PRELUDE WHO that cares much to know the history of man, and how the mysterious mixture behaves under the varying experiments of Time, has not dwelt, at least briefly, on the life of Saint Theresa, has not smiled with some gentleness at the thought of the little girl wa~g$ forth one morning hand-in-hand with her still smaller brother, to go and seek ma~-dom$ in the country of the Moors? Out they toddled from rugged Avila,$ wide-eyed and helpless-looking as two fawns, but with human hearts,l$ already beating to a national idea; until domestic reality met them in the shape of uncles, and turned them back from their great resolve. That child-pil~nage$ was a fit beg~-ng-$ Theresa's passionate, ideal nature demanded an epic life: what were manyvolumed romances of chivaliy$ and the social conquests of a brilliant girl to her? Her flame quickly burned up that light fuel; and, fed from within, soared after some illimitable satisfaction, some object whiCh would never justify weariness, which would reconcile self-despair with the rapturous consciousness of life beyond self. She found her epos$ in the reform of a religious order. That Spanish woman who lived three hundred years ago, was certainly not the list of her kind. Many Theresas$ have been born who found for themselves no epic life wherein there was a constant unfolding of far-resonant action; perhaps only a life of mistakes, the offspring of a certain spiritual grandeur ill-matched with the meanness of opportunity; perhaps a tragic failure which found no sacred poet and sank unwept$ into oblivion. With d~n$ lights and tangled circumstance they tried to shape their thought and deed in noble agreement; but after all, to common eyes their struggles seemed mere m- consistency and formlessness; for these later-born Theresas$ were helped by no coherent social faith and order which could perform the function of knowledge for the ardently willing soul. Their ardour alternated between a vague ideal and the common yearning of wornanhood;$ so that the one was disapproved as extravagance, and the other condemned as a lapse. Some have felt that these blundering lives are due to the inconvenient indefiniteness with which the Supreme Power has fashioned 1 The lQ$ ed.$ reads "~- tinctively$ human hea6."$ i$ ~p.4 the natures of women: if there were one level of fen~-$ :e$ incompe~ce$ as strict as the ability to count three and no more, the social lot of women might be treated with scientific certitude. Meanwhile the indefiniteness rems~s,$ and the limits of variation are really much wider than any one woald imagine from the sameness of women's coiffure and the favourite love-stories in prose and verse. Here and there a cygnet$ is reared uneasily among the du"ings$ in the bro~$ pond, and never finds the living sbeam$ in fellowship with its own oary-footed$ kind. Here and there is born a Saint Theresa, foundress$ of nothing, whose loving heart-beats and sobs after an unattained goodness tremble off and are dispersed among hindrances, instead of centering in some long-recognisable deed. ~p.5 <1Miss Brooke>1 CHAPTER 1 <4"Since>4 I <4can do no good>4 <4~esch eom~$ at so:~ng$ th>4i<4ats~>4i<4smse>4sar$ <4it">4 --M <5MM>5s<5s$ ~rag~y~>5$ ~uHoM$ <4aND>4$ Al$ MISS BROOKE had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress. Her hand and wrist were so finely formed that she could wear sleeves not less bare of style than those in which the Blessed Virgin appeared to Italian psinters;$ and her profile as well as her stature and bearing seemed to gain the more dignity fmm$ her plain garments, which by the side of provMcial$ fashion gave her ~ impressiveness of a fine quotation from the Bible,---or from one of our elder poets,---in a paragraph of to-day's newspaper. She was usually spoken of as being remarkably clever, but with the addition that her sister Celia had more common-sense. Nevertheless, Celia wore scarcely more t~~S;$ and it was only to close observers that her dffis$ differed from her sister's, and had a shade of coquetry in its arrangements; for Miss Brooke's plain dressing was due to mixed conditions, in most of which her sister shared. The pride of be:-~ ladies had something to do with it: the Brooke connections, though not exactly aristocratic, were unquestionably "good:" if you inquired backward for a generation or two, you would not find any <1y:~->1$ measuring or parcel-tyiog$ forefathers---anything lower t~l$ an admiral or a clerfflnan;$ and there was even an a~stor$ d~:rrnible$ as a W~tan$ gentleman who served under Cromwell, but a$~ds$ conformed, and managed to come out of all political troubles as the proprietor of a respectable family estate. Young women of such birth, living in a quiet country-house, and attending a village-church hsrdly$ larger than a parlour, naturally reBarded$ frippery$ as the ambition of a huckster's daughter. Then there was wcll-bred$ economy, which iX$ those days made show in dRss$ the first item to be deducted from, when any margin was required for expenses more distinctive of rank. Such reasons would have been enough to a~unt$ for plain dress, quite apart from religious feeling; but in Mias$ Brooke's case, religion alone would have determined it; and Celia nnldly$ acquiesced in all her sister's sentiments, only infusing them with that common-sense which is able to sccept$ momentous doctrines without any eccentric agitation. i$ ~p.6 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 1 Dor~i$ knew many passages of Pascal's PeMBes$ and of Jeremy Tiyloi$ by hesrt;$ and to her the destiries$ of mankind, seen by the light of Ch~-$ ~ty,$ made the solicitudes of feminine fashion appesr$ an aupation$ for Beclam.$ She could not reconcile the anxieties of a spiritnal$ life involwing$ eternal consequences, with a keen interest in ~mp and i~i~$ protrusions of drapery. Her mind was theoretic, and yearned <1by>1 its nature after some lofty conception of the world which might f~jy$ include the parish of Tipton and her own nile of conduct there; she was enamoured of intensity and greatness, and rash m- embracing whatever seemed to her to have those aspects; likely to seek mar~rdom,$ to make retractations,$ and then to incur ma~3om$ after all in a quarter where she had not sought it. Certainly such elements in the character of a marriageable girl tended to interfere with her lot and hinder it from being decided according to custom, by good looks, vanity, and merely c~~e$ affection. With all ~, she, the elder of the sisters, was not yet twenty, and they had both been educated, since they were about twelve years old and had lost their parents, on plans at once narrow and promiscuous, first in an English family and afterwards in a Swiss family at Lausanne, their bachelor uncle and guardian trying in this way to remedy the disadvantages of their orphaned condition. It was hardly a year since they had come to live at Tipton Grange with their uncle, a man nearly sixty, of acquiescent temper, miscellaneous opinions, and uncertain vote. He had travelled in his younger years, and was held in this part of the county to have contracted a too rambling habit of mind. Mr Brooke's conclusions were as difficult to pr~ct$ as the weather: it was only safe to say that he would act with benevolent intentions, and that he would spend as little money as possible in carying them out. For the most glutinously indefinite minds enclose some hard grains of habit; and a man has been seen lax about all his own interests except the retention of his snuffbox, concerning which he was watchful, suspicious, and greedy of clutch. In Mr Brooke the hereditary strain of Puritan energy was clearly m- abeyamce;$ but in his niece Dorothea it glowed alike through faults and virtues, turning sornetimes$ into impatience of her uncle's talk or his way of '7etting$ t~ngs$ be" on his estate, and ma~ng$ her long all the more for the time when she would be of age and have some command of money for generous schemes. She was regarded as an heiress; for not only had the sisters seven hundred a-year each from their parents, but if Dorothea married and had a son, that son would inherit Mr Brooke's estate, presumably worth about three thousand a-year---a rental whiCh seemed wealth to provincial families, still discussing Mr PeeI's$ late conduct on the Catholic Question, innc"$ cent of future gold-fields, and of that gorgeous plutocracy which has so nobly exalted the necessities of genteel life. And how should Dorothea not marry?---a girl so handsome and with such prospects? Nothing could hinder it but her love of ex ~p.7 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 7 t~les,$ and her ins~-$ # on regulating life according to notions which might cause a wary man to hesitate before he made her an offer, or even might lead her at last to refuse all offers. A young lady of some birth and fortune, who knelt suddenly down on a brick floor by the side of a sick labourer and prayed fervitlly$ as if she thought herself living in the time of the Apostles----who had strange whims of fasting like a Papist, and of sitting up at night to read old theological booksl$ Such a wife might awaken you some fine morning with a new sCheme for the application of her income which would m- terfere with political economy and the keeping of saddle-horses: a man would naturally t~$ twice before he risked h~;lf$ in such fellowship. Women were expected to have weak opinions; but the 8eat safegnard$ of society and of domestic life was, that opm-$ ions were not acted on. Sane people did what their neighbours did, so that if any lunatics were at large, one might koow$ and avoid them. The rural opinion about the new young ladies, even among the cottagers, was generally in favour of Celia, as being so amiable and m- nocent-looking,$ while Miss Brooke's large eyes seemed, like her religion, too unusual and st~-$ lg$. Poor$ Dorothea compared with her, the innocent-looking Celia was knowing and worldly-wise; so much subtler is a human mind than the outside tissues which make a sort of blazonry$ or clock-face for it. Yet those who approached Dorothea, though prejudiced against her by this alarming hearsay, found that she had a charm unaccountably ~oncilable with it. Most men thought her bewitching when she was on horseback. She loved the fresh air and the various aspects of the country, and when her eyes and cheeks glowed with mingled pleasure she looked very little like a devotee. Riding was an indulgence which she allowed herself in spite of conscientious qualins;$ she felt that she enjoyed - it in a pagan sensuous way, and always looked forward to renouncing it. She was open, ardent and not in the least self-admiring; indeed, it was pretty to see how her ima~ation$ adorned her sisQr$ Celia with attractions altogether superior to her own, and if any gentleman appeared to come to the Grange from some other motive t~:$ that of seeing Mr Brooke, she concluded that he must be in love with Celia: Sir James Chettam, for example, whom she constantly considered from Celia's point of view, inwardly debating whether it would be good for Celia to accept him. That he should be regarded as a suitor to herself would have seemed to her a ridiculous irrelevance. Dorc"$ thea$, with all her eagerness to know the tmths$ of life, re~ned$ ve~$ clnldlike$ ideas about marriage. She felt sure that she would have accepted the judicious Hooker, if she had been born in time to save h~n$ from that wretched mistake he made in ma~nony;$ or John Milton when his blindness had come on; or any of the other geat$ men whose odd habits it would have been glorious piety to endure; but an a~ble$ handsome baronet who said "Exactly" to hor$ m$ ~p.8 marks even when she expressed uncertainty,--how could he affect her as a lover? The really delightful ma~age$ must be that where your husband was a sort of father, and oWd$ teach you even Hebrew, if you wished it. These peculia-ties$ of Dorothea's character caused Mr Brooke to be all the more blamed in neighboring fa~ies$ for not securing some middle-aged lady as guide and companion to his rieces.$ But he himself dreaded so much the sort of superior woman likely to be available for such a position, that he allowed himself to be dissuaded by Dorothea's objections, and was in this case brave enough to defy the world---that is to say, Mrs Cadwallader the Rector's wife, and the small group of gentry with whom he visited in the northeast corner of Loamshire.$ So Miss Brooke presided in her uncle's household, and did not at all d-~ke her new authority, with the homage that belonged to it Sir James Chettam was going to dine at the Grange to-day with another gentleman whom the girls had never seen, and about whom ~irothea felt some venerating ex~tation.$ This was the Reverend Edward Casaubon, noted in the county as a man of profound learning, understood for many years to be engaged on a great work concerning religious history; also as a man of wealth enough to give lustre to his piety, and having views of his own which were to be more clearly ascertained on the publication of his book. His very name carried an impressiveness hardly to be measured without a pl~e$ chronology of scholarship. Early in the day Dorothea had returned from the infant sChool which she had set going in the village, and was taking her usual place m- the pretty sitting-room which divided the bedrooms of the sisters, bent on finishing a plan for some buildings (a kind of work which she delighted in), when Celia, who had been watching her with a hesitating desire to propose something, said-- "Dorothea dear, if you don't mind---if you are not very busy--suppose we looked at mamma's jewels today, and divided them? It G- exactly six months to-day since uncle gave them to you, and you have not looked at them yeL"$ Celia's face had the shadow of a pouting expression in it the full presence of the pout being kept back by an habitual awe of Dorothea and principle; two associated facts which might show a mysterious electricity if you touched them incautiously.$ To her relief, Dorothea's eyes were full of laughter as she looked up. "What a wonderful little almanac$ you are, Celia! Is it six calendar or six lunar months?" "It is the last day of September now, and it was the first of April when uncle gave them to you. You know, he said that he had forgotten them till then. I believe you have never thought of them since you locked them up in the cabinet here." "Well, dear, we should never wear them, you know.- Dorothea spoke in a full cordial tone, half caressing, half explanatory. She had her pencil in her hand, and was making tiny side-plaISS$ on a margin, ~p. Book 1 MISS BROOKE 9 Celia coloured, and looked very grave. ~ think, dear, wB$ are wanting in respect to mamma's memory, to put them by and take no notice of them. And," she added, after hesitating a little, with a rising sob of mortification, "necklaces are quite usual now; and Madame PoinSon,$ who was stricter in some things even than you are, used to wear ornaments. And Christians generally---surely there are women in heaven now who wore jewels." Celia was conscious of some mental strength when she really applied herself to argument. "You would like to wear them?" exclaimed Dorothea, an air of astonished d~ivery$ animating her whole person with a dramatic action which she had caught from that very Madame Poin4on$ who wore the ornaments. "Of course, then, let us have them out. Why did you not tell me before? But the keys, the keysl"$ She pressed her hands against the sides of her head and seemed to despair of her memory. "They are here," said Celia, with whom this explanation had been long meditated and prearranged. "Pray open the large drawer of the cabinet and get out the ~welbox." The casket was soon open before them, and the various jewels spread out, making a bright parterre$ on the table. It was no great collection, but a few of the ornaments were really of remarkable beauty, the finest that was obvious at first being a neCklace of purple amethysts set in exquisite gold work, and a pearl cross with five brilliants$ in it. Dorothea immediately took up the necklace and fastened it round her sister's neck, where it fit&d$ almost as closely as a bracelet; but the circle suited the Henrietta-Maria style of Celia's head and neck, and she could see that it did, in the pier-glass opposite. "There, Celia! you can wear that with your Indian muslin. But t~$ cross you must wear with your dark dresses." Celia was trying not to smile with pleasure. "0 Dodo, you must keep the cross yourself." "No, no, dear, no," said Dorothea, putting up her hand with care" less dep~ition.$ "Yes, ind~l$ you must; it would suit you---in your blsck$ d~$ now," said Celia, insistingly.$ "You rn~M$ wear that." "Not for the world, not for the world. A cross is the last t~ng$ I would wear as a trioket."$ Dorothea shuddered slightly. 'Shen you will t~k$ it wicked in me to wear it" said Colia,$ uneasily. "No, dear, no," said Dorothea, stroking her y~4ter's$ Cheek. "Souls have complexions too: what will suit one wi~$ Dot suit snother.-$ "But you might like to keep it for mamma-s sake." "No, 1 have other things of mamma's---her$ sandal-wood box which I am so fond of---plenty of things. In fact they are all yours, dear. We il$ d~ss$ them no longer. There---tske$ away your propehy."$ CeUa$ felt a little hurt. There was a shong$ :~mption$ of supen-ority$ in this Puritaric$ toleration, hardy less trying to the blond flesb$ of an unenthusiastic sister than a #ritanic$ persecution. ~p.10 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 1 "But how can I wear ornaments if you, who are the elder sister, will never wear them?" "Nay, Celia, that is too much to ask, that I should wear trinkets to keep you in countenance. If I were to put on such a neCklace as that I should feel as if I had been pirouetting. The world would go round with me, and I should not know how to walk." Celia had unclasped the necklace and drawn it oB. ~t would be a little tight for your neck; something to lie down and hang wotild$ suit you better," she said, with some satisfaction. The complete unfitness of the necklace from all points of view for Dorothea, made Celia happier in taking it. She was opening some ring-bo1es,$ which disclosed a fine emerald with diamonds, and just then the sun passing beyond a cloud sent a bright gleam over the table. "How very beautiful these gems are!" said Dorothea, under a new current of feeling, as sudden as the gleam. "It is strange how deeply colours seem to penetrate one, like scent. I suppose that is the reason why gems are used as spiritual emblems in the Revelation of St John. They look like fragments of heaven- I think that eme~d$ is more beautiful than any of them." "And there is a bracelet to match it," said Celia. 'Ue did not notice ~ at first." "They are lovely," said Dorothea, slipping the ring and bracelet on her finely-turned finger and wrist, and holding them tow~$ the wm-$ dow on a level with her eyes- All the while her thought was t~ing$ to justify her delight in the colours by merging them in her mystic religious joy. "You woffi$ like those, Dorothea," said Celia, ~er falteringly, bej~ning$ to think with wonder that her sister showed some weakness, and also that emeralds would suit her own cwnplexion$ eveD$ better than purple amethysts. "You must keep that ring and bracffi$ let---if nothing else. But see, these agates$ are very pretty---and quiet." -'Yesl I will keep these---this ring and bracelet" said Dorothea. Then, letting her hand fall on the table, she said in another tone--"Yet what miserable men find such things, and work at them, and sell theml"$ She paused again, and Celia thought that her sister was going to renounce the ornaments, as in consistency she ought to do. "Yes, dear, I will keep these," said Dorothea, decidecly.$ "But take all the rest away, and the casket." She took up her pencil without removing the jewels, and still lookm-$ g$ at them. She thought of often having them by her, to feed her eye at these little fountains of pure colour. "Shall you wear them in company?" said Celia, who was watching her with real curiosity as to what she would do. Dorothea glanced quickly at her sister. Across all her imaginativp$ adomment$ of those whom she loved, there darted now and then a keen discemment$ which was not without a soorching$ quality. If Miss Brooke ever attained perfect meekness, it would not be for lack of inward fire ~p.11 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 11 "Perhaps," she said, rather haughtily. "I cannot tell to what Qv~$ L$ may sink." Celia blushed, and was unhappy: she saw that she had offended her sister, and dared not say even anything pretty about the gift of the oreaments$ which she put back into the box and carried away. Dorothea too was unhappy, as she went on with her plan-drawing, questioning the purity of her own feeling and speech in the scene which had ended with that little explosion. Celia's consciousness told her that she had not been at all in the wrong: it was quite natural and justifiable that she should have asked that question, and she repeated to herself that Dorothea was inconsistent: either she should have taken her full share of the jeweE,$ or, after what she had said, she should have renounced them altogether. "I am sure---at least, I trust," thought Celia, "that the wearing of a necklace will not interfere with my prayers. And I do not see that I should be bound by Dorothea's opinions now we are going into society, though of course she herself ought to be bound by them. But Dorothea is not always consistent." Thus Celia, mutely bending over her tapestry, untll$ she heard her sister calling her. "Here, Kitty, come and look at my plan; I shall think I am a great arChitect if I have not got incompatible stairs and 6eplaces."$ As Celia bent over the paper, Dorothea put her cheek against her sister's arm caressingly. Celia understood the action. Dorothea saw that she had been in the wrong, and Celia pardoned her. Since they could remember, there had been a mixture of criticism and awe in the attitude of Celia's mind towards her elder sister. The younger had always worn a yoke; but is there any yoked creature without its p~vate$ opinions? ff$ CHAPTER 2 " <4'Dhm: no ves$ aquel$ caballero$ que h4ein$ neaobea$ dem>4$ <4 sobre$ um$ caballo$ rsc:>4s<4o$ rodado$ que trae$ puaeto$ an>4 Ia <4cabeaa>4$ <4 un$ yelmo$ de$ oro?>4s<4Lo$ que veo$ y$ oolumhro,'$ respondio>4$ <4 Sancbo,$ -no as$ sino$ un$ hombre sobre$ un$ asno$ pardo$ como>4$ <4 el$ m">4s<4o.$ que trae$ sobre$ la$ cabeza$ una$ coss$ que relumbra.'>4$ -<4Pues ese$ as$ at$ yehno$ de$ Marnb~o,'$ dW$ Don ~Wta.-'>4 --<4CERVAffis.>4 -<4sesat thou not yon cavallar$ who cometh$ toward us on>4 <4 a dappl--grey$ steed, and weareth$ a &lden$ hehnet$?'>4 'wW$ I <4Sce"$ aESwared$ sancho,$ 'in nothing but a man on a grej>4$ <4 ass like my own. who ca~es$ something ~y on him head'>4 -<4Just so.-$ answered Don Quizote:$ -aad that resplendeat>4$ <4 o#ect$ in the hehnet$>4 oI$ <4Marab~o->4'$ " "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 Humphrey Davy: 1 dined with him years ago at Cartwright's,$ and Wordsworth was there too---the$ poet Wordsworth, you know. Now there was ~p.12 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter Y$ something sin~ar.$ I was at Cambridge when Wordsworth was there, and I never met him---and I dined with him twenty yeam$ afterwards at CarUright's.$ There's an oddity in things, now. But S~vy$ was there: he was a poet too. Or, as I may say, Wo~worth$ 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 beE~-ng$ 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 d~-$ -6ed; the set of his iron-grey hair and his deep eye-sockets made him resemble the portrait of ~ke. 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 t~$ excellent bsIDnet$ "because I am going to take one of the f~u$ into my own hands, and see if something cannot be done in setting a good pattern of farn~g$ among my tenants. Do you approve of that Miss Brooke?" "A 8eat$ ~take,$ Chettam," interposed Mr Brooke, "going into elech~-ng$ your landl$ and that kind of thing, and making a parlour 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 not~g$ alone. No, no---see that your tenants don't sell their straw, and that kind of thing; and give them d~~g-tfles,$ 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 fincling$ 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. n$ 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 1 Sir Humphrey Da7$ dism~s$ the ~uence$ of electricity on the gererinat~on$ of se~ls$ and the goUh$ of p~6$ in his Eff~ff$ q$ &~urq$ C$#,$ London, 1814, pp. S~.$ ~p. Book 1 MISS BROOKE 13 too far----over the hedge, in fact. It car~ed$ me a good <1way>1 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 favour 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 1-mpetuous reason, and t~~g$ 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 min 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 lengtlL$ He delivered himself with prffi-$ ion, as if he had been called upon to make a public statement; and the balanced sing-song neatness of ~-s 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 in teresting man she had ever seen, not excepting even Monsieur ~-et the Vaudois$ clergymlim$ who had given conferences on the he$ tory of the Waldenses.$ To reconstruct a past world, doubtless with a view to the highest purposes of trutb---what$ a work to be in any way present at to assist in, though only as a lamp-holderl$ '~$ elevating thought ~d$ her above her annoyance at being twi$$ with her ignorance of polik-$ al$ economy, that neverexplained$ science which was iWst$ as an extinj~her$ over all her lights. "But you are fond of riding, Miss Brooke," Sir James presently took an opportunity of saying. 'T should have thought you wouH$ enter a little into the pleasures of hunting. I wish you would let mo 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, ~ yon will only mentinn$ the time." ~$k$ yon you are very good. I m~n$ to give up riding. I shaI$ not ride any more," said Dorothea, urged to this bmsque$ resolution by a little annoyance that Sir James would be soliQ-ting$ her attention when she wanted to give it all to Mr Casaubon. "No, that is too hanl,-$ said Sir James, in a tone of reproach that showed strong interest. "Your sister is given to self-mortification, is she notr$ he continued, hw-ng$ to Celia, who sat at his right han~$ n$ i~k$ she is," said Celia, feeling afraid lest she should say some thing that would not please her sister, and blushing as pn~y$ as pos'$ sible$ above her necklace. "She likes giving up." ~p.14 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 2 ~ that were true, Celia, my giving-up would he 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 ~ve 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 t~$ 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 taW 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$ chapcl,$ 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 tine," 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." 'Uell, Wilberforce was perhaps not enough of a t~:er;$ but if I went into Parliament as I have been asked to do, I should sit on the m- dependent 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 snnle$, '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?" 'Tn pigeon-holes panly$," said Mr Casaubon, with rather a startled air of effort. -Ah, pigeon-holes will not do. I have tried pigeon-holes, but eveMhing$ gets mixed in pigeon-holes: I never know whether a paper isinAorZ."$ "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 fragrnents$ there, and a chance current had sent it alighting on her. ~p.15 When the two girls were in the drawing-room alone, Celia said-- "How very ugly Mr Casaubon isl"$ "Celia! He is one of the most distinguished-looking men I ever saw. He is remarkably like the portrait of ~e. He has the same deep eye-soCkets." "Had Locke those two white moles with hairs on them?" "Oh, I daresayl$ when people of a certain sort looked at him," said Dorothea, w.~ng$ away a little. "Mr. Casaubon is so sallow." "All the better. I suppose you admire a man with the complexion of a cochom$ de$ <1lait.">1$ "Dodo!" exclaimed Celia, looking after her in surprise. "I never heard you make such a comparison before." "Why should 1 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 pa~J$ in you, Celia, that you will look at human beings as if they were merely aminals with a toilette, 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 Chett~n;$ 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 h~n$ at all offensive. Why should he? He thought it probable ~at Miss Brooke liked hu- n, and manners must be very marked indeed before they cease to be m- terpreted$ by preconceptions$ either confident or distrustful- She was thoroughly charming to him, but of course he theorised$ 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, 'Uhat shall we do?" about ~~ 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 ~p.16 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 2 notion of what it cons~$ in, and thought that it woald 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 ~1, in whose cleverness he delighted. Why not? A man's ~nd---what Mere 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 t~$ estimate; but a kind Providence fu~hes$ the hmpest$ personality wita$ ; little gum or starch in the form of tradition. "Let me hope that ycu$ will rescind that resolution about the horse, Miss Brooke," said the persevering admirer. "I assure you, riding is the most healthy of exerm-ses."$ n$ am aware of it" said Dorothea, coldly. n t~k$ it would do Celia Bood---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 Ihrow~"$ 'When that is a reason for more practice. Every lady ought to be t perfect horsewoman, that she may accompany her husband." "You see how widcly$ 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 ~k horsemanship wrong." "It is quite possible that I should i~k$ 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 ~tening. Ure$ must not inquire too curiously into motives," he interposed, m- his measured way. "Mias$ 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 coloured with pleasure, and looked up gratefully to the speaker. Here was a man who could understand the higher inward lire,$ and nth$ 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 I~$ liberal allowance of conclusions, which has facilitated marriage under the ~culties of civilisation.$ Has$ any one ever pinched into its pilulous$ smallness the cobweb of pre-matrimonial acquaintanceship?$ "Certainly," said good Sir James. "Miss Brooke shall not he urged ~p. Book 1 MISS BROOKE 17 to tell reasons she would rather be silent upon. I m sure her reasons would do her honour." 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 flky,$ except indeed, in a religious sort of way, as for a elergrnan$ 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 m- town, and asked whether Miss Brooke disliked London. Away ffflt$ her sister, Celia talked quite easily, and Sir James said to ~self that the second Miss Brooke was ce~aly$ 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 Mawworml$ of bachelors who pretended not to expect it. ff$ CHAPTER S -<4say, goddesa,$ what enaue4$ whna>4$ ~~$ <4the aaable$ archangeI>4$ - - - <4Rvn>4$ <4the no~$ heard atrentlve,$ and was Wed>4 <4mum, w hesu>4$ <44'd.<5e>5$ <4ffit$ ~$ ~>4>s$ b$ it had really occurred to Mr Casaubon to think of Miss Brooke as a suitable wife for h~n$, the reasons that might induce her to accept him were already planted in her mind, and by the evening of the next day the reasons had budded$ and bloomed. For they had had a long conversation in the morning, while Celia, who did not like the company of Mr Casaubon's moles and sallowness,$ had escaped to the vicarage to play with the curate's ill-shod but merry children. Dorothea by this time had looked deep into the ungauged$ reservoir of Mr Casaubon's mind, seeing reflected there in vagne$ labyrinthine extension every quality she herself brought; had opened much of her own experience to h~n$, and had understood from h~n$ the scope of his great work, also of attractively labyrinthine extent. For he had been as instructive as Milton's "affable archangel;" and with something of the archangelic manner he told her how he had ~er~en to show (what indeed had been attempted before, but not with that thoroughness, justice of comparison, and effectiveness of arrangement at which Mr Casaubon aimed) that all the mythical systems or enatic$ mythical fragments in the world were corruptions of a tradih-on$ on-$ 1 A omting$ hy$rite$ in ~c$ Bicke~ffB's$ play Tffl$ HWi~.$ ~p.18 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter g M- ally revealed. Having once mastered the true position and taken a firm footing there, the vast field of mythical constructions became m- telligible$ nay luminous with the reflected light of correspondences. But to gather in this great harvest of truth was no light or speedy work. His notes already made a formidable range of volumes, but the cro~-ng$ task would be to condense these voluminous stillaccumulating$ results and bring them, like the earlier vintage of Hippocratic books, to fit a little shelf. In expla~-$ g$ this to Dorothea, Mr Casaubon expressed himself nearly as he would have done to a fellow-student, for he had not two styles of ta~g$ at command: it is hue that when he used a Greek or Latin phrase he always gave the English with scrupulous care, but he would probably have done tlu-s$ in any case. A learned provincial clergyman is accustomed to think of his acquaintances as of ~ords, knyghtes,$ and other noble and woNnmen,$ that come Latyn$ but lytille."$ Dorothea was altogether captivated by the wide embrace of t~$ conception. Here was something beyond the shallows of ladies'-school literatore:$ here was a living Bossuet,$ whose work would reconcile complete knowledge with devoted piety; here was a modern Augustine who united the glories of doctor and saint. The sanctity seemed no less clearly marked than the learning, for when Dorothea was impelled to open her mind on certain themes which she could speak of to no one whom she had before seen at Tipton, especially on the secondary importance of ecclesiastical forms and articles of belief compared with that spiritual religion, that submergence of self in communion with Divine perfection which seemed to her to be expressed in the best Christian books of widely~tant$ ages, she found in Mr Casaubon a listener who understood her at once, who could assure her of his own agreement with that view when duly tempered with wise conformity, and could mention historical examples before unknown to her. "He t~:s$ with me," said Dorothea to herself, "or rather, he t~:s$ a whole world of which my thought is but a poor twopenny$ mn- nor. And his feelings too, his whole experience---what a lake compared with my little pool!" Miss Brooke argued from words and dispositions not less umhesl-tatingly$ than other young ladies of her age. Signs are small measurable things, but interpretations are illimitable, and in gi~$ of sweet ardent nature, every sign is apt to conjure up wonder, hope, belief, vast as a sky, and coloured by a diffused thimbleful$ of matter in the shape of knowledge. They are not always too grossly deceived; for Sinbad$ himself may have fallen by good-luck on a trne$ description, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions: starting a long way off the true point and proceeding by loops and zigzags, we now and then arrive just where we ought to be. Because Miss Brooke was hasty in her trust it is not therefore clear that Mr Casaubon was unworthy of it. He stayed a little loQer$ than he had intended, on a slight pressure ~p.19 of invitation from Mr Brooke, who offered no bait except his own documents on machine-breaking and rick-buming.