Kabanata Kabanata 5 · Chapter V

“Hard students are commonly troubled with gowts, catarrhs, rheums,

cachexia, bradypepsia, bad eyes, stone, and collick, crudities,

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

Aquinas’ 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 to 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 not?

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.