth; in short, Dorothea saw that here she might reckon onrnunderstanding, sympathy, and guidance. On one—only one—of her favoriternthemes she was disappointed. Mr. Casaubon apparently did not care aboutrnbuilding cottages, and diverted the talk to the extremely narrowrnaccommodation which was to be had in the dwellings of the ancientrnEgyptians, as if to check a too high standard. After he was gone,rnDorothea dwelt with some agitation on this indifference of his; and herrnmind was much exercised with arguments drawn from the varyingrnconditions of climate which modify human needs, and from the admittedrnwickedness of pagan despots. Should she not urge these arguments on Mr.rnCasaubon when he came again? But further reflection told her that shernwas presumptuous in demanding his attention to such a subject; he wouldrnnot disapprove of her occupying herself with it in leisure moments, asrnother women expected to occupy themselves with their dress andrnembroidery—would not forbid it when—Dorothea felt rather ashamed as sherndetected herself in these speculations. But her uncle had been invitedrnto go to Lowick to stay a couple of days: was it reasonable to supposernthat Mr. Casaubon delighted in Mr. Brooke’s society for its own sake,rneither with or without documents?rnrnMeanwhile that little disappointment made her delight the more in SirrnJames Chettam’s readiness to set on foot the desired improvements. Herncame much oftener than Mr. Casaubon, and Dorothea ceased to find himrndisagreeable since he showed himself so entirely in earnest; for he hadrnalready entered with much practical ability into Lovegood’s estimates,rnand was charmingly docile. She proposed to build a couple of cottages,rnand transfer two families from their old cabins, which could then bernpulled down, so that new ones could be built on the old sites. SirrnJames said “Exactly,” and she bore the word remarkably well.rnrnCertainly these men who had so few spontaneous ideas might be veryrnuseful members of society under good feminine direction, if they werernfortunate in choosing their sisters-in-law! It is difficult to sayrnwhether there was or was not a little wilfulness in her continuingrnblind to the possibility that another sort of choice was in question inrnrelation to her. But her life was just now full of hope and action: shernwas not only thinking of her plans, but getting down learned books fromrnthe library and reading many things hastily (that she might be a littlernless ignorant in talking to Mr. Casaubon), all the while being visitedrnwith conscientious questionings whether she were not exalting thesernpoor doings above measure and contemplating them with thatrnself-satisfaction which was the last doom of ignorance and folly.