$ Mr Casaubon was called into the library to look at these in a heap, while his host picked up first one and then the other to read aloud from in a skipping and uncertain way, passing from one unfinished passage to another with a "Yes, now, but here! and finally pushing them all aside to open the journal of his youtaal$ Continental travels. Xook$ here-- here is all about Greece. Rhamnus,$ the ruins of Rhamnus---you$ are a great Grecian, now. I don't know whether you have given much study to the topography. I spent no end of time in making out these things---Helicon,$ now. Here, nowl---Ue$ started the next morning for Parnassus,$ the double-peaked Pamassus.'$ All t~$ volume is about Greece, you know," Mr Brooke wound up, rubbing his thumb transversely along the edges of the leaves as he held the book forward. Mr Casaubon made a dignified though somewhat sad audience; bowed in the right place, and avoided looking at anything documentgry$ as far as possible, without showing disregard or impatience; mindful that t~$ desnltoriness$ was associated with the institutions of the country, and that the man who took him on this severe mental scamper was not only an amiable host, but a landholder and Xos$ rotffim.$ Was his endurance aided also by the reflection that Mr Brooke was the uncle of Dorothea? Certainly he seemed more and more bent on making her talk to him, on drawing her out, as Celia remarked to herself; and in looking at her, his face was often lit up by a smile like pale wintry sunshine. Before he left the next morning, while taking a pleasant walk with Miss Brooke along the gravelled$ terrace, he had mentioned to her that he felt the disadvantage of loneliness, the need of that cheerful companionship with which the presence of youth can lighten or vary the serious toils of maturity. And he delivered t~$ statement with as much cileful$ precision as if he had been a diplomatic envoy whose words would be attended with results. Indeed, Mr Casaubon was not used to expect that he should have to repeat or revise his communications of a practical or personal kind. The inclinations which he had deliberately stated on the 2d of October he would t~:$ it enough to refer to by the mention of that date; judging by the standard of his own memory, which was a volume where a <4t~>4$ npra$ could serve instead of repetitions, and not the ordinary long-used blotting-book$ which only tells of forgotten writing. But in this case Mr Casaubon's confidence was not likely to be falsified, for Dorothea heard and re~led$ what he said with the eager interest of a fresh young nature to which every variety in experience is an epoch. It was three o'clock in the beautiful breezy autwrm$ day when Mr Casaubon drove off to his Rectory at Lowick, only five miles from Tipton; and Dorothea, who had on her bonnet and shawl, hurried along the shrubbery and across the park that she might wander through the bordering wood with no other visible companionship than ~p.20 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter g tQt$ of Monk, the Great St Bernard dog, who always took care of the young ladies in their walks. There had risen before her the girl's m- ~on of a possible future for herself to which she looked forward with trembling hope, and she wanted to wander on in that visionary fiture$ without interruption. She walked briskly in the brisk air, the colour rose in her cheeks, and her straw-bornet$ (which our contempomries$ might look at with oonj~ral$ curiosity as at an obsolete form of basket) fell a little backward. She would perhaps be hardly characterised enough if it were omitted that she wore her brown hair flaVy$ braided and coiled behind so as to expose the outline of- her h~d$ in a da~g$ manner at a time when public feeling req~d$ the meagreness of nature to be dissimulated by tall barricades of friTed$ curls and bows, never surpassed by any great race except the Feejeean.$ 7~$ was a trait of Miss Brooke's asceticism. But there was nothing of an ascetic's expression in her bright full eyes, as she looked before her, not consciously seeing, but absorbing into the intensity of her moocl$, the solemn glory of the afternoon with its long swathes of light between the far"oB$ rows of limes, whose shadows touched each other, All people, young or old (that is, all people in those ante-refomn$ times), would have thought her an interesting object if they had referred the glow in her eyes and cheeks to the newly-awakened ordinary images of young love: the illusions of Chloe about Strephon$ have been s~ciently$ consecrated in poetry, as the pathetic loveliness of all spontaneous trust ought to be. Miss Pippin adoring young Wnpkin$ and dreaming along endless vistas of unwearying$ companionship, was a little drama which never t~-$ our fathers and mothers, and had been put into all costumes. Let but ~lpkin have a figure which would sustain the disadvantages of the short-waisted swallow-tail, and everybody felt it not only natural but necessary to the perfection of womanhood, that a sweet girl should be at once convin~$ of his ~e,$ his exceptional ability, and above all, his perfect sm- cerity.$ But perhaps no persons then living---certainly none in the ne~hbourhcccl$ of Tipton---would have had a sympathetic understandm-$ g$ for the dreams of a girl whose notions about marriage took their colour entirely from an exalted enthusiasm about the ends of life, an enthusiasm which was lit chiefly by its own fire, and included neither the niceties of the hffiseau,$ the pattern of plate, nor even the honours and sweet joys of the blooming matron. It had now entered Dorothea's mind that Mr Casaubon might wish to make her his wife, and the idea that he would do so touched her with a sort of reverential gratitude. How good of him---nay, it would be almost as if a winged messenger had suddenly stood beside her path and held out his hand towards her! For a long while she had been oppressed by the indefiniteness which hung in her mind, like a thick summer haze, over all her desire to make her life greatly effective. What could she do, what ought she to do?---she, hardly more than a budding woman, but yet with an active conscience and a great mental need, not to be satisfied by a girlish instruction comparabk$ to the ~p. Book 1 MISS BROOKE 21 nibbli~$ and judgments of a discursive mouse. With some endowment of stupidity and conceit, she might have thought that a Christian young likly$ of fortune should find her ideal of life in village charities, patronage of the humbler clergy, the perusal$ of 'Female$ Scripture Characters,'$ unfolding the private experience of Sara$ under the Old Dispensation and Dorcas$ under the New, and the care of her soul over her embroidery in her own boudoir---with a background of prospective m~Tiage$ to a man who, if less strict than herself, as being 1-nvolved in affairs religiously inexplicable, might be prayed for and seasonably exhorted. From such contentment poor Dorothea was shut out. The inten~ty$ of her religious disposition, the coercion it exercised over her life, was but one aspect of a nature altogether ardent, theoretic, and intellectually consequent: and with such a nature, struggling in the bands of a ~row te;~ng,$ hemmed in by a social life which seemed nothing but a labyrinth of petty courses, a walled-in mare of small paths that led no whither, the outcome was sure to sbike$ others as at once exaggeration and inconsistency. The thing which seemed to her best she wanted to justify by the completest knowledge; and not to live in a pretended admission of rules which were never acted on. Into this soul-hunger as yet all her youthful passion was poured; the union which attracted her was one that would deliver her from her girlish subjection to her own ignorance, and give her the freedom of voluntary submission to a guide who would take her along the grandest path. "I should learn everything then," she said to herself, still wa~ng$ qul-ckly$ along the bridle road through the wood. "It would be my duty to study that I might help him the better in his great works. There would be nothing trivial about our lives. Everyday-things with us would mean the greatest t~ngs$. It would be like maS-ng$ Pascal. I should learn to see the truth by the same light as great men have seen it by. And then I should know what to do, when I got older: I should see how it was possible to lead a grand life here---now---in England. I don't feel sure about doing good in any way now: everything seems like going on a mission to a people whose language 1 don't know;---unless it were building good cottages---there can be no doubt about that. Oh, I hope I should be able to get the people well housed in Lowick! I will draw plenty of plans while I have timR"$ Dorothea checked herself suddenly with self-rebuke for the presumptuous way in which she was reckoning on unce~n$ events, but she was spared any inward effort to change the direction of her thoughts by the appearance of a cantering horseman round a turning of the road. The well-groorned$ chestnut horse and two beautiful setters could leave no doubt that the rider was Sir James Chettam. He discerned Dorothea, jumped off his horse at once, and, having delivered it to his groom, advanced towards her with something white on his arm, at which the two setters were barking in an excited manner. "How delightful to meet you, Miss Brooke," he said, raising his ~p.22 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 3 hat and showing his sleekly-waving blond hair. "It has hastened the pleasure I was looking forward to." Miss Brooke was annoyed at the interruption. This amiable baronet, really a suitable husband for Celia, exaggeratcd$ the necessity of making himself agreeable to the elder sister. Even a prospective brother-in-law may be an oppression if he will always be presupposing too good an understanding with you, and agreeing with you even when you contradict him. The thought that he had made the mistake of paying his addresses to herself could not take shape: all her mental activity was used up in persuasions of another kind. But he was positively obtrusive at t~$ moment and his dimpled hands were quite disagreeable. Her roused temper made her colour deeply, as she returned his greeting with some haughtiness. Sir James interpreted the heightened colour in the way most gratifying to himself, and thought he never saw Miss Brooke looking so handsome. "I have brought a little petitioner," he said, "or rather, I have brought him to see if he will be approved before his petition is offerecl."$ He showed the white ob~ct$ under his arm, which was a tiny Maltese puppy, one of nature's most naive toys. "It is p;~al$ to me to see these creatures that are bred merely as pets," said Dorothea, whose opinion was forming itself that very moment (as opinions will) under the heat of irritation. "Oh, why?" said Sir James, as they walked forward. "I believe all the petting that is given them does not make them happy. They are too helpless: their lives are too frail. A weasel or a mouse that gets its own living is more interesting. I like to t~$ that the ~nals$ about us have souls something like our own, and either carry on their -own little affairs or can be companions to us, like Monk here. Those creatures are parasib-c."$ "I am so glad I know that you do not like them," said good Sir James. "I should never keep them for myself, but la~es$ usually are fond of these Maltese dogs. Here, John, take this dog, will you?" The objectionable puppy, whose nose and eyes were equally black and expressive, was thus got rid of, since M~s$ Brooke decided that it had better not have been born. But she felt it necessary to explan- . "You must not judge of Celia's feeling from mine. I think she likes these small pets. She had a tiny terrier once, which she was very fond of. It made me unhappy, because I was afraid of treading on it. I am rather short-sighted." "You have your own opinion about everything, Miss Brooke, and it is always a good opinion." What answer was possible to such stupid complimenting? "Do you know, I envy you that" Sir James said, as they continued wall~ng$ at the rather brisk pace set by Dorothea. "I don't quite understand what you mean." "Your power of forming an opinion. I can form an opinion of persons. I know when I like people. But about other matters, do you know, I have often a difficulty in deciding. One hears very sensible things said on opposite sides." "Or that seem sensible. Perhaps we don't always d~-$ inate$ between sense and nonsense." Dorothea felt that she was rather rude. "Exactly," said Sir James. "But you seem to have the power of discrimination." "On the contrary, I am often unable to decide. But that is from &- norance.$ The right conclusion is there all the same, though I am unable to see it." "I think there are few who would see it more readily. Do you know, Lovegood was telling me yesterday that you had the best notion in the world of a plan for cottages---quite wonderful for a young lady, he thought. You had a real genus, to use his expression. He said you wanted Mr Brooke to build a new set of cottages, but he seemed to think it hardly probable that your uncle would consent. Do you know, that is one of the things 1 wish to do---1 mean, on my own estate- 1 should be so glad to carry out that plan of yours, if you would let me see it. Of course, it is s~-$ ing money; that is why people object to it Labourers can never pay rent to make it answer. But, after all, it is worth dom- g."$ 'Uorth$ doingl$ yes, indeed," said Dorothea, energetically, forgetting her previous small vexations. "I think we deserve to be beaten out of our beautiful houses with a scourge of small cords---all of us who let tenants live in such sties as we see round us. Life in cottages might be happier than ours, if they were real houses fit for human beings from whom we expect duties and affections." Will you show me your planr$ "Yes, certa~y.$ I daresay it is very faulty. But I have been exsilnining$ all the plans for cottages in London$'s book,l$ and picked out what seem the best t~ngs$. Oh what a happiness it would be to set the pattern about here! I think, instead of Lazarus at the gate, we should put the pig-sty cottages outside the park-gate." Dorothea was in the best temper now. Sir James, as brother-in-law, building model cottages on his estate, and then, perhaps, others being built at Jowick,$ and more and more elsewhere in imitation---it would be as if the spirit of Oberlin$ had passed over the parishes to make the life of poverty beautiful! Sir James saw all the plans, and took one away to consult upon with Lovegood. He also took away a complacent sense that he was making great progreas$ in M~s$ Brooke's good opinion. The Miltese$ puppy was not offered to Cclia;$ an omission which Dorothea afterwards thought of with surprise; but she blamed herself for it- She had been engrossing Sir James. After all, it was a relief that there was no puppy to tread upon. Celia was present while the plans were being examioed,$ and ob 1 John Claudius London$, A Manffi$ 0 Cc~e$ <5~e$ing,>5$ H~affiV,$ $$ Archirffiure,$ London, 1~. ~p.24 served Sir James's illusion. "He t~s$ that Dodo cares about him, and she only cares about her plans. Yet I am not certain that she would refuse him if she thought he would let her manage ever~lg$ and carry out all her notions. And how very uncomfortable Sir James would bel$ I cannot bear notions." It was Celia's private luxury to indulge in this dislike. She dared not confess it to her sister in any direct statement for that would be laying herself open to a demonstration that she was somehow or other at war with all goodness. But on safe opportunities, she had an in~ect$ mode of making her negative wisdom tell upon Dorothea, and calling her down from her rhapsodic mood by reminding her that- people were sta~g$, not listening. Celia was not impulsive: what she had to say could wait and came from her always with the same quiet, staccato evenness. When people talked with energy and emphasis she watched their faces and features merely. She never could understand how wellbred$ persons consented to sing and open their mouths in the ridiculous manner requisite for that vocal exercise. It was not many days before Mr Casaubon paid a morning visit on which he was invited again for the following week to dine and stay the n~-$ t$ Thus Dorothea had tffie$ more conversations with him, and was convinced that her first impressions had been just. He was all she had at first imagined him to be: almost everything he had said seemed like a sl~-men$ from a ~ne,$ or the inscription on the door of a museum which might open on the treasures of past ages; and t~$ trust in lu-s$ mental wealth was all the deeper and more effective on her inclination because it was now obvious that his visits were made for her sake, This accomplished man condescended to t~k$ of a young girl, and take the pains to talk to her, not with absurd compliment but with an appeal to her understanding, and sometimes with instructive correction. What delightfal$ companionshipl$ Mr Casaubon seemed even unconscious that trivialities existed, and never handed round that small-talk of heavy men which is as acceptable as stale bride-cake brought forth with an odour of cup-board. He talked of what he was interested in, or else he was silent and bowed with sad civility. To Dorothea t~$ was adorable genuineness, and religious abstinence from that artificiality whiCh uses up the soul in the efforts of pretence. For she looked as reverently at Mr Casaubon's religious elevation above herself as she did at his intellect and learning. He assented to her expressions of devout feeling, and usually with an appropriate quotation; he allowed ~self to say that he had gone through some spiritual conflicts in lu-s$ youth; in short, Dorothea saw that here she might reckon on understanding, sympathy, and guidance. On one---only one---of her favourite themes she was disappointed. Mr Casaubon apparently did not care about building cottages, and diverted the talk to the extremely narrow accommodation which was to be had in the dwellings of the ancient Egyptians, as if to check a too high standard. ~er he was Bone, Dorothea dwelt with some agitation on this indifference of his; and her mind was much exercised with $ments$ clrawn$ from the ~p.25 Book 1 MISS BROOKE varying cond-tions$ of climate which modify human needs, and from the admittecl$ wickedness of pagan despots. Should she not urge these arguments on Mr Casaubon when he came again? But further reflffi$ tion told her that she was presumptuous in demutding$ his attention to such a subject; he would not disapprove of her occupying herself with it in leisure moments, as other women expected to occupy themselves with their dress and embroidery---would not forbid it when-----Dorothea$ felt rather asharned$ as she detected herself in these speculations. But her uncle had been invited to go to Lowick to stay a couple of days: was it reasonable to suppose that Mr Casaubon delighted in Mr Brooke's society for its own sake, either with or without documentsl$ Meanwhile that little disappointment made her delight the more in Sir James Chet~n$'s readiness to set on foot the d~ed$ improvements. He came much oftener than Mr Casaubon, and Dorothea ceased to find h~n$ disagreeable since he showed himself so entirely 1-n earnest; for he had already entered with much practical ability 1-nto Lovegood's estimates, and was charningly$ docile. She proposed to build a couple of cot~ges,$ and transfer two families from their old cabins, whiCh could then be pulled down, so that new ones could be built on the old sites. Sir James said, 'Pxactly," and she bore the word remarkably well. Certainly these men who had so few spontaneous ideas might be very useFal$ members of society under good feminine direction, if they were for~ate$ in Choosing their sisters-in-lawl$ It is difficult to say whether there was or was not a little wilfnlness$ in her continuing blind to the possibility that another sort of choice was in question in relation to her. But her life was just now full of hope and action: she was not only t~-~-ng$ of her plans, but getting down learned books from the library and reading many thin~$ hastily (that she ~ht be a little less ignorant in I~-ng$ to Mr Casaubon), all the while being visited with conscientious questiorings$ whether she were not exalting these poor doings above measure and contemplating them with that self-satisfaction which was the last doom of ignorance and folly. CHAPTER 4 "Ia OM. <4Oar deeds are Ie>4i<4beES$ that>4i<4we$ ro@$ e~~>4$ ~$ OM.$ Ay,$ <4truG:$ beti$ ~>4$ i~s$ ils$ ~$ <4the worId>4$ ~$ <4by>4 "SIR JnEs$ seems determined to do everything yon wish," said Celia, as they were driving home from an in~ection$ of the new building-site. "He is a good creature, and more sensible than any one would imagine," said Dorothea, inconsiderately. 1 When no author is Biven$ it may be sssmned$ that the mottoes or epi8aphs$ are by Geoge$ Eliot. ~p.26 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter S "You mean that he appears silly." "No, no," said Dorothea, recollecting herself, and laying her hand cn$ her sister's a moment "but he does not talk equally well on all subjects." "I should thiok$ none but disagreeable people do," said Celia, in her usual purring way. "They mLGt$ be very dreadful to live with. Only think! at breakfast, and always." Dorothea laughed. "0 Kitty, you are a wonderful creature!" She pinched Celia's chin, being in the mocd$ now to t~($ her very wm-$ ning$ and lovely---fit hereafter to be an eternal cherub, and if it were not doctrinally wrong to say so, hardly more in need of salvation than a squirrel- "Of course people need not be always ta~ng$ well. Oely$ one tells the quality of their minds when they try to talk well." "You mean that Sir James tries and fails." "I was speaking generally. Why do you catechise$ me about Sir James? It is not the object of his life to please me." "Now, Dodo, can you really believe that?" "Certainly. He thinks of me as a future sister---that is all." Dorothea had never hinted t~$ before, waiting, from a certain shyneas$ on such subjects which was mutual between the sisters, until it should be introduced by some decisive event. Celia blushed, but said at once-- "Pray do not make that mistake any longer, Dodo. When Tantripp was brushing my hair the other day, she said that Sir James's man knew from Mrs Cadwallader's maid that Sir James was to marry the eldest Miss Brooke." "How can you let Tantripp talk such gossip to you, Celia?" said Dorothea, indignantly, not the less angry because details asleep in her memory were now awakened to con6m$ the unwelcome revelation. "You must have asked her questions. It is degrading." "I see no harm at all in Tantripp's talking to me. It is better to hear what people say. You see what mistakes you make by taking up notions. L ani$ quite sure that Sir James means to make you an offer; and he believes that you will accept him, especially since you have been so pleased with him about the plans. And uncle too---I$ know he expects it. Every one can see that Sir James is very much in love with you. The re-Gion$ was so strong and p;~al$ in Dorothea's mind that the tears welled up and flowed abundantly. All her dear plans were embittered, and she thought with disgust of Sir James's conceiving that she recob~ed$ him as her lover. There was vexation too on account of Celia. "How could he expect it?" she burst forth in her most impetuous manner. "I have never agreed with him about anything but the cottages: I was barely polite to him before." "But you have been so pleased with him smce$ then; he has begun to feel quite sure that you are fond of hm-$ ." "Fond of him, Celia! How can you choose such odious expressions?" said Dorothea, passionately. ~p.27 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 27 "Dear me, Dorothea, I suppose it would be right for you to be fond of a man whom you accepted for a husband." "It is offensive to me to say that Sir James could think I was fond of him. Besides, it is not the right word for the feeling I must have towards the man I would accept as a husband." "Well, I am sorry for Sir James. I thought it right to tell you, because you went on as you always do, never looking just where you are, and treading in the wrong place. You always see what nobody else sees; it is impossible to satisfy you; yet you never see what is quite plain. That's your way, Dodo." Something certainly gave Celia unusual courage; and she was not sparing the sister of whom she was occasionally in awe. Who can tell what just criticisms Murr$ the Cat may be passing on us beings of wider speculation? "It is very painful," said Dorothea, feeling scourged. '? can have no more to do with the cottages. I must be uncivil to him. I must tell him I will have nothing to do with them. It is very painful." Her eyes filled again with tears. "Wait a little. Think about it. You know he is going away for a day or two to see his sister. There will be nobody besides Lovegood." Celia could not help relenting. "Poor Dodo," she went on, in an amiable staccato. "It is very hard: it is your favourite f& to draw plans." "F& to draw plans! Do you think I only care about my fellowcreatures'$ houses in that childish way? I may well make mistakes. How can one ever do anything nobly Christian, living among people with such petty thoughts?" No more was said: Dorothea was too much jarred to recover her temper and behave so as to show that she admitted any error in herself. She was clisposed$ rather to accuse the intolerable narrowness and the purblind conscience of the society around her: and Celia was no longer the eternal cherub, but a thorn in her spirit a piQk-andwhite$ nullifidian,$ worse than any discouraging presence in the 'Pilgrim's Progress.'$ The f&$ of drawing plans! What was life worth--what great faith was possible when the whole effect of one's actions could be withered up into such parched rubbish as that? When she got out of the carriage, her cheeks were pale and her eyelids red. She was an image of sorrow, and her uncle who met her in the hall would have been alarmed, if Celia had not been close to her looking so pretty and composed, that he at once concluded Dorothea's tears to have their origin in her excessive religiousness. He had returned, during their absence, from a journey to the county town, about a petition for the pardon of some c~-nal$. "Well, my dears," he said, kin1lly,$ as they went up to kiss him, -I hope nothing disagreeable has happened while I have been away." "No uncle," said Celia, "we have been to Freshitt to look at the cottages. We thought you would have been at home to lunch." "I came by Lowick to lunch---you didn't know I came by Lowick. ~p.28 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter S$ And I have brought a couple of pamphlets for you, Dorothea---in the library, you know; they lie on the table in the library." It seemed as if an electric stream went through Dorothea, t~-$ ig$ her from despair into expectation. They were pamphlets about the early Church. The oppression of Celia, Tantripp, and Sir James was shaken off, and she walked straight to the library. Celia went up-stairs. Mr Brooke was det~ned$ by a message, but when he ffientered$ the library he found Dorothea seated and already deep in one of the pamphleG$ which had some marginal manuscript of Mr Casaubon's,--taking$ it in as eagerly as she might have taken in the scent of a fresh bouquet after a dry, hot, dreary walk. She was getting away from Tipton and Freshitt, and her own sad liability to tread in the wrong places on her way to the New Jernsalem.$ Mr Brooke sat down in his armehair,$ stretched his legs towards the wood-fire, which had fallen into a wondrous mass of glowing dice between the dogs, and rubbed his hands gently, looking very miltlly$ towards Dorothea, but with a neutral leisurely air, as if he had nothing particular to say. Dorothea closed her pamphlet, as soon as she was aware of her uncle's presence, and rose as if to go. Usually she would have been interested about her uncle's merciful errand on behalf of the criminal, but her late agitation had made her absent-minded. 'T came back by Lowick, you know," said Mr Brooke, not as if with any intention to arrest her dep~re$, but apparently from his usual tendency to say what he had said before. This fundamental principle of human speech was markedly exhibited in Mr Brooke. "I lunched there and saw Casaubon's library, and that kind of thing. There's a sharp air, driving. Won't you sit down, my dear? You look cold." Dorothea felt quite inclined to accept the invitation. Sometimes, when her uncle's easy way of taking things did not happen to be exasperating, it was rather soothing. She threw off her mantle and bonnet and sat down opposite to him, enjoying the glow, but lifW-$ g$ up her beautiful hands for a screen. They were not thin hands, or small hands; but powerful, fem~-$ le$, maternal hands. She seemed to be holding them up in propitiation for her passionate desire to know and to t~k$, which in the u~endly$ mediums of Tipton and Freshitt had issued in crying and red eyelids. She bethought$ herself now of the condemned ~nal. "What news have you brought about the sheep-stealer,$ uncle?" What poor Bunch?---well, it sffls$ we can't get him oB---he is to be hanged." Dorothea's brow took an expression of reprobation$ and pity. "Hanged, you know," said Mr Brooke, with a quiet nod. -qoor Romilly! he would have helped us. I knew Romilly. Casaubon didn't ~ow Romilly. He is a little buried in books, you know, Casaubon G-$ ." "When a man has great studies and is writing a great work, he must of course ~ve up seeing much of the world. How can he go about making acquaintancesr$ ~p.29 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 29 'What's true. But a man mopes, you know. I have always been a bachelor too, but I have that sort of disposition that I never moped; it was my way to go about everywhere and take in everything. I never moped: but I can see that Casaubon does, you know. He wants a companion---a companion you know." "It would be a great honour to any one to be his companion," said Dorothea, energetically. "You like him, eh?" said Mr Brooke, without showing any surprise, or other emotion. "Well, now, I've known Casaubon ten years, ever sm- ce he came to Lowick. But I never got anything out of-$ him---any ideas, you know. However, he is a tiptop man and may be a bishop--that kind of thing, you know, if Peel stays in. And he has a very high opinion of you, my dear." Dorothea could not speak. "The fact is, he has a very high opinion indeed of you. And he speaks uncommonly well---cloes$ Casaubon. He has deferred to me, you not being of age. In short I have promised to speak to yon though I told him I thought there was not much Chance. I was bound to tell him that. I said, my niece is very young, and that kind of thing. But I didn't t~nk$ it necessary to go into eve]~-ng.$ However, the long and the short of it is, that he has asked my pension to make you an offer of marriage---of marriage, you know," said Mr Brooke, with his explanatory nod. ~ thought it better to tell you, my dear." No one could have detected any anxiety in Mr Brooke's manner, but he did really wish to know something of his niece's mind, that if there were any need for advice, he might give it in time. What feeling g$ he, as a magistrate who had taken in so many ideas, could make room for, was i~ixedly$ kind. Since Dorothea did not speak u- immediately, he repeated, ~ thought it better to tell you, my dear." 'qhank you, uncle," said Dorothea, in a clear unwavering$ tone. ~ am very grateful to Mr Casaubon. If he makes me an offer, I shall accept him. I admire and honour him more than any man I ever saw." Mr Brooke paused a little, and then said in a lingering low tone, "Ah? . . . Welll$ He is a good matCh in some res~:ts.$ But now, Chettam is a good matCh. And our land lies together. I shall never interfere against your wishes, my dear. People should have their own way in marriage, and that sort of t~ngvp$ to a 0~-n$ point you know, I have always said that up to a certain poinL$ I wish you to many well; and I have good reason to believe that Chettam wishes to marry you. I mention it you know." ~t is impossible that I shoW ever marry Sir James Chettam,- said Dorothea. X he thinks of mar~g$ me, he has made a great nu-stake.'$ "That is it you see. One never knows. I should have thought Chettam was just the sort of man a woman would like, now." "Pray do not mention him in that ~ht again, uncle," said Dorothea, feeling some of her late irritation revive, ~p.30 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 4 Mr Brooke wondered, and felt that women were an inexhaustible subject of study, since even he at his age was not in a perfect state of scientific prediction about them. Here was a fellow like Chettam with no chance at all. '~ell, but Casaubon, now. There is no hurry---I mean for you. It's true, every year will tell upon him. He is over five-and-forty, you know. I should say a good seven-and-twenty years older than you. To be sure,---if you like learning and standing, and that sort of thing, we can't have everything. And his income is good---he has a handsome property independent of the Church---his income is good. Still he is not young, and I must not conceal from you, my dear, that I think his health is not over-strong. I know nothing else against him." "I should not wish to have a husband very near my own age," said Dorothea, with grave decision. "I should wish to have a husband who was above me in judgment and in all knowledge." Mr Brooke repeated his subdued, "Ah?---I thought you had more of your own opinion than most girls. I thought you liked your own opinion---liked it you know-" "I cannot imagine myself living without some opinions, but I should wish to have good reasons for them, and a wise man could help me to see which opinions had the best foundation, and would help me to live according to them." 'Very true. You couldn't put the thing better---couldn't put it better, beforehand, you know. But there are oddities in things," continued Mr Brooke, whose conscience was really rousecl$ to do the best he could for his niece on this occasion. "Life isn't cast in a mould--not$ cut out by me and line, and that sort of thing. I never married myself, and it will be the better for you and yours. The fact is, I never loved any one well enough to put myself into a noose for them. It N a noose, you know. Temper, now. There is temper. And a husband likes to be master." "I know that I must expect trials, uncle. Marriage is a state of higher duties. I never thought of it as mere personal ease,- and$ poor Dorothea. 