Middlemarch
personal kind. The inclinations which he had deliberately stated on the
2d of October he would think 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 vide supra 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 retained 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 autumn 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 that 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 vision of a possible
future for herself to which she looked forward with trembling hope, and
she wanted to wander on in that visionary future without interruption.
She walked briskly in the brisk air, the color rose in her cheeks, and
her straw bonnet (which our contemporaries might look at with
conjectural curiosity as at an obsolete form of basket) fell a little
backward. She would perhaps be hardly characterized enough if it were
omitted that she wore her brown hair flatly braided and coiled behind
so as to expose the outline of her head in a daring manner at a time
when public feeling required the meagreness of nature to be
dissimulated by tall barricades of frizzed curls and bows, never
surpassed by any great race except the Feejeean. This 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 mood, the
solemn glory of the afternoon with its long swathes of light between
the far-off rows of limes, whose shadows touched each other.
All people, young or old (that is, all people in those ante-reform
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
sufficiently consecrated in poetry, as the pathetic loveliness of all
spontaneous trust ought to be. Miss Pippin adoring young Pumpkin, and
dreaming along endless vistas of unwearying companionship, was a little
drama which never tired our fathers and mothers, and had been put into
all costumes. Let but Pumpkin have a figure which would sustain the
disadvantages of the shortwaisted swallow-tail, and everybody felt it
not only natural but necessary to the perfection of womanhood, that a
sweet girl should be at once convinced of his virtue, his exceptional
ability, and above all, his perfect sincerity. But perhaps no persons
then living—certainly none in the neighborhood of Tipton—would have had
a sympathetic understanding for the dreams of a girl whose notions
about marriage took their color 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 trousseau, the pattern
of plate, nor even the honors 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 comparable to the nibblings and judgments of a
discursive mouse. With some endowment of stupidity and conceit, she
might have thought that a Christian young lady 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 marriage to a man who, if less
strict than herself, as being involved in affairs religiously
inexplicable, might be prayed for and seasonably exhorted. From such
contentment poor Dorothea was shut out. The intensity 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 narrow
teaching, hemmed in by a social life which seemed nothing but a
labyrinth of petty courses, a walled-in maze of small paths that led no
whither, the outcome was sure to strike 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 walking
quickly 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. Every-day things with us would mean
the greatest things. It would be like marrying 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 I 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 time.”
Dorothea checked herself suddenly with self-rebuke for the presumptuous
way in which she was reckoning on uncertain 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-groomed 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 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, exaggerated 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 this moment, and his dimpled hands were quite disagreeable. Her
roused temper made her color deeply, as she returned his greeting with
some haughtiness.
Sir James interpreted the heightened color 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
offered.” He showed the white object under his arm, which was a tiny
Maltese puppy, one of nature’s most naive toys.
“It is painful 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 think that the
animals 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 parasitic.”
“I am so glad I know that you do not like them,” said good Sir James.
“I should never keep them for myself, but ladies usually are fond 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 Miss Brooke decided that it had
better not have been born. But she felt it necessary to explain.
“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
walking 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 discriminate 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
ignorance. 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 I wish to do—I mean, on my own estate. I
should be so glad to carry out that plan of yours, if you would let me
see it. Of course, it is sinking money; that is why people object to
it. Laborers can never pay rent to make it answer. But, after all, it
is worth doing.”
“Worth doing! 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 plan?”