Chapter Chapter 2 · 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 smiling

way, taking up Sir James Chettam’s remark that he was studying Davy’s

Agricultural Chemistry. “Well, now, Sir Humphry Davy; I dined with him

years ago at Cartwright’s, and Wordsworth was there too—the poet

Wordsworth, you know. Now there was something singular. I was at

Cambridge when Wordsworth was there, and I never met him—and I dined

with him twenty years afterwards at Cartwright’s. There’s an oddity in

things, 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 every

sense, you know.”

Dorothea felt a little more uneasy than usual. In the beginning of

dinner, the party being small and the room still, these motes from the

mass of a magistrate’s mind fell too noticeably. She wondered how a man

like Mr. Casaubon would support such triviality. His manners, she

thought, were very dignified; the set of his iron-gray hair and his

deep eye-sockets made him resemble the portrait of Locke. He had the

spare form and the pale complexion which became a student; as different

as possible from the blooming Englishman of the red-whiskered type

represented 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 see

if something cannot be done in setting a good pattern of farming among

my tenants. Do you approve of that, Miss Brooke?”

“A great mistake, Chettam,” interposed Mr. Brooke, “going into

electrifying your land and that kind of thing, and making a parlor of

your cow-house. It won’t do. I went into science a great deal myself at

one time; but I saw it would not do. It leads to everything; you can

let nothing alone. No, no—see that your tenants don’t sell their straw,

and that kind of thing; and give them draining-tiles, you know. But

your fancy farming will not do—the most expensive sort of whistle you

can buy: you may as well keep a pack of hounds.”

“Surely,” said Dorothea, “it is better to spend money in finding out

how men can make the most of the land which supports them all, than in

keeping dogs and horses only to gallop over it. It is not a sin to make

yourself poor in performing experiments for the good of all.”

She spoke with more energy than is expected of so young a lady, but Sir

James had appealed to her. He was accustomed to do so, and she had

often thought that she could urge him to many good actions when he was

her brother-in-law.

Mr. Casaubon turned his eyes very markedly on Dorothea while she was

speaking, 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 all

reading Adam Smith. _There_ is a book, now. I took in all the new ideas

at one time—human perfectibility, now. But some say, history moves in

circles; and that may be very well argued; I have argued it myself. The

fact is, human reason may carry you a little too far—over the hedge, in

fact. It carried me a good way at one time; but I saw it would not do.

I pulled up; I pulled up in time. But not too hard. I have 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 impetuous

reason, and thinking of the book only. “I have little leisure for such

literature just now. I have been using up my eyesight on old characters

lately; the fact is, I want a reader for my evenings; but I am

fastidious in voices, and I cannot endure listening to an imperfect

reader. It is a misfortune, in some senses: I feed too much on the

inward sources; I live too much with the dead. My mind is something

like the ghost of an ancient, wandering about the world and trying

mentally to construct it as it used to be, in spite of ruin and

confusing changes. But I find it necessary to use the utmost caution

about my eyesight.”

This was the first time that Mr. Casaubon had spoken at any length. He

delivered himself with precision, as if he had been called upon to make

a public statement; and the balanced sing-song neatness of his speech,

occasionally corresponded to by a movement of his head, was the more

conspicuous from its contrast with good Mr. Brooke’s scrappy

slovenliness. Dorothea said to herself that Mr. Casaubon was the most

interesting man she had ever seen, not excepting even Monsieur Liret,

the Vaudois clergyman who had given conferences on the history of the

Waldenses. To reconstruct a past world, doubtless with a view to the

highest purposes of truth—what a work to be in any way present at, to

assist in, though only as a lamp-holder! This elevating thought lifted

her above her annoyance at being twitted with her ignorance of

political economy, that never-explained science which was thrust as an

extinguisher over all her lights.

“But you are fond of riding, Miss Brooke,” Sir James presently took an

opportunity of saying. “I should have thought you would enter a little

into the pleasures of hunting. I wish you would let me send over a

chestnut horse for you to try. It has been trained for a lady. I saw

you on Saturday cantering over the hill on a nag not worthy of you. My

groom shall bring Corydon for you every day, if you will only mention

the time.”

“Thank you, you are very good. I mean to give up riding. I shall not

ride any more,” said Dorothea, urged to this brusque resolution by a

little annoyance that Sir James would be soliciting her attention when

she wanted to give it all to Mr. Casaubon.

“No, that is too hard,” said Sir James, in a tone of reproach that

showed 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 say

something that would not please her sister, and blushing as prettily as

possible above her necklace. “She likes giving up.”

“If that were true, Celia, my giving-up would be self-indulgence, not

self-mortification. But there may be good reasons for choosing not to

do 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, generous

motive.”

“No, indeed, not exactly. I did not say that of myself,” answered

Dorothea, reddening. Unlike Celia, she rarely blushed, and only from

high delight or anger. At this moment she felt angry with the perverse

Sir James. Why did he not pay attention to Celia, and leave her to

listen to Mr. Casaubon?—if that learned man would only talk, instead of

allowing himself to be talked to by Mr. Brooke, who was just then

informing him that the Reformation either meant something or it did

not, that he himself was a Protestant to the core, but that Catholicism

was a fact; and as to refusing an acre of your ground for a Romanist

chapel, all men needed the bridle of religion, which, properly

speaking, was the dread of a Hereafter.

“I made a great study of theology at one time,” said Mr. Brooke, as if

to explain the insight just manifested. “I know something of all

schools. I knew Wilberforce in his best days. Do you know Wilberforce?”