'Well, you are not fond of show, a great establishment balls, dinners, that kind of thing. I can see that Casaubon's ways might suit you better than Chettam's. And you shall do as you like, my dear. I would not hinder Casaubon; I said so at once; for there is no know~$ how an~W-ng$ may turn out. You have not the same taMes as every young lady; and a clergyman and scholar---who may be a bishop--that kind of t~g---may$ suit you better than Chettam. Chettam is a good fellow, a good sound-hearted$ fellow, you know; but he doesn't go much into ideas. I did, when I was his age. But Casaubon's eyes, now. 1 think he has hurt them a little with too much reading." "I should be all the happier, uncle, the more room there was for me to help him," said Dorothea, ardently. "Yon have quite made up your mind, I see. Well, my dear, the fact is, I have a letter for you in my pocket." Mr Brooke hsmded$ the ~p.31 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 31 letter to Dorothea, but as she rose to go away, he added, "There is not too much hurry, my dear. Think about it, you know." When Dorothea had left him, he reflected that he had certainly spoken strongly: he had put the risks of marriage before her in a sl~sng$ manner. It was his duty to do so. But as to pretending to be wise for young people,---no uncle, however much he had travelled in his youth, absorbed the new ideas, and clined$ with celebrities now deceased, could pretend to judge what sort of marriage would turn out well for a young girl who preferred Casaubon to Chettam. In short, woman was a problem which, since Mr Brooke's mind felt blank before it could be hardly less complicated than the revolutions of an irregular solid. ff$ CHAPTER S <4 '~ard a~des&$ are conumo6$ troubled wl~$ sowq>4$ <4 eataThs,$ rheums,$ cachezs>4s<4a,$ bradypepn>4sa$ <4bad eyeS$ ston4>4$ <4 nnd$ co~cr$ cTuds>4sUs<4es,$ oppil>4s$ <4atloES,$ ve~go,$ wm>4s$ Q,$ <4coESump>$ 4 <4 tlons$ and all such d">4s$ <4eases as come by over-much sittlng:>4$ <4 theY$ are most part lean, d~$, ill"olo--ed$ - ->4 . <4and all>4 <4 Wough$ um>4s$ <4uoderate$ pam>4s$ <4s$ and eztraordo>4s<4nary$ studies.>4 ll <4 you wtl>4s$ <4not believe the truth>4 or <4this, look upon great>4 <4 Tostatus$ and ~omas$ Aqum>4s<4nns>4s$ <4works: and tell me whe~r>4$ <4 those men took paiES-->4---<4RuaToN-s$ A"aromy$ of>4 <5Mei-->5$ <4 "hoiy,$ P->4$ I. <4a.>4 2. Tws$ was Mr Casaubon's letter. MY <4DE~>4$ Mrs BnooxE,---1$ have your guardian's pension 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 sup$ding$ 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 t~k$, made s~~ciently$ 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 ~p.32 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 5 elements both solid and attractive, adapted to supply aid in graver labours 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 feeling go$; and 1 rcly$ on your kind indulgence in vent~g$ now to ask you how far your owm$ are of a nature to confirm my happy presentinent$ 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 wisdorn$ (were it possible) to divert by a more arduous labour than usual. But in t~$ order of experience I am still young, and in looking forward to an unfavourable possibility I cannot but feel that resignation to solitude will be more difficult after the temporary illumination of hope. In any case, L shall remain, yours with sincere devotion, EDw~o$ 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 thoughG$ became vague and images floated uncertainly,$ she could but cast herself, with a childlike sense of reclining, in the lap of a diwine$ consciousness which sustained her own. She remained in that attitude till it was time to dress for dioner.$ 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 iritiation.$ 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. T~$ hope was not unmixed with the glow of proud delight---the joyous maiden surprise that she was cho~l$ 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 transfignred$ girlhood fell on the 6st object that casne$ 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 lifA$ ~p.33 Book 1 MISS BROOKE Afti$ dinner, when Celia was playing an "air, with variations," a ill$ kind of tinkling which symbolised$ 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 unce~n$, and she could not bear that Mr Casaubon. should i~k$ her handwriting bad and ille~ble.$ She piqued herself on m-ting 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 <4D~>4$ MR CAsAueoN,---I$ am very grateful to you for loving me, and th~-ng$ 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, fi would only be the same thing written out at greater length, for 1 cannot now dwell on any other thought than that I may be through life, yours devotecly,$ DORCfflA$ 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 ~~~ued ~n il 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 t~,$ my dear?" he said at last. "There was no need to t~:$ 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 chancel Has Chettam offended you---offended you, you know? What is it you don't like in Chettam?" ~:ere$ 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 Boing$ into ever~-ng---a$ little too much---it took me too far; though that sort of t~g$ 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 ~p.34 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 5 your guardian, have consented to a bad match. But Casaubon stands well: his position is good. I am afraid Chettam will be hurt, thoug~$ 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 carefnl$ 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 t~ngs$ were, and nothing eEe$: she never did and never could put words together out of her own head. But the best of Dodo was, that she did not keep angry for long together. Now, though they had hardly spoken to each other all the evening, yet when Celia put by her work, intending to go to bed, a proceeding in which she was always much the earlier, Dorothea, who was seated on a low stool, unable to occupy herself except in meditation, said, with the musical intonation which in moments of deep but quiet feeling made her speech like a fine bit of recitative--$ "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. 'gon't sit up, Dodo, you are so pale to-night: go to bed soon," said Celia, in a comfortable way, without ~ty touch of pathos. "No, dear, I am very, very happy," said -Dorothea, fervently. "So much the better," thought Celia. "But how strangely Dodo Qoes$ 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 whitffi$ sunlit wing had passed across her feat~;,$ ending in one of her rare blushes. For the 6st 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 ~tening- Hitherto she had classed the admiration for ~ "ugly" and learned acquaintance with the admiration for Monsieur Liret$ at ~p.35 Book 1 MISS BROOKE Lausarne,$ also ugly and learned. Dorothea had never been t~ed$ 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 ~et? And it seemed probable that all learned men had a sort of schoolmaster's view of young people. But now Celia was really stanled$ at the suspicion which had darted into her mind. She was seldom taken by surprise in t~$ way, her marvellous quiCkness in observing a certain order of siEMs$ 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 ~nd$ 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 ma~ig$ 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 si~-$ g-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 u- impossible not to shrink from telling her. Dorothea accused herself of some meanness in t~$ 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 ~culty of decision banished, by Celia's small and rather guttural voice speaking in its usual tone, of a remark aside or a "by the by." "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 soupeating?"$ "Really, Dodo, can't you hear how he scrapes his spoonr$ And he always blinks before he speaks. 1 don't know whether Locke blinked, but I'm sure I am sorry for those who sat opposite to him if he did." ~p.36 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 5 -Celia,- said DoroMea,$ with emphatic 8avity,$ -pray don't make any more observations of that kind." Why not? They are quite true," retwed$ Celia, who had her reasons for persevering, though she was beginning to be a little afraid. "Many t~n~$ are true which only the commonest ~nds observe.'$ qhen$ I think the c~monest$ minds must be rather useful. I t~k$ it is a pity Mr Casaubon's mother had not a comnoner$ mind: she might have taught he$ better." Celia was inwanlly$ f~ghtened,$ and ready to run away, now she had hurled t~$ light javelin. Dorothea's feelin~$ had gathered to an avalsnche,$ and there could be no fWher$ 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 habituQ$ 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. "0 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 Qection.$ Dorothea was still hurt and agitated, ~t is quite decided, them said Celia, in an awed undertone. "And uncle knows?" "I have accepted Mr Casaubon's offer. My uncle brought me the ~a that contained it; he knew about it beforehand." n beg your pardon, if I have said anything to hurt yon, 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 affau-$ , and Mr Casaubon seemed to be the cBciating$ clergyman about whom it would be indecent to make remaMs.$ "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 p~e$ me." In spite of this magnaminity Dorothea was still sma~:$ 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 thonght$ 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 tQted-tkte$ with Mr Casaubon she talked to him with more fffedom$ 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 th-s childlike unrestrained ardour: he was not surprised (what lover would have been?) that he should be the object of it. "My dear young lady---Miss Brooke---Dorotheal"$ he said, pressing ~p.37 Book 1 MISS BROOKE ~7$ her hand between his hands, "this is a happiness greater than I had ever imagined to be in resieNe$ for me. That I should ever meet with a mind and person so ricAs~$ the n~gled$ 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 8eat 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 d~)sed$ 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 seemecl$ to leave unsaid: what believer sees a disturbing o~-$ ion or infelicity? The text, whether of prophet or of poet, expands for whatever we can put into it and even his bad grsmmar$ is sublime. "I am very ignorant---you will quite wonder at my ignorance," said Dorothea. "I have so many thoughts that may be quite rn-staken;$ 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, n 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." "Ho~~uld$ 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 cha~$ of a nature which was entirely without hidden calculations either for immediate effects or for remoter$ ends. It was ~is 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. ~p.38 CHAPTER B <4ngue$ in Ge$ the meadow bladeh>4$ "Ish<4satscsus>4~'<4syou$ stroWs$ them Mth$ i~e$ hamd>4$ <4Nice cuttm>4s$ <4g$ m>4s$ <4her Wctr>4s<4on:$ the di>4s<4ddes>4$ <4With Rhitu~$ edse$ the ~et~ed,>4$ <4~d$ makes inta~dble$ ssviQ.">4$ As MR CAsd~oN's$ carriage was passing out of the gateway, it arrested the entrance of a pony phaeton driven by a lady with a servant seated behind. It was doubtful whether the recognition had been mutual, for Mr Casaubon was looking absently before him; but the lady was quickeyed,$ and threw a nod and a "how do you do?" in the niCk of time. In spite of her shabby bonnet and very old ~dian shawl, it was plaM$ that the lodge-keeper regarded her as an important personage, from the low curtsy which was dropped on the entrance of the small phaeton. . 'Well, Mrs Fitchett how are your fowls laying now?" said the h~hcoloured,$ darkeyed lady, with the clearest chiselled$ utteranC~.$ getty$ well for laying, madam, but they've ta'en$ to eating their eggs: I've no peace o'$ mind with 'em at all." "0 the cannibalsl$ Better seli$ them cheap at once. What will you sell them a couple? One can't eat fowls of a bad character at a high pn-ce."$ "Well, madam, half-a-crown: I couldn't let 'em go, not under." "Half-a-crown, these timesl$ Come now---for the Rector's chickenbroth$ on a Sunday. He has consumed all ours that I can spare. You are half paid with the sermon, Mrs Fitchett, remember that. Take a pair of t~bler-pigeons$ for them---little$ beauties. You m~-$ t$ come and see them. You have no tumblers among your pigeons." 'Uell, madam, Master Fitchett shall go and see 'em$ after work. He's very hot on new sorts: to oblige you." "Oblige me! It will be the best bargain he ever made. A pair of church pigeons for a couple of wicked Spanish fowls that eat their own eggsl$ Don't you and Fitchett boast too much, that is alll"$ The phaeton was driven onwards with the last words, leaving Mrs Fitchett laughing and sha~g$ her head slowly, with an inte~ectional$ "SureZy,$ surelyts$ --from which it might be inferred that she would have found the country-side somewhat duller if the Rector's lady had been less free-spoken and less of a sk~-nt.$ Indeed, both the fa~ers$ and labourers in the parishes of Freshitt and Tipton would have felt a sad lack of conversation but for the stories about what Mrs Cadwallader said and did: a lady of immeasurably high birth, descended, as it were, from unknown earls, dim as the crowd of heroic shades--who pleaded poverty, pared down prices, and cut jokes in the most companionable manner, though with a turn of tongue that let you know who she was. Such a lady gave a neighbourliness to both rank ~p.39 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 39 and religion, and mitigated the bitterness of uncommuted$ tithe. A much more exemplary character with an infusion of sour dignity would not have furthered their comprehension of the Thirty-nine Articles, and would have been less socially uniting. Mr Brooke, seeing Mrs Cadwallader's merits from a different point of view, winced a little when her name was announced in the library, where he was sitting alone. "I see you have had our Lowick Cicero here," she said, seating herself comfortably, throwing back her wraps, and showing a thin but well-built figure. "I suspect you and he are brewing some bad politics, else you woeld$ not be seeing so much of the lively man. I shall inforD$ against you: remember you are both suspicious characters since you took Peel's side about the Catholic Bill. I shall tell everybody that you are going to put up for Middlemarch on the Whig side when old .~kerton resigns, and that Casaubon is going to help you in an underhand manner: going to bribe the voters with pamphlets, and throw open the public-houses to distribute them. Come, confessl"$ "Not~g$ of the sort" said Mr Brooke, smiling and rubbing his eye-glasses,$ but really blushing a little at the impeachrnent-$ "Casaubon and I don't talk politics much. He doesn't care much about the philanthropic side of things; punishments, and that kind of thing. He only cares about Church questions. That is not my line of action, you know." "Ra-a-ther$ too much, my friend. I have heard of your doings. Who was it that sold his bit of land to the Papists at Middlemarch? I believe you bought it on purpose. You are a perfect Guy Faux. See if you are not burnt in eBgy$ this Sth$ of November coming. Humphrey would not come to quarrel with you about it, so I am come." Very$ good. I was prepared to be persecuted for not persecuting--not persecuting, you know." "There you go! That is a piece of clap-trap you have got ready for the hustings. Now, dO not let them lure -you to the hustings, my dear Mr Brooke. A man always makes a fool of himself, speechifying: there's no excuse but being on the right side, so that you can ask a blessing on your humming and having. You will lose yourself, I forewarn you. You will make a Saturday pier of all parties'$ opinions, and be pelted by everybody." "That is what I expect, you know," said Mr Brooke, not wishing to betray how little he enjoyed this prophetic sketch---"what I expect as an independent man- As to the Whigs, a man who goes with the t~cers$ ~$ not likely to be hooked on by any party. He may go with them up to a certain point---up to a certain point, you know. But that is what you ladies never understand." 'Uhere your certain point is? No. I should like to be told how a man can have any certain point when he belongs to no party---leading a roving life, and never letting his friends know his address. 1 A dish made from lekover$ scraps. ~p.40 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 6 Nobody knows where Brooke will be---there's$ no counting on Brooke ---that is what people say of you, to be quite frank. Now, do turn re~ectable.$ How will you like going to Sessions with everybody looking shy on you, and you with a bad conscience and an empty pocket?" "I don't pretend to argue with a lady on politics," said Mr Brooke, with an air of snnling$ indifference, but feeling rather unpleasantly conscious that t~$ attack of Mrs Cadwallader's had opened the defensive campaign to whiCh cer~$ rash steps had exposed him. "Your sex are not t~:ers,$ you know---e~um$ at$ mut~~$ s~per---that$ kind of thing. You don't know Virgil. I knew"---Mr Brooke reflected in time that he had not had the personal acquaintance of the Augustan poet---'T was going to say, poor Stoddart,$ you know. That was what ffi$ said. You ladies are always against an independent attitude---a man's caring for nothing but truth, and that sort of thing. And there 1-s no part of the county where opinion is narrower than it is here---I don't mean to throw stones, you know, but somebody is wanted to take the independent line; and if I don't take it, who will?" Uho?$ Why, any upstart who has got neither blood nor position. People of standing should consume their independent nonsense at home, not hawk it about. And you! who are going to marry your niece, as good as your daughter, to one of our best men. Sir James would be cruelly annoyed: it will be too hard on him if you turn round now and make yourself a W~g$ sign-board." Mr Brooke again winced inwaHlly,$ for Dorothea's engagement had no sooner been decided, than he had thought of Mrs Cadwallader's prospective taunts. It might have been easy for ignorant observers to say, "Quarrel with Mrs Cadwallader;" but where is a country gentleman to go who quarrels with his oldest neighbours? Who could taste the fine flavour in the name of Brooke if it were delivered casually, like wine without a seal? Certainly a man can only be cosmopolitan up to a certain point. "I hope Chettam and I shall always be good friends; but I am sorry to say there is no prospect of his marrying my niece," said Mr Brooke, much relieved to see through the window that Celia was coming in. 'Uhy not?" said Mrs Cadwallader, with a sharp note of surprise. rt is har1lly$ a fortnight sinoe$ you and I were ti~ng$ about it." "My niece has chosen another suitor---has chosen him, you know. I have had nothing to do with it. I should have preferred Chettam; and I should have said Chettam was the man any girl would have chosen. But there is no accounting for these things. Your sex is capricious, you know.- nhy,$ whom do you mean to say that you are going to let her marry?" Mrs Cadwallader's mind was rapidly su~eying$ the possibilities of choice for Dorothea. But here Celia entered, blooming from a walk in the garden, and the greeting with her delivered Mr Brooke from the necessity of an ~p.41 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 41 swering$ immediately. He got up hastily, and saying, "By the way, I must speak to Wright about the horses," shuffled quickly out of the room. "My dear child, what is this?---~ about your sister's engagement?" said Mrs Cadwallader. "She is engaged to marry Mr Casaubon," said Cecilia, resortMg,$ as usual, to the simplest statement of fact, and enjoying this opportunity of speaking to the Rector's wife alone. "This is frightful. How long has it been going on?" "I only knew of it yesterday. They are to be married in six weeks.' "Well, my dear, I wish you joy of your brother-in-law." "I am so sorry for Dorothea." "Sorry! It is her doing, 1 suppose." "Yes; she says Mr Casaubon has a great soul." "With all my heart." "0 Mrs Cadwallader, I don't think it can be nice to marry a man with a great soul." 'Uell, my dear, take warning. You know the look of one now; when the next comes and wants to marry you, don't you accept him." "I'm sure L never should." "No; one such in a family is enough. So your sister never cared about Sir James Chettam? What would you have said to h~m$ for a brother-in-law?" "I should have liked that very much. I am sure he would have been a good husband. Only," Celia added, with a slight blush (she sometimes seemed to blush as she breathed), "I don't think he would have suited Dorothea." "Not high-flown enough?" "Dodo is very strict. She thMks$ so much about everything, and is so particular about what one says. Sir James never seemed to please her." "She must have encouraged him, I am sure. That is not very creditable-" "Please don't be angry with Dodo; she does not see things. She thought so muCh about the cottages, and she ffi$ rude to Sir James sometimes; but he is so kind, he never noticed it." "Well," said Mrs Cadwallader, putting on her shawl, and rising, a~$ if in haste, "I must go straight to Sir James and break this to hu- n He will have brought his mother back by this time, and I must call Your uncle will never tell him. We are all disappointed, my dear Young people should t~;$ of their families in ma~Qg.$ I set a bah example---married a poor clergyman, and made myself a pitiabl&$ object among the De Bracys----obliged to get my coals by stratagem, and pray to heaven for my salad oil. However, Casaubon has money enough; I must do him that justice. As to his blood, I suppose the family quarterings$ are three cuttle-fish$ sable, and a commentator rampant. By the by, before I go, my dear, 1 must speak to your Mrs Carter about pastry. I want to send my young cook to learn of her. ~p.42 Poor people with four children, like us, you know, can't afford to keep a good cnok.$ I have no doubt Mrs Carter will oblige me. Sir James's cook is a perfect dragon." In less than an hour, Mrs Cadwallader had circumvented Mrs Car ter and driven to Freshitt Hall, which was not far from her own par sonage,$ her husband being resident in Freshitt and keeping a curate in Tipton. Sir James Chettam had returned from the short journey which had kept him absent for a couple of days, and had changed his dress, in tending to ride over to Tipton Grange. His horse was standing at the door when Mrs Cadwallader drove up, and he immediately appeared there himself, whip in hand. Lady Chettam had not yet relUled,$ but Mrs Cadwallader's errand could not be despatched in the presence of grooms, so she asked to be taken into the conservatory close by, to look at the new plants; and on coming to a contemplative stand, she said-- "I have a great shock for you; I hope you are not so far gone in love as you pretend to be." It was of no use protesting against Mrs Cadwallader's way of putting t~gs$. But Sir James's countenance changed a little. He felt a vague alarm. "I do believe Brooke is going to expose himself after all. I accused him of meaning to stand for Midillemarch$ on the Liberal side, and he looked silly and never denied it---talked about the independent line, and the usual nonsense." '?s that all?" said Sir James, muCh relieved. U'hy,"$ rejoined Mrs Cadwallader, with a sharper note, "you don't mean to say that you would like him to turn public man in that way ---making a sort of political Cheap Jack of himself?" "He might be dissuaded, I should think. He would not like the expense." "That is what I told him. He is valnerable$ to reason there---always a few grains of common-sense in an ounce of miserliness. Miserliness G- a capital quality to run in families; it's the safe side for madness to dip on. And there must be a little crack in the Brooke family, else we should not see what we are to see." 'Uhat~ Brooke standing for Middlemarch?" 'Uorse$ than that. I really feel a little responsible. I always told you Miss Brooke would be such a fine match. I knew there was a great deal of nonsense in her---a flighty sort of Methodistical s6uff.$ But these things wear out of girE-$ However, I am taken by surprise for once." What do you mean, Mrs Cadwallader?" said Sir James. ~ fear lest Miss Brooke should have run away to join the Moraviam$ Brethren,l$ or some preposterous sect unknown to good society, was a little allayed by the knowledge that Mrs Cadwallader always made the worst of things. What has happened to Miss Brooke? Pray speak out." 1 k the MS this rea~$ "HermhuteTs,"$ but ~t$ was revised before t~e$ 1st$ ed$ Book 1 Mw BROOKE W$ 'Very well. She is engaged to be married." Mrs Cadwallader paused a few moments, observing the deeply-hurt expression in her friend's face, which he was trying to conceal by a nervous smile, while he #hipped$ his boot; but she soon added, 'Pngaged to Casaubon." Sir James let his whip fall and stooped to pick it up. Perhaps lu-s$ face had never before gathered so much concentrated disgust as whin$ he twted$ to Mrs Cadwallader and repeated, "Casaubon "E~t$ so. You know my errand now." "Good ~ll$ It is horriblel$ He is no better than a mummyl"$ (The p~t$ of view has to be allowed for, as that of a blooming and disap$ pointed rival.) "She says, he is a great soul.---A great bladder for dried peas to rattle inl"$ said Mrs Cadwallader. 'What business has an old bachelor like that to marryr$ said Sir Jemes.$ "He has one foot in the grave." "He means to draw it out again, I suppose." "Brooke ought not to allow it: he should insist on its being put oB till she is of age. She would think better of it then. What is a guardian for?" "As if you could ever squeeze a resolution out of Brooke!" "Cadwallader might talk to him." "Not he! Humphrey finds everybody charming. I never can get he$ to abuse Casaubon. He will even speak well of the bishop, though I tell he$ it is unnatural in a beneficed clergyman: what can one do with a husband who attends so little to the decencies?$ I hide it as well as I can by abusing everybody myself. Come, come, cheer upl$ you are well rid of Miss Brooke, a girl who would have been requiring you to see the stars by daylight. Between ourselves, little Celia is worth two of her, and likely after all to be the better match. For this marriage to Casaubon is as good as going to a nwmery."$ "Oh, on my own account---it is for Miss Brooke's sake I think her friends should try to use their influence." "Well, Humphrey doesn't know yet. But when I tell him, you may depend on it he will say, Why not? Casaubon is a good felloH$ ---and young---yowg$ enough.'$ These charitable people never knop$ vinegar from wine till they have swallowed it and got the colic. However, if I were a man I should prefer Celia, especially when Dorothea was gone. The truth is, you have been cou~g$ one and have won the other. I can see that she admires you almost as much as a man expects to be admired. If it were any one but me who said so, you might t~k$ it exaggeration. Good-byel"$ Sir James handed Mrs Cadwallader to the phaeton, and then jumped on his horse. He was not going to renounce his ride because of ln-s$ friend's unpleasant news---only to ride the faster in some other d-~ rection than that of Tipton Grange. Now, why on earth should Mrs Cadwallader have been at all busy about Miss Brooke's marriage; and why, when one match that she liked to think she had a hand in was frustrated, should she have ~p.44 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 6 straightway contrived the preU-$ inaries$ of another? Was there any i-$ giiois$ plot, any hide-and-seek course of action, which might be diticted$ by a careful telescopic watch? Not at all: a telescope might have swept the panshes$ of TIpton$ and Freslutt,$ the whole area vGIted$ by Mrs Cadwallader in her phaeton, without witnessing any interview that could excite suspicion, or any scene from which she did not return with the same unperturbed keenness of eye and the same high natural colour. In fact, if that convenient vehiole$ had existed in the days of the Seven Sages, one of them would doubtless have remarked that you can know little of women by following them about in their pony phaetons.$ Even$ with a microscope directed on a water-drop we find ourselves making interpretations which turn out to be rather coarse; for whereas under a weak lens you may seem to see a creature exhibiting an active voracity into which other srnaller$ creatures actively play as if they were so many animated tax-pennies, a stronger lens reveals to you certain tiriest$ hairlets$ which make vortices for these victims while the swallower$ waits passively at his receipt of custom. In this way, metaphorically speaking, a strong lens applied to Mrs Cadwallader's match-making will show a play of minute causes producing what may be called thought and speech vortices to bring her the sort of food she needed. Her life was rnrally$ simple, quite free from secrets either foul, dangerous, or otherwise important, and not consciously affected by the great affairs of the world. All the more did the affairs of the great world interest her, when communicated in the letters of high-born relations: the way in which fascinating younger sons had gone to the dogs by marr~g$ their mistresses; the fine old-blooded$ idiocy of young Lord Tapir, and the furious gouty humours of old Lord Megatherium;$ the exact crossing of genealogies which had brought a coronet into a new branch and widened the relations of scandal,---these were topics of which she retaMed$ details with the utmcSt$ accuracy, and reproduced them in an excellent pickle of epigrams, which she herself enW-$ yed$ the more because she believed as unquestioningly$ in birth and no-birth as she did in game and vernrin.$ She would never have disowned any one on the ground of poverty: a De Bracy reduced to take his dinner in a basin would have seemed to her an example of pathos worth exaggerating, and I fear his aristocratic vices would not have horrified her. But her feeling towards the vulgar rich was a sort of religious hatred: they had probably made all their money out of high retail prices, and Mrs Cadwallader detested high prices for everything that was not paid in kind at the Rectory: such people were no part of God's design in making the world; and their accent was an affliction to the ears. A town where such monsters abounded was hanlly$ more than a sort of low comedy, which could not be taken aofflnt$ of in a well-bred scheme of the universe. Let any lady who is inclined to be hard on Mrs Cadwallader inquire into the comprehensiveness of her own beautiful views, and be quite sure that they afford accommodation for all the lives which have the honour to coexist with hers. ~p.45 Book 1 MISS BROOKE R$ With suCh$ a mind, active as phosphorus, biting everything that came nesr$ into the form that suited it, how could Mrs Cadwallader feel that the Miss Brookes and their matrimonial prospects were alien to her? especially as it had been the habit of years for her to scold Mr Brooke with the friendliest frankness, and let him know in confidence that she thought him a poor creature. From the first arrival of the young ladies in Tipton she had prearranged Dorothea's marriage with Sir James, and if it had taken place would have been quite sure that it was her doing: that it should not take place after she had preconceived it caused her an irritation whiCh every t~er$ will sympat~e$ with. She was the diplomatist of Tipton and Freshitt, and for anything to happen in spite of her was an offensive irregulsrity.$ As to freaks like ~ of Miss Brooke's, Mrs Cadwallader had no patience with them, and now saw that her opinion of ~ ginl$ had been infected with some of her husband's weak charitableness: those Methodistical whims, that air of being more religious than the rector and curate together, came from a deeper and more constitutional disease than she had been willing to believe. "However," said Mrs Cadwallader, first to herself and afterwards to her husband, "L throw her over: there was a chance, if she had married Sir James, of her becoming a sane, sensible woman. He would never have contradicted her, and when a woman is not contradicted, she has no motive for obstinacy in her absurdities. But now I wish her joy of her hair shirt." It followed that Mrs Cadwallader must decide on another match for Sir James, and having made up her mind that it was to be the younger Miss Brooke, there could not have been a more skilful$ move toward the success of her plan than her hint to the baronet that he had made an impression on Celia's heart. For he was not one of those gentlemen who lanb~h$ after the unattainable Sappho's$ apple that laughs from the topmost bough---the charms which '-<4Sm~e$ like the knot of cowslips$ on the clia,>4$ <4Not to be come at by the>4 ~- <4~ng hand->4'He had no sonnets to write, and it could not strike him agreeably that he was not an object of preference to the woman whom he had preferred. Already the knowledge that Dorothea had chosen Mr Casaubon had bruised his attachment and relaxed its hold. Although Sir James was a sportsman, he had some other feelings towards women than towards grouse and foxes, and did not regard his future wife in the light of prey, valuable chiefly for the excitements of the chase. Neither was he so well acquainted with the habits of primitive races as to feel that an ideal combat for her, tomahawk in hand, so to speak, was necessary to the historical continuity of the marriage-tie. On the contrary, having the amiable vanity which knits us to those who are fond of us, and disinclines us to those who are indifferent and also a good grateful nature, the mere idea that a woman had a kindness towards him spun little threads of tenderness from out his heart towards hers. ~p.46 Thus it happened, that after Sir James had ridden rather fast for half an hour in a direction away from Tipton Grange, he slackened his pace, and at last turned into a road which would lead him back by a shorter cut. Various feelings wrought in him the determination after all to go to the Grange to-day as if nothing new had happened. He could not help rejoicing that he had never made the offer and been rejected; mere friendly politeness required that he should call to see Dorothea about the cottages, and now happily Mrs Cadwallader had prepared him to offer his congratulations, if necessary, without showing too much awkwardness. He really did not like it: giving up Dorothea was very pa~l$ to him; but there was something in the resolve to make t~$ visit forthwith and conquer all show of feeling, which was a sort of file-biting and counter-irritant. And without his distinctly rec"$ ognising$ the impulse, there ce~nly$ was present in him the sense that Celia would be there, and that he should pay her more attention than he had done before. We mortals, men and women, devour many a disappointment between breakfast and dinner-time; keep back the tears and look a little pale about the lips, and in answer to inquiries say, "Oh, nothing!' Pride helps us; and pride is not a bad thing when it only urges us to hide our own huG---not to hurt others. ff$ CHAPTER 7 <4"Piacer$ e$ popone>4$ <4Vuol$ in soa>4i~Bs<4one-~>4$ " <4Prov--D>4$ MR CAsA~oN,$ as might be expected, spent a great deal of his time at the Grange in these weeks, and the hindrance which courtship occasioned to the progress of his great work---the Key to all Mythologies--naturally made him look forward the more eagerly to the happy tenm-nation$ of courtship. But he had deliberately incurred the hindrance, having made up his mind that it was now time for him to adorn his life with the graces of female companionship, to irradiate the gloom which fatigue was apt to hang over the intervals of studious labour with the play of female fincy,$ and to secure in this, his culminating age, the solace of female tendance for his declining years. Hence he determined to abandon himself to the stream of feeling, and perhaps was surprised to find what an exceedingly shallow rill it was. As in droughty$ re~ons$ baptism by immersion could only be performed symbolically, so Mr Casaubon found that sprinkling was the utmost approach to a plunge which his stream would afford him; and he concluded that the poets had much exaggerated the force of masculine passion. Nevertheless, he observed with pleasure that Miss Brooke showed an ardent submissive affection which promised to fulfil h-s$ mo~t$ agreeable provisions of marriage. It had once or twice crossed lu-s$ ~p.47 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 4? nu-nd that possibly there was some deficiency in Dorothea to account for the moderation of his abandonment; but he was unable to discern the deficiency, or to figure to himself a woman who would have pleased him better; so that there was clearly no reason to fall back upon but the exaggerations of human tradition. "Could ( not be preparing myself now to be more useful?" said Dorothea to him, one morning, early in the time of courtship; "could I not learn to re;d Latin and Greek aloud to you, as Milton's daughters did to their father, without understanding what they read?" "I fear that would be wearisome to you," said Mr. Casaubon, smiling; "and, indeed, if I remember rightly, the voung$ women you have mentioned regarded that exercise in unknown tongues as a ground for rebellion against the poet." "Yes; but in the first place they were very naughty girls, else they would have been proud to n~s$ ten$ to such a father; and in the second place they might have studied privately and taught themselves to understand what they read, and then it would have been interesting. I hope you don't expect me to be naughty and stupid?" "I expect you to be all that an exquisite young lady can be in every possible relation of life. Certainly it might be a great advantage if you were able to copy the Greek character, and to that end it were well to begin with a little reading." Dorothea seired$ i~$ as a precious permission. She would not have asked Mr Casaubon at once to teach her the languages, dreading of all t~lgs$ to be tiresome instead of helpful; but it was not entirely out of devotion to her future husband that she wished to know Latin and Greek. Those pro~ces$ of masculine knowledge seemed to her a standing-ground from which all truth could be seen more traly$. As it was, she constantly doubted her own conclusions, because she felt her own ilMorance:$ how could she be confident that one-roomed cottages were not for the glory of God, when men who knew the classics appeared to conciliate indifference to the cottages with zeal for the glory? Perhaps even Hebrew might be necessary---at least the alphabet and a few roots---in order to arrive at the core of things, and judge soundly on the social duties of the Christian. And she had not reached that point of renunciation at which she would have been satisfied with having a wise husband: she wished, poor child, to be wise herself. Miss Brooke was certa~ily$ very naive with all her alleged cleverness. Celia, whose ~nd had never been thought too powerful, saw the emptiness of other people's pretensions much more readily. To have in general but little feeling, seems to be the only security against feeling too much on any particular occasion. However, Mr Casaubon consented to listen and teach for an hour together, like a schoolmaster of little boys, or rather like a lover, to whom a ~tress's elementary ignorance and i~culties$ have a touching fitness. Few scholars would have disliked teaching the alphabet under such circumstances. But Dorothea herself was a little shocked and discouraged at her own stupidity, and the answers she got to some ~p.48 timid questions about the value of the Greek accents gave her a painful ~jicion that here indeed there might be secrets not capable of explanation to a woman's reason. Mr Brooke had no doubt on that point, and expressed himself with ~$ usual strength upon it one day that he came into the library while the reading was going forward. "Well but now, Casaubon, such deep stuclies,$ classics, mathernatics,$ Mat kind of tling,$ are too taxing for a woman---too taxing, you know." "Dorothea is learning to read the characters simply," said Mr Casaubon, evading the question. "She had the very considerate thought of saving my eyes." "Ah, well, without understanding, you know---~at may not be so bad. But there is a lightness about the feminme$ mind---a touch and go ---music, the fine arts, that kind of thing---they should study those up M a certain point, women should; but in a light way, you know. A Aoman$ should be able to sit down and play you or sing you a good old English tnne$. That is what I like; though I have heard most things--$$ at the opera in Vierna:$ Gluck,$ Mozart everything of that soft But I'm a c~servative$ in music---it's not like ideas, you know.- I stick to the good old tunes." "Mr Casaubon is not fond of the piano, and I am very glad he is not" said Dorothea, whose slight regard for domestic music and fen~s$ e$ fine art must be forgiven her, considering the small ti~ng$ end smearing in which they chiefly consisted at that dark period. She smiled and looked up at her betrothed with grateful eyes. Lf$ he had ~ways$ been asking her to play the "Last Rose of Summer," she would have required much resignation. "He says there is only an old harp~chord$ at Lowick, and it is covered with books." "Ah, there you are behind Celia, my dear. Celia, now, plays very prettily, and is always ready to play. However, since Casaubon does not like it, you are all right. But it's a pity you should not have little recreations of that sort Casaubon: the bow always strnng---that$ kind of thing, you know---will not do." "I never could look on it in the light of a recreation to have my ears &ased$ with measured noises," said Mr Casaubon. "A tune much ~terated has the ridiculous effect of making the words in my mind perform a sort of minuet to keep time---an effect hardly tolerable, I imagine, after boyhood. As to the grander forms of music, worthy to accompany solemn celebrations, and even to serve as an educating influence according to the Rncient$ conception, I say nothing, for with these we are not immediately concerned." "No; but music of that sort I should enjoy," said Dorothea. "When #e$ were coming home from Lausamne$ my uncle took us to hear the geat$ organ at Freiberg,$ and it made me sob." "That kind of thing is not healthy, my dear," said Mr Brooke. -Casaubon, she will be in your hands now: you must teach my niece to thke$ things more quietly, eh, Dorothea?" He ended with a snnle$, not wishing to hurt his niece, but really ~p.49 thinking that it was perhaps better for her to be early married to so sober a fellow as Casaubon, since she would not hear of Chettam. "It is wonderful, though," he said to himself as he shuffled out of the room---"it is wonderful that she should have liked him. However, the m~tch$ is good. I should have been travelling out of my brief to have hindered it let Mrs Cadwallader say what she will. He is pretty certamto$ be a bishop, is Casaubon. That was a very seasonable pamphlet of his on the Catholic Question:---a deanery at least. They owe him a deanery." And here I must vindicate a claim to philosophical reflectiveness, by remarking that Mr Brooke on this occasion little thought of the Radical speech which, at a later period, he was led to make on the incomes of the bishops. What elegant historian would neglect a sb~sng$ opportunity for pointing out that his heroes did not foresee the ~tory of the world, or even their own actions?---For example, that He~y$ of Navarre,$ when a Protestant baby, little thought of being a Catholic monarch; or that Alfred the Great, when he measured his laborious nights with burning camdles,$ had no idea of future gentlemen measurm-$ g$ their idle days with watches. Here is a mine of truth, which, however vigorously it may be worked, is likely to outlast our coal. But of Mr Brooke 1 make a further remark perhaps less warranted by precedent---namely, that if he had foreknown$ his speech, it might not have made any great clifference.$ To think with pleasure of ~-s niece's husband having a large ecolesiastical$ income was one thing---to make a Liberal speech was another thing; and it is a narrow mind which cannot look at a subject from various points of view. ff$ CHAPTER 8 "ob <4rescun$ har=$ r$ arn$ her brother now,>4 <4~d you her Iather.$ Every &ntle$ m~d$>4 <4Should have a suardi>4s<4an$ m>4s$ <4each gentleman.">4 IT was wonderful to Sir James Chettam how well he continued to like going to the Grange after he had once encountered the diffculty of seeing Dorothea for the first time in the light of a woman who was engaged to another man. Of course the forked lightning seemed to pass through him when he 6st approached her, and he remained conscious throughout the interview of hiding uneasiness; but good as he was, it must be owned that his uneasiness was less than it would have been if he had thought his rival a brilliant and desirable match. He had no sense of being eclipsed by Mr Casaubon; he was only shocked that Dorothea was under a melancholy illusion, and his mortification lost some of its bitterness by being mingled with compassion. Nevertheless, while Sir James said to himself that he had completely resigned her, since with the perversity of a Desdemona$ she had not affected a proposed match that was clearly suitable and according to na ~p.50 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 8 ture; he could not yet be quite passive under the idea of her engagement to Mr Casaubon. On the day when he first saw them together in the light of his present knowledge, it seemed to him that he had not taken the affair seriously enough- Brooke was really culpible;$ he ought to have hindered it. Who could speak to him? Something might be done perhaps even now, at least to defer the marria;e.$ On his way home he turned into the Rectory and asked for Mr Cadwallader. Happily, the Rector was at home, and his visitor was shoivn$ into the study, where all the fishing-tac!de$ hung. But he himself was in a little room adjoining, at work with his t~ig$ apparatus, and he called to the baronet to join him there. The two were better friends than any other landholder and clergyman in the county---a significant fact which was in agreement with the amiable expression of their faces. Mr Cadwallader was a large man, with full lips and a sweet smile; very plain and rough in his exterior, but with that solid imperturbable ease and good-humor which is infectious, and like great grassy hills in the sunshine, quiets even an irritated egoism, and makes it rather ashamed of itself. "Well, how are you?" he said, showing a hand not quite fit to be grasped. "Sorry I missed you before- Is there anything particular? You look vexed." Sir James's brow had a little crease in it, a little depression of the eyebrow, which he seemed purposely to exaggerate as he answered. "It is only this conduct of Brooke's. I really think somebody should speak to him." "Whatl$ meaning to stand?" said Mr Cadwallader, going on with the arrangement of the reels which he had just been turring.$ "I hardly t~c$ he means it. But where's the harm, if he likes it? Any one who objects to lVhiggery$ should be glad when the Whigs don't put up the strongest fellow. They won't overturn the Constitution with our friend Brooke's head for a battering ram-" "Oh, I don't mean that," said Sir James, who, after putting down his hat and throwing himself into a chair, had begun to nurse his leg and examine the sole of his boot with much bitterness- "I mean this marriage. I mean his letting that blooming young girl marry Casaubon." 'What is the matter with Casaubon? I see no harm in him---if the girl likes hl-m-"$ "She is too young to know what she likes. Her guardian ought to interfere. He ought not to allow the thing to be done in this headlong manner- ~ wonder a man like you, Cadwallader---a man with daughters, can look at the affair with indifference: an~$ with such a heart as yours! Do think seriously about it." "I am not joking; I am as serious as possible," said the Rector, with a provoking little inward laugh- "You are as bad as ElMor-$ She has been wanting me to go and lechtre$ Brooke; and I have reminded her that her friends had a very poor opinion of the match she made when she married me." "But look at Casaubon," said Sir James, indignantly. "He must be fifty, and I don't believe he could ever have been much more than the shadow of a man. Look at his leesl"$ ~p.51 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 51 "Confound yon handsome young fellows! you think of having it all your own way in the world. You don't understand women. They don't admire you half so much as you admire yourselves. Elinor used to tell her sisters that she married me for my ugliness---it was so various and amusing that it had quite conquered her prudence." "Youl$ it was easy enough for a woman to love you. But this is no question of beauty. 1 don't like Casaubon." :~$ was Sir James's strongest way of implying that he thought ill of a man's character. 'nhy? what do you know against him?" said the Rector, laying down his reels, and putting his thurnbs$ into his arm-holes with an air of attention. Sir James paused. He did not usually find it easy to give his reasons: it seemed to him strange that people should not know them without being told, since he only felt what was reasonable. At Jast$ he said-- "Now, Cadwallader, has he got any heart?" U'ell,$ yes. I don't mean of the melting sort but a sound kernel, tffi$ you may be sure of. He is very good to his poor relations: pensions several of the women, and is educating a young fellow at a good deal of expense. Casaubon acts up to his sense of justice. His mother's sister made a bad match---a Pole, I think---lost herself---at any rate was disowned by her family. If it had not been for that Casaubon would not have had so much money by half. I believe he went himself to find out his cousins, and see what he could do for them. Every man would not ring so well as that, if you tried his metal. You would, Chettam; but not every man." "I don't know," said Sir James, colouring. n$ am not so sure of myself." He paused a moment and then added, "That was a right thing for Casaubon to do. But a man may wish to do what is right, and yet be a sort of parchment code. A woman may not be happy with hu- n. And I think when a girl is so young as Miss Brooke is, her friends ought to interfere a little to hinder her from doing anything foolish. You laugh, because you fancy I have some feeling on my own account. But upon my honour, it is not that. I should feel just the same if I were Miss Brooke's brother or uncle." 'Uell, but what should you do?" "I should say that the marriage must not be decided on until she was of age. And depend upon it in that case, it would never come off. I wish you saw it as I do---I wish you would talk to Brooke about it Sir James rose as he was finishing his sentence, for he saw Mrs Cadwallader entering from the study. She held by the hand her youngest girl, about five years old, who immediately ran to papa, and was made comfortable on his knee. "I hear what you are telling$ about" said the wife. "But you will make no impression on Humphrey. As long as the fish rise to his bait, everybody is what he ought to be. Bless you, Casaubon has got a trout stream, and does not care about fishing in it himself: could there be a better fellow?" "Well, there is something in that" said the Rector, with his quiet ~p.52 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 8 m- ward laugh. "It is a very good quality in a man to have a troutstream."$ "But seriously," said Sir James, whose vexation had not yet spent itself, "don't you think the Rector might do some good by speakirlg?"$ "Oh, I told you beforehand what he would say," answered Mrs Cadwallader, lifting up her eyebrows. 'T have done what I could: I wash my hands of the m~-age."$ "In the first place," said the Rector, looking rather grave, "it would be nonsensical to expect that I could convince Brooke, and make him act accordingly. Brooke is a very good fellow, but pulpy;$ he will run m- to any would, but he won't keep shape." "He might keep shape long enough to defer the marriage," said Sir James. "But, my dear Chettam, why should I use my influence to Casaubon's disadvantage, unless I were much surer than I am that I should be acting for the advantage of Miss Brooke? I know no harm of Casaubon. I don't care about his ~uthrusl and Fee-fo-fum$ and the rest; but then he doesn't care about my fishing-tackle. As to the line he took on the Catholic Question, that was unexpected; but he has always been civil to me, and I don't see why I should spoil his sport. For anything I can tell, Miss Brooke may be happier with him than she would be with any other man." "Humphrey I have no patience with you. You know you would rather dine under the hedge than with Casaubon alone. You have not~g$ to say to each other." UMat$ has that to do with Miss Brooke's marrying him? She does not do it for my amusement." "He has got no good red blood in his body," said Sir James. "No. Somebody put a drop under a magnifying-glass, and it was all semicolons and parentheses," said Mrs Cadwallader. 'Why does he not bring out his book, instead of marrying?" said Sir James, with a disgust which he held warranted by the sound feeling of an English layman. "Oh, he dreams footnotes, and they run away with all his brains. They say, when he was a little boy, he made an abstract of 'Hop o'$ my Thumb,'$ and he has been making abstracts ever since. Ugh! And that is the man Humphrey goes on saying that a woman may be happy i 'Well, he is what Miss Brooke likes," said the Rector. "I don't profess to understand every young lady's taste." "But if she were your own daughter?" said Sir James. "That would be a different affair. She is not my daughter, and I don't feel called upon to interfere. Casaubon is as good as most of us. He is a scholarly clergyman, and creditable to the oloth.$ Some Radical fellow speechifying at Middlemarch said Casaubon was the learned straw-chopping incumbent and Freke$ was the brick-and-mortar m- cumbent,$ and I was the angling incumbent. And upon my word, I 1 The Noah of the Babylonian <4flood>4 myth. ~p.53 Book 1 MISS BROOKE don't see that one is worse or better than the other." The Rector ended with his silent laugh. He always saw the joke of any satire against himself. His conscience was large and easy, like the rest of him: it did only what it could do without any trouble. Clearly, there would be no interference with Miss Brooke's marriage through Mr Cadwallader; and Sir James felt with some sadness that she was to have perfect liberty of misjudgment.$ It was a sign of lu-s$ good disposition that he did not slacken at all in ~ intention of cilrrym-$ g$ out Dorothea's design of the cottages. Doubtless this persistence was the best course for his own dignity: but pride only helps us to be generous; it never makes us so, any more than varity$ makes us witty. She was now enough aware of Sir James's position with regard to her, to appreciate the rectitude of his perseverance in a landlord's duty, to which he had at first been urged by a lover's complaisance,$ and her pleasure in it was great enough to count for something even in her present happiness. Perhaps she gave to Sir James Chettam's cottages all the interest she could spare from Mr Casaubon, or rather from the symphony of hopeful dreams, admiring trust and passionate selfdevotion$ which that learned gentleman had set playing in her soel.$ Hence it happened that in the good baronet's succeeding visits, while he was beg~sng$ to pay small attentions to Celia, he found himself t~ng$ with more and more pleasure to Dorothea. She was perfectly unconstrained and without irritation towards him now, and he was gradually discovering the delight there is in frank kindness and companionship between a man and a woman who have no passion to hide or confess. CHAPTER 9 V1 Oe~-$ W$ <4ancient land in ancient oracles>4 <4~sty:->4- W <4the stru~$ there>4 ws$ <4asss~ser$ order and a perIect$ Ede->4$ <4Any, where lie such landi$ now? - ->4 ~ OM- <4why' where they lay>4 or <4old->4-<4in humm$ souit>4$ MR CAsAuBoN's$ behaviour about settlements was highly satisfactory to Mr. Brooke, and the preliminaries of marriage rolled smoothly along, shortening the weeks of courtship. The betrothed bride must see her future home, and dictate any changes that she would like to have made there A woman dictates before ma-iage$ in order that she may have an appetite for submission afterwards. And certainly, the mistakes that we male and female mortals make when we have our own way might fairly raise some wonder that we are so fond of it. On a grey but dry November morning Dorothea drove to Lowick in company with her uncle and Celia. Mr Casaubon's home was the manor-house. Close by, visible from some parts of the garden, was the little church, with the old parsonage opposite. In the beginning of his-career,$ Mr Casaubon had only held the living, but the death of his ~p.54 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 9 brother had put him in pOssession of the manor also. It had a small park, with a fine old oak hcre$ and there, and an avenue of limes towards the south-west front with a sunk fence between park and pleasure-ground, so that from the drawing-room wMdows$ the glance swept uninterruptedly along a slope of greensward$ till the limes ended in a level of corn and pastures, which often seemed to melt into a lake under the setting sun. This was the happy side of the house, for the south and east looked rather melancholy even under the brightest morning. The grounds here were more cor~ed,$ the flower-beds showed no very careful tendance, and large elumps$ of trces,$ chiefly of sombre yews, had risen high, not ten yards from the windows. The building, of greenish stone, was in the old ~glish style, not ugly, but small windowed and melancholy-looking: the sort of house that must have children, many flowers, open windows, and little vistas of bright things, to make it seem a joyous home. In this latter end of autumn, with a sparse remnant of yellow leaves falling slowly athwart the dark evergreens in a stillness without sunshine, the house too had an air of autm:nal$ decline, and Mr Casaubon, when he presented himself, had no bloom that could be thrown into relief by that background. "Oh dear!" Celia said to herself, "I am sure Freshitt Hall would have been pleasanter than this." She thought of the white freestone,$ the pillared portico, and the terrace full of flowers, Sir James m~-ng$ above them like a prince issuing from his enchantment in a rose-bush, with a hadkerchief$ swiftly metamorphosed from the most delicatelyodorous$ petals---Sir James, who talked so agreeably, always about things which had common-sense in them, and not about learning! Celia had those light young feminine tastes whiCh grave and weatherworn$ gentlemen sometimes prefer in a w~e;$ but happily Mr Casaubon's bias had been different for he would have had no chance with Celia. Dorothea, on the contrary, found the house and grounds all that she could wish: the dark book-shelves in the long library, the c~pets$ and curtains with colours subdued by time, the curious old maps and bird'seye views on the walls of the corridor, with here and there an old vase below, had no oppression for her, and seemed more cheerful than the casts and pictures at the Grange, which her uncle had long ago brought home from his travels---they being probably among the ideas he had taken in at one time. To poor Dorothea these severe olassical$ nudities$ and smirking Renaissance-Correggiosities were painfully inexplicable, staring into the midst of her Puritanic$ conceptions: she had never been taught how she could bring them into any sort of relevance with her life. But the owners of Lowick apparently had not been travellers, and Mr Casaubon's studies of the past were not carried on by means of such aids. Dorothea walked about the house with delightful emotion. Everything seemed hallowed to her: t~$ was to be the home of her wifehood,$ and she looked up with eyes full of confidence to Mr Casaubon when he drew her attention specially to some actual arrangement and asked her if she would like an alteration. All appeals to her taste she ~p.55 Book 1 MISS BROOKE U$ met gratefully, but saw nothing to alter. His efforts ht exact courtesy and iormal$ tenderness had no defect for her. She filled up all blanks with unmanifested$ perfections, interpreting him as she intelpreted$ the works of Providence, and accounting for seeming discords by her own deafness to the higher harmonies. And there are many blanks left in the weeks of courtship, which a loving faith fills with happy assurance. "Now, my dear Dorothea, I wish you to favour me by pointing out which room you would like to have as your boudoir," said Mr Casaubon, showing that his views of the womanly nature were sufficiently large to include that requirement. "It is very kind of you to t~:$ of that" said Dorothea, 'but I assure you I would rather have all those matters decided for me. L shall be much happier to take everything as it is---just as you have been used to have it, or as you will yourself choose it to be. I have no motive for wislring$ anything else." "0 Dodo," said Celia, "will you not have the bow-windowed room up-stairs?" Mr Casaubon led the way thither. The bow-window looked down the avenue of limes; the furniture was all of a faded blue, and there were miniatures of ladies and gentlemen with powdered hair hanging in a group. A piece of tapestry over a door also showed a blue-green world with a pale stag in it. The chairs and tables were thin-legged and easy to upset. It was a room where one might fancy the ghost of a tight-laced lady revisiting the scene of her embroidery. A light bookcase cont~ed$ duodecimo$ volurnes$ of polite literature in calf, completm-$ g$ the fw~ture$. "Yes," said Mr Brooke, "this would be a pretty room with some new hangings, sofas, and that sort of thing. A little bare now." "No, uncle," said Dorothea, eagerly. "Pray do not speak of altering anything. There are so many other things in the world that want altering---L like to take these things as they are. And you like them as they are, don't you?" she added, looking at Mr Casaubon. "Perhaps this was your mother's room when she was young." "It was," he said, with his slow bend of the head. 'Mhis is your mother," said Dorothea, who had turned to examine the group of miniatures. "It is like the tiny one you brought me; only, I should think a better portrait. And this one opposite, who is this?" "Her elder sister. They were, like you and your sister, the only two children of their parents, who hang above them, you see." "The sister is pretty," said Celia, implying that she thought less favourably of Mr Casaubon's mother. It was a new opening to Celia's n- nagination,$ that he came of a family who had all been young in their time---the ladies wearing necldaces.$ "It is a peculiar face,-' said Dorothea, looking closely. "Those deep grey eyes rather near together---and the delicate irregular nose with a sort of ripple in it---and all the powdered curls hanging backward. Altogether it seems to me peculiar rather than pretty. There is not even a family likeness between her and your mother." ~p.56 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 9 "No. And they were not alike in their lot." "You did not mention her to me," said Dorothea. "My aunt made an unforWate$ marriage. I never saw her." Dorothea wondered a little, but felt that it would be indelicate just then to ask for any information which Mr Casaubon did not proffer, and she turned to the window to a~-re$ the view. The sun had lately pierced the grey, and the avenue of limes cast shadows. "Shall we not walk in the garden now?" said Dorothea. "And you would like to see the church, you know," said Mr Brooke. "It is a droll little church. And the village. It all lies in a nut-shell. By the way, it will suit you, Dorothea; for the cottages are like a row of alms-houses---little gardens, gillyflowers,$ that sort of thm-$ g."$ "Yes, please," said Dorothea, looking at Mr Casaubon, "I should like to see all that." She had got nothing from him more graphic about the Lowick cottages than that they were "not bad." They were soon on a gravel walk which led chiefly between grassy borders and clumps of trees, this being the nearest way to the church, Mr Casaubon said. At the little gate leading into the churchyard there was a pause while Mr Casaubon went to the parsonage close by to fetch a key- Celia, who had been han6ing$ a little in the rear, came up presently, when she saw that Mr Casaubon was gone away, and said in her easy staccato, which always seemed to contradict the suspicion of any malicious intent-- "Do you know, Dorothea, I saw some one quite young coming up one of the walks." "Is that astonishing, Celia?" Slere$ may be a young gardener, you know---why not?" said Mr Brooke. "I told Casaubon he should change his gardener." "No, not a gardener," said Celia; "a gentleman with a sketch-book. He had light-brown curls. I only saw his back. But he was quite young." "The curate's son, perhaps," said Mr Brooke. "Ah, there is Casaubon again, and Tucker with him. He is going to introduce Tucker. You don't know Tucker yet." Mr Tucker was the middle-aged curate, one of the "inferior clergy,- who are usually not wanting in sons- But after the introduction, the conversation did not lead to any question about his family, and the startling apparition of youthfulness was forgotten by every one but Celia. She inwardly declined to believe that the light-brown curls and slim figure could have any relationship to Mr Tucker, who was just as old and musty-looking as she would have expected Mr Casaubon's curate to be; doubtless an excellent man who would go to heaven (for Celia wished not to be unprincipled), but the corners of his mouth were so unpleasant. Celia thought with some dismalness of the time she should have to spend as bridesmaid at Lowick, where the curate had probably no pretty little children 'Nhorn she could like, irrespective of principle. Mr Tucker was invaluable in their walk; and perhaps Mr Casaubon ~p.57 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 57 had not been without foresight on this head, the curate being able to answer all Dorothea's questions about the villagers and the other parishoners.$ Everybody, he assured her, was well off in Lowick: not a cottager$ in those double cottages at a low rent but kept a~ig,$ and the strips of garden at the back were well tended. The sm~$ boys wore excellent corduroy, the girls went out as tidy servants, or did a little straw-plaiting$ at home: no looms here, no Dissent; and though the public disposition was rather towards laying by money than towards spirituality, there was not much vice. The speckled fowls were so numerous that Mr Brooke observed, "Your farmers leave some barley for the women to glean, I see. The poor folks here might have a fowl in their pot, as the good French king used to wish for all his people. The French eat a good many fowls---skinny fowls, you know." "I think it was a very cheap wish of his," said Dorothea, indignantly, "Are kings such monsters that a wish like that must be reckoned a royal virtue?" "And if he wished them a skirny$ fowl," said Celia, "that would not be nice. But perhaps he wished them to have fat fowls." "Yes, but the word has dropped out of the text or perhaps was nba~~tum;$ that is, present in the king's mind, but not uttered," said Mr Casaubon, smiling and bending his head towards Celia, who immediately dropped backward a little, because she could not bear Mr Casaubon to blink at her. Dorothea sank into silence on the way back to the house. She felt some disappointment, of which she was yet ashamed, that there was nothing for her to do in Lowick; and in the next few minutes her mind had glancecl$ over the possibility, which she would have preferred, of finding that her home would be in a p.~h$ which had a larger share of the world's misery, so that she might have had more active duties in it. Then, recurring to the future actually before her, she made a picture of more compkte$ devotion to Mr Casaubon's a~ns,$ in which she would await new duties. Many such might reveal themselves to the higher knowledge gained by her in that companionship. Mr Tucker soon left them, having some clerical work which would not allow him to lunch at the Hall; and as they were reentering the garden through the little gate, Mr Casaubon said-- "You seem a little sad, Dorothea. I trust you are pleased with what you have seen." "I am feeling something which is perhaps foolish and wrong," answered Dorothea, with her usual openness---"almost wishing that the people wanted more to be done for them here. I have known so few ways of making my life good for anything. Of course, my notions of usefulneas$ must be narrow. I must learn new ways of helping people." "Doubtless," said Mr Casaubon. "Each position has its corresponding duties. Yours, I trust, as the mistress of Lowick, will not leave any ye;m-ng$ wUfilled."$ "IndL~,$ I believe that," said Dorothea, earnestly. "Do not supposB$ that I am sad." ~p.58 "That is well. But, if you are not tired, we will take another way to the house than that by which we came." Dorothea was not at all tired, and a little circuit was made towards a fine yew-tree, the chief hereditary glory of the grounds on this side of the house. As they approached it, a figure, conspicuous on a dark background of evergreens, was seated on a bench, sketching the old tree- ~r Brooke, who was wa~ng$ in front with Celia, turned lu-s$ head, and said-- "Who is that youngster, Casaubon?" They had come very near when Mr Casaubon answered-- -Mhat is a young relative of mine, a second cousin: the grandson, m- fact," he added, looking at Dorothea, "of the lady whose portrait you have been noticing, my aunt Julia." The young man had laid down his sketch-book and risen. His bushy light-brown curls, as well as his youthfulness, identified him at once with Celia's apparition. "Dorothea, let me introduce to you my cousin, Mr Ladislaw. Will, this is Miss Brooke." The cousin was so close now, that when he lifted his hat, Dorothea could see a pair of grey eyes rather near together, a delicate irregular nose with a little ripple in it, ~nd hair fall~g$ backward; but there was a mouth and chin of a more prominent, threatening aspect than belonged to the type of the grandmother's miniature. Young Ladislaw did not feel it necessary to smile, as if he were ch~med$ with t~-s$ introduction to his future second cousin and her relatives; but wore rather a pouting air of discontent. "You are an artist, I see," said Mr Brooke, taking up the sketch-book and t~ng$ it over in his unceremonious fashion. "No, I only sketch a little. There is nothing fit to be seen there," said young Ladislaw, colouring, perhaps with temper rather than modesty. "Oh, come, this is a nice bit, now. I did a little in this way myself at one time, you know. Look here, now; this is what I call a nice thing, done with what we used to call by." Mr Brooke held out towards the two girls a large coloured sketch of stony ground and trees, with a pool. "I am no judge of these things," said Dorothea, not coldly, but with an eager deprecation of the appeal to her. "You know, uncle, I never see the beauty of those pictures which you say are so much praised. They are a language I do not understand. I suppose there is some relation between pictures and nature which I am too ignorant to feel--just as you see what a Greek sentence stands for which means nothing to me." Dorothea looked up at Mr Casaubon, who bowed his head towards her, while Mr Brooke said, smiling nonchalantly-- "Bless me, now, how different people are! But you had a bad style of teaching, you know---else this is just the thing for girls---sketching, ~e art and so on. But you took to drawing plans; you don't understand morb~z~,$ and that kind of thing. You will come to my house, 1 hope, ~p.59 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 59 and I will show you what I did in t~$ way,' he continued, t~lg$ to young ~slaw,$ who had to be recalled from his preoccupation in observing Dorothea. Ladislaw had made up his mind that she must be an unpleasant girl, since she was going to marry Casaubon, and what she said of her stupidity about pictures would have confirmed that opinion even if he had believed her. As it was, he took her words for a covert judgment and was certain that she thought his sketch detestable. There was too much cleverness in her apology: she was laughing both at her uncle and himself. But what a voicel$ It was like the voice of a soul that had once lived in an @olian$ harp. This must be one of Nature's inconsistencies. There could be no sort of passion in a girl who would marry Casaubon. But he turned from her, and bowed his thanks for Mr Brooke's invitation. "We will turn over my Italian engra~s$ together," continued that Good-natured man. "I have no end of those things, that I have laid by for years. One gets rusty in this part of the country, you know. Not you, Casaubon; you stick to your studies; but my best ideas get undermost---out of use, you know. You clever young men must guard against m- dolenoe.