Mr. Casaubon said, “No.”

“Well, Wilberforce was perhaps not enough of a thinker; but if I went

into Parliament, as I have been asked to do, I should sit on the

independent 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. I

began a long while ago to collect documents. They want arranging, but

when a question has struck me, I have written to somebody and got an

answer. I have documents at my back. But now, how do you arrange your

documents?”

“In pigeon-holes partly,” said Mr. Casaubon, with rather a startled air

of effort.

“Ah, pigeon-holes will not do. I have tried pigeon-holes, but

everything gets mixed in pigeon-holes: I never know whether a paper is

in A or Z.”

“I wish you would let me sort your papers for you, uncle,” said

Dorothea. “I would letter them all, and then make a list of subjects

under each letter.”

Mr. Casaubon gravely smiled approval, and said to Mr. Brooke, “You have

an excellent secretary at hand, you perceive.”

“No, no,” said Mr. Brooke, shaking his head; “I cannot let young ladies

meddle with my documents. Young ladies are too flighty.”

Dorothea felt hurt. Mr. Casaubon would think that her uncle had some

special reason for delivering this opinion, whereas the remark lay in

his mind as lightly as the broken wing of an insect among all the other

fragments 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 deep

eye-sockets.”

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

“Oh, I dare say! when people of a certain sort looked at him,” said

Dorothea, walking away a little.

“Mr. Casaubon is so sallow.”

“All the better. I suppose you admire a man with the complexion of a

_cochon de lait_.”

“Dodo!” exclaimed Celia, looking after her in surprise. “I never heard

you make such a comparison before.”

“Why should I make it before the occasion came? It is a good

comparison: 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 as

if they were merely animals with a toilet, and never see the great soul

in a man’s face.”

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

malice.

“Yes, I believe he has,” said Dorothea, with the full voice of

decision. “Everything I see in him corresponds to his pamphlet on

Biblical 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; I

believe 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 a

husband happy who had not her way of looking at things; and stifled in

the depths of her heart was the feeling that her sister was too

religious for family comfort. Notions and scruples were like spilt

needles, 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 by

her, not having felt her mode of answering him at all offensive. Why

should he? He thought it probable that Miss Brooke liked him, and

manners must be very marked indeed before they cease to be interpreted

by preconceptions either confident or distrustful. She was thoroughly

charming to him, but of course he theorized a little about his

attachment. He was made of excellent human dough, and had the rare

merit of knowing that his talents, even if let loose, would not set the

smallest stream in the county on fire: hence he liked the prospect of a

wife to whom he could say, “What shall we do?” about this or that; who

could help her husband out with reasons, and would also have the

property qualification for doing so. As to the excessive religiousness

alleged against Miss Brooke, he had a very indefinite notion of what it

consisted in, and thought that it would die out with marriage. In

short, he felt himself to be in love in the right place, and was ready

to endure a great deal of predominance, which, after all, a man could

always put down when he liked. Sir James had no idea that he should

ever like to put down the predominance of this handsome girl, in whose

cleverness he delighted. Why not? A man’s mind—what there is of it—has

always the advantage of being masculine,—as the smallest birch-tree is

of a higher kind than the most soaring palm,—and even his ignorance is

of a sounder quality. Sir James might not have originated this

estimate; but a kind Providence furnishes the limpest personality 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 is

the most healthy of exercises.”

“I am aware of it,” said Dorothea, coldly. “I think it would do Celia

good—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 easily

thrown.”

“Then that is a reason for more practice. Every lady ought to be a

perfect horsewoman, that she may accompany her husband.”

“You see how widely we differ, Sir James. I have made up my mind that I

ought not to be a perfect horsewoman, and so I should never correspond

to your pattern of a lady.” Dorothea looked straight before her, and

spoke with cold brusquerie, very much with the air of a handsome boy,

in amusing contrast with the solicitous amiability of her admirer.

“I should like to know your reasons for this cruel resolution. It is

not 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 was

listening.

“We must not inquire too curiously into motives,” he interposed, in his

measured way. “Miss Brooke knows that they are apt to become feeble in

the utterance: the aroma is mixed with the grosser air. We must keep

the germinating grain away from the light.”

Dorothea colored with pleasure, and looked up gratefully to the

speaker. Here was a man who could understand the higher inward life,

and with whom there could be some spiritual communion; nay, who could

illuminate principle with the widest knowledge: a man whose learning

almost amounted to a proof of whatever he believed!

Dorothea’s inferences may seem large; but really life could never have

gone 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 of

pre-matrimonial acquaintanceship?

“Certainly,” said good Sir James. “Miss Brooke shall not be urged to

tell reasons she would rather be silent upon. I am sure her reasons

would do her honor.”

He was not in the least jealous of the interest with which Dorothea had

looked up at Mr. Casaubon: it never occurred to him that a girl to whom

he was meditating an offer of marriage could care for a dried bookworm

towards fifty, except, indeed, in a religious sort of way, as for a

clergyman of some distinction.

However, since Miss Brooke had become engaged in a conversation with

Mr. Casaubon about the Vaudois clergy, Sir James betook himself to

Celia, 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 the

second Miss Brooke was certainly very agreeable as well as pretty,

though not, as some people pretended, more clever and sensible than the

elder sister. He felt that he had chosen the one who was in all

respects the superior; and a man naturally likes to look forward to

having the best. He would be the very Mawworm of bachelors who

pretended not to expect it.