$ I was too indolent you know: else I might have been anywhere at one time." Xhat$ is h$ seasonable admonition," said Mr Casaubon; 'but now wB$ will pass on to the house, lest the young ladies should be tired of standing." When their backs were turned, young Ladislaw sat down to go on with his sketching, and as he did so his face broke into an expression of ambsement$ which increased as he went on drawing, till at last he threw back his head and laughed aloud. Panly$ it was the reception of his own i~tic$ production that tickled him; partly the notion of ~-s grave cousin as the lover of that girl; and partly Mr Brooke's definition of the place he might have held but for the impediment of indolence. Mr Will Ladislaw's sense of the ludicrous lit up his features very agreeably: it was the pure enjoyment of comicality,$ and had no mixture of sneering and selfexaltation.$ U'hat$ is your nephew going to do with himself, Casaubon?" said Mr Brooke, as they went on. "My cousin, you mean---not my nephew." "Yes, yes, cousin. But in the way of a career you know." "The answer to that question is painfully doubthil.$ On leaving Rugby he declined to go to an English university, where I would gladly have placed him, and chose what 1 must consider the anomalous course of studying at Heidelberg.$ Amd$ now he wants to go abroad again, without any special object save the vague purpose of what he calls culture, preparation for he knows not what. He declines to choose a professlon.$ "He has no means but what you W~h,$ I suppose." "I have always given h~n$ and his friends reason to understand that I would fu~h$ in moderation what was necessary for pro~W-$ g$ him with a scholarly education, and launching him respectably. I am there- ~p.60 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 9 aore$ bound to W the expectation so raised," said Mr Casaubon, putting his conduct in the light of mere rectitude: a trait of delicacy ~Ch Dorothea noticed with admiration. "He has a thirst for travelling; perhaps he may turn out a Bruce er a Mungo$ Park," said Mr Brooke. "I had a notion of that myself at one time." Uo$, he has no bent towards exploration, or the enlargement of our 8eognosis:$ that would be a special purpose which I could recognise ~th$ some approbation, though without felicitating him on a career which so o~n$ ends in premature and violent death. But so far is he from having any desire for a more accurate knowledge of the earth's surface, that he said he should prefer not to know the sources of the Nile, and that there should be some unknown regions preserved as hunting-grounds for the poetic imagination." Well, there is something in that you know," said Mr Brooke, who had certainly an impartial mind. "It is, I fear, nothing more than a part of his general inaccuracy and Mdisposition$ to thoroughness of all kinds, which would be a bad augury for him in any profession, w-vil$ or sacred, even were he so far submissive to ordinary rale$ as to choose one." "Perhaps he has conscientious scruples founded on his own unfitnrss,"$ said Dorothea, who was interesting herself in finding a favourable explanation. "Because the law and medicine should be very serious professions to undertake, should they not? People's lives and forWies$ depend on them." "Doubtless; but I fear that my young relative Will Ladislaw is chiefly determined in his aversion to these callings by s dislike to steady application, and to that kind of acquirement which is needful instwnentally,$ but is not chamning$ or immediately invi#-$ g$ to selfindulgent$ taste. I have insisted to him on what ~totle has stated with admirable brevity, that for the achievement of any work regarded as an end there must be a prior exercise of many energies or scquired$ facilities of a secondary order, demanding patience. L have po~ted$ to my own manuscript volumes, which represent the toil of years preparatory to a work not yet accomplished. But in vain. To careful reasoning of this kind he replies by calling himself Pegasus, and every form of prescribed work 'harness.' " Celia laughed. She was surprised to find that Mr Casaubon could say something quite amusing. "Well, you know, he may turn out a Byron, a Chatterton,$ a Churchill---that sort of thing---there's no telling," said Mr Brooke. -Shall you let him go to Italy, or wherever eEe$ he wants to go?" "Yes; I have agreed to fumrish$ him with moderate supplies for a year or so; he asks no more. I shall let him be tried by the test of freedom." "That is very kind of you," said Dorothea, looking up at Mr Casaubon with delight. nt is noble. After all, people may really ha~~$ them some vocation which is not quite plain to themselves, ~p.61 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 61 may they not? They may seem idle and weak because they are grow1-ng. We should be very patient with each other, I think." "I suppose it is being engaged to be married that has made you think patience good," said Celia, as soon as she and Dorothea were alone together, t~-ng$ off their wrappings. "You mean that I am very impatient Celia." "Yes; when people don't do and say just what you like." Celia had become less afraid of "saying things" to Dorothea since this engagement: cleverness seemed to her more pitiable than ever. CHAPTER 10 <4'Me had catched$ a great cold had he had mo other>4 <4ilothes$ to wear ~an ~e ~>4 or <4a bear net yet Wed-">4 --<4ffia>4 YouNG Ladislaw did not pay that visit to which Mr Brooke had iQ vited$ him, and only six days afterwards Mr Casaubon mentioned that his young relative had started for the Continent, seeming by this cold vagueness to waive inquiry. Indeed, Will had dec~ed$ to fix on any more precise destination than the entire area of Europe. Genius, he held, is necessarily intolerant of fetters: on the one hand it must have the utmost play for its spontaneity; on the other, it may confi$ dently$ await those messages from the universe which summon it to its peculiar work, only placing itself in an attitude of receptivity towards all sublime chances. The attitudes of receptivity are various, and Will had sincerely tried many of them. He was not excessively fond of wine, but he had several times taken too much, simply as an experiment in that form of ecstasy; he had fasted till he was faint and then supped$ on lobster; he had made himself ill with doses of opium. Nothing greatly original had resulted from these measures; and the effects of the opium had convinced him that there was an entire dissirnlarity$ between his constitution and De Quincey's.$ The superadded$ circumstance which would evolve the genius had not yet come; the universe had not yet beckoned. Even Caesar's fortune at one time was but a grand presentiment. We know what a masquer$ ade$ all development is, and what effective shapes may be disgised$ in hclpless$ embryos.---In fact, the world is full of hopeful analogies and handsome dubious eggs called possibilities. Will saw clearly enough the pitiable instances of long incubation producing no chick, and but for gratitude would have laughed at Casaubon, whose plodding application, rows of note-books, and small taper of learned theory exploring the tossed rnins$ of the world, seemed to enforce a moral entirely encouraging to Will's generous reliance on the intentions of the universe with regard to himself. He held that reliance to be a mark of genius; and certainly it is no mark to the contrary; genius consisting neither in selfeonceit$ nor in humility, but in a power to ~p.62 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 10 make or do, not sny~g-$ in general, but something in particular. Let him start for the Continent then, without our pronouncing on his future. Among all forms of mistake, prophecy is the most gratuitous. But at present this caution against a too hasty judgment interests me more in relation to Mr Casaubon than to his young cousin. If to Dorothea Mr Casaubon had been the mere occasion which had set ilight$ the fine inflammable material of her youthfel$ illusions, does it follow that he was fairly represented in the minds of those less impassioned personages who have hitherto delivered their judgments concerning him? I protest against any absolute conelusion,$ any prejndice$ derived from Mrs Cadwallader's contempt for a neighbouring clergyman's alleged greatness of soul, or Sir James Chettam's poor opinion of his rival's legs,---from Mr Brooke's failure to elicit a companion's ideas, or from Celia's criticism of a middle-aged scholar's personal appearance. I am not sure that the greatest man of his age, if ever that solitary superlative existed, could escape these unfavourhble$ reflections of h~self$ in various small mirrors; and even Milton, looking for his portrait in a spoon, must submit to have the facial smgle$ of a bumpkin. Moreover, if Mr Casaubon, speaking for himself, has rather a chilling rhetoric, it is not therefore certain that there ~ no good work or fine feeling in him. Did not an immortal physl-cist$ and interpreter of hieroglyphs write detestable verse? Has the theory of the solar system been advanced by graceful manners and conversational tact? Suppose we turn from outside estimates of a man, to wonder, with keener interest, what is the report of his own consciousness about his doings or capacity: with what hindrances he is carrying on his daily labours; what fading of hopes, or what deeper fixity of self-delusion the years are marking off within him; and with what spirit he wrestles against universal pressure, wllich$ will one day be too heavy for him, and bring his heart to its final pause. Doubtless his lot is important in his own eyes; and the chief reason that we think he asks too large a place in our consideration must be our want of room for him, since we refer him to the Divine regard with perfect confidence; nay, it is even held sublime for our neighbour to expect the utmost there, however little he may have got from us. Mr Casaubon, too, was the centre of his own world; if he was liable to t~k$ that others were providentially made for him, and especially to consider them in the light of their fitness for the author of a 'Key to all Mythologies,' this trait is not quite alien to us, and, like the other mendicant hopes of mortals, claims some of our pity. Certainly this affair of his marriage with Miss Brooke touched him more nearly than it did any one of the persons who have hitherto shown their disapproval of it and in the present stage of things I feel more tenderly towards his experience of success than towards the disappointment of the amiable Sir James. For in truth, as the day fixed for his marriage came nearer, Mr Casaubon did not find ~-s spirits rising; nor did the contemplation of that matrimonial gardenscene,$ where, as all experience showed, the path was to be bordered Book 1 Mw BROOKE W$ with flowers, prove persistently more enchanting to him than the accustomed vaults where he walked taper in hand. He did not confess to himself, still less could he have breathed to another, his surprise that though he had won a lovely and noble-hearted girl he had not won delight---which he had also regarded as an object to be found by search. It is true that he knew all the classical passages implying the contrary; but knowing classical passages, we find, is a mode of motion, which explains why they leave so little force for their personal application. Poor Mr Casaubon had imagined that his long studious bachelorhood had stored up for him a compound interest of enjoyment imd$ that large drafts on his affections would not fail to be honoured; for we all of us, grave or light, get our thoughts entangled in metaphors, and act fatally on the strength of them. And now he was in danger of being saddened by the very conviction that his circumstances were umusually$ happy: there was nothing external by which he could account for a certain blankness of sensibility which came over him just when his expectant gladness should have been most lively, just when he exchanged the accustomed dulness of his Lowick library for his visits to the Grange. Here was a weary experience in which he was as utterly condemned to loneliness as in the despair which sometimes threatened him while toiling in the morass of authorship without seeming nearer to the goal- And his was that worst loneliness which would shr~nk$ from sympathy- He could not but wish that Dorothea should think him not less happy than the world would expect her successful suitor to be; and in relation to his au~orship$ he leaned on her young trust and veneration, he liked to draw forth her fresh interest in listening, as a means of encouragemelit$ to himself: in talk~ng$ to her he presented all his performance and intention with the reflected confidence of the pedagogue, and rid rtim~elf$ for the time of that chilU-$ g$ ideal which crowded his laborious uncreative$ hours with the vaporous preEsure$ of Tartarean$ shades For to Dorothea, after that toy-box history of the world adapted to young ladies which had made ilie$ chief part of her education, Mr Casaubon's talk about his great book was full of new vistas; and this sense of revel~tion,$ this surpl-~se$ of a nearer introduction to Stoics and Alexandriins,$ as people who had ideas not totally unlike her own, kept ~i abeyance for the time her usual e~gel-ness$ for a bi~ding$ theory which could bring her own life and doctrine into strict connection with that ani:izing$ past, and give the remotest sow-ces$ of kno7viedge$ some bearing on her ilctions.$ That more complete teaching would come---Mr Casaubon would tell her all this$: she was looking forward to higher initia~on$ in ideas, as she was looking forward to marriage, and blending her dim conceptions of lioth-$ It would be ~$ great mistake to suppose that Dorothea would have cared about any share in Mr Casaubon's learning as mere accomplishment; for though opinion in the neighbourhood of Freshitt and Tipton hid pronoun~ed$ her clever. that epithet would not h~ve$ described her to circles in whose morr$ ~p.64 precise vocabulary cleverness implies mere aptitude for knowing and doing, apart from Character. All her eagerness for acquirement lay wit~$ that fuI$ current of sympathetic motive in which her ideas and r-mpulses$ were habitually swept along. She did not want to deck herself with knowledge---to wear it loose from the nerves and blood that fed her action; and if she had written a book she must have done it es Saint Theresa did, under the command of an authority that constrained her conscience. But something she yearned for by which her life might be filled with action at once rational and ardent; and since the time was gone by for guiding visions and spiritual directors, since prayer heightened yearning but not instruction, what lamp was there but knowledge? Surely learned men kept the only oil; and who more learned than Mr. Casaubon? Thus in these brief weeks Dorothea's joyous grateful expectation was unbroken, and however her lover might occasionally be conscious of flatness, he could never refer it to any slackering$ of her sffectionite$ interest. The season was mild enough to encourage the project of extending the wedding journey as far as Rome, and Mr Casaubon was anxious for this because he wished to inspect some manuscripts in the Vatican. "1 still regret that your sister is not to accompany us," he said one morning, some time after it had been ascertaMed$ that Celia objected to go, and that Dorothea did not wish for her companionship. "You will have many lonely hours, Dorothea, for I shall be constrained to make the utmost use of my time during our stay in Rome, and I should feel more at liberty if you had a companion." The words '7 should feel more at liberty" grated on Dorothea. For the first time in speaking to Mr Casaubon she coloured from smnoyance.$ "You must have misunderstood me very much," she said, "if you t~nk$ 1 should not enter into the value of your time---if you think that I should not willingly give up whatever interfered with your using it to the best purpose." "That is very amiable in you, my dear Dorothea," said Mr Casaubon, not in the least noticing that she was hurt; 'but if ?'ou had a lady as your companion, I could put you both under the care of a cicerone,$ and we could thus achieve two purposes in the same space of time." "I beg you will not refer to this again," said Dorothea, rather haughtily. But immediately she feared that she was wrong, and turning towards him she laid her hand on his, adding in a different tone, "Pray do not be anxious about me. I shall have so much to think of when I am alone. And Tantripp will be a suificient$ companion, just to take care of me. I could not bear to have Celia; she would be miserable." It was time to dress. There was to be a dinner-party that day, the last of the parties which were held at the Grange as proper preliminaries to the wedding, and Dorothea was glad of a reason for ~p.65 moving away at once on the sound of the bell, as if she needed more than her usual amount of preparation. She was ashamed of being n- ritated$ from some cause she could not define even to herself; for though she had no intention to be untrutaal,$ her reply had not touched the real hurt within her. Mr Casaubon's words had been quite reasonable, yet they had brought a vagne$ instantaneous sense of aloofness on his part. "Surely I am in a strangely selfish weak state of mind," she said to herself. "How can I have a husband who is so much above me without knowing that he needs me leas than I need him?" Having convinced herself that Mr Casaubon was altogether right she recovered her equanimity, and was an agreeable image of serene dignity when she came into the drawing-room in her silver-grey dress ---the simple lines of her dark-brown hair parted over her brow and coiled massively behind, in keeping with the entire absence from lw$ manner and expression of all search after mere effect. Somet~nes$ when Dorothea was in company, there seemed to be as complete an air of repose about her as if she had been a picture of Santa Barbara lookm-$ g$ out from her tower into the clear air; but these intervals of quietude made the energy of her speech and ernotion$ the more remarked when some outward appeal had touched her. She was naturally the subject of many observations this evening, for the dinner-party was large and rather more miscellaneous as to the male portion than any which had been held at the Grange since Mr Brooke's nieces had resided with him, so that the ta!king was done in duos and trios more or less inharrnonious.$ There was the newly~ected$ mayor of Middlemarch who happened to be a manufacturer; the philanthropic banker his brother-in-law, who predominated so much in the town that some called him a Methi~t,$ others a hypocrite, according to the resources of their vocabulary; and therb$ were various professional men. In fact, Mrs Cadwallader said I~t$ Brooke was beginning to treat the Middlemanhers,$ and that she p~$ ferred$ the farmers at the tithe-dirner,$ who drank her health unpretentiously, and were not ashamed of their grandfathers'$ f~turB,$ For in that part of the country, before Reform had done its notablb$ part in devoloping$ the political consciousness, there was a clearer d~$ tinction$ of ranks and a dimmer distinction of parties; so that Mr Brooke's miscellaneous invitations seemed to belong to that general laxity which came from his inordinate travel and habit of taking too much in the form of ideas. Already, as Miss Brooke passed out of the dining-room, opportunity was found for some interjectional "asides." "A fine woman, Miss Brooke! an uncommonly fine woman, by Godlsaid$ Mr Standish,l$ the old lawyer, who had been so long concerned with the landed gentry that he had become landed himself, and used that oath in a deep-mouthed manner as a sort of armorial$ bearinQ.$ stamping the speech of a man who held a good position. 1 ~ the MS "Stand~sh"$ was ori~-$ ally "Shaw."$ ~p.66 Mr Bulstrode, the banker, seemed to be addressed, but that gentleman disliked coarsemess$ and profarity,$ and merely bowed. The rffi$ mark was taken up by Mr Chichely, a middle-aged bachelor and coursing celebrity, who had a complexion something like an Easter egg, a few hairs carefully arranged, and a carriage implying the consciousness of a distinguished appearance. "Yes, but not my style of woman: 1 like a woman who lays herself out a little more to please us. There should be a little filigree about a woman---something of the coquette. A man likes a sort of challenge. The more of a dead set she makes at you the better." "There's some truth in that," said Mr Standish, disposed to be Berual-$ "And, by ffia,$ it's usually the way with them. I suppose it answers some wise ends: Providence made them so, eh, Bulstrode?" "I should be disposed to refer coquetry to another source," sa~$ Mr Bulstrode. n$ should rather refer it to the devil." "Ay, to be sure, there should be a little devil in a woman," said Mr Chichely, whose study of the fair sex seemecl$ to have been detrimental to his theology. "And I like them blond, with a cerQin$ gait and a swan neck. Between ourselves, the mayor's daughter is more to my taste than Miss Brooke or Miss Celia either. If I were a maSing$ m~n$ 1 should choose Miss Vincy before either of them." 'Uell, make up, make up," said Mr Standish, jocosely; -you see the middle-aged fellows carry the day." Mr Chichely shook his head with much meaning: he was not gom-$ g$ to incur the certainty of being accepted by the woman he would choose. The Miss Vincy who had the honour of bein6 Mr Chichely's ideal was of course not present; for Mr Brooke, always objecting to go too far, would not have chosen that his nieces should meet the daughter of a Middlemarch manufilcturer,$ unless it were on a public occasion. The feminine part of the company included none whom Lady Chettam or Mrs Cadwallader could object to; for Mrs Renfrew, the colonel's widow, was not only unexceptionable in point of breeding, but also interesting on the ground of her complaint, which puWed$ the doctors, and seemed cleitrlv$ a case wherein the fulness of professional knowledge might need the supplement of quackery. Lady Chettam, who attributed her own remarkable health to home-made bitters united with constint$ medical attendance, entered with much exercise of the imagination into Mrs Renfrew's account of symptoms, and into the ama~ng$ futilit)'$ in her case of all strengthening medicines. "Where can all the strength of those medicines go, my dear?" said the mild but statoly$ dowager, turning to Mrs Cadwallader reflectively, when Mrs Renfrew's attention was called away. nt strengthens the disease," said the Rector's wife, much too wellborn$ not to be an amateur in medicine. "Everything depends on the constitution: some people make fat, some blood, and some bile---that's my view of the matter; and whatsoever they take is a sort of grist to the mill." ~p.67 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 'When she ought to take medicines that would reduce---reduce the$ disease, you know, if you are right my dear. And I think what you say G- reasonable." "Certainly it is reasonable. You have two sorts of potatoes, fed on the same soil. One of them grows more and more watery------ "Ah! like this poor Mrs Renfrew---that$ is what I think. Dropsyl$ There is no swelling yet---it is inward. I should say she ought to take drying medicines, shouldn't you?---or a dry hot-air bath. Many things might be tried, of a d~lg$ nature." "Let her try a certain person's pamphlets,'$ said Mrs Cadwallader in an undertone, seeing the gentlemen enter. "He does not want drying." "Who, my dear?" said Lady Chettam, a charming woman, not se quick as to nullify the pleasure of explanation. "The bridegroom---Casaubon.$ He has certainly been drying up faster since the engagement: the flame of passion, I suppose." "I should think he is far from having a good constitution," said Lady Chetliun,$ with a still deeper undertone. "And then his studies ---so very dry as you say." "Really, by the side of Sir James, he looks like a death's head skinned over for the occasion. Mark my words: in a year from tlu-s$ time that girl will hate him. She looks up to h~n$ as an oracle now, and by-and-by she will be at the other extreme. All flightiness!" "How very shocking! I fear she is headstrong. But tell me---you know all about him---is there anything very bad? What is the truth?" 'Mhe truth? he is as bad as the wrong physic---masty$ to take, and sure to disagree." "There could not be anything worse than that" said Lady Chettam, with so vivid a conception of the physic that she seemed to have learned something exact about Mr Casaubon's disadvantages. "However, James will hear nothing against Miss Brooke. He says she is the m~ror$ of women still." "That is a generous make-believe of his. Depend upon it, he likes little Celia better, and she appreciates him. I hope you like my little Celia?" "Certainly; she is fonder of geraniums, and seerns$ more docile, though not so fine a figure. But we were talking of physic: tell me about this new young surgeon, Mr Lydgate. I am told he is wonderfully clever: he certainly looks it---a fine brow indeed." "He is a gentleman. I heard him talking to Humphrey. He talks well." "Yes. Mr Brooke says he is one of the Lydgates of Northumberland,l$ really well connected. One does not expect it in a practitioner of that kind. For my own part I like a medical man more on a footing with the servants; they are often all the cleverer. I assure you I found poor Hicks's judgment umfailing;$ I never knew him wrong. He was coarse and butcher-like, but he knew my constitution. It was a loss to me his going oB so suddenly. Dear me, what a very ~nated con 1 ~ the MS the Lydgates were of SomeffiGhire.$ ~p.68 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 10 versation$ Miss Brooke seems to be having with this Mr Lydgate! "She is ta!king cottages and hospitals with him," said Mrs Cadwallader, whose ears and power of interpretation were quick. "I believe he is a sort of philanthropist so Brooke is sure to take him up. "James," said Lady Chettam when her son came near, "bring Mr Lydgate and introduce him to me. I want to test him." The affable dowager declared herself delighted with this opportunity of making Mr Lydgate's acquaintance, having heard of his success in treating fever on a new plan. Mr Lydgate had the medical accomp~ient$ of looking perfectly 8ave whatever nonsense was talked to him, and his dark steady eyes gave him impressiveness as a listener. He was as little as possible like the lamented Hicks<4i>4$ especially in a certain careless refinement about his toilette and utterance. Yet Lady Chettam gathered much confidence in him. He confirmed her view of her own constitution as being peculiar, by admitting that all constitutions might be called peculiar, and he did not deny that hers might be more peculiar than others. He did not approve of a too lowering system, including reckless cupping,$ nor, on the other hand, of incessant port-wine and bark. He said "I thiok$ so" with an air of so much deference accompanying the insight of agreement that she formed the most cordial opinion of his talents. "I am quite pleased with your prorggg,"$ she said to Mr Brooke before going away. "My protggg?---clear$ mel---who$ is that?" said Mr Brooke. ~~$ young Lydgate, the new doctor. He seems to me to understand his profession ad~ably-"$ "Oh, Lydgate he is not my protggg,$ you know; only I knew an uncle of his who sent me a letter about him. However, I think he is likely to be first-rate---has studied in Paris, knew Broussais;$ has ideas, you know---wants to raise the profession." "Lydgate has lots of ideas, quite new, about ventilation and diet that sort of thing," resumed Mr Brooke, after he had handed out Lady Chet~n$, and had retw~$ to be w-vil$ to a group of Middlemarchers. "Hang it do you think that is quite sound?---upsetting the old treatment which has made Englishmen what they are?" said Mr Standish. 'Medical$ knowledge is at a low ebb among us," said Mr Bulstrode, who spoke in a subdued tone, and had rather a sicldy$ air. "I, for my part hail the advent of Mr Lydgate. I hope to find good reason for confiding the new hospital to his management." "That is all very fine," replied Mr Standish, who was not fond of Mr Bulstrode; "if you like h~n$ to try experiments on your hospital patients, and kill a few people for charity, I have no objection. But I am not going to hand money out of my purse to have experiments tried on me. I like treatment that has been tested a little." "Well, you know, Standish, every dose you take is an experiment ~p.69 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 69 ---an experiment you know," said Mr Brooke, nodding towards the lawyer. "Oh, if you talk in that sensel"$ said Mr Standish, with as much disgust at such non-legal quibbling as a man can well betray towards a valuable client. "I should be glad of any treatment that would cure me without reducing me to a skeleton, like poor Grainger,"$ said Mr Vincy, the mayor, a florid man, who would have served for a study of flesh in str~-ig$ contrast with the Franciscan$ tints of Mr Bulstrode. "It's an uncommonly dangerous thing to be left without any padding against the shafts of disease, as somebody said,---and I think it a very good experience myself." Mr Lydgate, of course, was out of hearing. He had quitted the party early, and would have thought it altogether tedious but for the novelty of certain introductions, especially the introduction to Miss Brooke, whose youthful bloom, with her approaching marriage to that faded scholar, and her interest in matters socially useful, gave her the piquancy of an unusual combination. "She is a good creature---that fine girl---but a little too eamest"$ he thought. "It is troublesome to talk to such women. They are always wanting reasons, yet they are too ignorant to understand the merits of any question, and usually fall back on their moral sense to settle things after their own taste." Evidently Miss Brooke was not Mr Lydgate's style of woman any more than Mr Chichely's. Considered, indeed, in relation to the latter, whose mind was matured, she was altogether a mistake, and calculated to shock his trust in final causes, including the adaptation of fine young women to purple-faced bachelors. But Lydgate was less ripe, and might possibly have experience before him which would modify his opinion as to the most excellent things in woman. Miss Brooke, however, was not again seen by either of these gentlemen under her maiden name. Not long after that dinner-party she had become Mrs Casaubon and was on her way to Rome, CHAPTER 11 <4fflut$ deeds and language ssch$ as m>4i<4en$ do uaA>4$ <4~d$ persoES$ such as comedy would$ chooso,>4$ <4when she would$ show an image>4 or <4the thneS>4$ <4~d$ spoh$ wilh$ human>4 roUs<4e7$ met ~th$ cTimes.">4$ --<4BnN JoHaoH>4$ L-ffiAE,$ in fact, was already conscious of being fascinated by a woman si~sngly$ different from Miss Brooke: he did not in the least suppose that he had lost his balance and fallen in love, but he had said of that particular woman, "She is grace itself; she is perfectly lovely and accomplished. That is what a woman ought to be: she ~p.70 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 11 ought to preduce$ the effect of exquisite music.- Plain women he regarded as he did the other severe facts of life, to be faced with philosophy and investigated by science. But Rosamond Vincy seemed to have the true melodic charm; and when a man has seen the woman whom he would have chosen if he had intended to marry speedily, his remaining a bachelor will usually depend on her resolution rather than on his. Lydgate believed that he should not marry for several years: not marry until he had trodden out a good clear path for himself away from the broad road which was quite ready made. He had seen Miss Vincy above his horizon almost as long as it had taken Mr Casaubon to become engaged and rnarried:$ but this learned gentleman was possessed of a fortune; he had assembled his volw-nous$ notes, and had made that sort of reputation which precedes performance,--often the larger part of a man's fame. He took a wife, as we have seen to adorn the remaining quadrant of his course, and be a little moon that would cause hardly a calculable peUbation.$ But Lydgate was young, poor, ambitious. He had his halfeentnry$ before him instead of behind him, and he had come to Middlemarch bent on doing many t~gs$ that were not directly 6tted$ to make his fortune or even secure h~n$ a good income. To a man under such circumstances, ta~ng$ a wife is something more than a question of adornment however hi~aly$ he may rate this; and Lydgate was disposed to give it the first place among wifely functions. To his taste, guided by a sin~e$ conversation here was the point on which Miss Brooke would be found wanting, notwithstanding her undeniable beauty. She did not look at t~B$ from the proper feminine angle. The society of such women was about as rela~g$ as going ffim$ your work to teaCh the second form, instead of reT~-ng$ in a paradise with sweet laughs for bird-notes, and blue eyes for a heaven. Certainly nothing at present could seem much less important to Lydgate than the turn of Miss Brooke's mind, or to Miss Brooke than the qualities of the woman who had attracted t~$ young surgeon. But any one wat~lg$ keenly the stealthy convergence of human lots, sees a slow preparation of erects$ from one life on another, which tells like a calculated irony on the indifference or the f$=n$ stare with which we look at our unintroduced$ neighbour. Destiny stands by sarcastic with our dran~$ per~-e$ folded in her hand. Old provincial society had its share of t~$ subtle movement: had not only its striking downfalls, its brilliant young professional dandies who ended by living up an entry with a drab and six Children for their establishment but also those less marked vicissitudes whiCh are constantly sh~-$ ig$ the boundaries of social intercourse, and begetting new consciousness of interdependence. Some slipped a little downward, some got higher footing: people denied aspirates, gained wealtlL$ and fastidious gentlemen stood for boroughs; some were n~ht$ in political currents, some in ecclesiastical, and perhaps found themselves surprisingly grouped in consequence; while a few personages or families that stood with rocky ~ess amid all t~$ fluctnation,$ ~p.71 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 71 were slowly presenting new aspects in spite of solidity, and altering with the double change of self and beholder. Municipal town and rural parish gradually made fresh threads of connection---gradually, as the old stocking gave way to the savings-bank, and the worship of the solar guinea became extinct; while squires and baronets,$ and even lords who had once lived blamclessly$ afar from the civic mind, gathered the faultiness of closer acquaintanceship. Sefflers,$ too, came from distant counties, some with an alarming novelty of skill, others with an offensive advantage in cunring.$ In fact, much the same sort of movement and mixture went on in old England as we find in older Herodotus, who also, in telling what had been, thought it well to take a woman's lot for his starting-point; though -Io, as a maiden apparently beguiled by attractive merchandise, was the reverse of Miss Brooke, and in this respect perhaps bore more resemblance to Rosamond Vincy, who had excellent taste in costume, with that nymphlike$ figure and pure blondness which give the largest ran6e$ to choice m- the flow and colour of drapery. But these things made only part of her charm$. She was admitted to be the flower of Mrs Lemon's school, the chief school in the county, where the teaching included all that was demanded in the accomplished female---even to extras, such as the getting in and out of a carriage. Mrs Lemon herself had always held up Miss Vincy as an example: no pupil, she said, exceeded that young lady for mental acquisition and propriety of speech, while her musical execution was quite exceptional- lVe$ cannot help the wav$ in which people speak of us, and probably if Mrs Lemon had undertaken to describe Juliet or Imogen,$ these heroines would not have seemed poetical. The first vision of Rosamond would have been enough with most judges to dispel any prejudice excited by Mrs Lemon's praise Lydgate could not be long in Middlemarch without having that agreeable vision, or even without making the acquaintance of the Vincy family; for though Mr Peaccck,$ whose practice he had paid something to enter on, had not been their doctor ( Mrs Vincy not liking the lowering system adopted by him), he h~d$ many patients among their connections and acquaintances- For u-ho of iny$ consequence in Middlemarch was not connected or it leilst$ acquainted with the Vincys? They were old maufacturers,$ and had kept a good house for three generations, in which there had naturally been much intermarrying with neighbours more or less decidedly genteel. Mr Vincy's sister had made a wealthy match in accepting hIr$ Bulstrode, who, however, as a man not born in the toivn,$ and altogether of dimlvknown$ origin, was considered to have done well in um-ting himself with a real Middlemarch family; on the other hand, Mr Vincy had descended a ~ttle, having taken an innkeeper's daughter. But on this side too there was a cheering sense of money; for Mrs Vincy's sister had been second wife to rich old Mr Featherstone, and had died childless years ago, so that her nephews and nieces might be supposed to touch the affections of the widower. And it happened that Mr Bulstrode and Mr Featherstone, two of Peacock's most important patients, ~p.72 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 11 had, from different causes, given an especially good reception to his successor, who had raised some partisanship as well as discussion. Mr Wrench, medical attendant to the Vincy family, very early had grounds for thinking lightly of Lydgate's professional discretion, and there was no report about him which was not retailed at the Vincys', where visitors were frequent. Mr Vincy was more inclined to general good-fellowship than to taking sides, but there was no need for lu-m$ to be hasty in makin6$ any new man's acquaintance. Rosamond silently wG-$ hed$ that her father would invite Mr Lydgate. She was tired of the faces and figures she had always been used to---the various irregular profiles and gaits and t~;$ of phrase distinguishing those Middlemarch young men whom she had known as boys. She had been at school with girls of higher position, whose brothers, she felt sure, it would have been possible for her to be more interested in, than in these inevitable Middlemarch companions. But she would not have chosen to mention her wish to her father; and he, for his part, was in no hurry on the subject- An alderman about to be mayor must by-andby$ enlarge his dinner parties, but at present there were plenty of guests at his well-spread table. That table often remained covered with the relics of the family breakfast long after Mr Vincy had gone with his second son to the warehouse, and when Miss Morgan was already far on in morning lessons with the younger girls in the school-room. It awaited the family la~gard,$ who found any sort of inconvenience (to others) less disagreeable than getting up when he was called. This was the case one morning in October in which we have lately seen Mr Casaubon ~'sI-ting$ the Grange; and though the room was a little overheated with the fire, which had sent the spaniel panting to a remote corner, Rosamond, for some reason, continued to sit at her embroidery longer than usual, now and then giving herself a little shake, and laying her work on her knee to contemplate it with an air of hesitating weariness. Her mamma, who had returned from an excursion to the kitchen, sat on the other side of the small work-table with an air of more entire placidity, until, the clock again giving notice that it was going to strike, she looked up from the lace-mending which was cccupying$ her plump fingers and rang the bell. ~nock at Mr Fred's door again, Pritchard, and tell him it has stmck$ half-past ten." This was said without any change in the radiant good-humour of ~rs$ Vincy's face, in which forty-five years had delved neither angles nor parallels; and pushing back her pink cap-strings, she let her work rest on her lap, while she looked admiringly at her daughter. "Mamma," said Rosamond, "when Fred comes down I wish you would not let him have red herrings- I cannot bear the smell of them all over the house at this hour of the momu-ng."$ "Oh, my dear, you are so hard on your brothers! It is the only fault I have to find with you. You are the sweetest temper in the world, but you are so tetchy$ with your brothers." ~p.73 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 7 "Not tetchy$, mamma: you never hear me speak in an unladylike$ way." "Well, but you want to deny them things." "Brothers are so unpleasamt."$ "Oh, my dear, you must allow for young men. Be t~~$ if they have good hearts. A woman must learn to put up with little things. You will be married some day." "Not to any one who is like Fred." "Don't decry your own brother, my dear. Few young men have less against them, although he couldn't take his degree---I'm sure I can't understand why, for he seems to me most clever. And you know yourse&$ he was thought equal to the best society at college. So particular as you are, my dear, I wonder you are not glad to have such a gentlemanly young man for a brother. You are always finding fault with Bob because he is not Fred." "Oh no, mamma, only because he is Bob." 'Uell, my dear, you will not find any Middlemarch young man who has not something against him." "But's--here$ Rosamond's face broke into a smile which suddenly revealed two dimples. She herself thought unfavourably$ of these dimples and smiled little in general society. "But I shall not marry any Middlemarch young man." "So it seems, my love, for you have as good as refused the piCk of them; and if there's better to be had, I'm sure there's no girl better deserves it" "Excuse me, mamma---I wish you would not say, 'the piCk of them.' " "Why, what else are they?" "I mean, mamma, it is rather a vulgar expreasI-on."$ "Very likely, my dear; I never was a good speaker. What should I say?" "The best of them." 'Uhy that seems just as plain and commo~$ If I had had time to t~,$ I should have said, 'the most superior young men.' But with your education you must know." "What must Rosy know, mother?" said Mr Fred, who had slid in unobserved through the half-open door while the ladies were bending over their work, and now going up to the 6e stood with his back towards it wi~-ng$ the soles of his slippers. "Whether it's right to say 'superior young men,'" said Mrs Vincy, rm- ging$ the bell. "Oh, there are so many superior teas and sugars now. Superior is getting to be shopkeepers'$ slang." "Are you beginning to dislike slang then?" said Rosamond with nnld$ grai~ty.$ "Only the wrong sort. All choice of words is slang. It marks a class-" 'Mhere is correct English: that is not slang." ~p.74 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 11 ~ beg your pardon: correct English is the alang$ of prigs who write history and essays. And the strongest slang of all is the slang of poets." "You will say anything, Fred, to gaM$ your point." "Well, tell me whether it is slang or poetry to call an ox a Zegp~ter."$ "Of course you can call it poetry if you like." "Aha, Miss Rosy, you don't know Homer from slang. I shall invent a new game; I shall write bits of alang$ and poetry on slips, and give them to you to separate." "Dear me, how amusing it is to hear young people talk!" said Mrs Vincy, with cheerful admiration. "Have you got nothing else for my breakfast, Pritchard?" said Fred, to the servant who brought in coffee and buttered toast; while he waUed$ round the table surveying the ham, potted beef, and other cold remnants, with an air of silent rejection, and polite forbearance from signs of disgust. "Should you like eggs, sir?" "Eggs, no! Bring me a grilled bone." "Really, Fred," said Rosamond, when the servant had left the room, "if you must have hot things for breakfast, 1 wish you would come down earlier. You can get up at six o'clock to go out hunting; I i~not$ understamd$ why you find it so difficult to get up on other mornings. 'What is your want of understanding, Rosy. I can get up to go hunting because I like it." "What would you think of me if I came down two hours after every one else and ordered grilled bone?" "I should think you were an uncommonly fast young lady," said Fred, eating his toast with the utmost composure. 'T c~mot$ see why brothers are to make themselves disagreeable, any more than sisters." "I don't make myself disagreeable; it is you who find me so. Disagreeable is a word that describes your feelings and not my actions." "I think it describes the smell of grilled bone-" "Not at all- It describes a sensation in your little nose associated with certain finicking$ notions which are the classics of Mrs Lemon's school- Look at my mother: you don't see her objecting to everything except what she does herself. She is my notion of a pleasant woman." "Bless you both, my dears, and don't quarrel," si~d$ Mrs Vincy, with motherly cordiality. "Come, Fred, tell us all about the new doctor. How is your uncle pleased with him?" "Pretty well, I think. He asks Lydgate all sorts of questions and then screws up his face while he hears the answers, as if they werb$ pinching his toes. That's his way. Ah, here comes my grilled bone.- "But how came you to stay out so late, my dear? You only said you were going to your uncle's." ~p.75 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 7 -Cb I dined at Plymdale's. We had whist. Lydgate was there too." "~1$ what do you think of him? He is very gentlemanly, I suppose. They say he is of excellent family---his relations quite county people." "Yes," said Fred. "There was a Lydgate at John's who spent no end of money. I find this man is a second cousin of his. But rich men may hhve$ very poor devils for second cousm-$ s."$ "It always makes a difference, though, to be of good family," said Rosamond with a tone of decision which showed that she had thought on t~$ sub~$. Rosamond felt that she might have been happier if she had not been the daughter of a Middlemarch manufacturer. She d~-ked$ anything which reminded her that her mother's father had been an ~keeper. Certainly any one remembering the fact might think that Mrs Vincy had the air of a very handsome good-humoured landlsdy,$ accustomed to the most capricious orders of gentlemen. "I thought it was odd his name was Tertius," said the bright-fa~$ matron, "but of course it's a name in the family. But now, tell us exactly what sort of man he is." "Ob t~W$ dark, clever---talks well---rather a prig, I think." "I never can make out what you mean by a prig," said Rosamond. "A fellow who wants to show that he has opim-ons."$ Why, my dear, doctors must have opinions," said Mrs Vincy. "What are they there for else?" "Yes, mother, the opinions they are paid for. But a prig is a fellow who is always making you a present of his opinions." "I suppose Mary Garth admires Mr Lydgate," said Rosamond not without a touch of innuendo. "Really, I can't say," said Fred, rather glumly, as he left the table, and I~-ng$ up a novel which he had brought down with him, threw himself into an arm-chair. "If you are jealous of her, go oftener to Stone Court yourself and eclipse her." "I '~h you would not be so valgar,$ Fred. If you have finished, pray ring the bell." "It is truB,$ though---what your brother says, Rosamond," Mrs Vincy began when the servant had cleared the table. "It is a thousand pities you haven't patience to go and see your uncle more, so proud of you as he is, and wanted you to live with h~n$. There's no knowing what he might have done for you as well as for Fred. God knows, I'm fond of having you at home with me, but I can part with my Ynldren$ for their good. And now it stands to reason that your uncle Featherstone will do something for Mary Garth." "Mary Garth can bear being at Stone Court because she likes that better than being a governess," said Rosamond, folding up her work. "I would rather not have anything left to me if I must eam$ it by enduring much of my uncle's cough and his ugly relations." "He can't be long for this world, my dear; I wouldn't hasten his end, but what with asthma and that inward complaint, let us hope there is something better for him in another. And I have no ill-will towards Mary Garth, but there's justice to be thought of. And Mr ~p.76 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 11 Featherstone's Qst$ wife brought him no money, as my sister did. Her nieces and nephews can't have so much claim as my sister's. And I must say I think Mary G~:$ a dreadful plain girl---more fit for a governess. "Every one would not agree with you there, mother," said Fred, who seemed to be able to read and listen too. "Well, my dear," said Mrs Vincy, wheeling skilinnly,$ "if she $$ some fortune left her,---a man marries his wife's relations, and the Garths are so poor, and live in suCh a small way. But I shall leave you to your studies, my dear; for I must go and do some shopping." "Fred's studies are not very deep," said Rosamond, r~-$ ~$ with her mamma, "he is only reading a novel." "Well, well, by-and-by he'll go to his Latin and things," said Mrs Vincy, soot~n~y,$ stroking her son's head. "There's a fire in the smoking-room on purpose. It's your father's wish, you know---Fred, my dear---and I always tell him you will be good, and go-to college again to take your degree." Fred drew his mother's hand down to his lips, but said nothing. n suppose you are not going out riding to-day?" said Rosamond, lingering a little after her mamma was gone. "No; why?" "Papa says I may have the chestnut to ride now." "You can go with me to-morrow, if you like. Only I am going to Stone Court, remember." 'T want the ride so much, it is indifferent to me where we go." Rosamond really wished to go to Stone Court of all other places. "Oh, I say, Rosy," said Fred, as she was passing out of the mom, "if you are going to the piano, let me come and play some airs with you." "Pray do not ask me this morning g."$ Why not this morning?" "Really, Fred, I wish you would leave off playing the flute. A man looks very silly playing the flute. And you play so out of tune." When next any one makes love to you, Mias$ Rosamond, I will tell him how obliging you are." Why should you expect me to oblige you by hearing you play the flute, any more than I should expect you to oblige me by not playing it?" "And why should you expect me to take you out riding?" :~ question led to an adjustment for Rosamond had set her mind on that particular ride. So Fred was gratified with nearly an hour's practice of "Ar hyd$ <1y>1$ nos,"$ "Ye$ banks and braes,"$ and other favourite airs from his "Instructor on the Mute;" a wheezy performance, into which he threw much ambition and an inepressible$ hopefulness. ~p.77 Book 1 MISS BROOKE M ff$ CHAPTER 12 <4'~e ~ ~ ww$ on him din~>4$ <4~an>4$ - --c~ua gp ride to Stone Court, which Fred and Rosamond took the next morning, lay through a pretty bit of midlsmd$ landscape, almost all meadows and pastures, with hedgerows still allowed to grow in bushy beauty and to spread out coral fruit for the birds. Little de~ils$ gave each field a pa~alar$ physiognomy, dear to the eyes that have looked on them from Ynldhood:$ the pool in the corner where the grasses were dank and trees leaned whisperingly; the great oak shadowing a bare place in mid-pasture; the high bank where the ash-trees grew; the sudden slope of the old marl-pit ma~~$ a red background for the burdoCk;$ the huddled IDofs$ and ricks of the homestead without a traceable way of approach; the grey gate and fences against. the depths of the bordering wood; and the stray hovel, its old, old thatch full of mossy hills and valleys with wondrous modulations of light and shadow such as we travel far to see in later life, and see larger, but not more beautiful. These are the things that make the gamut of joy in landscape to midland-bred souls---the tlings$ they toddled among, or perhaps learned by heart standing between their father's knees while he drove leisurely. But the road, even the byroad,$ was excellent; for Lowick, as we have seen, was not a parish of muddy lanes and poor tenants; and it was into Lowick p~h$ that Fred and Rosamond entered ~er a couple of males'$ riding. Another nnle$ would bring them to Stone Court, and at the end of the 6st half, the house was already visible, looking as if it had been arrested in its growth toward a stone mansion by an unexpected budding of farm-buildings on its left flank, which had hindered it from becoming anything more than the substantial dwelling g$ of a gentleman farner.$ It was not the less agreeable an object in the distance for the cluster of pirnacled$ corn-ricks which balanced the fine row of walnuts on the right. Presently it was possible to discern something that might be a gig on the circnlar$ ~ive$ before the front door. "Dear me," said Rosamond, ~$ hope none of my uncle's horrible relations are there." "They are, though. That is Mrs Waule's gig---the last yellow gig left I should t~c$. When I see Mrs Waule in it I understand how yellow can have been worn for mourning. That gig seems to me more funereal than a hearse. But then Mrs Waule always has black crape on. How does she manage it Rosy? Her friends can't always be dying." q$ don't know at all. And she is not in the least evangelical," said Rosamond, reflectively, as if that religious point of view would have ~p.78 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter lY /ully$ accounted for perpetual crape. "And not poor," she added, after a moment's pause. "No, by George! They are as rich as Jews, those Waules and Featherstones; I mean, for people like them, who don't want to spend anytling.$ And yet they hang about my uncle like vnltures,$ and are ;~id$ of a fsS-ng$ going away from their side of the family. But I believe he hates them all." The Mrs Waule who was so far from being admirable in the eyes & t~e$ ~tant$ connections, had happened to say t~$ very morning (not at all with a defiant air, but in a low, muffled, neutral tone, as of a voice heard through cotton wool) that she did not wish "to enjoy their good opinion." She was seated, as she observed, on her own brother's hearth, and had been Jane Featherstone five-and-twenty years before she had been Jane Waule, which entitled her to speak when her own brother's name had been made free with by those who had no right to it. What are you driving at there~$ said Mr Featherstone, holding his stick between his knees and settling his wig, while he gave her a momentary sharp glance, which seemed to react on him like a draught of cold air and set him coughing. Mrs Waule had to defer her answer till he was quiet again, till Mary Garth 1 had supplied him with fresh syrup, and he had begin to rub the gold knob of his stick, looking bitterly at the 6e. It was a bright 6e, but it made no difference to the chill-looking purp~h$ tint of Mrs Waule's face, which was as neut~$ as her voice; having mere chinks for eyes, and lips that hardly movecl$ in s~king$. "The doctors can't master that cough, brother. It's just like what I have; for I'm your own sister, constitution and everything. But as I was saying, it's a pity Mrs Vincy's family can't be better conducted." 'Schahl you said nothing o'$ the sort. You said somebody had made free with my name." "And no more than can be proved, if what everybody says is true, My brother Solomon tells me it's the talk up and down in Middlemarch how unsteady young Vincy is, and has been for ever gambling at billiards since home he came." "Nonsense What's a game at billiards? It's a good gentlemanly game; and young Vincy is not a clodhopper.$ If your son John took to billiards, now, he'd make a fool of himself." "Your nephew John never took to billiards or any other game, brother, and is far from losing hundreds of pounds, which if what everybody says is true, must be found somewhere else than out of Mr Vincy the father's pocket. Fpr$ they say he's been losing money for years, though nobody would think so, to see h~n$ go coursing and keeping open house as they do. And I've heard say Mr Bulstrode condemns Mrs Vincy beyond anything for her Qightiness,$ and spoiling her eleldren$ so." "What's Bulstrode to me? I don't bank with him." 1 ~ the MS this rea~$ "Ma~$ Dove." ~p.79 Well, Mrs Bulstrode is Mr Vincy's own sister, and they do say that Mr Vincy mosVy$ trades on the Bank money; and you may see yourself, brother, when a woman past forty has pink strings always flying, and that light way of laughing at everything, it's very unbecoming. But indulging your children is one thing, and finding money to pay their debts is another. And it's openly said that young Vincy has raised money on his expectations. I don't say what expectations. Miss Garth hears me, and is welcome to tell again. I know young people hang together." "No, thank you, Mrs Waule," said Mary Gsfih,$ "I dislike hearing scandal too much to wish to repeat it." Mr Featherstone rubbed the knob of his stiCk and made a brief convulsive show of laughter, which had much the same genuiness as an old whist-player's chuckle over a bad hand. Still looking at t~$ fire, he said-- "And who pretends to say Fred Vincy hasn't got expectationsl$ Such a fine, spirited fellow is like enough to have 'em." There was a slight pause before Mrs Waule replied, and when she did so, her voice seemed to be slightly moistened with tears, though her face was still dry. "Whether or no, brother, it ~ naturally p~al$ to me and my brother Solomon to hear your name made free with, and your complaint being such as may carry you offi$ sudden, and people who are no more Featherstones than the Merry-Andrew at the fair, openly reckoning on your property coming to them. And me your own sister, and Solomon your own brotherl$ And if that's to be it what has it pleased the Almighty to make families forr'$ Here Mrs Waule's tears fell, but with moderation. "Come, out with it Janel"$ said Mr Featherstone, looking at her. "'You mean to say, Fred Vincy has been getting somebody to advance him money on what he says he knows about my will, eh?" "I never said so, brother" (Mrs Waule's voice had again become dry and uISShaken).$ "It was told me by my brother Solomon last night when he called coming from market to give me advice about the old wheat me being a widow, and my son John only three-andt~nty,$ though steady beyond anything. And he had it from most undeniable authority, and not one, but many." "St~$ and nonsenset$ I don't believe a word of it. It's all a got-up story. Co to the window, ~sy; I thought I heard a horse. See if the doctor's comm- g.'$ "Not got up by me, brother, nor yet by Solomon, who, whatever else he may be---and I don't deny he has oddities---has made his wia$ and parted his property equal between such kin as he's friends with; thou~$, for my part I t~c$ there are tines when some should be considered more than others But Solomon makes it no secret what he means to do." ffihe$ more fool he!" said Featherstone, with some diffculty; break ~ into a severe fit of coughing that required Mary Garth to stand ~p.80 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter ld n~r$ him, so that she did not find out whose horses they were whiCh presently paused stamping on the gravel before the door. Before Mr Featherstone's cough was quiet, Rosamond entered, bearing up her ridMg-habit$ with much grace. She bowed ceremoniously to Mrs Waule, who said s~y,$ "How do you do, miss?" smiled and nodded silently to Mary, and remained standing till the coughing should cease, and allow her uncle to notice her. "Heyday, miss," he said at last, "you have a fine colour. Where's$ Fred?" "Seeing about the horses. He will be in presently." "Sit down, sit down. Mrs Waule, you'd better go." Even those neighbours who had called Peter Featherstone an old fox, had never accused h~n$ of being insincerely polite, and his sister was quite used to the peculiar absence of ceremony with which he$ marked his sense of blood-relationship. Indeed, she herself was accustomed to think that entire freedom from the necessity of behaving agreeably was included in the Alnrighty's$ intentions about families. She rose slowly without any sign of resentment, and said in her usual muf$l$ monotone, "Brother, I hope the new doctor will be able to do something for you. Solomon says there's great talk of his cleverness, I'm sure it's my wish you should be spared. And there's none more ready to nurse you than your own sister and your own nieces, if you'd only say the word. There's Rebecca, and Joanna, and Elizabeth you i$ "Ay,$ ay,$ I remember---you'll see I've remembered 'em all---all dart and ngly.$ They'd need have some money, eh? There never was any beauty in the women of our family; but the Featherstones have aL$ ways had some money, and the Waules too. Waule had money too. A w~m$ man was Waule. Ay,$ ay;$ money's a good egg; and if you'vB$ got money to leave behind you, lay it in a warn nest. Good-bye, Mrs Waule." Here Mr Featherstone pulled at both sides of his wig as if he wanted to deafen himself, and his sister went away r~nating$ on t~$ oracular speech of his. Notwithstanding her jealousy of the Vincys and of Mary Garth, there remained as the nethermost$ sediment in her mental shallows a persuasion that her brother Peter Featherstone could never leave his chief property away from his blood-relations: ---else, why had the Almighty carried off his two wives both childl&S$ aker$ he had gained so much by manganese and things, hw-ng$ up when -nobody expected it?---and why was there a Lowick pi~h$ church, and the Waules and Powderells all sitting in the same pew ffi$ generations, and the Featherstone pew next to them, if, the SuQ$ day after her brother Peter's death, everybody was to know tQt$ the prop~y$ was gone out of the family? The human mind has at no period accepted a moral chaos; and so preposterous a result was not strictly conceivable. But we are frightened at much that is not strictlj$ conceivable. When Fred came in the old man eyed him with a peculiar tw~,$ ~p.81 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 81 which the younger had often had reason to interpret as pride in the satisfactory details of his appearance. "You two misses go away," said Mr Featherstone. "I want to speak to Fred." "Come into my room, Rosamond, you will not mind the cold for a jttle$ while," said Mary. The two girls had not only known each other in clnldhood,$ but had been at the same provincial school together (Mary as an articled$ pupil), so that they had many memories in common, and liked very well to talk in private. Indeed, this t~ed-f~ff$ was one of Rosamond's objects in coming to Stone Court. Old Featherstone would not begin the dialogue till the door had been closed. He continued to look at Fred with the same tw~ele$ and with one of his habitual ~naces, alternately screwing and widering$ his mouth; and when he spoke, it was in a low tone, which might be taken for that of an informer ready to be bought off, rather than for the tone of an offended senior. He was not a man to feel any strong moral 1-ndignation even on account of trespasses against himself. It was natural that others should want to get an advantage over him, but then, he was a little too c~-ng$ for them. "So, sir, you've been paying ten per cent for money which you've promised to pay off by mortgaging my land when I'm dead and gone, eh? You put my life at a twelvemonth,$ say. But I can alter my will yet." Fred blushed. He had not borrowed money in that way, for excellent reasons. But he was conscious of having spoken with some confidence (perhaps with more than he exactly remembered) about his pro~:ct$ of getting Featherstone's land as a future means of paying present debts. "I don't know what you refer to, sir. I have cei~aly$ never borrowed any money on such an insecurity. Please to explan- ." "No, sir, it's you must explain- I can alter my will yet let me tell you. I'm of sound mind---can reckon compound interest in my head, and remember every fool's name as well as I could twenty years ago. What the deuce? I'm under eighty. I say, you must contradict this story." "I have contradicted it, sir," Fred answered, with a touch of impatience, not remembering that his uncle did not verbally disc~-nate$ contradicting from disproving, though no one was further from confounding the two ideas than old Featherstone, who often wondered that so many fools took his own assertions for proofs. "But I contradict it again. The story is a silly lie." "Nonsense you must bring dockiments.$ It comes from authority." -Name the authority, and make him narne$ the man of whom I borrowed the money, and then I can disprove the story." "It's pretty good authority, I think---a man who knows most of what goes on in Middlemarch. It's that fine, religious, charitable uncle o'$ yours. Come now!" Here Mr Featherstone had his peculiar inward shake which signified merriment. "Mr. Bulstroder ~p.82 "Who else, eh?" "Then the story has grovm$ into this lie out of some serrnonising$ words he may have let fall about me. Do they pretend that he named the man who lent me the money?" "If there is such a man, depend upon it Bulstrode knows him. But, supposing you only tried to get the money lent and didn't get it--Bulstrode$ 'ud$ know that too- You bring me a wriM-$ g$ from Bulstrode to say he doesn't believe you've ever promised to pay your debts out o'$ my land. Come now!" Mr Featherstone's face required its whole scale of gminaces$ as a muscular outlet to his silent triumph in the soundneas$ of his faculties. Fred felt himself to be in a disgusting dilemma. "You must be joking, sir- Mr Bulstrode, like other mcn,$ believes scores of things that are not true, and he has a prejudice against me. I could easily get him to write that he knew no facts in proof of the report you speak of, though it might lead to unpleasantness. But I could hardly ask him to write down what he believes or does not believe about me." Fred paused an instant, and then added, in pW-tic$ appeal to his uncle's varity$, "That is hardly a thing for a gentleman to ask." But he was disappointed in the result. "Ay, I know what you mean. You'd sooner offend me than Bulstrode. And what's he?---he's$ got no land hereabout that ever I heard tell of. A speckilating$ fellow! He may come down any day, when the devil leaves off backing him. And that's what his religion means: he wants ~1 Almighty to come in. That's nonsense! There's one t~g$ I made out pretty clear when I used to go to church---and it's this: God Almighty sticks to the land. He promises land, and He gives land, and He makes chaps rich with corn and catile.$ But you take the other side. You like Bulstrode and speckilation$ better than Featherstone and land." "I beg your pardon, sir," said Fred, rising, standing with his back to the fire and beating his boot with his whip. "I like neither Bulstrode nor speculation." He spoke rather sulkily, feeling himself stalemated. 'Uell, well, you can do without me, that's pretty clear," said old Featherstone, secreily$ disliking the possibility that Fred would show himself at all independent. "You neither want a bit of land to make a squire of you instead of a starving parson, nor a lift of a hundred poumd$ by the way. It's all one to me. I can make five codicils if I like, and I shall keep my bank-notes for a nest-egg- It's all one to me-" Fred coloured again. Featherstone had rarely given him presents of money, and at this moment it seemed almost harder to part with the immediate prospect of bank-notes than with the more distant prospect of the l~d$ "I am not ungratefnl,$ sir. I never meant to show disregard for any kind intentions you might have towards me. On the contrary.- 'Very good. Then prove it. You bring me a letter from Bulstrode ~p.83 Book 1 MISS BROOKE saying he doem't$ believe you've been cracking and pro~-$ ing to pay your debts out o'$ my land, and then, if there's any scrape you've got into, we'll see if I can back you a bit. Come now! That's a bargain. Here, give me your ann. I'll try and walk round the room." Fred, in spite of his imitation$, had kindness enough in him to be a little sorry for the ualoved,$ unvenerated$ old man, who with lu-s$ clropsical$ legs looked more than usually pitiable in walking. While giving his arm, he thought that he should not himself like to be an old fellow with his constitution breaking up; and he waited goodtempere1lly,$ first before the window to hear the wonted remarks about the guinea-fowls and the weathercock, and then before the scanty book-shelves, of which the chief glories in dark calf were Josephus,$ Culpepper,$ ~opstock's$ 'Messinh,'$ and several volumes of the 'Gentlffi man's Magam-ne.'$ "Read me the names o'$ the bocks.$ Come now! you're a college man." Fred ghve$ he$ the titles. What did missy want with more books? What must you be bringing her more books for7 "They amuse her, sir. She is very fond of reading." "A little too fond," said Mr Featherstone, captiously. "She was for reading when she sat with me. But I put a stop to that. She's got the newspaper to read out loud. That's enough for one day, I should think. 1 can't abide to see her reading to herself. You mind and not bring her any more books, do you hear?" "Yes, sir, I hear." Fred had received t~$ order before, and had secretly disobeyed it. He intended to disobey it again. '~ng the bell," said Mr Featherstone; "I want missy to comb down." Rosamond and Mary had been telling$ faster than their male friends. They did not think of sitting down, but stood at the toilette-table$ near the window while Rosamond took off her hat adjusted her veil, and applied little touches of her finger-tips to her hair---hair of infantine fairness, neither flaxen$ nor yellow. Mary Garth seemed all the plainer standing at an angle between the two nymphs---the one in the glass, and the one out of it, who looked at each other with eyes of heavenly blue, deep enough to hold the most exquisite meanings an ingenious beholder could put into them, and deep enough to hide the meanings of the owner if these should happen to be less exquisite. Only a few children in Middlemarch looked blond by the side of Rosamond, and the slim figure displayed by her riding-habit had delicate undulations. In fact most men in Middlemarch, except her brothers, held that Miss Vincy was the best girl in the world and some called her an angel. Mary Garth, on the contrary, had the aspect of an ordinary sinner: she was brown; her curly dark hair was rough and stubborn; her stature was low; and it would not be true to declare, in satisfactory antithesis, that she had all the virtues. Plainness has its peculiar temptations and vices quite as much as beauty; it is apt ~p.84 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 12 either to feign amiability, or, not feigning it to show all the repulsiveneas$ of discontent: at any rate, to be called an ugly thing in contrast with that lovely creature your companion, is apt to prnduce$ some effect beyond a sense of fine veracity and fitness in the phrase. At the age of two-and-twenty Mary had cern~nly$ not attained that perfect good sense and good principle which are usually recommended to the less fortunate girl, as if they were to be obtained in quantities ready mixed, with a flavour of resignation as required. Her shrewdness had a streak of satiric bitterness continually renewed and never carried utterly out of sight, except by a strong current of gratitude towards those who, instead of telling her that she ought to be content~$ did something to make her so- Advancing womanhood had tempered her pl~eas,$ which was of a good human sort such as the mothers of our race have very commonly worn in all latitudes under a more or less becoming headgear. Rembrandt$ would have painted her with pleasure, and would have made her broad features look out of the canvas with inte~gent$ honesty. For honesty, truth-telling faimess,$ was Mary's reigr~g$ virtue: she neither tried to create illusions, nor 1-ndulged in them for her own behoof,$ and when she was in a go~$ mood she had humour enough in her to laugh at herself. When she and Rosamond happened both to be reflected in the glass, she said, laughingly-- 'Uhat a brown patch I am by the side of you, Rosyl You are the most unbecoming companion." "Oh no! No one thinks of your appearance, you are so sensible and useful, Mary. Beauty is of very little consequence in reality," said Rosamond, turning her head towards Mary, but with eyes sweming$ towards the new view of her neck in the glass. "You mean my beauty," said Mary, rather sardonically. Rosamond thought, "Poor Mary, she takes the kindest things ill." Aloud she said, 'Uhat have you been doing lately?" "I? Oh, minding the house---pouring out syrnp---pretending$ to be amiable and contented---lea~lg$ to have a bad opinion of everybody." "It is a wretChed life for you.' "No," said Mary, cunly$$ with a little toss of her head. "I think my life is pleasanter than your Miss Morgan's."$ "Yes; but Miss Morgan is so urinteresting,$ and not young." "She is interesting to herself, I suppose; and I am not at all sure that everything gets easier as one gets older." "No," said Rosamond, reflectively; "one wonders what such people do, without any prospect. To be sure, there is religion as a support. But," she added, dimpling, "it is very different with you, Mary. You may have an offer." "Has any one told you he means to make me one?" "Of course not. 1 mean, there is a gentleman who may fall in love with you, seeing you almost every day." A certain change in Mary's face was chiefly determined by the resolve not to show any change. Book 1 Mrs BROOKE & "Does that always make people fall in love?" she answered, carelessly; "it seems to me quite as often a reason for detesting each other." "Not when they are interesting and agreeabk.$ I hear that Mr Lydgate is both." "Oh, Mr Lydgate" said Mary, wI~h$ an w~takable$ lapse into indifference. "You want to know something about him," she added, not choosing to indulge Rosamond's indirectness. "Merely, how you like he$." 'There is no question of liking at present My liking always wants some little kindness to kin1lle$ it. I am not magnaminous enough to like people who speak to me without seeming to see me." "Is he so haughty?" said Rosamond, with heightened satisfaction. "You know that he is of good family?" "No; he did not give that as a reason." "Mary! you are the oddest girl. But what sort of looking man is he? Describe him to me." "How can one describe a man? I can give you an inventory: heavy eyebrows, dark eyes, a straight nose, thick dark hair, large solid white hands---and---kt$ me seg---oh,$ an exquisite cambric pocket handkerchief. But you will see him. You know this is about the time of lu-s$ visits." Rosamond blushed a little, but said, meditatively, "I rather like a haughty manner. I cannot endure a rattling young mam$." "I did not tell you that Mr Lydgate was haughty; but ~ y en a pour tow ffs$ gbuts,$ as little Mamselle$ used to say, and if any girl can choose the particular sort of conceit she would like, I should think it is you, Rosy." "Haughtiness is not conceit; I call Fred conceited." "I wish no one said any worse of him. He should be morc$ careful. Mrs Waule has been telling uncle that Fred is very unsteady." Mary spoke from a girlish impulse which got the better of her judgment. There was a vague uneasiness associated with the word "unsteady" whiCh she hoped Rosamond might say something to dissipate. But she purposely abstained from mentioning Mrs Waule's more special insinuation. "Oh, Fred is horridl"$ said Rosamond. She would not have allowed herself so unsuitable a word to any one but Mary. What do you mean by horrid?" "He is so idle, and makes papa so angry, and says he will not take orders." n think Fred is quite right." "How can you say he is quite right Mary! I thought you lad more sense of relig-on."$ "He is not fit to be a clergyman.- "But he ought to be fit." "Well, then, he is not what he ought to be. I know some other $$ ple who are in the same case." ~p.86 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 12 "But no one approves of them. I should not like to marry a clergy .man; but there must be clergymen." ~t does not follow that Fred must be one." "But when papa has been at the expense of educating him for it! And only suppose, if he should have no fortune left him\r ? can suppose that very well," said Mary, dryly. "Then I wonder you can defend Fred," said Rosamond, inclined to push this point. "I don't defend him," said Mary, laughing; "I would defend any paw- h from having him for a clergyman." "But of course if he were a clergyman, he must be different.- "Yes, he would be a great hypocrite; and he is not that yet." ~t is of no use saying anything to you, Mary. You always take Fred's part.- Why should I not take his part\r' said Mary, lighting up. "He would take mine. He is the only person who takes the least trouble to oblige me." "You make me feel very uncomfortable, Mary," said Rosamond, with her gravest mildness; "I would not tell mamma for the world." 'Uhat would you not tell her?" said Mary, angrily. 'gay do not go into a rage, Mary," said Rosamond, nnldly$ as ever. X your manuna$ is afraid that Fred will make me an offer, tell her that I would not marry him if he asked me. But he is not going to do so, that I am aware. He certainly never has asked me." "Mary, you are always so violent." "And you are always so exasperating." '?? What can you blame me for?" "Oh, blameless people are always the most exasperating. There is the bell---I think we must go down." "I did not mean to quarrel," said Rosamond, putting on her hat. "Quarrel? Nonsense; we have not quarrelled. If one is not to get into a rage sometimes, what is the good of being friends?" "Am I to repeat what you have said?" "Just as you please. I never say what I am afraid of having repeated. But let us go down." Mr Lydgate was rather late this morning, but the visitors stayed long enough to see him; for Mr Featherstone asked Rosamond to sing to him, and she herself was so kind as to propose a second favourite song of his---"Mow on, thou shining river ;--after she had sung "Home, sweet home" (which she detested). This hard-headed old Overreach approved of the sentimental song, as the suitable garnish for girls, and also as fundamentally fine, sentiment being the right t~g$ for a song. Mr Featherstone was still applauding the last performance, and assuring Missy that her voice was as clear as a blackbird's,$ when Mr Lydgate's horse passed the window. His dull expectation of the usual disagreeable routine with an aged patient---who can hardly ~elieve that medicine would not "set him up" if the doctor were only clever enough---added to his general dis ~p.87 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 87 belief in Middlemarch charrns,$ made a doubly effective background to this vision of Rosamond, whom old Featherstone made haste osteQ$ tatiously$ to introduce as his niece, though he had never thought il worth while to speak of Mary Garth in that light. Nothing escaped Lydgate in Rosamond's graceful behaviour: how delicately she waived the notice which the old man's want of taste had thirst upon her by a quiet gravity, not showing her dimples on the wrong occasion but showing them afterwards in speaking to Mary, to whom she addressed herself with so much good-natured interest, that Lydgate, after quickly examining Mary more fully than he had done before, saw an adorable kindness in Rosamond's eyes. But Mary from some cause looked rather out of temper. "Miss Rosy has been singing me a song---you've nothing to say against that, eh, doctor?" said Mr. Featherstone. "I like it better than your physl-c."$ "That has made me forget how the time was going," said Rosamond, rising to reach her hat, which she had laid aside before singm-$ g,$ so that her flower-like head on its white stem was seen in perfec'$ tion above her riding-habit. "Fred, we must really go." "Very good," said Fred, who had his own reasons for not being in the best spirits, and wanted to get away. "Miss Vincy is a musician?" said Lydgate, following her with lu-s$ eyes. (Every nerve and muscle in Rosamond was adjusted to the consciousness that she was being looked at. She was by nature an actress of parts that entered into her phy~que:$ she even acted her own character, and so well, that she did not know it to be precisely her own.) "The best in Middlemarch, I'll be bound," said Mr Featherstone, ~et$ the next be who she will. Eh, Fred? Speak up for your sister." "I'm afraid I'm out of court, sir. My evidence would be good for not~-ng."$ "Middlemarch has not a very high standanl,$ uncle," said Rosamond, . with a pretty lightness, going towards her whip, which lay at a distance. Lydgate was quick in anticipating her. He reached the whip before she did, and turned to present it to her. She bowed and looked at h~n$: he of course was looking at her, and their eyes met with tha~$ peculiar meeting which is never arrived at by effort, but seems like a sudden diw-$ e$ clearsmce$ of haze. L think Lydgate turned a little paler t~$ usual, but Rosamond blushed deeply and felt a certain astonishment. After that she was really anxious to go, and did not know what sort of stupidity her uncle was talking of when she went to shake hands with him. Yet t~$ result which she took to be a mutual impression, called falling in love, was just what Rosamond had contemplated beforehand. Ever since that imp~nt$ new arrival in Middlemarch she had woven a little future, of which something like t~$ scene was the ni$sary$ begirning.$ Strangers, whether wrecked and iging$ to a raft, or dYy$ esco~$ and accompanied by portmanteaus, have always had a ~p.88 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 12 w-rcumstantial$ fascination for the virgin mind, against which native merit has urged itself in vain. And a stranger was absolutely necessary to Rosamond's social romance, which had always turned on a lover and bridegroom who was not a Middlemarcher,l$ and who had no connections at all like her own: of late, indeed, the construction seemed to demand that he should somehow be related to a baronet. Now that she and the stranger had met, reality proved much more moving than anticipation, and Rosamond could not doubt that this was the great epoch of her life. She judged of her own symptoms as those of awakening love, and she held it still more natural that Mr Lydgate should have fallen in love at 6st sight of her. These things happened so often at balls, and why not by the morning light, when the complexion showed all the better for it? Rosamond, though no older than Mary, was rather used to being fallen in love with; but she, for her part, had remained indifferent and fastidiously critical towards both fresh sprig and faded bachelor. And here was Mr Lydgate suddenly corresponding to her ideal, being altogether foreign to Middlemarch, carrying a certain air of distinction congruous with good family, and possessing connections which offered vistas of that middle-class heaven, rank: a man of talent, also, whom it would be especially delightful to enslave: in fact, a man who had touched her nature quite newly, and brought a vivid interest into her life which was better than any fancied "might-be" such as she was in the habit of opposing to the actual. Thus, in riding home, both the brother and the sister were preoccupied and inclined to be silent. Rosamond, whose basis for her structnre$ had the usual airy slightness, was of remarkably detailed and realistic imagination when the foundation had been once presupposed; and before they had ridden a mile she was far on in the costume and introductions of her wedded life, having determined on her house in Middlemarch, and foreseen the visits she would pay to her husband's high-bred rclatives$ at a distance, whose finished manners she could appropriate as thoroughly as she had done her school accomp~hments,$ preparing herself thus for vaguer elevations which might ultimately come- There was nothing financial, still less sordid, in her provisions: she cared about what were considered refinements, and not about the money that was to pay for them. Fred's mind, on the other hand, was busy with an anxiety which even his ready hopefnlneas$ could not immediately quell. He saw no way of eluding Featherstone's stupid demand without incurring consequences which he liked less even than the task of fWling$ it. His father was already out of humour with him, and would be still more so if he were the occasion of any additional coolness between his own family and the BuEtrodes.$ Then, he himself hated having to go and speak to his uncle Bulstrode, and perhaps after d~-ng$ wine he had said many foolish things about Featherstone's property, and these had been magnified by report. Fred felt that he made a wretched figure as a fellow who bragged about expectations from a queer old miser like 1 ~ the MS t~$ rea&$ "Middlemarchian."$ ~p.89 Book 1 MISS BROOKE 89 Featherstone, and went to beg for certificates at his bidding. But--those expectations! He really had them, and he saw no agreeable alternative if he gave them up; besides, he had lately made a debt which galled him extremely, and old Featherstone had almost bargained to pay it off. The whole affair was miserably small: his debts were small, even his expectations were not anything so very magniflcent.$ Fred had known men to whom he would have been ashamed of confessing the smallness of his scrapes. Such r~lations$ naturally produced a streak of misanthropic bitterness. To be born the son of a Middlemarch manufacturer, and inevitable heir to nothing in particular, while such men as Mainwaring$ and Vyan---certainly$ life was a poor business, when a spirited young fellow, with a good appeti&$ for the best of everything, had so poor an outlook. It had not occurred to Fred that the introduction of Bulstrode's name in the matter was a fiction of old Featherstone's; nor could t~-s$ have made any difference to his position. He saw plainly enough that the old man wanted to exercise his power by tormenting him a little, and also probably to get some satisfaction out of seeing him on uQ$ pleasant terrns$ with Bulstrode. Fred fancied that he saw to the bottom of his uncle Featherstone's soul, though in reality half what he saw there was no more than the reflex of his own inclinations. The difficult task of knowing another soul is not for young gentlemen whose consciousness is chiefly made up of their own wishes. Fred's main point of debate with himself was, whether he should tell his father, or try to get through the affair without his father's knowledge. It was probably Mrs Waule who had been ta!king about him; and if Mary Garth had repeated Mrs Waule's report to Rosamond, it would be sure to reach his father, who would as surely question him about it. He said to Rosamond, as they slaCkened their pace-- "Rosy, did Mary tell you that Mrs Waule had said anything about me?" "Yes, indeed, she did." What?" "That you were very uISSteady.-$ Uas$ that all?" "I should t~k$ that was enough, Fred." "You are sure she said no more?" "Mary mentioned nothing else. But really, Fred, I think yon ought jo$ be ashamed." "0~ fudgel$ don't lecture me. What did Mary say about it?" n am not obliged to tell you. You care so very muCh what Mary says, and you are too rude to allow me to speak." "Of course I care what Mary says. She is the best girl I know." "I should never have thought she was a girl to fall in love with." "How do you know what men would fall in love with? Girls never know." "At least Fred, let me advise you not to fall in love with her, for she says she would not marry you if you asked her." "She might have waited till I did ask her." ~p.90 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 12 n knew it would nettle you, Fred." "Not at all. She would not have said so if you had not provoked her." Before reaching home, Fred concluded that he would tell the whole affair as simply as possible to his father, who might perhaps take on himself the unpleasant business of speaking to Bulstrode. ~p.91 CHAPTER 13 ~ OM- <4How class youT$ man?->4-<4as$ beWr$ than the moaL>4$ Cr,$ <4senntlng$ betrar,$ worse beneath that cloak?>4 As <4saint or knave, pi~n$ or hypocritev>4$ ~$ <4Oent-$ Nay. tell me how you claES$ yo--$ we~th>4$ or <4booG>4$ <4ge$ ~ified$ re~cs>4$ or <4all thne->4$ As <4well>4 son <4them at once by size and ~ve~:>4 <4Vellum. t~l$ copieh$ and the conumon$ call>4 <4will hardly cover more dVers'ty>4$ <4Than all your labein$ c~nQy$ devined>4$ <4To claes$ your unread authoES.>4$ X consequence of what he had heard from Fred, Mr Vincy determined to speak with Mr Bulstrode in his private mom at the Bank at half-past one, when he was usually free from other callers. But a visitor had come in at one o'clock, and Mr Bulstrode had so much to say to him, that there was little chance of the interview being over in half an hour. The banker's speech was fluent but it was also copious, and he used up an appreciable amount of time in brief meditative pauses. Do not imagine his sickly aspect to have been of the yellow, black-haired sort: he had a pale blond skin, thin grey-bespAncled$ brown hair, lightgrey$ eyes, and a large forehead. Loud men called his subducd$ tone an undertone, and sometimes implied that it was inconsistent with openness; though there seems to be no reason why a loud man should not be given to concealment of anything except his own voice, unless it can be shown that Holy Writ has placed the seat of candour in the lun~.$ Mr Bulstrode had also a deferential bending attitude in listening, and an apparently fixed attentiveness in his eyes which made those persons who thought themselves worth hearing infer that he was seeking the utmost improvement from their discourse. Others, who expected to make no great figure, disliked this kind of moral lantern turned on them. If you are not proud of your cellar, there is no t~l$ of satisfaction in seeing your guest hold up his wine-glass to the light and look judicial. Such joys are reserved for conscious merit. Hence Mr Bulstrode's close attention was not agreeable to the publiw-ms$ and sinners in Middlemarch; it was attributed by some to his being a Pharisee, and by others to his being Evangelical. Leas superficial reasoners$ among them wished to 6ow who his father and grandfather were, observing that flve-and-twenty$ years ago nobody had ever heard of a Bulstrode gI$ ~p.92 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 13 m- Middlemarch. To his present visitor, Lydgate, the scrn#-$ ising$ look was a matter of indifference: he simply formed an unfavourable opinion of the banker's constitution, and concluded that he had an eager inward life with little enjoyment of tangible things. "I shall be exceedingly obliged if you will look in on me here occasionally, Mr Lydgate," the banker observed, after a brief pause. "If, as I dare to hope, I have the privilege of finding you a valuable coadjutor in the interesting matter of hospital management, there will be many questions which we shall need to discuss in private. As to the new hospital, which is nearly finished, I shall consider what you have said about the advantages of the special destination for fevers. The decision will rest with me, for though Lord Medlicote$ has given the land and timber for the building, he is not disposed to give his personal attention to the object." "There are few things better worth the pains in a prowincial$ town like this," said Lydgate "A fine fever hospital in addition to the old m- firmary$ might be the nucleus of a medical school here, when once we get our medical reforms; and what would do more for medical education than the spread of such schools over the country? A born provincial man who has a grain of public spirit as well as a few ideas, should do what he can to resist the rush of everything that is a little better than common towards London. Any valid professional aims may often find a freer, if not a richer field, in the provinces." One of Lydgate's gifts wjs$ a voice habitually deep and sonorous, yet capable of becoming very low and gentle at the right moment. About his ordinary bearing there was a certain fling, a fearless expectation of success, a confidence in his own powers and integrity much fortified by contempt for petty obstacles or seductions of which he had had no experience. But ~ proud openness was made lovable by an expression of unaffected good-will. Mr Bulstrode perhaps liked h~n$ the better for the difference between them in pitch and masmers;$ he certainly liked him the better, as Rosamond did, for being a stranger in Middlemarch. One can begin so many things with a new person!--even begin to be a better may$ "I shall rejoice to furnish your zeal with fuller opporturities,"$ Mr Bulstrode answered; "I mean, by confiding to you the superintendence of my new hospital, should a maturer$ knowledge favour that issue, for I am determined that so great an object shall not be shackled by our two physicians. Indeed, I am encouraged to consider your advent to t~$ town as a gracious indication that a more manifest blessing is now to be awarded to my efforts, which have hitherto been much withstood. With regard to the cld$ in6mary,$ we have gained the initial point---I mean your election. And now I hope you will not she from incurring a certnin$ amount of jealousy and ~like from your professional brethren by presenting yourself as a reformer." "I will not profess bravery," said Lydgate, s-~sng,$ 'but I acknowledge a good deal of pleasure in fighting, and I should not care for my profession, if I did not believe that better methods were to be found and enforced there as well as everywhere else." ~p.93 Book 2 OLD AND YOUNG ~3$ "The standard of that profession is low in Middlemarcll,$ my dear sir," said the banker. "I mean in knowledge and skill; not in social status, for our medical men are most of them connected with respectable townspeople here. My own imperfect health has induced me to give some attention to those palliative resources which the clivine$ mercy has placed within our reach. I have consulted eminent men in the metropolis, and I am painfully aware of the backwardness under which medical treatment labow-s$ in our provincial districts." "Yes;---with our present medical rules and education, one must be satisfied now and then to meet with a fair practitioner. As to all the higher questions which determine the starting-point of diagnosis---as to the philosophy of medical evidencg---any$ glimmering of these can only come from a scientific culture of which country practitioners have usually no more notion than the man in the moon." Mr Bulstrode, bending and looking intently, found the form which Lydgate had given to his agreement not quite suited to his comprehension. Under such circumstances a judicious man changes the topic and enters on ground where his own gifts may be more useful. "I am aware," he said, "that the peculiar bias of medical ability is towards material means. Nevertheless, Mr Lydgate, 1 hope we shall not vary in sent~nent$ as to a measure in which you are not likely to be actively concerned, but in which your sympathetic concurrence may be an aid to me. You reco~e,$ I hope, the existence of spiritual interests in your patients?" "Certainly I do. But those words are apt to cover different meanings to different minds." "Precisely. And on such subjects wrong teaching is as fatal as no teaching. Now a point which 1 have much at heart to secure is a new regalation$ as to clerical attendance at the old i~nary.$ The building stands in Mr Farebrother's parish. You know Mr Farebrother?" '?$ have seen him. He gave me his vote. I must call to ilwk$ ~-m.$ He seems a very bright pleasant little fellow. And I understand he is a naturalist." "Mr Farebrother, my dear sir, is a man deeply pa~$ to contemplate. I suppose there is not a clergyman in this country who has greater talents." Mr Bulstrode paused and looked meditative. "I have not yet been pained by finding any excessive talent in Middlemarch," said Lydgate, bluntly. 'Uhat I desire," Mr Bulstrode continued, looking still more serious, "G- that Mr Farebrother's attendance at the hospital should be superseded by the appointment of a chaplain---of Mr Tyke, in fact---and that no other spiritual aid should be called in." "As a medical man I could have no opinion on suCh a point unless I knew Mr Tyke, and even then I should require to know the cases in which he was applied." Lydgate smiled, but he was bent on being circumspect. "Of course you cannot enter fully into the merits of this measure at present. But"---here Mr Bulstrode began to speak with a more c~elled$ emphasis---"the subject is likely to be referred to the medical ~p.94 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 13 board of the infirmary, and what I trust I may ask of you is, that in vr-$ tue of the cooperation between us which I now look forward to, you will not, so far as you are concerned, be influenced by my opponents in ~ matter." "I hope I shall have nothing to do with clerical disputes," said Lydgate. 'the path I have chosen is to work well in my own profes4ssl-on."$ "My responsibility, Mr Lydgate, is of a broader kind. With me, m- deed, this question is one of sacred accountableness;$ whereas with my opponents, 1 have good reason to say that it is an occasion for grat~-~g$ a spirit of worldly opposition. But I shall not therefore drop one iota of my convictions, or cease to identify myself with that truth which an evil generation hates. 1 have devoted myself to this object of hospital-improvement, but I wnl$ boldly confess to you, Mr Lydgate, that I should have no interest in hospitals if I- believed that nothing more was concerned therein than the cure of mortal diseases. I have another ground of action, and in the face of persecution I will not conceal it." Mr Bulstrode's voice had become a loud and agitated whisper as he said the last words. "There we certainly differ," said Lydgate. But he was not sorry that the door was now opened, and Mr Vincy was announced. That florid sociable personage was become more interesting to him since he had seen Rosamond. Not that like her, he had been weaving any future in which their lots were urited;$ but a man naturally remembers a cha~~g$ girl with pleasure, and is willing to dine where he may see her again. Before he took leave, Mr Vincy had given that invitation which he had been "in no hurry about" for Rosamond at breakfast had mentioned that she thought her uncle Featherstone had taken the new doctor into great favour. Mr Bulstrode, alone with his brother-in-law, poured himself out a ghss$ of water, and opened a sandwich-box. "I cannot persuade you to adopt my regimen, Vincy?" "No, no; I've no opinion of that system. Life wants padding," said Mr Vincy, unable to omit his portable theory. "However," he went on, accenting the word, as if to dismiss all irrelevance, "what I came here to talk about was a little affair of my young scapegrace,$ Fred's." "That is a subject on which you and I are likely to take quite as different views as on diet, Vincy." ~$ hope not this time." (Mr Vincy was resolved to be goodhumoured.)$ 'The fact is, it's about a whim of old Featherstone's. Somebody has been cooking up a story out of spite, and telling it to the old man, to try to set him against Fred. He's very fond of Fred, and is likely to do something handsome for him; indeed, he has as good as told Fred that he means to leave him his land, and that makes other people jealous." Mincy,$ I must repeat that you will not get any concurrence from me as to the course you have pursued with your eldest son. It was entirely from worldly varity$ that you destined him for the Church: with a ~p.95 Book 2 OLD AND YOUNG s$ finlif$ thid$ foi$ daughters, you were not warranted in ditii ti expensive education which has succeeded in noingiuivim4 <4For that sau>4$ <4Harned$ Idienseah$ win~h$ m~y$ eat>4$ <4By preIarence,$ an~$ c~$ it sweet:>4 <5 Firs1>5 <4weteh$ jor$>4 <5morseis,>5$ <4ij>4$ <5 M&>5$ <4wei($ with bu8ers,$ stir them roaW>4$ <4 #trh$ good /hiek$ otl$ of>4 <5R~teries.>5$ flW$ <4floth$ with>4 --<4ene>4 <5seij->5<4Wding>4$ <5Ites.>5$ <5 Serve>5 <4w--m: the>4 <5vesseV>5$ <4you 'aut$ c~>4$ <4 To>4 <5keep>5 <4it in>4 --<5e deM>5$ <4men->4<5s>5$ <4shoes.->4' ~ B~~oDe's$ consultation of Harriet seemed to have had the eBeet$ described by Mr Vincy, for early the next morning a letter came which Fred could carry to Mr Featherstone as the required testimony. The old gentleman was staying in bed on account of the cold weather, and as Mary Garth was not to be seen in the sitting-room, Fred went up-stairs immediately and presented the letter to his uncle, who, propped up comfortably on a bed-rest, was not less able than usual to enjoy his consciousness of wisdom in distrusting and frustrating mankind. He put on his spectacles to read the letter, pursing up his lips and drawing down their corners. "Uffier$ the ~rwMtQMes$ I ~11$ nor decZine$ to stae$ my con~ion--tchahl$ what fine words the fellow puts! He's as fine as an auctioneer--t~$ ywr$ s~$ Fre$~$ ~$ nor obtaiffid$ any $)aMe$ q$ ~~$ on bequestf$ prom~ed$ by Mr Feaherfoffi-promised?$ who said I had ever promised? I promise nothing---I shall make codicils as long as I likL~ffi$ t~t$ <1c~~~>1$ the ~ture$ of xh$ a proceeding, ~t ~ unreao~bre$ to presume t~t$ a you~$ i~$ of semse$ as$ c~rt~r$ woffi$ Qtempr$ (t---$ ah, but the gentleman doesn't say you are a young man of sense and character, mark you that, sir---'k to my own ooM~$ ~h$ any repoh$ of <1nch$ a>1 ffiure,$ I dM-$ ~MIy$ affim$ t~$ I ~~$ ~~$ ~I$ ~"e~it$ to the e8eet$ t~$ your son ~s borrowed mo~$ ~$ aS$ prope~$ thar$ m~ght$ affi$: to him on Mr Featherstone's $~'---bless$ my heartl$ 'property'---accrue---demisel$ Lawyer Standish is nothing to him. He couldn't speak finer if he wanted to borrow. Well," Mr Featherstone here looked over his spectacles at Fred, while he handed back the letter to him with a contemptuous gesture, "you don't suppose I believe a thing because Bulstrode writes it out fine, eh?" Fred coloured. "You wished to have the letter, sir. I should think it very likely that Mr Bulstrode's denial is as good as the authority whiCh told you what he denies." "Every bit. I never said I believed either one or the other. And now what d'you$ expect?" said Mr Featherstone, cunly$$ keeping on lu-s$ spectacles, but withdrawing his hands under his wraps. ~ expect nothing, sir." Fred with t~culty$ restrained himself from venting his irritation. "I came to bring you the letter. If you like, I will bid you good morning." 'Sot yet, not yet. Ring the bell; I want missy to come." It was a servant who came in answer to the beli.$ ~p.99 Book 2 "Tell missy to comel"$ said Mr Featherstone, impatienily,$ "What business hhd$ she to go away?" He spoke in the same tone when Mary came. "Why couldn't you sit here till I told you to go? I want my waistcoat now. I told you always to put it on the bed." Msry's$ eyes looked rather red, as if she had been crying. It was clear that Mr Featherstone was in one of his most snappish$ humours tlu-s$ morning and though Fred had now the prospect of receiving the much needed present of money, he would have preferred being free to turn round on the cld$ tyrant and tell him that Mary Garth was too good to be at his $~$ Though Fred had risen as she entered the room, she had barely noticed him, and looked as if her nerves were quivering with the expectation that something would be thrown at her. But she never had amW-ng$ worse than words to dread. When she went to reach the waistcoat from a peg, Fred went up to her and said, "Allow me." "Let it alonel$ You bring it missy, and lay it down here," said Mr Featherstone. "Now you go away again till I call you," he added, when the waistcoat was laid down by him. It was usual with him to season his pleasure in showing favour to one person by being especially disagreeable to another, and Mary was always at hand to fu~h$ the condiment When his own relatives came she was treated better. Slowly he took out a bunch of keys from the waistcoat-pocket, and slowly he drew forth a tin box which was under the bed-clothes. "You expect I'm going to give you a little fortune, eh?" he said, looking above his spectacles and pausing in the act of opening the lid. "Not at all, sir. You were good enough to speak of making me a present the other day, else, of course, I should not have thought of the matter." But Fred was of a hopeful disposition, and a vision had presented itself of a sum just large enough to deliver him from a certain anxiety. When Fred got into debt, it always seemed to him highly probaba$ that something or other---he did not necessarily conceive what---would come to pass enabling him to pay in due time. And now that the providential occurrence was apparently close at hand, it would have been sheer absurdity to think that the supply would be short of the ~~: as absurd as a faith that believed in half a miracle for want of strength to believe in a whole one. The deep-veined hands fingered many bank-notes one after the other, laying them down flat again, while Fred leaned back in his Chair, scorning to look eager. He held himself to be a gentleman at heart and did not like courting an old fellow for his money. At last, Mr Featherstone eyed him again over his spectacles and presented him with a little sheaf of notes: Fred could see distinctly that there were but five, as the less si~-ficant$ edges gaped towards him. But then each might mean 6ty pounds. He took them, saying-- "I am very much obliged to you, sir," and was going to roll them up without seeming to think of their value. But t~$ did not suit Mr Featherstome,$ who was eyeing him intently. ~p.100 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter lQ$ "Come, don't yon t~$ it worth your while to count 'eml You take money like a lord; I suppose you lose it like one." "I thought I was not to look a gift-horse in the mouth, sir. But I shall be very happy to count them." Fred was not so happy, however, ~r he had counted them. For they actually presented the ab7Wity$ of being less than his hopefulness had decided that they must be. What can the fitness of things mean, if not their fitness to a man's expectations? Failing this, absurdity and atheism gape be~d$ him, The collapse for Fred was severe when he found that he held no more than five twenties, and his share in the higher education of t~$ country did not seem to help him. Nevertheless he said, with rapid changes in his fair complexion-- ~t is very hsndsome$ of you, su-$ ." "I should t~k$ it is," said Mr Featherstone, locking his box and replacing it then taking off his spectacles deliberately, and at lengtlL$ as if his inward meditation had more deeply convinced him, repeating, n should t~:$ it ~$ handsome." "I assure you, sir, I am very grateful," said Fred, who had had time to recover his cheeul$ air. "So you ought to be. You want to cut a figure in the world, and 1 reckon Peter Featherstone is the only one you've got to trust to." Here the old man's eyes gleamed with a curiously-rnin~ed$ satisfaction in the consciousness that this smart young.fellow$ relied upon him, and that the smart young fellow was rather a fool for doing so. "Yes, indeed: I was not born to very splendid chances. Few men have been more cramped than I have been," said Fred, with some sense of surprise at his own virtue, considering how hardly he was dealt with. "It reslly$ seems a little too bad to have to ride a broken-winded hunter, and see men, who are not half such good judges as yourself, able to throw away any amount of mo~ey$ on buying bad bargain$ s."$ 'Well, you can buy yourself a fine hunter now. Eighty pound is enough for that I reckon---and you'll have twenty pound over to get yourself out of any little scrape,'<4s>4$ said Mr Featherstone, chuckling slightly. "You are very good, sir," said Fred, with a fine sense of contrast between the words and his feeling. "Ay, rather a ?etter$ uncle than your fine uncle Bulstrode. You won't get much out of his spekilations,$ I think. He's got a pretty strong string round your father's leg, by what 1 hear, eh?" "My father never tells me anything about his affas-rs,$ sl-r."$ Well, he shows some sense there. But other people find 'em out without his telling. He'R$ never have much to leave you: heV$ most-like$ die without a will---he's the sort of man to do it---let 'em make him mayor of Middlemarch as much as they like. But you won't get much <1by>1 his dying without a will, though you are the eldest son." Fred thought that Mr Featherstone had never been so disagreeable before. True, he had never before given him quite so much money at once. ~p.101 "Shall I destroy this letter of Mr Bulstrode's, sir?" said Fred, rising with the letter as if he would put it in the fire. "Ay, ay, I don't want it. It's worth no money to me." Fred carried the letter to the fire, and tWst$ the poker through it with much zest. He longed to get out of the room, but he was a little ashamed before his inner self, as well as before his uncle, to run away immediately after pocketing the money. Presently, the farm-bailiff came up to give his master a report, and Fred, to his unspeakable relief, was dismissed with the injunction to come again soon He had longed not only to be set free from his uncle, but also to find Mary Garth. She was now in her usual place by the fire, with sewing m- her hands and a book open on the little table by her side. Her eyelids had lost some of their redness now, and she had her usual air of selfeommand.$ "Rn$ I wanted up-stairs?" she said, half rising as Fred entered. "No; I am only dismissed, because Simmons is gone up." Mary sat down again, and resumed her work- She was certainly treating him with more indifference than usual: she did not know how gectionately$ indignant he had felt on her behalf up-stairs. "May I stay here a little, Mary, or shall I bore you?" "Pray sit down," said Mary; "you will not be so heavy a bore as Mr John Waule, who was here yesterday, and he sat down without as~ng$ my leave." "Poor fellow! I think he is in love with you." "I am not aware of it. And to me it is one of the most odious t~gs$ in a girl's life, that there must always be some supposition of falling m- love coming between her and any man who is kind to her, and to whom she is grateful. I should have thought that I, at least might have been safe from all that. I have no ground for the nonsensical vanity of fancying everybody who comes near me is in love with me." Mary did not mean to betray any feeling, but in spite of herself she ended in a tremolous$ tone of vexation. "Confound John Waule I did not mean to make you angry. I didn't know you had any reason for being grateful to him. I forgot what a 8eat service you t~:$ it if any one snuffs a candle for you." Fred also had his pride, and was not going to show that he knew what had called forth ~ outburst of Mary's.$ "Oh, I am not angry, except with the ways of the world. I do like to be spoken to as if I had cornmon-sense.$ I really often feel as if I could understand a little more than I ever hear even from young gentlemen who have been to college." Mary had recovered, and she spoke with a suppressed rippling under-current of laughter pleasant to hear. n don't care how merry you are at my expense t~$ morning," said Fred, n thought you looked so sad when you came up-sta~s.$ It is a shame you should stay here to be bullied in that way." "Oh, I have an easy life---by comparison. I have tried being a teacher, and I am not fit for that: my mind is too fond of wandering on its own way. I ~k any hardship is better than pretending to do ~p.102 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter Zq$ what one is paid for, and never really doing it. Everything here I can do as well as any one else could; perhaps better than sorne---Rosy,$ for exampa.$ Though she is just the sort of beautiful creature that is im prisoned$ with ogres in fairy tales." "Ro~M$ cried Fred, in a tone of profound brotherly sceptiG-$ rn.$ "Come, Fredl"$ said Mary, ernphatically;$ "you have no right to be so critical." "Do you mean anything particular---just now?" "No, I mean something general---always." "Oh, that I am idle and extravagant. Well, I am not fit to be a poor man. I should not have made a bad fellow if I had been rich." "You would have done your duty in that state of life to which it has not pleased God to call you," said Mary, laughing. 'Uell, I couldn't do my duty as a clergyman, any more than you could do yours as a governess. You ought to have a little fellow feeling there, Mary." "I never said you ought to be a clergyrnan.$ There are other sorts of work. It seems to me very miserable not to resolve on some course and act accordingly." "So 1 could, i~------"$ Fred broke off, and stood up, leaning against . the mantelpiece. 'k you were sure you should not have a fortuner$ "1 did not say that. You want to quarrel with me. It is too bad of you to be guided by what other people say about me." "How can I want to quarrel with you! I should be quarrelling with all my new books," said Mary, lifting the volume on the table. "How ever naughty you may be to other people, you are good to me." "Because I like you better than any one else. But I know you despise me. "Yes, I do---a little," said Mary, nodding, with a srale.$ "You would a~e$ a stupendous fellow, who would have wG-$ e$ opinions about everything." "Yes, I should." Mary was sewing swiftly, and seemed provokingly mas-$ treas$ of the situation. When a conversation has taken a wrong turn for us, we only get farther and farther into the swamp of awkwardness. This was what Fred Vincy felt. ~ suppose a woman is never in love with any one she has always known---ever since she can remember; as a man often is. It is always some new fellow who strikes a girl." "Let me see," said Mary, the corners of her mouth curling archly; "I must go back on my experience. There is Juliet----she seems an example of what you say. But then Ophelia$ had probably known Hamlet a long while; and Brenda Troil---she$ had known Mordaunt$ Merton$ ever since they were children; but then he seems to have been an estimable young man; and M~ma$ was still more deeply in love with Cleveland, who was a stranger-1 Waverley was new to Mora$ MacIvor;$ but then she did not fall in love with him. And there are Olivia and 1 Bretida$ and Mima$ Troil$ are in Scott's Tffi$ <1Pirare.>1$ ~p.103 Book 2 Sophia Primrose, and Corinne-- they may be said to have fallen in love with new men. Altogether, my experience is rather mixed." Mary looked up with some roguishness at Fred, and that look of he>irsieirieriaiy$ aniyirnan,ieia4 <4Blue eyes>4 <4Yet you seem more rapt t~iy.>4$ <4Than>4 or <4old we saw you->4 Oh I <4track the>4 Ia; <4e~$ fa;>4$ <4T~ou~$ new haun&>4$ or <4pleasare:>4$ <4Footp~&$ here and echoes there>4 <4Ouide$ me to my tressuze:>4$ <4Lo~$ the tuTns->4-<4icanon~$ youth>4 <4wrou~t$ to>4 <4Fresh as star~Qis>4$ as ~~$ <4Many--an~$ Naearei">4$ A GffAT$ historian, as he ins~ted$ on calling himself, who had the happiness to be dead a hundred and twenty years ago, and so to take his place among the colossi$ whose huge legs our living pettineas$ is observed to walk under, glories in his copious remarks and digressions as the least imitable part of his work,l$ and especially in those initial Chapters to the successive books of his history, where he seems to bring his arm-chair to the proscenium$ and chat with us in all the lusty ease of his fine English. But Fielding lived when the days were longer (for time, like money, is measured by our ne~ls),$ when summer afterni~s$ were spacious, and the clock ticked slowly in the winter evenings. WB$ bolated$ historians must not hnger$ after his example; and if we did so, it is probable that our chat would be thin and eager, as if delivered from a camp-stool in a parrot-house. I at least have so muCh to do in unravelling certain human lots, and seeing how they were woven and interwoven, that all the light I can command must be concentrated on this particular web, and not dispersed over that tempting range of relevancies$ called the ~verse. At present I have to make the new setiler$ Lydgate better known to any one interested in him than he could possibly be even to those who had seen the most of him since his arrival in Middlemarch. For surely all must admit that a man may be puffed and belauded,$ envied, ridiculed, counted upon as a tool and fallen in love with, or at least selected as a future husband, and yet remaM$ virtually unknown--known merely as a cluster of signs for his neighbours' false supposl-tions.$ There was a general impression, however, that Lydgate was not altogether a common country doctor, and in Middlemarch at that time such an impression was significant of great things being expected from him. For everybody's family doctor was remarkably clever, and was understood to have immeasurable skill in the management and tra~-$ g$ of the most skittish or vicious diseases. The evidence of his cleverness was of the higher intuitive order, lying in his lady-patients'$ immovable conviction, and was unassailable by any objection except that their intuitions were opposed by others equally strong; each lady who saw medical truth in Wrench and "the strengthening treatment" regarding Toller and "the lowering system" as medical perdition. For the heroic times of copious bleeding and blistering had not yet departecl,$ still less the times of thorough-going theory, when disease in general was called by some bad name, and treated accordingly without shilly-shally---as$ if, for example, it were to be called insurrection, which must not be fired on with blank"cartridge,$ but have its blood drawn at once. The strengtheners$ and the lowerers$ were all "clever" men in somebody's opinion, which is really as much as can be said for any living talents. Nobody's imagination had gone so far as to conjecture that Mr Lydgate could know as much as Dr Sprague and Dr Minchin, the two physicians, who alone could offer any hope when danger was extreme, and when the smallest hope was worth a guinea. Still, I repeat there was a gener~$ impression that Lydgate was something rather more uncommon than any gene~d$ practioner$ in Middlemarch. And this was trne$. He was but seven-and-twenty,$ an age at which many men are not quite common---at which they are hopewl$ of achievement resolute in 1 See Tom 7offl,$ Book 6 c~r$ 1. ~p.106avoidance, thinking that Mammon shall never put a bit in their mouths and get astride their backs, but rather that Mammon, if they have anything to do with him, shall draw their Chariot. He had been left an orphan when he was fresh from h public school. His father, a military man, had made but little provision for three children, and when the boy Tertius asked to have a medical education, it seemed easier to his gna~ns$ to grant his request by apprenticing him to a country practitioner than to make any objections on the score of family dignity. He was one of the rarer lads who early get a decided bent and make up their minds that there is somet~:g$ particular in life whiCh they would like to do for its own sake, and not because their fathers did it. Most of us who turn to any subject with love remember some morning or evening hour when we got on a high stool to reach down an untried volume, or sat with parted lips ~tening to a new talker, or for very lack of books began to listen to the voices within, as the 6st traceable beginning of our love. Something of that sort happened to Lydgate. He was a quiCk fellow, and when hot from play, would toss himself in a corner, and in five minutes be deep in any sort of book that he could lay his hands on: if it were Rasselas or Gulliver,$ so much the better, but Bailey's$ Dictionary would do, or the Bible with the Apocrypha in it. Something he must read, when he was not riding the pony, or rn~g$ and hunting or listening to the talk of men. All this was true of him at ten years of age; he had then read through 'Chrysal, or the Advent~s$ of a Guinea,'$ which was neither milk for babes, nor any chalky mix~re$ meant to pass for milk, and it had already occurred to him that books were stuff, and that life was stupid. His sChool studies had not much modified that opinion, for though he "did" his elassies$ and mathematics, he was not preeminent in them. It was said of him, that Lydgate could do anything he liked, but he had certainly not yet liked to do anything remarkable. He was a vigorous animal with a ready understanding, but no spark had yet kindled in him an intellectual passion; knowledge seemed to him a very superficial affair, easily mastered: judging from the conversation of his elders, he had apparently got already more than was necessary for mature life. Probably t~$ was not an exceptional result of expensive teaching at that period of short-waisted coats, and other fashions which have not yet recurred. But, one vacation, a wet day sent him to the small home library to hunt once more for a book which might have some freshness for him: in vaMl$ unless, indeed, he took down a dusty row of volumes with grey-paper backs and dingy labels---the volumes of an old Cyclopaedia which he had never disturbed. It would at least be a novelty to disturb them. They were on the highest shelf, and he st~$ on a chair to get them down. But he opened the volume which he first took from the shelf: somehow, one is apt to read in a makeshift attitude, just where it might seem inconvenient to do so. The page he opened on was under the head of Anatomy, and the first passage that drew his eyes was on the valves of the heart. He wa~$ not ~p.107 Book 2 much acquainted with valves of any sort, but he knew that ~uB were folding doors, and through this crevice came a sudden light startling him with his first vivid notion of finely-adjusted mcchanism$ in the human frnme.$ A liberal education had of course left him free to read the indecent passages in the school classics, but beyond a general sense of secrecy and obscenity in connection with his internal structure, had left his imagination quite unbiassed$, so that for an:~ng$ he knew ~-s lir~s$ lay in small bigs$ at his telnples,$ and he had no more thought of representing to himself how his blood circulated than how paper se~ed$ instead of gold- But the moment of vocation had come, and before he got down from his chair, the world was made new to him by a presentimcnt$ of endless proce~ses$ filling the vast spaces planked$ out of his sight by that wordy ignorance which he$ had supposed to be knowledge. From that hour Lydgate felt the growth of an intellectual passion. We are not afraid of telling over and over again how a man comes to fall in love with a woman and be wedded to her, or else be fatally parted from her. Is it due to excess of poetry or of stupidity that we are never weary of describing what King James called a woman's "makdom$ and her fairnesse,"r$ never weary of listening to the twanging of the old Troubadour strings, and are comparatively uninterested in that other kind of "makdom$ and fairnesse"$ which must be wooed with industrious thought and patient renunciation of small desires? In the story of t~$ passion, too, the development varies: sometimes it is the glorious marriage, sometimes frnstration$ and final parting. And not seldom the catastrophe is bound up with the other passion, sung by the Troubadours. For in the multitude of middle-aged men who go about their vocations in a daily course determined for them much in the same way as the tie of their cravats, there is always a good number who once meant to shape their own deeds and alter the world a little. The story of their coming to be shapen after the average and fit to be packed by the gross, is hardly ever told even in their consciousness; for perhaps their ardour in generous unpaid~$ toil cooled as imperceptibly as the ardour of other youtliful$ loves, till one day their earlier self walked like a ghost in its old home and made the new fw-:ture$ ghastly. Nothing in the world more subtle than the process of their gradual changel$ In the begWsng$ they inhaled it unknowingly: you and I may have sent some of our breath towards infecting them, when we uttered our conforming falsities$ or ~ew$ our silly conclusions: or perhaps it came with the vibrations from a ivoman's$ glance Lydgate did not mean to be one of those failures, and there was the better hope of him because his scientific interest soon took the form of a professional enthusiasm: he had a youthful belief in his breadw~-ng$ work, not to be stifled by that initiation in makeshift called his 'prentioe days; and he carried to his studies in London, Edinburgh, and Paris, the conviction that the medical profession as it might be 1 Fonm$ and &au~.$ 2 k$ the MS, "mfeed."$ ~p.108 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 15 was the finest in the world; presenting the most perfect interchange between science and art; offering the most direct alliance between m- tellectual$ conquest and the social good. Lydgate's nature demanded t~$ combination: he was an emotional creature, with a flesh-and-blood sense of fellowship which withstood all the abstractions of special study. He cared not only for "cases," but for John and Elizabeth, especially Elizabeth. There was another attraction in his profession: it wanted reform, and gave a man an opportunity for some indignant resolve to reject its venal decorations and other humbug, and to be the possessor of genuine though undemanded$ qualifications. He went to study in Paris with the determination that when he came home again he would settle in some provincial town as a general practitioner, and resist the irration~$ severance between medical and surgical knowledge in the interest of his own scientific pursuits, as well as of the general advance: he would keep away from the range of London intrigues, jealousies, and social trucWing,$ and win celebrity, however slowly, as Jenner$ had done, by the independent value of his work. For it must be remembered that this was a dark period; and in spite of venerable colleges which used great efforts to secure purity of knowledge by making it scarce, and to exclude error by a rigid exclusiveness in relation to fees and appointments, it happened that very ignorant young gentlemen were promoted in town, and many more got a legal right to practise$ over large areas in the country. Also, the high standard held up to the public mind by the College of Physicians, which gave its peculiar sanction to the expensive and highly-rarified$ medical instruction obtained by graduates of Oxford and Cambridge, did not hinder quackery from having an excellent time of it; for since professional practice chiefly consisted in giw-$ g$ a great many drugs, the public inferred that it might be better off with more drugs still, if they could only be got cheaply, and hence swallowed large cubic measures of physic prescribed by unscrupulous ignorance which had taken no degrees. Considering that statistics had not yet embraced a calculation as to the number of ignorant or canting doctors which absolutely must exist in the teeth of all changes, it seemed to Lydgate that a change in the units was the most direct mode of changing the numbers. He meant to be a unit who would make a certain amount of difference towards that spreading change which would one day tell appreciably upon the averages, and in the mean time have the pleasure of ma~g$ an advantageous difference to the viscera of his own patients. But he did not simply aim at a more genuine kind of practice t~i$ was common. He was ambitious of a wider effect: he was fired with the possibility that he might work out the proof of an anatorrical$ conception and make a link in the chain of discovery. Does it seem incongruous to you that a Middlemarch surgeon should dream of himself as a discoverer? Most of us, indeed, know little of the great o~-nators$ until they have been lifted up among the constellations and already rale$ our fates. But that Herschel,$ for ex ~p.109 Book 2 ample, who "broke the barriers of the heaveISSs$ ---did he not once play a provincial church-organ, and give music-lessons to stumbling pian1-sts?$ Each of those Shining Ones had to walk on the earth among neighbours who perhaps thought much more of his gait and his garments than of anything which was to give h~n$ a title to everlasting fame: each of them had his little local personal history sp~ded$ with small temptations and sordid cares, which made the retarding friction of his course towards final companionship with the immortals. Lydgate was not blind to the dangers of such friction, but he had plenty of confidence in his resolution to avoid it as far as possible: being sevenand-twenty,$ he felt himself experienced. And he was not going to have his vanities provoked by contact with the showy worldly successes of the capital, but to live among people who could hold no rivalry with that pursuit of a great idea which was to be a twin object with the assiduous practice of his profession. There was fascination in the hope that the two purposes would illuminate each other: the careful observation and inference which was his daily work, the use of the lens to f~her$ his judgment in special cases, would fW:er$ his thought as an instwlent$ of larger inquiry. Was not this the typical pre-eminence of his profession? He would be a good Middlemarch doctor, and by that very means keep himself in the track of far-rei~ng$ investigation. On one point he may fairly claim approval at t~$ particular stage of his career: he did not mean to imitate those philanthropic models who make a profit out of poisonous pickles to support themselves while they are exposing adulteration or hold shares in a gamb~lg-hell$ that they may have leisure to represent the cause of public morality. He m- tended to begin in his own case some particular reforms which were quite certainly within his reach, and much less of a problem than the demonstrating of an anatornical$ conception. One of these reforms was to act stoutly on the stren&h$ of a recent legal decision and simply prescribe, without dispensing drngs$ or taking percentage from druggists. This was an innovation for one who had chosen to adopt the style of general practitioner in a country town, and would be felt as offensive criticism by his professional brethren. But Lydgate meant to innovate in his treatnent$ also, and he was wise enough to see that ~he best security for his practising honestly according to his belief was to get rid of systematic temptations to the contrary. Perhaps that was a more cheerful time for observers and theorisers$ than the present; we are apt to thiok$ it the finest era of the world when America was beginning to be discovered, when a bold sailor, even if he were wrecked, might alight on a new kingdom; and about 1829 the dark territories of Pathology were a fine America for a spirited young adventurer. Lydgate was ambitious above all to contribute towards enlarging the scientific, rational basis of his profession. The more he became interested in special questions of disease, such as the nature of fever or fevers, the more keenly he felt the need for that fundamental knowledge of structure which just at the be~~g$ of the century had been illuminated by the brief and ~orious career ~p.110 of Bichat who died when he was only one-and-thirty, but like another Alexander, left a realin$ large enough for many heirs. That great Frenchman first carried out the conception that living bodies, fundamentally considered, are not associations of organs which can be understood by studying them first apart, and then as it were federally; but must be regarded as consisting of certain primary webs or tissues, out of which the various organs---braM,$ heart, lungs, and so on---are compacted, as the various accommodations of a house are built up in various proportions of wood, iron, stone, brick, zinc, and the rest, each material having its peculiar composition and proportions. No man, one sees, can understand and estimate the entire structure or its parts--what are its frailties and what its repairs, without knowing the nature of the materials. And the conception wrought out by Bichat, with lu-s$ detailed study of the different tissues, acted necessarily on medical questions as the tw-ng of gas-light would act on a d~n$, oil-lit street showing new connections and hitherto hidden facts of strncture$ which must be taken into account in considering the symptomi$ of maladies and the action of medicaments.$ But results which depend on human conscience and intelligence work slowly, and now at the end of lS2Y,$ most medical practice was still strntting$ or shambling$ ~ong$ the old paths, and there was still scientific work to be done which might have seemed to be a direct sequence of Bichat's. This great seer did not go beyond the consideration of the tissues as ultimate facts in the living organism, marking the limit of anatomical analysis; but it was open to another mind to say, have not these strnctures$ some common basis from which they have all started, as your sarsnet$ gauze, net satin and velvet from the raw cocoon? Here would be another light as of oxy-hydrogen,$ showing the very grain of things, and revising all former explanations. Of this sequence to Bichat's work, already ~-brating$ along many currents of the European mind, Lydgate was enamoured; he longed to demonstrate the more intimate relations of liw-$ g$ structure, and help to define men's thought more accurately after the true order. The work had not yet been done, but only prepared for those who knew how to use the preparation. What was the primitive tissue? In that way Lydgate put the question---not quite in the way required by the awaiting answer; but such miasing$ of the right word befalls many seekers. And he counted on quiet intervals to be watchfully seired$, for taking up the threads of investigation---on many hints to be won from diligent application, not only of the scalpeL but of the microscope, which research had begun to use again with new enthusiasm of reliance. Such was Lydgate's plan of his futlre:$ to do good small work for Middlemarch, and great work for the world, ~ was cer~y$ a happy fellow at t~$ t~e$: to be seven-andtwenty,$ without any fixed vices, with a generous resolution that his action should be beneficent, and with ideas in his brain that made life interesting quite apart from the o~w$ of horse-flesh and other mystic rites of costly observance, which the eight hundred pounds left him after buying his practice would certainly not have gone far in ~p.111 paying for. He was at a starting-point which makes many a man's career a fine subject for bet~g,$ if there were any gentlemen given to that amusement who could appreciate the comp~cated$ probabilities of an arduous purpose, with all the possible thwartings$ and fS:erings$ of circumstance, all the niceties of inward balance, by which a man swims and makes his point or else is carried headlong- The 1~ would remain, even with close knowledge of Lydgate's character; for character too is a process and an unfolding. The man was still in the making, as much as the Middlemarch doctor and immortal discoverer, and there were both virtues and faults capable of shrinking or expanding. The faults will not, I hope, be a reason for the withdrawal of your interest in him. Among our valued friends is there not some one or other who is a little too self-confident and disdamful;$ whose distinguished mind is a little spotted with conunonness;$ who is a little pinched here and protuberant there with native prejudices; or whose better energies are liable to lapse down the wrong channcl$ under the in fluence$ of transient solicitations? All these things might be alleged against Lydgate, but then, they are the periphrases$ of a polite preacher, who ta!ks$ of Adam, and would not like to mention anything painful to the pew-renters. The particular fault from which these delicate generalities are distilled have distinguishable physiognomies, diction, accent and grimaces; filling up parts in very various dramas. Our vanities differ as our noses do: all conceit is not the same conceit but varies in correspondence with the minutias$ of mental make in which one of us differs from another. Lydgate's conceit was of the arrogant sort, never simpering, never imper~ent,$ but massive in its claims and benevolently contemptuous. He would do a great deal for noodles, being sorry for them, and feeling quite sure that they could have no power over him: he had thought of joining the Saint Simc"$ nians$ when he was in Paris, in order to turn them against some of their own doctrines. All his faults were marked by kindred traits, and were those of a man who had a fine baritone, whose clothes hung well upon him, and who even in his ordinary gestures had an air of inbred distinction. Where then lay the spots of commonness? says a young lady enamoured of that careless grace. How could there be any commonness in a man so well-bred, so ambitious of social distinction, so generous and unusual in his views of social duty? As easily as there may be stupidity in a man of genius if you take him unawares on the wrong subject, or as many a man who has the best will to advance the social millennium might be ill-inspired in imagining its lighter pleasures; unable to go beyond Offenbach's$ music, or the brilliant punning in the last burlesque.s$ Lydgate's spots of commonness lay in the complexion of his prejudices, which, in spite of noble intention and sympathy, were half of them such as are found in ordinary men of the world: that distMc~on$ of mind which belonged to his intellectual ardour, did not penetrate his feeling and judgment about furniture, or women, or the desirabilty of its being known (without his telling) that he was 1 b the MS t~$ rea~$ "OffenbaCh's$ music or the hays of Ancient Rome.'$ " ~p.112 MIDDLEMARCH Chapter 15 better born than other country surgeons. He did not mean to t~$ of fw~ture$ at present; but whenever he did so, it was to be feared that neither biology nor schemes of reform would lift him above the vulgarity of feeling that there would be an incompatibility in his furniture not ~ng of the best. As to women, he had once already been drawn headlong by impetuous folly, which he meant to be final, since marriage at some distant period would of course not be impetuous. For those who want to be acquainted with Lydgate it will be good to know what was that case of impetuous folly, for it may stand as an example of the fitful swervm-$ g$ of passion to which he was prone, together with the chivalrous kindness which helped to make him morally lovable. The story can be told without many words. It happened when he was studying in P~,$ and just at the time when, over and above his other work, he was occupied with some galvanic experiments. One evening, tired with his experimenting, and not being able to elicit the ~acts he needed, he left his frogs and rabbits to some repose under their trying and mysterious dispensation of unexplained shocks, and went to finish his evening at the theatre of the Porte Saint Martin, where there was a melodrama which he had already seen several times; attracted, not by the ingenious work of the collaborating authors, but by an actress whose part it was to stab her lover, mistaking him for the evil-designing duke of the piece. Lydgate was in love with this actress, as a man is in love with a woman whom he never expects to speak to- She was a Proven4ale,$ with dark eyes, a Greek profile, and rounded majestic form, having that sort of beauty which carries a sweet matronliness$ even in youth, and her voice was a sok$ cooing. She had but lately come to Paris, and bore a virtuous reputation, her husband acting with her as the unfoMmate$ lover. It was her acting which was "no better than it should be," but the public was satisfied. Lydgate's only relaxation now was to go and look at this woman, just as he might have thrown himself under the breath of the sweet south on a bank of violets for a while, without prejudice to his galvanism, to which he would presently return. But this evening the old drama had a new catastrophe. At the moment when the heroine was to act the stabbing$ of her lover, and he was to fall gracefuUy,$ the wife veritably stablied$ her husband, who fell as death willed. A wild shriek pierced the house, and the ProvenSale$ fell swooning: a shriek and a swoon were demanded by the play, but the swooning too was real this time. Lydgate leaped and climbed, he hardly knew how, on to the stage, and was active in help, making the acquaintance of his heroine by finding a contusion on her head and lifting her gently in his arms. Paris rang with the story of this death:---was it murder? Some of the actress's ivarmest$ admirers were inclined to believe in her guilt, and l~ked$ her the better for it (such was the taste of those times); but Lydgate was not one of these. He vehemently contended for her innocence, and the remote impersonal passion for her beauty which he h~d$ felt before, h:ld$ passed now into personal devotion, and tender thought of her lot. ~p.113 Book 2 The notion of murder was..absurd;$ no motive was discoverable, the young couple being understood to dote on each other; and it was not unprecedented that an accidental slip of the foot should have brought these ;rave consequences. The legal investigation ended in Mad~ne$ Laure's release. Lydgate by this time had had many interviews with her, and found her more and more adorable. She talked little; but that was an additional charm. She was melancholy, and seemed grateful; her presence was enough, like that of the evening light. Lydgate was madlv$ amious$ about her affection>i~